Truman brought his elbow back into his assailant’s chest and kicked with every ounce of his being, determined to keep the man from grabbing his weapon, which was stuck between his stomach and the dirt. I won’t let them take her!
“Hold still!” hissed in his ear, and Truman flung back another elbow, connecting with something hard. “Fuck!” The grip around his stomach and weapon arm tightened.
“It’s me, Owen! You’ve got to get out of here!”
Truman stopped kicking. Owen? “They’ve got Mercy!”
“There’s a half dozen of them in the house now. You can’t take on all of them!”
Truman lay still, his mind racing and his heart pounding against the ground. How do I get to her?
I’m an idiot.
She hadn’t watched her back.
At least Truman got away.
She sat on the floor in the kitchen, her back to a wall, wearing a pair of Truman’s handcuffs, as McDonald’s men searched the property for Truman. She’d been focused on clearing the yard when she’d been rushed from behind. She’d heard the boot steps a split second too late. A half dozen men had taken her to the floor, knocked the breath out of her lungs, and disarmed her before she could breathe again. Now she had a growing bruise on the back of her skull and a sore breast from the joker who’d thought he had the right to maul her as the others bound her hands. He sported a new falsetto.
Mercy glared at another man, who hovered over her. He had a lascivious smile on his face that made her stomach crawl. He deliberately adjusted his jeans at his crotch. “Give me a break,” she muttered.
“I’ll give you something.” More leers.
“Grow up.”
“Oh, I’m old enough for you, darlin’.” Two of his bottom front teeth were missing.
For all his sexy advances, the man hadn’t touched her. He’d kept a pistol aimed at her head, but he stayed a good distance from her feet. She’d already proved she could kick.
Four men had been left to guard her.
I think that number is a compliment.
Three of them kept a healthy distance, but the fourth had slowly worked his way closer as he tried to seduce her with his charming banter. She uncrossed and recrossed her boots, holding his gaze, amused when he scooted back six inches. She wasn’t scared; she was on edge, her senses on high alert, watching and analyzing every word and action around her. Whatever was going to happen would happen, and she’d do her damnedest to get out without getting hurt. For all their blustering, they were now keeping their hands off her. There weren’t a lot of IQ points in the room, and her mind was preparing arguments for her release.
Heavy treads in the hallway told her McDonald had returned.
He entered the room and the four men stood at attention, snapping to with nonmilitary precision. McDonald waved a hand at them and they relaxed.
At least they didn’t salute the man.
McDonald stopped at her feet and stared down at her. Mercy looked back, moving only her eyes, not her head, and raised a brow at him.
“How fast the cards change,” stated McDonald. “Are you a betting woman?”
“No. I don’t gamble.”
He nodded in approval. “I didn’t think so. Waste of money.”
“I’d like to take a gamble on her,” muttered her dentally challenged guard.
“Show some respect,” barked McDonald, surprising Mercy and the guard.
“She’s a lying fed,” argued her admirer. “You said the women were here for us. I’d think this one should make the full rounds.”
Just try me. Keeping her lips closed, Mercy ran her tongue over her teeth and paused on a particularly sharp canine. I’ll use whatever I can as a weapon.
“Not now,” huffed McDonald. His face was redder than when Truman had cuffed him earlier. “We’ve got other problems. Go help find that police chief,” he told the frustrated man. “But first tell Owen Kilpatrick I want to see him.” He jammed his hands in the pockets of his coat and focused on Mercy again.
Mercy briefly closed her eyes. What will Owen do?
“Where’s the chief?” he asked her.
“Like I would know. You saw how your men yanked me back into the room.”
“Who else is here?”
She smiled. “I expect the FBI and Deschutes County to be here any minute.”
McDonald held her gaze, assessing her. “I want a dozen men covering the road,” he said over his shoulder. “Tell them to move some vehicles to block the entrance. No one gets in.”
One of the men darted down the hallway to carry out his command. He returned five seconds later. “They found the police chief’s truck!”
“Where?”
“Right with all the others. They want to know if they can break in.”
“Of course not!” McDonald shook his head in exasperation. “No one touches the truck until I say so.” The messenger dashed away again.
McDonald pulled on his beard as he looked from Mercy to the two waiting men. Frustration emanated from him, and he paced in a small circle, continuing to stroke his beard and take quick glances at Mercy.
The two men left in the room exchanged confused looks, and Mercy wondered if they’d never seen their leader struggle with a decision.
She considered his options. Believe her story that more police were on their way and get ready for a standoff. Kill her and prepare for a standoff.
Or give up.
She wasn’t sure if he’d kill her first in the giving-up scenario. Probably not.
“Get her up. Take her to the mess hall.”
The men each grabbed an arm and hauled her to her feet. She deliberately met the stare of one of them; he looked away after a few seconds and shot a glance at McDonald, who ignored him.
That’s right. Your leader is losing ground. You can feel it.
She walked slowly, making the men try to drag her. As they took the gravel path toward the mess hall, McDonald shouted into the dark, “Hey, Chief Daly! Your woman is about to provide entertainment for my men this evening!”
Mercy stumbled, tripped up by the memory of a man who’d once tried to force her. He’d died as a result.
But the terror he’d created had never died. It’d simply gone underground in her psyche, waiting to pop out in moments like this.
No one responded to McDonald’s taunt from the shadows.
Breathe. She worked to control her breaths, which deepened and slowed. Searching for calm.
“Did Joshua Pence have a final walk like this?” she asked her escorts. “Did two men lead him to his murder?”
Hands tightened on her arms. “Shut up,” muttered the man on her right. He smelled of cigarettes.
“Is that a sore topic for you?” she hissed at him. “Maybe you’ll be next if you don’t toe McDonald’s line. He seems the type to simply eliminate anyone who disagrees with him.”
“I suggest you keep your mouth shut,” Tom McDonald said from behind her. He shouted his taunt again.
“I know how your type operates,” said Mercy over her shoulder. “You’re the big cheese. Everyone around you is terrified you’ll hurt them if they don’t jump when you say jump. But you know what? That gets old after a while. Pretty soon people get tired of jumping for no reason.”