No Mercy Read online

  No Mercy

  Lawmen Series

  Cheyenne McCray

  LAWMEN SERIES BOOK 2: NO MERCY

  Copyright © 2015

  No Mercy by Cheyenne McCray

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-Book may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  e-book ISBN: 978-1-939778-71-0

  Published by Pink Zebra Publishing.

  Formatting by Bella Media Management.

  Cover by Scott Carpenter at www.pandngraphics.com

  CHAPTER 1

  November rain fell from the Arizona sky and thrummed on the tin shed’s roof in a steady rhythm, but Dylan Curtis’s throat was as dry as the usually parched desert.

  A special agent with the Department of Homeland Security’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Dylan had witnessed a lot of bad shit. But seeing one of his closest friends hanging from a noose was one of the worst things he could remember experiencing.

  The pain eating at Dylan was like a chainsaw cutting through his gut. He adjusted his Stetson while he surveyed the gut-wrenching scene as the rope around Nate O’Malley’s neck was cut down from the rafters by police officers.

  After the body was lowered, the remains were put into a body bag on the floor of the storage shed. It was all Dylan could do to watch as the officers zipped the body bag until he could no longer see Nate’s corpse.

  Corpse. Fuck. Dylan dragged his hand over his stubbled jaw as he tried to digest the fact that Nate was gone. Suicide. No matter how he tried, Dylan couldn’t comprehend that Nate had taken his own life.

  Through the shed’s open door came the scent of rain and the sound of water dripping from the eaves. The smell wasn’t nearly enough to ease the sickly odor of death.

  “I know O’Malley was a good friend of yours.” Lieutenant Liam Marks of the Bisbee Police Department approached and rested his hand on Dylan’s shoulder a moment. “Thanks for coming down to identify the body.”

  Dylan said nothing. His heart and gut ached too much to speak.

  Marks gave Dylan a sympathetic look before releasing his shoulder and going back to doing his job.

  Nate’s face had been swollen and purple, his light blue eyes bloodshot and bulging. There had been enough of a resemblance for Dylan to confirm Nate’s identity.

  If it hadn’t been for G.I. Joe, Nate’s German shepherd, barking for hours in his dog run, the neighbors wouldn’t have called the police department to complain. The body likely wouldn’t have been found for days.

  Before going into the shed, Dylan had stopped by the dog run to check on Joe. Even though the dog run had a shelter on one end, the German shepherd stood out in the pouring rain. Because Joe knew Dylan well, the dog had calmed, but Dylan could tell he was still agitated. As Dylan had headed to the shed, Joe stood behind the fence, his keen eyes taking in everything that was happening. He was a highly intelligent dog that Nate had rescued some time ago. Joe had been incredibly loyal to Nate ever since.

  It had been two months since Dylan had last seen Nate. Dylan had been working a case undercover and hadn’t been able to communicate with anyone outside of his job. He’d gotten home a few days ago, but hadn’t had a chance to get together with his friend.

  And now Nate was dead.

  Dylan attempted to distance himself emotionally from Nate’s death, as if this wasn’t so damned hard to take. Dylan knew he had to compartmentalize the fact that Nate had been one of his closest friends from the time they were in elementary school. Dylan knew he had to focus on what had happened and why, and make some kind of sense of it, if only for his own sake.

  Conversation around him faded to background noise as he moved past the overturned bucket Nate had been standing on before he’d knocked it out from beneath himself. Dylan wanted to aim one of his boots at the bucket and kick the shit out of it, but he controlled the urge and continued toward his destination.

  A suicide note had been scrawled on ledger paper and lay on a workbench. Dylan pulled on a surgical glove before taking the note off the bench to study the writing. Even before becoming a federal agent, he’d always had an attention for detail. He hadn’t seen Nate’s handwriting for a while, but he recognized it. Nate had written the note.

