Page 109 of Turn That River Red

I sling the rifle over my shoulder, grab my hunting knife, and whistle for the dogs to stay. They both whine in protest, especially Max—he can tell Mercy’s in trouble.

“Let me handle it now,” I tell them. “If I need backup, I’ll call.”

Then I duck out of the blind and run as fast I can over the open desert. Black spots swirl overhead; the buzzards are already here, waiting for death. Even after me and the dogs take our fill, they’ll have plenty to eat.

I put out my senses, taking stock of the situation. Sullivan’s suffering. Gunner feels like he might be running. And Mercy?—

Mercy’s getting closer. I can smell her fear, rich and sweet and sharper than I expected. She knows I’m not gonna hurt her. But I realize death is a hard thing for a human to witness.

Sun glints off the Escalade’s metal, a flash on the horizon. But two dark figures are surging toward me. One’s Mercy.

And the other’s Gunner, in pursuit. Motherfucker. No wonder she’s scared.

“Ambrose!” she screams, her voice lifted by that damnable wind. “He’s after me!”

“I’m coming, baby,” I mutter, pumping my legs harder, gun bouncing against my hip. I clutch the knife and surge forward, moving faster than a human can, the landscape blurring around me. All my focus is on Mercy: her blonde hair streaming out behind her red, panicked face. The sound of her racing heart. The scent of fear. Her tears.

“Ambrose!” she screams, and then I’m on her, grabbing her by the waist and throwing her behind me.

Gunner shouts when he sees me and stumbles to a stop, sweat pouring off his brow.

“Hello, Reverend,” I say with a smile.

He yelps in fear and stumbles backward, kicking up dirt. He’s got his eyes on my knife, and I don’t blame him. “I’ve got your money,” he says, lifting his hands in surrender. “Back at the car. You didn’t need to shoot Henry.”

“You’re right.” I stalk toward him, twisting my blade back and forth so the light dances in the sunlight. “I was actually aiming at you, Reverend.”

Gunner’s eyes widen in fear, and then he turns and takes off the way he came. His breaths are thunderously loud, louder even than Sullivan’s whimpers of pain.

I flip my knife around and catch it by the blade. Close my eyes to feel the wind. It’s slowing down. Fucking finally.

“Not yet, asshole,” I mutter, throwing the blade with a precision I learned decades ago. It flashes like a camera and embeds in Gunner’s back with a satisfyingly wet thud.

I breathe out, pleased with myself. Hard part’s done. Now the fun can really begin.

“A-ambrose?”

Mercy’s voice is small and terrified and I cringe with a little burst of guilt—I’d been so caught up in the hunt I nearly forgot she was there, watching me. I turn around to find her standing with her arms wrapped around her chest, her whole body shaking, tears turning the desert dust to mud on her face.

“Oh, fuck, Mercy. He didn’t hurt you, did he?” She’s not bleeding, I can smell that much, but he might have done something else. To my relief, though, she shakes her head.

“There was so much blood,” she whispers. “When you shot?—”

“I know.” I draw her close to me, half-expecting her to pull away. She doesn’t, though. In fact, she buries her face in my neck.

“I was afraid they were going to come untie me,” she sobs. “I thought you had left me. They were just standing there and nothing happened. And then when Pastor Sullivan—” Shechokes, takes a deep breath. “I got out of the ropes but Reverend Gunner came out when you shot up the car and he started screaming that he was going to kill me?—“

“No one’s going to kill you.” I rock her back and forth and smooth my hand over her hair. “Because the only one doing any killing here is me.”

Mercy shudders at that, and I pull away and look down at her, searching her tear-streaked face. I want to torture both of these men for hours. I want to set them free so I watch while the dogs hunt them down. I want to languish in their screams. But I also don’t want to see Mercy cry.

“I need to finish them,” I say softly, wiping her tears away with my thumb. “I’ll do it quick if you want. Then it’ll be over, okay?”

I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this. Can’t believe I’m saying it to a human woman, of all people. But it’s not just any human. It’sMercy. My Mercy.

“Th-thank you,” she stammers. “I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s too much. It’s?—“

“Shh.” I pull her into me one last time. “I know. But it’ll all be over soon. I promise.”

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