Merciless

He shook his head. “We had heavy training for four years in order to receive the CST designation, and all positions within the company were frozen. No new members signed in, none were allowed to sign out. Basically, by receiving the CST, we were permanently grounded as a unit.”

“That’s the way it goes. We finished one tour-expecting we’d get a four-to-six-month reprieve stateside-but four weeks later, we were eating sand in another desert hot spot. Not fun.”

“Some of us would’ve given a left nut to see any action.” He sipped from his bottle of Michelob Ultra. “Did you get to use what they taught us in basic training?”

“I was in transportation, so I saw my share of IEDs.”

“I meant, did you get to fire M60s at hostiles? Engage in small-arms fire?” He paused. “Sorry. For a second I forgot the army’s directive about keeping women out of combat roles. You probably had to hunker down in your truck and ride out any firefights, right?”

Trying to get a rise out of me by bringing limitations of gender into the conversation? Combat jealousy was a reality with National Guard units that hadn’t been called to serve in any overseas capacity during war. I forced a laugh. “Hunker down and ride the storm out. Yeah, something like that.”

“Is this loser bothering you?”

I did a double take at seeing John-John at the end of the table. Then I did another double take when I realized that the loser in question John-John meant… was me. What the hell? I’d had enough of his insults. I drained my beer before I was tempted to toss it in his face.

Sheldon said, “Watch the insults, John-John. Rumor is, Mercy is one tough chick.”

“I take it you two know each other?” I asked.

John-John said, “Can’t get nothin’ past you, Miz FBI Bloodhound. Sheldon and I went to high school together.”

Whoa. I never would’ve guessed that. Sheldon looked at least a decade older than John-John.

“I’m surprised you two are drinking buddies,” John-John said, his gaze winging between us.

“We’re not. I’ve spent time in the tribal archives over the last couple of weeks. I was waiting for Dawson to show up, and Sheldon joined me. What are you doing here?”

“On my way to my mom’s. Unci don’t let her drink, which is dumb, since Mom’s got cancer, so I hafta sneak her a bottle. I remembered halfway to the rez I’d forgotten it at the bar. I pulled in and noticed your truck in the lot. Was gonna point out how easily you change your loyalties.”

“I’ve been banned from Clementine’s for a month, as you’ll recall. It’d serve you right if I found a new place to drink,” I retorted. “And they have happy-hour specials here.”

“I’d be over the moon if you found a new place to fight,” John-John shot back. “Lord, Mercy, most of my regulars haven’t been in the number of bar fights in their lifetimes that you have been in the last year.”

“Most of those fights came when I was working for you, winkte.”

We locked gazes, daring each other to take this argument one step further, because we always did. But were we really going to cross the next line?

“John-John, I was sorry to hear your mother has cancer,” Sheldon said, breaking the ugly silence.

John-John tore his gaze from mine. “How’d you find out?”

“Eagle River is a small place, and I worked with her at the tribal HQ, remember? To have this happen right after she retired?” Sheldon shook his head. “Sad, man. I heard she’s had a rough go of it.”

“It was bad for a while there, but it seems to be getting better. Her appetite is back. She’s even getting some exercise.”

“So she’s not flipping you and Sophie the bird?” I asked jokingly. “Reminding you that she’s lived her life on her own terms and she’ll die on her own terms, too?”

“That’s really not your business, now that Sophie don’t work for you, is it? None of us hafta worry that Unci is blabbing family secrets to folks that ain’t family.” John-John stepped back. “I gotta get.”

Whoa. He’d taken that completely wrong. I scooted out of the booth. “Looks like my man stood me up, so I’m gonna go home-”

“And pick a fight with him?” John-John supplied with a sneer.

“Piss off.”

We walked through the door that separated the bar side from the package liquor side.

John-John ordered a bottle of raspberry vodka and inspected me, from my ponytail to the tips of my hiking boots. “You look more like a cop every time I see you.”

“I’m not a cop.”

He shrugged. “FBI. Deputy. Highway patrol. BIA. Tribal police. MP. Different names, but all types of cops.”

“And what? We can’t be friends now because of my job? That’s why you’ve been such a dick since I got back from Quantico? I don’t ever hear from you. Not a word, John-John. And when I do see you? You’re rude, insulting, or looking for an exit sign. So I wanna know what gives.”

He slid a twenty across the counter, waiting until his order was packaged before he spoke to me. “I’ve been busy.”

“I don’t doubt that. But that’s not it. And you’re not one to back down from speaking your mind.”

“You’re right.” His eyes went cold and flat. “You want it straight up? Or sugarcoated?”