No Mercy Read Online Free PDF Page A

Nebraska, where a few enterprising farmers had replicated Stone-henge—not with stones, but with vintage, American-made cars.
    Tacky? Maybe. But not nearly as bad as the tourist trap that is Graceland.
    Out here the vegetation was fairly high, indicating this section hadn’t been grazed recently. From a distance, pockets of orangish-red and brown soil were laced with drought-resistant tallgrass; blue grama, fescue, prairie dropseed, and the slender green stems of quack grass. Up close, the shorter buffalo grass spread out as a spotty carpet of gray-green sod. Velvety-soft lamb’s ear plants ringed large and small clumps of silver sagebrush. Yucca spikes poked up intermittently. When the fat, dried yucca seedpods shook in the wind, it sounded like dozens of rattlesnakes coiled in wait.
    In the grove of half-dead elm trees, I parked beneath the largest one, not for shade, but to stand on the cab roof to reach the branches. Climbing trees wasn’t a hobby left over from my tomboy years; it kept me agile, kept my senses sharp. In my line of work, a clear shot was a rarity. Preparation for every contingency was a necessity.
    I unwrapped a package of neon orange targets, small dots the size of a dime. When I’d scattered twenty targets, I cracked the case for my H-S Precision takedown rifle. I swapped out the modified barrel and was good to go.
    No sunglasses, no cap to shade my eyes from the morning sun. Just me, my gun, and my scope. If I missed a shot, I couldn’t blame it on anything besides my shitty marksmanship.
    That familiar tickle started low in my belly. Fear. Anticipation. Confidence.
    It’d taken longer to set up the course than to empty the magazine. My self-assurance deflated when I studied the targets. Berating myself, I disassembled the rifle and packed it away. As I readied my handgun, a 9 mm Browning High Power, I knew my ego needed better than 50 percent accuracy, especially when I was used to 95 percent.
    Tires crunching on bone-dry vegetation signaled unwanted visitors. A burgundy Dodge Silverado dually crept toward me. No clue who these people were. With a body discovered a week ago, I wasn’t taking chances. I slammed a full clip in the gun, letting it dangle by my side.
    My face remained neutral. My body appeared loose-limbed and relaxed. Inside I was wound tight as a new ball of baling twine.
    The door opened. Bluish-white ostrich-skin cowboy boots thumped on the chrome running board. I gave a mental whistle. Those babies were high-end Lucchese boots, if I wasn’t mistaken. I tamped down my envy as my mystery guest hopped down. He kept his back and the brim of his silver Stetson to me as he slammed the door.
    When he faced me I groaned. Kit McIntyre. Real estate tycoon wannabe. My gaze flicked over the shiny truck. More than a wannabe if he could afford to drop $65K on a rig and $3K on boots. Still, he was a pain in my ass. He claimed a friendship with my father that Dad hadn’t appreciated or reciprocated.
    Old Kit had cotton white hair and a matching goatee. Add in his rotund carriage and he was the bastard child of Boss Hogg and Colonel Sanders—a description Kit wouldn’t find the least bit distasteful. He even wore an off-white western suit with a bolo tie, and a silver-studded white leather belt with a buckle the size of my great-grandma’s prized silver serving tray.
    The passenger door opened. Hiram “Hi” Blacktower scrambled around the front end. Hi, a Lakota Sioux man, was tall as a spruce, broad as a barn, and dumb as a turkey. Dad always said Hi would be dangerous if he had any ambition. It appeared his ambition was to be a carbon copy of Kit. Hell, they’d even dressed the same.
    Kit grinned at me. “We was wondering if we’d ever find ya, Mercy. Whatcha doing all the way out here by yourself?”
    “Target shooting.” I lifted the gun. Neither of them had noticed it. Kit’s name fit: he had the survival instincts of a kitten.
    “Is that military issue?” Hi