  The shakiness of the writing was likely from nerves over what he’d been about to do. The ledger paper made sense since he’d been an accountant. Even in this day and age of computer technology, Nate hadn’t completely been able to give up scrawling figures by hand on paper. He’d said it helped him think.

  What didn’t make sense to Dylan was the fact that Nate had committed suicide. He’d been so damned stable. A rock. It was true that lately he’d seemed a little off, but Dylan had attributed it to the fact that Nate had been facing a federal tax audit on his own business. Was that why Nate had killed himself?

  Dylan barely kept from crumpling the note in his hand, and the paper shook with the effort it took to restrain himself. He hooked one thumb in the pocket of his Wrangler jeans as he stared at the paper without seeing it.

  Out of the Circle of Seven, Nate had been the one Dylan had remained close friends with, even after all these years. Dylan had bumped into Marta De La Paz and Tom Zumsteg in Bisbee at separate times, and they’d filled him in on how Leon Petroski and Christie Simpson-Reyes were doing. Leon owned a water well drilling business, and Christie did clerical work in her husband’s office. Marta worked hard as a stay-at-home mom of two children. Tom had taken a position as a physician at Copper Queen Community Hospital in Bisbee after working at Tucson Medical Center for a number of years.

  It was a wonder how most of them lived in close proximity, yet they never got together.

  As far as Belle…no one talked to Dylan about her. They knew she was too painful a subject to bring up, even after all this time.

  Now Dylan would have to call Belle to tell her about Nate. He’d have to call every one of the Circle, but it was Belle who caused his stomach to churn even more than it already was. Through his work connections, years after she’d left, he’d kept track of but never contacted her. Still, he hadn’t been able to help himself from making sure she was all right. He knew she was in the restaurant business, but hadn’t delved any deeper.

  Here it was, twenty-three years after she’d run away from home…and from him. He still couldn’t forgive himself, and he still couldn’t forget or put aside what they’d once had, no matter how young they’d been.

  The suicide note came into focus as Dylan clenched his jaw and read it once again.

  My friends,

  Today I take my own life due to my guilt over the many wrongs I have committed against myself and against all of you. I am sorry for any pain I may cause you by my actions.

  CoS always,

  Nate

  “Agent Curtis, does CoS mean anything to you?” A female BPD detective spoke, drawing Dylan’s attention from the note.

  He looked at Detective Teri Jensen, who was all of five foot one and thirty-five years old, if that. “Circle of Seven,” Dylan said. “A group of seven who have known each other since elementary school.” Dylan let out a slow breath. “They bonded when they were young and referred to themselves as CoS.”

  “You were one of the seven.” Jensen spoke quietly, with certainty and under
standing in her voice.

  He gave a slow nod. “Yeah, I was.”

  “It’s a terrible way to lose someone you care about.” Her smile was sad. “I lost a family member to suicide a few years ago. You never get over it. All losses of family and friends are difficult, but there’s something terribly personal and painful about suicide in a way that’s different from any other kind of loss.”

  “Yes.” Dylan had never experienced it for himself before, but from the pain now in his gut, he knew her words were true.

  “I know it’s tough, but do you mind if I ask you some questions?” Jensen pulled out a smart phone with a large screen from a holster on her hip and detached the stylus from where it was secured.

  Dylan had expected this, just hadn’t known who would be the detective doing the questioning. “Go ahead.”

  “He states guilt over wrongs he has committed.” She studied Dylan. “Do you know what wrongs he’s talking about?”

  Dylan shook his head. “Nate’s always been a stand-up guy. I can’t imagine him doing anything serious enough to take his own life, much less committing wrongs against his friends.”

  Jensen made a note on her device. “From what I understand, Nate had no immediate family members.”

  Dylan thought about Nate’s rough past. “He was sent to live with his grandmother at an early age after his parents disappeared. His grandmother died after he graduated high school, leaving him with no family.”

  Jensen held her stylus over her screen. “Tell me what you know about his parents.”

