A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(91)

Sean halted in the snow, planted his feet, and formed a perfect isosceles stance, his arms and weapon pushed forward, Eden’s back in his sights. His shoulders rapidly rose and sank as he panted. He fired.

Eden continued to run without missing a stride.

Mercy knew he wouldn’t miss the second shot.

“No!” Mercy shrieked as she caught up and swung her ax like a bat at Sean’s right side. It was like hitting a rock. The impact flew up her arms and into her shoulders as he stumbled to his left. The ax didn’t penetrate his coat but probably cracked a rib or two. He caught his balance, clamped a hand to his injured side, and spun in her direction.

Fury and pain raged in his eyes, his teeth clenched, as he pivoted his weapon toward her. The open end of his barrel came into focus as Mercy swung again, her gaze locked on the gun in his hand.

Her aim was perfect, and the ax smashed into his fingers.

His weapon flew out of his grip, and Mercy lost her grasp on the ax. It spun through the air and sank in the snow.

Their gazes collided, and Sean dove at her, knocking her onto her back in the snow. The air exited her lungs as he landed on her chest.

Snow fell onto her face as she sank deep into the fluff, and he latched his hands around her neck.

Mercy fought, swinging at his face, kicking with her legs and pounding on his arms.

He was immobile.

She spit the snow out of her mouth, and more tumbled into its place. Her head turned from side to side as she tried to shake the snow out of her eyes. It was impossible; she was blind and choking under several inches of miniature ice crystals.

His hands tightened, his fingers digging into her airway and the vulnerable vessels in her neck. The snow blocking her vision grew black.

I’m going to die.

His face was beyond her fists and nails. She flung her arms to the side, digging, grasping for anything, trying to picture where his gun had landed. Her fingers felt nothing but fine grains of snow.

I’m sorry, Truman.

She dug deeper and found frozen packed ground. Her fingernails scraped the dirt, shooting agony up her arms as they ripped. Her right hand found something large and rough and round. She gripped it, seeing the irregular shape of the rock in her mind. Sucking in a desperate, ragged breath, she clutched the rock and propelled her fist out of the snow, aiming for where his head should be.

He gasped as the collision sent waves down her bones, and he released her neck. His balance rocked, and she sank her strength into rolling to one side, flinging him off her body and into the snow.

Mercy scrambled onto her hands and knees toward where her ax had landed. Her fingers found the wood handle as she felt him grab the back of her coat. She let him pull her upright, both her hands now gripping the ax. Moving up to one foot, she spun with all her weight and knocked him off balance again.

She swung blindly with her ax. He shouted, and the sound of metal meeting teeth told her she’d struck home. He landed on his hands and knees and then clasped one hand to his bloody mouth.

Standing behind him, Mercy raised the ax over her head, her gaze locked on the back of his skull.

He’ll die.

Good.

She paused as he spit blood and moaned.

Fierce barking sounded to her right, and she turned to see a black wolf rushing her, its jaw wide open, its pointed teeth white in its dark mouth.

“Stop!”

Ten feet away, the black wolf slammed to a stop. The beast growled, low and threatening.

It’s a dog.

Mercy lifted her gaze, her ax still raised, searching for who’d shouted at the dog.

“Mercy!”





THIRTY-SIX

Truman and Bolton were silently trudging after Rowan through the snowy wilderness when a gunshot sounded, echoing across the bleak sky.

At the noise, they stopped and stared at each other.

A second gunshot boomed.

The shots were close by.

“Dammit,” said Rowan. “Thor!” Far ahead, the black dog froze against the white of the snow, his head swerving in the direction of his handler. “Here!” Thor raced in their direction, snow flying behind him.

“Which direction did it come from?” Bolton murmured, turning in a circle. “That way?” He pointed.

“That’s what I thought,” answered Truman, now that his heart had resumed beating.

Mercy?

He removed his gloves and unholstered his weapon as Bolton did the same.

“I won’t have my dog getting shot,” Rowan stated as Thor arrived and sat at her feet. She eyed their weapons, and her hands twitched. Truman knew she was armed. He’d spotted the familiar bulge at her ribs as she put on her orange vest.

But she left it at her side.

“Let’s go,” Truman ordered. He led off in the direction he believed the shot had come from. He jogged in the snowshoes, adrenaline keeping him moving, weaving among the thin trees. Behind him Bolton panted, and Rowan murmured to her dog.

We’re close.

A third shot sounded.

Truman ran harder.

Most people ran away from gunfire; he always ran toward it.

The sparse cover of the trees ended, and a wide expanse of snow spread before them. Far up ahead two people were fighting.

Truman sprinted up the gentle slope, his weapon ready, Bolton and Rowan on his heels.

Rowan said something, and Thor took off like a bullet.