Merciless (39 page)

Let him feel superior. Let him ramble.

“Did you see me there? At the scene?” he asked.

“No, I was a little busy dealing with grieving family members and crime-scene containment.”

“You really should be more observant. Then you would’ve figured out that
you
were supposed to be the third victim, not Penny.”

“Me,” I said dully. “Why me?”

“I saved the best for last. You’re a worthy adversary. I’m done talking. It’s time
to discuss the rules of the game.”

“You actually believe I’ll play some game with you?”

His genial, albeit psychotic, demeanor vanished. “You will play. Look under the place
mat.”

I didn’t want to. So help me God, I didn’t want to. A ball of fear inched up my throat.
I eased aside the quilted place mat and saw a stack of photos. Copies of the ones
I’d taken from Sheldon’s garage, different from the ones he’d left in my truck.

“I especially love the one of you in your bathrobe as you’re feeding the dogs.”

I’d especially love to feed you to the fucking dogs.

The last photo was of Dawson and me together, standing by his pickup in a private
moment. It appeared as if the photographer had been within a few feet of us. Dawson’s
head was annihilated by an X, and red covered my face.

“The last one is my favorite,” Sheldon said cheerfully. “Can you imagine how horrible
it would be to feel your lover’s warm blood coating your skin? Having bits of his
brain matter and chunks of bone in your hair? Watching his life end as he falls to
the ground like another bag of meat?”

My vision swam, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the gruesome images clogging my
rational thought. Imagining Dawson dead.

Stay focused. He’s distracting you from talking about what he did with Sophie.

“I know why the FBI was so hot to snap you up—other than the fact you’re a woman,
a vet, and a minority.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re a killer. See, that’s where we’re alike, Sergeant Major.”

He had no fucking right to use my rank with such familiarity. No right.

“But you think you’re better than me. I saw it in your eyes that night at Stillwell’s.
You think that because you went to war and I didn’t, you
know how to win a battle. I’ve studied thousands of offensives. I know ops inside
and out. I’m your equal in tactical maneuvers. I’m your equal in everything. And I’ll
prove it.”

“How?”

He paused. “I want to test your skill as a soldier against mine.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t. After I kill Sophie I’ll move on to your sister. I’d get her worked up
by placing my gun against her temple. Maybe I’d put the barrel in her mouth. Or between
her legs. I know how she feels about guns. She might be one I try to literally scare
to death.”

The blood coursing through my veins like lava instantly turned ice cold. “Fine, I
accept your challenge. But I have a condition.”

Sheldon sighed again. “I thought you might say that. What is it?”

“I want to talk to Sophie to make sure you haven’t already tortured and killed her.”

“Are you questioning my honor?”

“Honor, intent—whatever you choose to call it. I need proof.”

“Or what? I’m holding all the cards.”

“Not so. If you don’t prove she’s alive, then I’ve got nothing to fight for. I’ll
assume you’re a liar. I’ll assume you killed her. I’ll call the Eagle River Sheriff’s
Department, the FBI, and the tribal police right now. I’ll have my sister and our
family in protective custody before you can touch them.” I stormed to the kitchen
window and looked out.

A laugh burned my ear. “Glaring out the window seems overly dramatic for you.”

And he just gave himself away. He wanted me to know that he was someplace close and
I still couldn’t get to him. He had to prove he was aware of my every move.

It took every bit of resolve to turn away and act flustered. “You live on the rez.
I’d send the tribal cops to your house first.”

“You really think I’m stupid enough to hold her at my house?” he sneered.

“You really think I’m stupid enough to agree to your game without
demanding proof of life? Tactical error on your part, Sheldon. It’s always the first
maneuver in a hostage situation. You should know that with all your book learning
about military ops.”

Silence.

I held my breath, wondering if I’d gone too far.

“Listen very closely.” A pause. “Sophie? Say something to Mercy.”

An inhuman wail burned my ear as the drawn-out word
no
echoed back to me. Had he hurt her to get that response? I didn’t feel a sense of
triumph. I just felt sick. Wait. Where had I heard that type of wail before? When
Theo had Hope? Had she made that agonized sound?

“Satisfied?”

No, you vicious cocksucker. I won’t be satisfied until your blood saturates the ground.
“Yes.”

