“I hear you and the sheriff have mended your fences.”
My relationship with Dawson wasn’t up for discussion with Agent Turnbull. Ever.
“He’s a good man.”
I didn’t need Turnbull to tell me that. “Okay, you’ve filled in the blanks for me. But I’ve gotta ask… why?”
Shay Turnbull studied me. “Because we want you to come to work for us.”
Talk about blindsided. “Excuse me? You mean the FBI?”
“ICSCU could use you, Mercy.”
“No. Way.”
“Hear me out. Five minutes.”
“Nope. Have a nice trip back to wherever you’re from.” I cocked my head. “What corner of hell are you from, anyway?”
“Hilarious. I live in Rapid.”
“No, I mean originally. What reservation?” I sensed his irritation, but he’d answer if he wanted to keep me talking.
“Flandreau.”
“So you’re a member of the…”
“Santee tribe.”
“I knew you didn’t look Lakota Sioux.”
Turnbull wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “So back to business at hand. You interested?”
“For the third time, no.”
“You’re making the decision without giving us a chance to state our case?”
“Yep.”
“Typical. Don’t know why they freakin’ bothered when I tried to tell them it was pointless.”
“Why’d they send you?”
“As a test of my neutrality. To see if I could convince you to meet with ADA Shenker, despite my reservations about you.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Your personal reservations about me? Oh, Agent Turnbull, now you’ve piqued my interest. Do tell.”
“You’ve had an exemplary military career, which means you can follow orders. You’ve had covert-ops training, which means you can blend. You’re extremely proficient with firearms. Since you ran for sheriff, it shows you have a sense of community and a desire for a broader sense of justice. You’ve recently enrolled in the tribe, so you’re finally embracing part of your heritage.”
“But?” I prompted.
“But, you don’t take help when you need it. You slide into drinking binges. You lie. You like to intimidate people who cross you with your firearms. You have an unnatural attachment to said firearms. Bottom line? You’re a wild card. I don’t like wild cards.”
“So this ‘come to work for the feds’ wasn’t your idea?”
He shook his head. “I argued against it. Pretty hard, actually. And I would’ve won too, except you self-identified. We both know how much the higher-ups dig shit like that.”
“So because I admitted I needed mental help, now I’m a perfect candidate for a job… as a fed?” I laughed. Hard. I laughed until my stomach hurt.
“Laugh it up. But we both know you’re going to say hell no, then you’ll order me off your land, probably while peppering my ass with buckshot. So why don’t you tell me to shove it one more time so I can head on home.”
That stung. The contrary part of me itched to blow their (mis)perception of me and say yes. But Turnbull was shrewd. I wouldn’t put it past him to use reverse psychology.
“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. If you can outshoot me, I’ll show up at the meeting.”
And yeah, maybe it was petty, but I felt smug when Turnbull’s smile slipped. If he knew as much about me as he’d claimed? He also knew I’d placed first in every official and unofficial military sharpshooting event in the last fifteen years.
Turnbull pushed away from the pickup. “Deal.”
Sucker. “Pick your poison. I’ve got six guns.”
“I’ll use my own gun, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself. What’s the caliber?”
“Nine mil.”
“Same as mine. We’ll gauge by the ring of three.”
“That’ll work.”
The ring of three was a standard marksmanship test. Distance marked at thirty feet. Eight bullets in the outer ring. Eight bullets in the middle ring. Two each at twelve o’clock, three o’clock, six o’clock and nine o’clock. Five bullets in the center in the shape of a plus sign. Closest mark to the line in each section wins.
I released the clip on the Sig and reloaded. I had two other clips, each held ten bullets, so I reloaded those, too. I looked over at Turnbull. “I don’t suppose you’ve got extra clips.”
“No. Didn’t know we were gonna have a shoot-out at the Gunderson corral.”
I smiled and slammed the clip in. I jogged to the hay bale and switched out the paper target. I marked off thirty feet and drew a line in the mud with the heel of my boot.
Turnbull inclined his head. “Ladies first.”
I stepped up to the line. My focus sharpened. I lifted the gun and solidified my stance. After flicking the safety off, I sited in my first two target shots in the outer ring.
Bang bang.
Then I fired rapidly, until I emptied the clip at the top of the inner circle. I ejected the clip and shoved in a fresh one. Although I still had bullets left after I finished the middle ring, I changed clips for the five shots in the center so I could squeeze them off without interruption.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
We walked to the target. My shots were damn close to perfect. Symmetrical. Precise. “Okay, hotshot, show me what you’ve got.”
Pause. “You know, I’ve changed my mind.”
I smirked. “Really?”
“Yeah. I believe I will use your gun.”
Damn. And here I’d hoped he’d decided to back out. I ejected the clip and handed him the Sig. I yanked down my target and tacked up a fresh one. We walked back to the truck in silence. As I watched him speed-load the clips, my first sense of unease surfaced.
Agent Turnbull aimed and fired. He emptied and replaced his clips almost without pause.
Bluish gray smoke eddied around us, and the ground was littered with hot brass.
He handed back my gun. The wet earth squished under our boots as we returned to the hay bale. Shoonga trotted happily along beside us, oblivious to the tension, panting from chasing his tail.
I stared at the target in complete disbelief.
His shots weren’t side by side in the inner and outer circles. No, Agent Turnbull had put both the bullets through the same hole. Not once, as a fluke, but in both rings. So instead of having sixteen holes… he’d made eight. Eight big, ragged holes, so I knew he hadn’t fired off to the side to trick me. His bull’s-eye shot was clean, meticulous, and perfect.
I’d been had. Big time. I gaped at him. Because I’d never met anyone who could shoot like that. Never.
Agent Turnbull pulled a pen out of his pocket and scrawled across the top of his target. He ripped it off the hay bale and handed it to me with a grin that rivaled the devil’s. “See you next Tuesday, Sergeant Major.”
Son. Of. A. Bitch. I poked my finger through each jagged hole. I’d known some amazing shooters, but this? This was damn near art.
When I looked up to ask him where he’d learned to shoot like that, he was gone.
Typical.
I memorized the address and phone number before I folded the target and shoved it in my back pocket. It wouldn’t hurt to just listen to what they had to say, would it?
Shoonga yipped agreement.
I loaded up. With my dog by my side and the truck windows open to savor the temperate spring breeze, we drove down the dusty gravel road leading home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the following people for their assistance in helping this book come together. I’m lucky to have experts who are willing to share their knowledge with me:
A big Hooah! to George Reynolds, Col., U.S. Army (Ret.), not only for his fast, invaluable assistance in reading and fact-checking certain combat scenes, and for his good humor and patience while gently steering me in the right direction, and for giving me the best compliment an author could ever hope to receive, but he also gets my heartfelt thanks as an appreciative American for the thirty years he served this great country in the U.S. Army.