Merciless

At a little over eight and a half pounds, it was my lightest-weight semiauto. I’d had it sited with an Elcan day/night digital rifle scope and an IR flashlight, which served as an image intensifier for night shoots. I’d added a Gemtech suppressor-no more need for earplugs-and replaced the standard trigger with a three-pound Timney trigger for a no-jerk pull. The AR came apart with two easy clicks by pushing the pins from the left side of the aluminum receiver and pulling them out on the right side.

Click-click and the rifle was in two pieces.

Click-click and it’d be assembled. Snap in the clip, pull the charging handle, and it was ready to fire.

The nylon sling was still attached to the upper and lower sections. With the sling looped around my neck, even the sixteen-inch barrel and suppressor were hidden, dangling beneath my armpits.

That done, I slipped on my coat.

Next, I shoved the two magazines, each preloaded with fifteen.223-caliber bullets, into the pockets.

I balled up a nylon duffel bag and tucked it inside the largest purse I owned. I’d started keeping cash inside the gun safe, rather than the office safe, because it rankled having to explain to Hope why I always kept a significant stash on hand. I counted out the bills.

Almost done. I dropped a three-inch knife in a leather sheath, along with my black Merrill soft-soled hiking shoes into the purse. Last thing I grabbed was the monocular thermal-imaging device that had cost me an entire month’s pay. But with the compromised eyesight in my right eye, especially at night, I needed-deserved-the extra advantage. I’d lusted after the thermal-imaging devices I’d used with my sniper rifle, but the army frowned on soldiers taking home a twenty-five thousand dollar piece of equipment.

During this rapid-fire preparation, I’d calmed. I’d reached the place I hadn’t accessed since my nephew had been murdered. The black cesspool that held the memory of all bad things I’d done-without remorse. The dark spot inside me that would never evaporate completely. The hidden parts that were the truest part of me.

Methodical.

Ruthless.

Unstoppable.

Showtime.

I left the bedroom carrying my purse, letting dread slow my movements. I tugged on my gray wool cap with the ear flaps. Jammed my feet in snow boots.

At the kitchen sink I felt Sheldon watching me-no idea where he’d hidden himself outside-but I knew he was close by. I shuffled through the paperwork, several times. Turned the map sideways. Studied it this way and that. Made a disgusted noise and set the papers on the counter. I poured a glass of water, allowing myself to gaze into space. Allowing fear to show. I even gasped and clapped my hand over my mouth, as if trying to hold back tears.

Do you see me as a broken woman, you sadistic motherfucker? Is your sick head swimming with ways to torture me and break me completely?

Bring it.

Because it was on.

22

Sure enough, after I’d traveled about a mile down the gravel road, headlights appeared in my rearview. Most likely, that bastard had been spying from the barn, with the direct view of the back porch and into the kitchen windows. He could’ve parked on the other side of the house, and I wouldn’t have seen his vehicle because I never drove past the ranch anymore. Not like when I’d lived in the foreman’s cabin.

I hadn’t been there since my return from Quantico. Maybe that’s where he’d holed up and was keeping Sophie. It was close enough that he could keep an eye on both of us.

It took every bit of control not to spin a U-turn and play a game of chicken with him.

As I made the drive into Eagle Ridge, I went over the plan in my head several times, not knowing if it’d even work. But if this plan didn’t work, the next one would. And if not this one, the one after that. The thought of Sophie tied up somewhere, grieving, scared, mad, hungry, crying, hurting, and cold-that’s what would keep me going.

At Besler’s, I parked in the space closest to the front entrance, but not under the streetlight. I tucked the keys under the mat, shouldered my purse, and strolled inside. Just another grocery shopper.

I grabbed a cart and headed past the produce section. I spied Naomi at the back of the pet-food aisle. She didn’t acknowledge me when I moved past her and hefted three fifty-pound bags of dog food into my cart. Then I stood beside her, pretending to comparison shop between brands of kitty litter.

We were nearly shoulder to shoulder when I said, “Meet me in the women’s bathroom in three minutes. Knock four times.”