MERCY KILL by Lori Armstrong

MERCY KILL - A Mercy Gunderson Mystery by Lori Armstrong

Former Black Ops Army sniper, Mercy Gunderson isn't adjusting well to the laid-back rhythm of civilian life on her family's ranch in South Dakota. To fill her time, Mercy accepts a temporary bartending gig at a local watering hole. Yet her attempts to settle in back home are tested when Titan Oil, a Canadian company proposing to run an underground pipeline through Eagle River County, sends Jason Hawley, Mercy's former Army buddy to the area to convince ranchers to get behind the project.

While local business owners support the pipeline, Hawley's presence riles the landowners and Mercy is torn. After ugly threats and multiple altercations escalate tensions in the county, Mercy discovers Hawley's brutally mutilated body in the bar parking lot. When it appears Sheriff Dawson cares more about campaigning for re-election than investigating the case, Mercy vows to find Jason Hawley's killer - even if she has to run against Dawson for sheriff to ensure justice is served.

But Mercy soon learns her former military pal had plenty of secrets. Her search for the truth brings unwanted exposure to the county's dark side and risks deadly repercussions for the entire community.

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Excerpt:

Spring had sprung into full splendor on the western high plains of the Gunderson Ranch.

New baby calves frolicked in the lush pastures under the watchful eyes of mama cows. A cavalcade of colorful flowers bloomed from the fields to the forest. Delicate pale pink heads of primrose, stalwart stems of golden yarrow, the emerald green bushes of sumac grew alongside the caramel-colored stalks of autumn’s dried grasses. Birdsong and insect chatter abounded on the ground and in the sky. Spring was a fleeting season at best, and I appreciated the etamorphosis after a long winter.

Sunshine burned the chill from the early-morning air. As much as I benefited from solitary communion with nature, I wasn’t out picking posies. I was out picking my first target. Old habits died hard; hunting was in my blood. Plus, I had nothing better to do until my shift started at Clementine’s. And the thought of another night dealing with drunks and bar fights always put me in a killing mood.

I’d hiked to a prairie dog town on what used to be Newsome land, but now belonged to the Gunderson Ranch. The section was remote, a flat area surrounded by craggy rock formations
that prevented the persistent buggers from digging tunnels unimpeded across grazing land. But the topography created a bowl effect that I likened to shooting fish in a barrel. Since cover
was minimal, I’d crawled under scraggly bushes as my “hide” and with luck I’d stay down wind.

Dressed in camo, lying on my belly, propped on my elbows, I peered through the scope of my dad’s varmint rifle. Despite the age of the Remington 722, its accuracy was unparalleled. Out of
habit, I used my right eye. The black shadows from the retinal detachment weren’t too bad during the day.

A few clicks and the fuzzy brown spots in my sights became clear. Furry heads popped up and disappeared into the mounds of chalky dirt as I scanned the networked holes spread across the
rugged plateau.

Bingo. My first target was two hundred yards out. Before I pulled the trigger, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, snatching my kill right out from under me. The prairie dog’s surprised screech echoed across the plains. A flurry of panic ensued among the critters as they retreated to hidey-holes.

Their collective caution lasted roughly two minutes. Sleek heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Several brave animals stretched tall, aiming twitching noses to the sky, letting the sun
tan their hides.

Suckers.

I zeroed in on one fat rat and fired. The body exploded into hunks of pinkish-red parts. I inserted another bullet, engaged the bolt, and nailed a slow mover; chunks of fur-covered meat
rained down. After a quick reload, I picked off another one, ignoring me, on the opposite ridge. Bad choice, Alvin. I chambered another round and bang. Bye-bye, Theodore. Never turn
your backs when danger lurks, boys.

My last target—dubbed Simon—decided to run. I clipped it from the back. The headless body went rolling in a ball of bloody fur and dust. Five for five. Not bad.

I reloaded while I waited for the scavengers to come.

Contrary to popular belief, gunshots don’t scare away larger predatory animals. In most cases the sound of gunshots is like ringing a dinner bell—bringing them in for easy pickin’s.
Nature’s version of fast food. A meal without the work of hunting it down.

Damn coyotes were thick around the herd this time of year, preying on new calves. Any time I could put a bullet in a coyote, I’d take it. They weren’t funny, misunderstood cartoon creatures
but a threat to our livelihood. Worse, scabies thrived in the coyote dens, and it passed like wildfire. An infected mother birthed an infected litter. A mangy, scabies-ravaged coyote was just plain gross—matted fur and oozing sores clinging to a bag of bones. Nasty shit. Shooting them was doing them a favor.

