Merciless

If I hadn’t needed to blend, I wouldn’t have bothered with the coat. The sun shone from a watery blue sky. A great day to be outside hunting, hearing the dried grass crunch beneath my feet as I followed the fence line.

Before I reached the shelterbelt on Sheldon’s property, I scrutinized the fence for an easy-access point. I found two saggy, rusted-out pieces of barbed wire and stepped on the lowest section, yanking the upper section high enough to let myself through.

I crept along, on full alert. This stealth behavior was easier when I wasn’t dressed in full combat gear or the restrictive garb of burkas or niqabs.

Approaching the house, I didn’t see a vehicle. My gaze moved to the detached garage twenty yards away. No windows in the garage doors. I crouched and made a break from the shelterbelt to the side of the garage. I reached around and tried the knob. Locked.

Now I had no choice but to walk up to the front door and knock.

Making sure my gun was easily accessible, I stepped from the shadows and skirted a rusted-out metal drum. Very little other junk around the perimeter.

I casually strolled up the wooden steps to the front door. I knocked three times. Waited a solid minute before I knocked again.

No answer.

After one last series of knocks and a loud, “Hello? Sheldon? Mr. War Bonnet? Is anyone home?” I was certain the house was empty. I tried the door. Locked. I couldn’t see in the windows-the shades were pulled.

Nothing here, Mercy. Just get in your truck and go home.

I turned around too fast. My right eye is pretty good during the day, but for some reason, I had a case of vertigo. I lost my balance and landed rather indelicately on my ass.

Glad no one was around to see that.

As I rolled to my knees, I saw something red beneath the wooden deck bench. Weird that Sheldon would have the same tacky ceramic mushroom yard ornament we had. I’d given it to Sophie as a joke, but she loved the damn thing. She’d moved it to the raised flower bed by the gazebo after I’d accidentally hit it with the weed whacker and chipped off part of the stem.

I reached for it and nearly dropped it when I saw the damaged stem.

Not exactly like mine… it was mine.

Shock warred with a burning sense of betrayal. What was wrong with this fucker that he’d show up at my house and steal something from me? Why had he been sneaking around?

Kind of like you’re sneaking around his place right now?

Not the same thing.

I very carefully set the mushroom down and faced the door to Sheldon’s house. I didn’t have a lock-pick set with me-another handy tool I’d picked up in spec-ops training-and right now, I didn’t have the patience to mess with a deadbolt. Chances were high his back door wouldn’t have double locks.

Wrong.

The back door was more secure than the front door.

I jogged back to the front. I needed to get inside, but my options were limited.

Shooting off a lock doesn’t work unless you’re using a shotgun or a rifle. I wasn’t entirely sure Sheldon’s uncle wasn’t inside. Randomly shooting the fuck out of something, while fun and cathartic, would be dangerous. I didn’t have bolt cutters on me, and Sheldon’s garage was locked up as tight as his house. Trying to kick in a door… not smart unless you used a battering ram to weaken the wood.

Looked like I was breaking a window.

If I got caught, I’d say I’d smelled smoke and believed the house was on fire. Since I knew an elderly man lived there, I had to get inside by any means necessary and verify that he was all right.

More than plausible. And enough probable cause to cover my ass if someone showed up while I was breaking and entering.

I slipped my left glove on. No reason to leave fingerprints. I threw an elbow into the glass, and chunks dropped everywhere.

Adrenaline surged through me. I used the butt of my gun to break the jagged pieces free from the window frame before I found the string-pull and jerked up the blind.

Good thing it wasn’t a long drop through the window. I stepped into a small mudroom and kept my gun in my hand as I entered the kitchen and called out, “Sheldon? Mr. War Bonnet?”

No response.

I don’t know if I expected Sheldon to live in squalor-many rez residents did. No judgment on my part. That state was the societal norm. But Sheldon’s kitchen counter wasn’t piled high with crusty, smelly dishes; empty frozen-dinner boxes; and beer cans. The dishes in the drying rack were clean. One cup, one bowl, one spoon. Odd. I peeked in the refrigerator. Not much fresh food. I opened the cupboards. Every one was filled with meals ready to eat. That was weird. Why would he willingly eat MREs?

The kitchen doorway opened into the living room. A decent-sized TV hung on one wall. One plaid couch. One coffee table without a single object on it. Rows and rows of books covered two bookshelves on the far wall. All military themed. Fiction. Nonfiction. Nothing too out of the ordinary.