Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [69]
“You’re still pulling to the left a hair.”
The voice was right behind me, not inside my head.
I whirled around.
“I thought it’d be best not to surprise you while you had a full clip.” The petite Mexican woman, wearing her customary all-black outfit, flipped her waist-length braid over her shoulder and smiled at me. “Surprised?”
“Anna. You sneaky bitch.” I tackled her. As soon as I had her on the ground, she pulled a reversal. I rolled my hips, throwing her sideways. Then we were back on our feet facing each other, arms up to block, keeping a wide stance with our legs, just like we’d been taught.
I let my hands fall to my side. “Jesus Christ, A-Rod, you couldn’t have warned me you’d planned a trip to South Dakota?”
She shrugged. “It was close, so I figured what the hell. I’d see firsthand what the big draw this no-man’s-land was for you.”
“Close to where?”
“North Dakota.” Anna held up her hand, stopping my protest. “And before you lecture me, I had a choice in saying good-bye to Jason this time and I took it.”
I should’ve known nothing would keep her from J-Hawk’s funeral. If she asked why I hadn’t attended, I’d give her the bullshit excuse that I’d had to work at the bar. Easier than admitting I’d said my private good-bye the day the hearse rolled out of town. I grabbed her and hugged her, which probably shocked her more than my tackling her.
Anna was a tiny thing, five feet one, and she weighed less than a hundred pounds, but she held her own in hand-to-hand fighting with just about any man. Having grown up bilingual in California, she’d been tapped as our language specialist. But like the rest of our team, she was above average with firearms.
“You okay?”
“Not really.” She pushed away from me and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m pretty fucked up about the Jason thing to show my Mexican face in the white-bread Midwest. Jesus. Is there any racial diversity here? Or are you all some freaky blond hair, blue-eyed Aryan children of the corn?”
“Hello? Part Indian standing in front of you.”
“Sorry.” Anna glanced at the handguns on the ground and then at me. “You done with practice?”
“Yep, unless you want to fire off a few rounds.”
“Maybe later. Right now I need a drink.”
I did, too. I jogged to the cans and tossed them in the garbage bag. Another rule I still followed. Always pick up your targets and never let anyone know how well you can shoot. Then I started picking up spent shells.
“You reload?” she asked.
“Yeah. Waste not, want not. Besides, the bigger cals are expensive as hell to replace.” I’d stashed my guns and unused ammo in my sports bag and slung the strap over my shoulder. Anna didn’t offer to carry my guns. She knew better. “So how’d you get here?”
“Drove. I parked at the main house and some Indian guy directed me over the river and through the woods.”
“You sticking around?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Mi casa es su casa.”
Anna groaned. “Is that all the Spanish you remember?”
“Sí.” I slid her a sly glance. “Bésame el culo.”
“Redneck.”
“Wetback.”
“Damn, Gunny, it is good to see you.”
“You, too, A-Rod.”
A bottle of Wild Turkey and a bottle of Jose Cuervo sat on the plastic table between us. Upon returning to the cabin, we’d stretched out on lawn chairs to soak up the fading rays of sunlight.
When I finished telling her about my recent foray into the law enforcement race, she said, “No. Fucking. Way.”
I swigged whiskey straight from the bottle. “You mean no way am I going to win? Or no way because you’re shocked I’m actually doing it?”
“Both.”
“Harsh.”
“Just calling it like I see it. Maybe this Dawson is a douche and can’t find his ass with both hands, but people will vote for him because he’s a dude. You might be the former sheriff’s daughter, but that ain’t gonna make any difference.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, you’ve been away, Mercy. Women who’ve been at war . . . well, I’ll bet you feel more like an outsider now than you ever