Merciless Read online

  Merciless

  Lori Armstrong

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  Praise for Merciless

  “Lori Armstrong’s writing is as smart, sexy, and ruthless as her characters. Merciless is her best novel yet.”

  —Allison Leotta, author of Discretion and Law of Attraction

  “Armstrong’s heroine blows away the stereotypes. Suspense lovers who haven’t met Mercy Gunderson are missing out. Merciless has it all—a chilling mystery, smart dialogue, and memorable characters. Another riveting addition to the Mercy Gunderson series.”

  —Laura Griffin, bestselling author of Twisted

  “Driven, damaged, and dangerous, FBI agent Mercy Gunderson is one of the best female leads to come down the pike since Eve Dallas. Lori Armstrong delivers the goods with Merciless.”

  —Cindy Gerard, bestselling author of The Bodyguards and The Black Ops series

  Praise for Mercy Kill

  “With a gutsy heroine, sharp humor, and a strong sense of place, Armstrong has created a winning series. The female veteran perspective is particularly fresh—not unlike a young V. I. Warshawski gone rural. Craig Johnson and C. J. Box fans should like it, too. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Sharp … An intriguing new character, FBI agent Shay Turnbull of the Indian County Special Crimes Unit, will leave readers eager to see how their relationship plays out in the next installment.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] tough-mouth novel … [readers] will enjoy Mercy—tough, funny, and hardly a girl in a guy suit.”

  —Booklist

  “Another surprisingly twisted tale leads readers into a thicket of relative good and evil.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “This is a harsh tale filled with hard people but, like the South Dakota landscape, it’s compelling and difficult to walk away from without being changed.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews (four-star review)

  “Mercy is one of the best female characters around, and you can quote me on that.”

  —Lisa Gardner, author of Love You More and Live to Tell

  Praise for No Mercy

  “[A] smartly written, high-velocity tale.”

  —The Wall Street Journal

  “Mercy Gunderson [is] a complicated and fascinating character whose presence in modern novels is way overdue.”

  —USA Today

  “This is a new series to pay attention to.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “Mercy is the kind of woman Lyle Lovett sings about with her scuffed boots, faded jeans, a hip flask instead of a purse, and enough attitude to rein in a steer.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “A voice laced with so much attitude and personality … Mercy is a take-no-prisoners toughie with (of course) a soft, vulnerable underbelly.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Compelling … Mercy is as tough as an old army boot, with a vocabulary and weapons proficiency to prove it.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Armstrong] has created a grittier character in Mercy Gunderson… . Fans of the Collins mysteries should embrace this new novel with open arms, but the author could pick up some new readers, too, on the strength of this new heroine.”

  —Booklist

  “Armstrong’s writing is intense and passionate. With every turn of the page, she reveals more shocking revelations. This gripping story will undoubtedly become a must-read series. 4.5 out of 5 stars.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews, Top Pick review

  “Within just a few pages of No Mercy I was gripped… . Lori Armstrong is the real deal and so is the setting and the characters in this novel which by turns is tough, sassy, sexy, and unique. As gritty, haunting, and authentic as South Dakota itself, No Mercy is a terrific series debut.”

  —C. J. Box, Edgar-winning author of Below Zero

  “Mercy Gunderson shoots straight onto the list of my favorite heroines. A master of snappy dialogue and twisting plots, Lori Armstrong proves again why she is an award-winning author. No Mercy is a thrilling mystery, a hard-edged, fast-paced, no-holds-barred roller coaster ride.”

  —Allison Brennan, author of Original Sin and Fatal Secrets

  “Mercy Gunderson, the protagonist in Lori Armstrong’s wonderful new series, is everything readers hope for in a lead character: strong, capable, hotheaded, and soft in all the right places. Set in South Dakota ranch country that’s so well evoked you’ll smell things you wish you didn’t, with a compelling cast of supporting characters and a dynamite mystery sure to keep you guessing until the very end, No Mercy is a no-holds-barred, flat-out winner of a series debut.”

  —William Kent Krueger, author of Heaven’s Keep and Red Knife

  “Step aside, cowboys, there’s a new star on the horizon and her name’s Lori Armstrong. With No Mercy, Armstrong introduces one of the most original heroes to come out of the west in years. Mercy Gunderson is a perfectly flawed woman; a tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners kind of gal who’d just as soon outshoot or outdrink a man as bed him. Read this book or answer to Mercy.”

  —Reed Farrel Coleman, two-time Edgar nominee and Shamus Award–winning coauthor of Tower

  “People always ask me what I read and I tell them Lori Armstrong. There comes a point when I need to read her like I need a shot of whiskey at the end of a hard day; Lori’s writing is like that, unforgiving and deeply satisfying.”

  —Craig Johnson, author of The Cold Dish and The Dark Horse

  Thank you for purchasing this Touchstone eBook.

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  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  About Lori Armstrong

  May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I won’t.

