Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (26 page)

Peter stared at the bullet-proof glass window beside his left shoulder, unconvinced of the new security measures. “Why does he bother carrying a gun when the specs on this vehicle claim it’s impervious to bullets?” he muttered. He’d been assured this car was far safer than that other one.

Carlotta shook her head then looked at Brad Stevens, as if passing the question to him.

“It’s just an added layer of protection.” Brad shrugged. Nothing ever seemed to rattle the junior officer.

“Yeah, right. Shit happens. So why aren’t we given our own Uzis?”

Carla rolled her eyes.

Peter knew he sounded irritable and whiny. His mood had little to do with the weapon that was presently riding shotgun or with the SUV. Mercy's terse text had appeared on his cell phone the day before, while they were still in Ciudad Juarez. Where, he reminded himself, a U.S. consulate employee, her husband, and another man had been brutally killed a few years back. More shit.

His wife’s message:

WE NEED TO TALK. SITUATION URGENT!

Christ,
he thought.
What now?

He tried to call her, but she failed to answer both the house phone and her cell. Either she was avoiding a telephone fight—which didn’t bode well for him—or she was off somewhere without a signal. Which was just as bad, because it meant she’d left the city even though he’d warned her not to.

Mexico City was far safer than any of the border towns like Nuevo Laredo or CJ. Reynosa and a few other towns were almost as bad. In the north, gang wars had paralyzed many of the local communities, terrorizing the citizenry. In less than a year over 75 murders had rocked the tiny town of Nuevo Laredo; 30 of the victims had been American tourists.

At least in Mexico City there were reasonably peaceful areas during daylight. Now, at midnight, the
Zona Rosa
, Pink Zone, with its multitude of bars and restaurants, was not one of them. The quaint cobblestone streets teemed with crime, or so he’d been warned in the alerts to embassy employees and their dependents. Unfortunately, driving through the Zone was the fastest route to his house.

He'd have insisted they take a more circuitous path at this hour, but there was no arguing with his driver. Macho-Juan’s mantra was: “To hell with the
criminales!
I will drive anywhere I want, man.”

Shit!
Peter thought.
You
have the fucking gun. What have I got? A wife who’s two steps away from divorcing me and deep-sixing my career.

Maybe Mercy was at their house right now, waiting for him. In a rage. With her own gun. She'd seemed furious enough to shoot him in the balls the other night when he tried to have a little fun with her. But it had backfired and she'd become suspicious of his cheating on her.
Double shit.

Juan dropped off Brad first, then Carlotta after she and Peter enjoyed a passionate backseat kiss and grope. He promised they’d hook up the following night. Keeping two women happy used to be a game for him; now it seemed far too exhausting.

At last, the Sequoia pulled into the portico along the east side of his house. He didn't wait for Juan to open the door for him. If the urgent matter in his wife's text had anything to do with his infidelity, he’d just find a way to deal with it. He always had before.

And if Talia was the subject? Crap, he didn’t even want to think what he’d tell Mercy to calm her down this time. Distracting her with sex was unlikely to work, given her current mood. But he couldn’t tell her a thing. Clearly, the Department didn't want her to have any information just yet.

Peter let himself in, surprised that no servants responded to the creak of the heavy door as it opened. He dropped his briefcase and overnight bag on the foyer’s marble floor. The thump reverberated through the house. Still nothing. What if he’d been a thief, or druggie, or assassin breaking in? Rising diplomatic star Peter Davis might be murdered in his bed.

He locked the door behind him, ran up the stairs and turned toward Mercy’s suite, from which he was still officially banned, and tapped on the door. No answer. He knocked a little louder then pushed the door open.

The room was dark, windows open, gauze curtains drifting inward on a thin, hot breeze. Mercy's bed was unoccupied but mussed, as if she’d tried to sleep but couldn’t. Another bad omen. He felt his blood pressure creep up another notch.

Peter crossed the room and peered out through the glass doors that opened onto a raised patio. Stairs led down to the garden below. Mercy lay on one of a pair of chaise lounges in a white cotton caftan. She was reading by the glow of her Ipad, but she didn’t look relaxed. Something about her body conveyed tension, hostility, unpleasantness. Hers was a waiting posture. He knew this Mercy. She was a storm in the making.

His anxiety leapt up another two notches.

He should never have allowed her to accompany him to Mexico. He should have cooked up some excuse. A security alert. A need for her to remain in DC until her mother was found. Anything. Carlotta was making demands on his time, and so was the Director’s office. How was he supposed to please everyone? He slowly descended the stairs, rehearsing placating phrases as he went.

Mercy looked up at the sound of his footsteps crossing the terrace. Her glance held as much warmth as a cemetery headstone.

“So you’re back,” she said, tone clipped. She clicked off her tablet. The light illuminating her fine features died.

Not
home
, just back, as if he were an errand boy. Sadly, in some ways he had become just that. Doing the dirty work for the Washington hot shots.

He was good at his job though. They’d said as much at their last meeting. “You’re just starting out on this grand adventure, Peter,” the Director reminded him with an encouraging smile. “Your whole career's ahead of you. No limit to how far you may go, someday, if you toe the line now.”

In the world of international political relations, he’d observed, ignoring a troublesome situation was generally the way to go. Until the shit hit the fan. Then everyone scrambled and you just prayed you weren’t the one left to clean up the mess. Or singled out as the scapegoat.

Mercy swiveled her long legs off the side of her chair and looked up at him. He sensed from the energy she was investing in her glare that it was scrambling time.

“Sweetheart,” he began, dredging up a smile for her. “It’s lovely of you to wait up for m—”

“Don’t!” she snapped.

