Merciless

Lori Armstrong Merciless

The third book in the Mercy Gunderson series, 2013

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 seat-mate, 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 Turn-bull’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.