  —General George S. Patton

  1

  I blamed my unrealistic expectations of becoming an FBI special agent on The X-Files.

  Granted, Mulder and Scully were fictional characters, but working in the FBI was nothing like portrayed on any TV shows. Disappointment made me want to crawl inside the TV and kick some ass.

  Figuratively speaking, of course.

  So far my new FBI job hadn’t entailed chasing down aliens—either illegal or the bug-eyed, misshapen-headed types.

  I hadn’t been assigned a trippy private office that I could decorate with funky, yet prophetic posters.

  I hadn’t met a weirdly wise, hip, confidential informant.

  I hadn’t participated in a raid where I got to yell, “Federal agents! Everyone on the ground!”

  The brass hadn’t issued me a shiny badge or one of those rocking black jackets with FBI emblazoned in big white letters on the back.

  Heck, I hadn’t even been saddled with an official partner.

  I was damn lucky I’d gotten a gun.
/>   Not that I’d gotten to shoot it yet.

  Instead of chasing down bad guys and busting heads, I was trapped in an overheated office building in Rapid City with other agents, flipping though a stack of paperwork, listening to Director Shenker drone on.

  And holy J. Edgar Hoover, did the man love the sound of his own monotone.

  I sighed. A boot connected with my ankle, and I sucked in a quick breath at the sharp pain.

  Of course, Director Shenker chose that moment to pause his lecture. He peered at me over the top of his cheater bifocals—leopard print cheater bifocals, no less.

  Peered was too bland a word. Glared was more fitting.

  I fought the urge to squirm.

  “Have something to add, Agent Gunderson?”

  “No, sir.” I pointed to my empty water glass. “Just a dry throat.” I reached for the water pitcher—we’d been in meeting hell so long the ice had melted. When I thoughtfully refilled my tablemate’s glass—oops, water splashed on his notebook, obliterating the elaborate doodle he’d been working on for the past two hours.

  Served the bastard right for kicking me.

  “Take ten, people,” Shenker said, leaving up the PowerPoint presentation.

  Didn’t have to tell me twice. I was out of the room and down the hallway before my seatmate quit scratching himself.

  Or so I thought.

  A hand on my shoulder spun me around so I was nose to nose with Special Agent Shay Turnbull—my unofficial trainer, my doodling seatmate, the disher of a daily dose of snark that made me snicker like a teenage girl in spite of myself.

  I shrugged him off.

  “Follow me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the senior agent, that’s why. Do you have to make everything so damn difficult?” Turnbull headed for the door marked STAIRS, assuming I’d follow.

  Another ass-chewing session. I grudgingly admitted I preferred Turnbull’s private approach rather than our boss’s public browbeating—not that I’d been on the receiving end so far.

  We entered the small concrete landing to the stairwell. I rested my shoulders against the cement-block wall, half wishing I smoked. Would I look tough and cool if I flicked my Bic and squinted mysteriously at Turnbull through the smoky haze?

  No. Turnbull would see right through me. He had that uncanny ability. Which sort of sucked ass for me.

  “Would it kill you to look alive and at least partially interested in this training session, Gunderson?”

  “Yes, it might kill me, because it’s boring me to death. I don’t see the importance of knowing riot procedure. There’s not enough population base here to even have a riot. And historically, the guys in charge call the National Guard.”

  Turnbull lifted a brow. “Has it somehow escaped your notice, Sergeant Major, that more than half the South Dakota National Guard troops are currently deployed?”

  I scowled at his pointed reminder of my army rank. “Doesn’t matter. Training assignment is busywork. I wanna be out there doing something. Not sitting on my ass.”

  “The FBI’s success rate is based on ninety percent office work and—”

  “Ten percent fieldwork, yeah, yeah, I recently lived the manifesto.” Standard training time for new FBI agents was five months at Quantico. I fell into the “special exclusion category” since at thirty-nine I was older than the federal government’s mandated final hire age of thirty-eight for federal employees. With twenty years’ service in Uncle Sam’s army, and a pension in place, I’d been allowed to skip the firearms portion and specialized tactical maneuvers of the training program, allowing me to shave off four weeks in Virginia.

  Agent Turnbull studied me in his usual fashion. Not looking me in the eye, because engaging in a stare down with me was an exercise in futility. And Special Agent Turnbull hated losing. So instead, he gifted me with the half-exasperated/half-amused look of superiority he’d perfected in his ten-plus years as a G-man.

  “What? You can’t fault me for hoping for something—anything—to happen.”

  “I’ll say it again. Act like you give a damn about these training assignments. You’re new. You should be enthusiastic. Rah-rah! Go FBI! and all that shit.” His pocket buzzed, and he fished out his cell phone. He said, “Turnbull,” and exited the stairwell.

  I didn’t move. Instead, I closed my eyes, still unsure if I’d made the right choice joining the FBI.

