Without making eye contact with me, Captain Thrasher snapped, “You’re driving. Let’s go.”
I hated to drive. I tended to pass the buck to a subordinate whenever possible, but this time I didn’t argue. Thrasher outranked me, and every TC I’d ever dealt with would only give up his command post if he took direct fire and died.
Hours on the road without further engagement or incidents lulled me into a false sense of security. Around sunrise, when the shadows lengthened and played tricks on weary eyes, I saw something in the road two hundred yards ahead. I’d glanced at Thrasher, but he was fiddling with the headset. I briefly closed my eyes, reopened them, expecting a mirage, but I realized it was a person in the middle of the damn road. An old man dragging a goat tethered with a rope. At one hundred yards out I took my foot off the gas.
Thrasher looked up and said, “Why are you slowing down?”
“Civilian in the road, sir.”
Thrasher swore and then spoke to A-Rod through his headset. “Sergeant Rodriguez. Eliminate the obstacle in the road.”
“Roger, sir.”
The vehicle started to shake; A-Rod had fired up the M240B. The gunfire started and stopped abruptly. Over the headset I heard A-Rod say, “Sir, the gun jammed, and I missed the target. Give me a sec.”
“No time.” Thrasher faced me. “Run that fucker over, Master Sergeant.”
My grip increased on the steering wheel. “I’m just supposed to hit him head-on and watch him splat like a bug on the windshield?”
“Yes. And that’s an order.”
When I was behind my gun scope, I saw targets, not people. Procedure is simple: Aim. Verify. Shoot. I rarely remembered the faces of the targets I’d been ordered to eliminate, but this was different, this was an old man, probably someone’s grandfather. Wearing tattered dishdashas. Tethered to a goat. Probably the only livestock he owned. I saw the man’s face and his haunted, desperate eyes.
Which was probably why I swerved to miss him at the last second and set off the IED buried on the side of the road.
Dirt exploded across the windshield. I heard pieces of shrapnel chinking against the side of the vehicle. The Humvee rocked on its wheels, and we bounced hard before coming to an abrupt stop.
My ears rang, my head pounded, my body ached. The smell of burning rubber and oil was thick in the confines of the Humvee. And the taste of salt and dirt coated my lips and tongue.
Completely rattled, I squinted out the window, trying to take stock of the situation. Another man, not the old decrepit man who’d willingly sacrificed himself in hopes of taking a few of us out with him, was racing across the desert like a world-class sprinter.
Son of a bitch. The triggerman. We would’ve been fucked either way. I reached for my gun the same time the man’s head burst into scarlet mist and chunks of his body flew up like he’d been tossed into a meat grinder gone haywire.
As activity burst around me, I didn’t budge. I couldn’t believe I’d felt an ounce of sympathy. My hesitation, or dare I say my show of… humanity… disturbed me. The tip-off would’ve been obvious even to a wet-behind-the-ears private. No one stands by the road, alone, in a desert, in the wee small hours, defiantly facing down a U.S. military convoy.
And if they did? They certainly didn’t live to tell about it.
The IED didn’t significantly damage the Humvee, nor did A-Rod sustain anything but superficial injuries. She didn’t say a word when Thrasher and his commanding officer chewed my ass up one side and down the other.
I’d convinced myself I was doing A-Rod a favor by letting her drive, but the truth was, I needed to feel the stinging sand and scorching rays on my face to burn away my shame.
For years after that incident, I never faltered in my responsibilities. I pulled the trigger-literally and figuratively-every single time.
Until I’d run across that lioness.
I’d never let sentimentality affect my judgment again. Never.
“Mercy? You still with me?” Anna said.
“Yeah.” I put a bullet on top of the casing and pushed the ram down, seating the bullet to the proper depth. “Just reliving that fun time when I realized I’d fucked up and nearly got us all blown up.” I looked at Anna. “Has it ever happened to you?”
“What? Freezing up to the point that I didn’t take out my target?”
I nodded.
She took a drink of beer as she measured me. “Nope. Not ever. Not when I was enlisted, not now that I’m a private contractor. Then again, we’re different, Gunny.”
“How so?”
“You follow orders. I follow my gut instinct. Sometimes, doing what’s wrong is the only thing that feels right.”
A chill ran down my spine that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the cool breeze blowing in.
Three raps sounded, and Sheriff Dawson appeared in the open doorway.
Why hadn’t I heard him drive up?
“Mind if I come in?”
I said, “Sure. You here on official business?”
His face took on a guarded expression, as if he couldn’t believe my antagonism right off the bat.
Quickly, I amended, “I only asked if you were off duty because if you are, I’ll offer you a beer.”
Dawson relaxed into the door frame. “I’ll pass. But thanks.”
“So you just out making the rounds?”
“Yes and no. I’m here to give you a heads-up.”
“What’s going on?”
“A homicide.”
I played dumb. “Another one? You’re kidding me. Who?”
“Deputy Moore found Victor Bad Wound’s body this afternoon at Mulligan’s.”
“Holy shit. Really? How long had he been missing?”
“No one knows because it wasn’t officially reported.”
I frowned. “Huh. How’d he die?”
“Multiple gunshot wounds. We’re tentatively placing time of death between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago.”
“So you came by to… warn me a shooter is on the loose or something?”
“Not exactly.” He shifted his stance. “You crossed paths with Victor a couple of times.”
“Unavoidable when Saro’s group started coming into Clementine’s. I broke up a fight involving his nephew at Stillwell’s, and Victor and Saro cornered me. But that was the extent of my contact with him.”
“Did you threaten him at Stillwell’s that night?”
Not a casual question. “Am I a suspect or something?”
Dawson just stared at me.
“I don’t fucking believe this. Am I suspect?” I held my hands out. “If you’ve come to do a gunpowder residue test on me, I’m telling you right now, I’ll fail it.”
He smiled benignly. “Thanks for the tip. But I’m here strictly on a fact-finding mission. Of course, if you want to tell me your whereabouts for the last two nights…”
As I composed a tart reply, Anna jumped in. “I can answer that. Me ’n’ Gunny have both been here, drinking beer, shooting the shit, and watching DVDs of Lost. Debating the hotness factor of Sawyer and Jack versus Sayid and Jin.”
“Which brings me to the second reason I’m here.” Dawson looked at Anna. “I’ve heard from a couple of people that you’re friends with Victor’s live-in, Cherelle Dupris?”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Out here in the boondocks if you talk to a person a couple of times you’re best buddies? Give me a break. Me ’n’ Gunny talked to her one night about campaign stuff. I played one game of pool with her. I talked to her one other time while I sat at the counter at Clementine’s and she picked up a bottle to go. So yeah, I guess I can see where you’d think me ’n’ her are now BFFs.”
I ignored Anna’s sarcasm. “Why does it matter?”