“You agree to my game. My test of skills?”

“Yes.”

“There’s another envelope inside the bag of dog food on your porch. Get it and open
it.”

My skin crawled, as I could feel his unseen eyes on me. I snatched the envelope, folded
back the metal clasp, and a sheaf of papers spilled out. Papers that looked like a
fictional spy’s dossier, something you might see on TV. Maps. Christ. The only thing
he hadn’t added was
TOP SECRET
stamped in red lettering on the front of the envelope.

“Anything look familiar?” he prompted. “Find the map marked A.”

I didn’t want to play his stupid games, but I had no choice. He’d printed out a topographical
map and marked off an area with a red square.

“It’s the upper section of the Gunderson Ranch. The area known as the mini-badlands.
Bordered by forest on one side and a rocky canyon on the other. That part of your
land, about ten square miles, isn’t used for grazing or anything else, so we won’t
be interrupted.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because I haven’t explained the rules yet,” he snapped. “Tomorrow morning
you can enter that marked-off section on the map
from whichever side you choose. You’ll have from sunup to sundown to find the six
items at the six locations I’ve marked on your map. You’ll need all six . . . 
hints
, if you will, to figure out what bunker I’ve hidden Sophie in.”

This guy had a massive chip on his shoulder about not being called to war. An elaborate
ruse to prove his prowess? What a psychotic motherfucker. I imagined he probably had
a fake uniform decorated with fake medals. “What will you be doing while I’m gathering
clues?”

“While you’re completing your assigned
mission,
” he corrected testily. “I’ll be trying to stop you. By any means necessary. Just
like in real war.”

“If you capture me, will you kill me?”

“Not until you’ve exhausted my entertainment options.”

“So if you win”—I hated saying that—“and you have me to keep you entertained, then
you won’t need Sophie. You’ll let her go?”

“I’m a man of my word. If I say I’ll let her go, then I’ll let her go.”

“If I win, in addition to your telling me exactly where you stashed Sophie, I’ll expect
to haul you in so you can stand trial for your crimes.”

He laughed. “You’re such a little do-gooder patriot. That’s why I picked you for this
challenge. You understand fair play. You’ll follow the rules. Rest up tonight, Sergeant
Major. You’ll need it. This will be a physically demanding op.”

Op.
Fuck him.

“Last two items of business: Don’t leave the house. Period. For any reason. And as
soon as we’re finished talking, destroy both cell phones.”

But what if the hospital called about Dawson? No house phone, no cell phone—they’d
have no way to get in touch with me.

“These are non-negotiable points. I will know if you disobey either directive.” Mr.
Chatty hung up.

He was really into reinforcing my paranoia.

Think, Mercy.
I went with the assumption he was using one of those cone-shaped audio devices that
required a physical presence within two hundred yards and a pair of binoculars. That’d
give him eyes and ears on me.

I quickly and quietly slipped the battery out of my phone. I found a meat tenderizer
and beat his disposable phone into pieces. I piled the busted phone on top of mine.
Even up close, they both looked broken.

I paced for a good five minutes.

If Sheldon got bored watching me, he’d head home. That would fuck up everything. With
his genial tone and excitement about his stupid challenge, he didn’t know I’d broken
into his house.

I had a small window of opportunity to turn the tables. Because I wasn’t waiting around
for Sheldon’s elaborate plan for me to role-play The Most Dangerous Game. I didn’t
figure he’d play fair.

But I wouldn’t play fair, either.

I’d do what I did best.

Go on the offensive.

It’d taken Sheldon days to come up with such an intricate and well-ordered strategy.
By purposely choosing Gunderson land on which to carry out his game, he expected me
to feel smug in my advantage over him.

But my advantage was op planning on the fly.
Change, adapt, execute.
Almost as much a part of my military sniper mantra.

I needed to draw Sheldon out and get him off balance.

So I’d blatantly break his specific rule to stay put. If my guess was correct, he’d
be too curious to see what would make me break the rules, if only so he could throw
it in my face and use it as an excuse to hurt Sophie.