Fine, he thought. And fell back on the logic of sports—the best defense being a strong offense.

He came back with a brusque voice. “Look,” he said, “if you're in one of
those
moods, just say so. I'm totally whipped from the trip. Uncooperative locals, bad food, not enough sleep…I don’t need a tiff right now. We can talk after I get some rest and you're in a more rational frame of mind.”

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. 

Mercy rocketed up off the chaise before he could make his exit into the house. “Tell me, Peter. What is the most important element of a marriage?”

“Oh great, now you want to play guessing games? I'm not going to stand here and listen to you rant at me.”

“I’m sick of your manipulation,” she said. “You turn every situation around. Put the blame on me. Make me sound like a mad woman.”

“Whoa! Let's just settle down here.” He laughed to cover his rising panic. Maybe he'd underestimated the seriousness of the situation. Reaching for her, he tried his compassionate face. “No need for shouting or rough language, sweetheart.”

Her fist came straight for his head.

He was so shocked he almost didn’t duck in time. Her knuckles grazed his left cheek, leaving behind a burning path. “Mercy!”

“You hypocritical liar!” she shouted.

So it was back to the other-women thing.
Think fast, Pete.
“If you’ve had someone following me around—” he added a severe frown to emphasize his displeasure “—I’m very disappointed in you. I respect
your
privacy. Never would I do something like that to you.”

“Maybe that's because you know I would never cheat on you,” she said, eyes burning into him.

He grimaced. She was making this difficult. “I don't know where you've gotten your information. Gossip, I expect.” Carlotta wouldn’t spill the beans, would she? What about Brad? Did he even know about his affair with Carlotta? Brad seemed clueless most of the time—about everything. “My father had to deal with these sorts of malicious accusations throughout his entire career.”

Mercy stared at him as if he were a bug and she, foot raised, timing the squash. “They gossiped about your father, Peter, because he was a blatant womanizer. No one made it up.”

Womanizer.
Definitely a word created by a female.
Exclusivity
, that was another one. Womankind's pitiful attempt to make and enforce rules intended to control the sex life of the enemy gender.

Hell, his father had scads of lovers over the years, and his mother knew it. But Gwendolyn Davis stood by her man. She had class. She'd remained the gracious wife and hostess all of her life. That was the way it was supposed to be. A wife protected the home front, so a man could follow his calling, his instincts, and yeah—sometimes his dick. So what?

“I'm not going to stand here while you insult my family.” Peter started to walk away, but made the mistake of tossing one final comment over his shoulder. “The thing you’re so sore about now. It doesn’t mean a thing. A fling with a local girl, that’s all.”

He hadn’t foreseen Mercy would get physical. Again.

Before he could move beyond her reach, she ran at him and her hand closed around his upper arm through his suit jacket. She dragged him, with surprising strength, back around to face her. She looked every bit as dangerous as Carlotta had sounded the night she’d told him her horrific little hocking knife fable.

“No, Peter. You're going to stay and listen to me this time. This isn't about other women. This is about two people being honest with each other. Being there for each other when life gets rough.”

Fuck!
He'd blown it. This wasn't about his cheating at all. Maybe she hadn't even been sure he'd stepped out on her again. But now he'd made the mistake of admitting it.

“We entered this marriage,” she was saying, suddenly sounding miles calmer, “with shared goals. Exciting and important goals.” Her composure actually was beginning to frighten him. Her gaze was steady, fixed on him. “That was enough for me then. I don't think you ever really loved me, although I wanted to believe you did. Because I loved you. I really did.”

She was talking in past tense. Not. Good.

He opened his mouth to say something tactful and endearing, but she rushed on, dry-eyed and determined. “We might have gone on for a long time because I wanted to be near you and share your life. But you have deceived me, Peter, in ways I can never forgive.”

“And those ways are?” he asked cautiously.
Don’t admit to anything more, dummy.

Her eyes glittered in the dark with a quiet fierceness he’d never seen in her before. Her hand unclamped from his arm, now that she knew she had his attention.

“Your mandate,” she said, her tone flat. “Your mission. Your bloody cover up, Mr. Diplomat.”

He looked blankly at her, honestly confused now. “What the f—”

“You were ordered to do whatever was necessary to keep me from finding out anything about my mother.”

Christ, it was worse than he'd imagined.

How could he deny his complicity when she clearly had information to the contrary. And, if she’d connected with the right people, she very possibly had even more information than he'd been given about her mother's situation.

Peter released a weighty moan. “Please, Mercy. Don’t you see I’ve been put in a very difficult position?”

“And it’s
not
a difficult position for me? Or for my mother?” She looked away for a moment, as if disgusted with him. When she turned back, he could see a maelstrom of emotions in her pretty eyes. But she still held her voice in check. “I showed you that photograph. But even before that night when I brought it to you, you
knew
that my mother was in terrible trouble.”

He looked down at the ground, unable to face her now.

“Do you also know whether or not she’s being held by someone?” she asked. “Who they are and why they’re doing this? Do you know if she’s even alive at this very moment?”

“I can't talk to you about this,” he muttered at his shoes.

“You can't or you won't?”

“We're not having this discussion.”

“Oh, yes we are!” She stepped up and gave his chin a warning tap with her knuckles. His eyes snapped up in shock to meet hers. “You will tell me how to get the flag lifted off of my passport so I can go to my mother.”

He shook his head. “Mercy, honey, please. That's just not possible.”

“Explain why not.
Now
!”

“Don’t you get it?” Until this moment he’d convinced himself that he was only following orders. Being the loyal civil servant. Everything else would work out if he just did what
they
told him. Now, facing his wife's indignation, he was no longer sure.