  When I’d snapped out of the haze following the death of my former army buddy Anna, a death in which I’d pulled the trigger, I realized I needed more out of my life than being a retired soldier, part-time rancher, and full-time drinker. Since my skill set had been honed behind the scope of my sniper rifle, there wasn’t much in the way of career opportunities in western South Dakota. I was zero for two on the attempted-career front; I’d made a lousy bartender and had lost when I ran for my dad’s old job as Eagle River County sheriff. When the FBI had set their sights on me, it’d been a boost to my ego—although I’d never publicly admit that.

  But again, I hadn’t found out the job offer hadn’t been about me personally until after I’d signed on the dotted line. The Rapid City FBI office was short on agents because no one in the vast resources of the FBI wanted to fill the agency opening in our state capital in Pierre, which meant the head of our division, Director Shenker, had to divide his time between that office and ours in Rapid City.

  Since our district covered such a large area, and our staff was on the smallish side, we weren’t a specialized unit like in more populated areas. We handled all the federal cases: everything from homicide to artifact theft. We weren’t even partnered with other agents, although Turnbull was tasked with showing me the ropes as my unofficial partner.

  Served him right, being saddled with a rookie, after flashing his specialized FBI badge at me, denoting him as part of the Indian Country Special Crimes Unit. What Turnbull hadn’t told me? There was no such division within the Rapid City FBI unit.

  After some kind of hush-hush dustup, he’d been transferred from the ICSCU in Minneapolis to “train” the agents of this smaller outlying FBI office in how to deal with Indian Country crimes. Which had pissed off the agents who’d been serving the Rapid City FBI office for years, dealing with Indian crimes without the official federal ICSCU moniker—or the funding—because for all of Turnbull’s supposed training, he hadn’t seen or done half the shit in his ten years as an agent that the Rapid City agents dealt with each year.

  Guess he’d gotten quite an education for being such an expert.

  Of course, I learned all this secondhand from Frances, the office manager, on my third day on the job at the FBI. She’d also shared the philosophy that when you work in Indian Country, all cases deal with crimes in Indian Country.

  So far, I’d suffered with 95 percent office work, reading reports to familiarize myself with current events and cases. Nothing important had gone down since I’d punched the time clock as Special Agent Mercy Gunderson—not that I hoped for a horrific occurrence. But I hated sitting around talking about crap that’d never happen, wearing a gun I wasn’t allowed to shoot.

  The stairwell door opened, and Turnbull popped his head in. “Briefing room.”

  After a few moments I slipped into my chair, surrounded by a buzz of excitement. There was definitely something going on.

  Director Shenker shuffled through a stack of papers as he entered the room. He glanced at the clock and stepped to the coffee center to fill his mug. “I’ve just been made aware of a situation on the Eagle River Reservation. The tribal police were brought in first, but given the sensitive nature, they’ve reached out to us for help.”

  The latest departmental catchphrase touted the “new spirit of cooperation” on the Eagle River Reservation between the recently elected new tribal president, the newly promoted chief of the tribal police, and the “local” fresh Indian blood in the FBI—aka me.

  “What’s the situation?” Agent Thomas asked. Technically, we weren’t assigne
d to specific reservations, but Agents Thomas and Burke worked the northwestern part of the state. Turnbull and I concentrated on the southwestern section, and Agents Mested and Flack dealt with the central section on the west side of the Missouri River. As the lone female agent in this office it was hard not to feel like I was just there to fill a quota.

  Shenker pressed his thumb between his eyebrows. “Three days ago, seventeen-year-old Arlette Shooting Star disappeared. The tribal police instituted a search of the reservation and found nothing. The highway patrol joined in searching the surrounding area and found nothing, either.”

  “No sign of her at all?”

  “None. The last time her friends allegedly had contact with her was before lunch at the school on Friday. She did not report to her class after lunch. Her cell phone and her belongings were found in her locker.”

  “Does she have a habit of disappearing?” Turnbull asked.

  “No. She’s been living with her aunt and uncle on the Eagle River rez for the last year.”

  “Where’d she live before that?” Mested asked.

  Shenker flipped through the pages. “Standing Rock, in North Dakota. They’ve checked to see if she’s contacted anyone in that area, but no one is admitting they’ve seen or heard from her.”

  “She has family on Standing Rock?”

  “Shirttail relatives. She had to move to Eagle River after her mother died and her aunt was named her legal guardian.” Director Shenker put both hands on the conference table. “Here’s why it’s a sensitive situation. Arlette’s aunt is Triscell Elk Thunder, married to tribal president Latimer Elk Thunder.”

  Silence. Then shifting in seats. No one spoke.

  “And while the tribal president would like to avoid the appearance of impropriety, chances are, it’s inevitable.”

  My thoughts rolled back to my nephew and how frantic I’d been after he’d been missing for only a few hours, not a few days. I’d tried to call out the cavalry, but no one had listened, so I understood Elk Thunder’s intention to do whatever it took to find her. Still, it bugged me. Three days is a long time in a missing persons case.