Hopefully, Dawson’s cell phone had enough juice after being shut off for a few days
for me to make one call. I grabbed my notebook from my messenger bag and trudged to
my bedroom, fished out Dawson’s cell, and headed to the bathroom. I turned on the
shower in case Sheldon aimed his listening device in this direction.

I dialed the number on the slip of paper and paced while I waited for her to pick
up.

“Hello?” she answered warily.

“Is this Naomi?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Mercy Gunderson. FBI. We spoke today?”

“Hey, why are you calling me? Am I in trouble?”

“No. How would you like to earn a hundred bucks for helping me?”

A pause, then she said, “For real?”

“For real. This is a top-secret FBI operation, so you have to keep it between us.”

“Okay. What do I gotta do?”

“Do you have a vehicle?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

“A Dodge minivan.”

“Is the gas tank full?”

“About half. Why?”

“I need you to drive to Besler’s grocery store in Eagle Ridge. Know where that is?”

“Uh-huh. Then what?”

“Park close to the front doors. Leave the keys under the seat. Go in the store, get
a cart, and pretend you’re shopping. Take your time but don’t talk to anyone. Don’t
look around, just act like you’re buying groceries.”

“Should I wear a disguise or something?”

“Just a winter scarf. Don’t look for me. I will find you. Try to stay in the back
of the store.”

“You ain’t pulling my leg? You’re really gonna be there?”

“Yes. Look, it’s really important you follow these instructions to the letter. Don’t
tell anyone where you’re going. Don’t text or talk on your phone, either in your car
or in the store. Don’t deviate at all.”

“I won’t.”

“I’ll explain more when you see me in about forty-five minutes.” I hung up. Then I
stripped and wrapped myself in my robe, exiting the bathroom and closing my bedroom
door.

Keeping the lights turned off fucked with my bad eye, but I had no choice except to
work in the darkness. I started adding layers of clothes.
A sports bra. A long-sleeved under-armor shirt. I yanked on a pair of jeans and slid
on the super-thin subzero winter coat I’d saved from my Afghanistan tour. The light
weight allowed me to move and kept me warm, but not too warm. For an overcoat, I pawed
through the closet until I found my black duster. Two inside pockets, two deep outside
pockets, long and sloppy-looking. Perfect.

Next, I needed hardware. Whatever I took had to fit on my person. The familiar smell
of gun oil wafted up as I opened the gun safe. Pity there wasn’t room inside the coat
for my H-S Precision takedown rifle. But this op wasn’t about stopping power. Not
right away. I required firepower that used standard grade bullets. Nothing too big,
nothing subsonic, nothing traceable. I wanted a gun that was light, concealable, and
could be assembled in a snap.

I grabbed my AR-15.

At a little over eight and a half pounds, it was my lightest-weight semiauto. I’d
had it sited with an Elcan day/night digital rifle scope and an IR flashlight, which
served as an image intensifier for night shoots. I’d added a Gemtech suppressor—no
more need for earplugs—and replaced the standard trigger with a three-pound Timney
trigger for a no-jerk pull. The AR came apart with two easy clicks by pushing the
pins from the left side of the aluminum receiver and pulling them out on the right
side.

Click-click
and the rifle was in two pieces.

Click-click
and it’d be assembled. Snap in the clip, pull the charging handle, and it was ready
to fire.

The nylon sling was still attached to the upper and lower sections. With the sling
looped around my neck, even the sixteen-inch barrel and suppressor were hidden, dangling
beneath my armpits.

That done, I slipped on my coat.

Next, I shoved the two magazines, each preloaded with fifteen .223-caliber bullets,
into the pockets.

I balled up a nylon duffel bag and tucked it inside the largest purse I owned. I’d
started keeping cash inside the gun safe, rather than the office
safe, because it rankled having to explain to Hope why I always kept a significant
stash on hand. I counted out the bills.

Almost done. I dropped a three-inch knife in a leather sheath, along with my black
Merrill soft-soled hiking shoes into the purse. Last thing I grabbed was the monocular
thermal-imaging device that had cost me an entire month’s pay. But with the compromised
eyesight in my right eye, especially at night, I needed—deserved—the extra advantage.
I’d lusted after the thermal-imaging devices I’d used with my sniper rifle, but the
army frowned on soldiers taking home a twenty-five thousand dollar piece of equipment.