With the cartridge chambered, I re-sited my scope and waited for a flash of reddish-orange fur to dart into view. Come on, Wile E. Coyote; give me something challenging to shoot.

Nothing.

No big deal. I could wait. Inhaling the vegetative scents of sun-warmed mud, decomposing leaves, and the sharpness of fresh leaf growth, contentment and a wave of sleepiness flowed
over me.

My contentment lasted a mere minute or so. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A communal silence surrounded me—no birds, no buzzing insects, even the air had gone still.
Something was out there, behind me.

My mind flashed to a predator that commanded that type of respect.

A mountain lion.

Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was there. I’d bet money it was female. A very hungry female, if she’d ventured out in the wide-open spaces of prairie rangeland in broad daylight.

Fear tightened my skin.

I leveled my breathing, trying not to envision myself getting pounced on and becoming catnip.

How does it feel when the predator becomes prey?

Not good. Seriously not good.

I’d heard talk among the bar regulars who hunted. The mountain lion population in the Black Hills had quadrupled in recent years due to an abundance of game that were their dietary
staples: deer, rabbit, and turkey. Several reports of mountain lion sightings in the wooded areas within Rapid City, Sturgis, and Spearfish city limits. Occasionally, local TV stations ran stories
where pet owners had witnessed their small domestic dogs carried off by a lion. Chained dogs were an easy target, as were cats.

Some ranchers in the Northern Hills reported missing sheep. A few larger hunting dogs had been mauled and left to die.

Nothing to eat over here, Ms. Lion, move along.

I’d spent my life dodging bullets, returning fire, living the “kill-or-be-killed” motto, seeing danger in every shadow. I’d lost track of the times I believed I wouldn’t make it out of a situation alive. But somehow, I always did. Somehow, that fear had almost become . . . comfortable. Expected. Routine.

This fear? Anything but comfortable.

A blur of a tan fur entered the sights of my scope. In all the years I’d lived on the ranch, I’d never actually seen a mountain lion. I’d seen tracks. One night I’d heard the distinctive, jarringly human scream so close to the cabin I swore the cat had been lurking below my bedroom window. But I’d never been close enough to one to count its whiskers.

She was about six feet from nose to tail. Her enormous paws could’ve ripped my face off with one powerful swipe.

But all was not well with the lioness. She panted with exertion. The bones of her rib cage were prominent due to near starvation. Her fur was patchy, worn away in spots on her hind legs
and upper haunches. Most of her left ear was missing; the fresh wound had barely scabbed over. No heavy teats swayed from her matted white underbelly. Was she too old to have cubs? Too
sick? A freak of nature that couldn’t reproduce? Had she been forced out of her natural habitat and was on the run?

My pulse quickened but not from fear. From something far scarier: empathy.

Crouched low, she nosed at the closest prairie dog carcass, the one somewhat intact after my shooting spree. Those mighty jaws opened lightning fast, and the fresh meat disappeared in two
violent chomps.

Holy shit.

Leaves rattled above me in the breeze. Her head swiveled in my direction, her muzzle slick with blood. But proof of her extreme hunger wasn’t what caught my attention. I noticed the
white film clouding her left eye.

She was half blind.

Bone-deep pity replaced my panic. This majestic creature, once a predator of the highest order, was reduced to scrounging for scraps just to survive.

Coyotes howled a warning beyond the ridge.

She opened her mouth and hissed. The sharp teeth I expected were nothing but broken nubs. No wonder she’d swallowed her food whole. No wonder she was famished. She limped to the
next pile of meat, gorging herself before the coyotes chased her away or attacked her en masse.

How much longer could she survive? A week? A month?

End her misery. You have a clear shot. Take it.

I followed her erratic movements through the scope, a lioness beyond her prime, a former predator out of synch with the natural order, a wanderer lost in a place she didn’t belong.

Kill her. A quick death will be painless compared to the way she’s been living.

I knew I should. I struggled to find that calm center where nothing existed but the target. Where muscle memory and training took over and I didn’t have to think. I just had to act.

Do it. She’s in your crosshairs.

But I couldn’t fire. I slowly removed my finger from the trigger and closed my eyes. Sweat trickled from my hairline down my face. My hand shook. Hollowness expanded in my belly.
Angry at myself for my weakness, for my pity, I pointed the scope at her last position.

She was gone.

Dammit. Only a handful of times in my life had I failed to take a shot. Why now, when there was no moral dilemma?

Guilt gnawed at me as I loaded up. I didn’t want to rehash why I’d frozen, but as usual, my brain had other plans for me during the long walk home.

I just hoped this misstep wouldn’t come back to haunt me.

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