  “Not much.” Dylan thought back to the early days when Nate and the others had come together and named themselves the CoS. “Law enforcement tracked his parents to the Mexican border where they crossed and vanished. They could have been dead for all Nate knew.”

  Jensen made another note on her device. “He mentions the CoS in the letter. Why do you think that is?”

  Dylan pushed up the brim of his Stetson. “Those of us in the CoS were Nate’s only real family.” Dylan thought back to the past when the seven of them had truly bonded. “That’s my best guess. I’m going to have to give it more thought.”

  The detective asked a few more questions and Dylan answered each one even though he’d rather have been left to his own thoughts and conducting his own investigation.

  Jensen clipped her stylus back in its place and put away her phone. “If you come up with anything, here’s my number.” She pulled a card out of a pocket on the inside of her blazer and handed it to Dylan. “Office and cell number are both on it.”

  “I’ll do that.” Dylan took out his billfold and tucked the card inside for safekeeping with his credentials before pocketing them again.

  He set the suicide note back on the workbench as Jensen walked away. Since photographs had already been taken before Dylan had touched the note, an officer came and bagged and tagged it. He pulled off the surgical glove and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Dylan didn’t look back as he walked out of the shed and into the rain. Water pounded down, soaking his overshirt, T-shirt, and jeans. His boots squished in the mud. The Stetson protected his head and water dripped from the brim.

  Several law enforcement and emergency response vehicles were parked around the scene. Dylan focused on walking from the shed and the short distance toward Nate’s home, which he had inherited from his grandmother. Dylan jogged up the stairs to the door that had been left open for the BPD to make sure no evidence of foul play could be found. When he reached the porch, he wiped his muddy boots on the welcome mat and shook the rain off of his Stetson.

  The first thing that hit Dylan when he walked into the house was the smell of paint and new carpeting. He took off his hat and stood just inside the doorway as he surveyed the room.

  Nate had always been a disaster when it came to his home, which was at total odds with his perfection when it came to accounting. He had worked out of his home and visited clients rather than having clients come to him. His office had always been more organized than the rest of his house.

  Dylan had thought of Nate as something of an enigma. He hadn’t looked like a stereotypical accountant—no pocket protector and no button-down shirts or slacks. He’d been all about jeans and T-shirts unless he had to meet with the IRS to handle an audit or visit clients’ offices.

  Nate had been more compact than Dylan and not quite as muscular. He’d stood just four inches shorter than Dylan’s six-three. Nate had been popular with the ladies and liked to party, but had never married and had never had kids. After high school and the CoS drifting apart, Nate hadn’t let anyone get close to him but Dylan. Even then he knew Nate had kept secrets.

  But secrets big enough to commit suicide over?

  Dylan let his gaze drift over the living room. The place was messy, but the carpet was new, the walls freshly painted, and the surfaces dust-free. The mess didn’t seem natural, though, as if things had been somehow arranged to look out of place.

  He frowned. A mess that looked intentional didn’t make one damned bit of sense, but neither did the new carpet and painted walls, or lack of dust. Not too long ago, Nate had made a comment that he wanted to dump his grandmother’s house. He’d even said he didn’t plan to put in any work into the place because he didn’t have the time, the skill, or the money it would take. He must have had a change of heart because the living room looked better than it ever had.

  Yet something didn’t feel right in Dylan’s gut. He gripped his hat as he walked past a couple of BPD officers and gave them a nod. He set his hat on the back of the couch and spent the next ten minutes searching the room for something that might confirm what his gut was telling him.

  When he didn’t find anything, he walked through the house that better reflected Nate’s personality. The place was a mess with clothes scattered on the floor, piles of laundry that needed to be washed, junk piled haphazardly, and thick layers of dust on the surface of every piece of furniture.

  He opened the door to the room that served as Nate’s home office. It was more disorganized than usual, yet still neater than the rest of the house.

  Dylan pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. “Now let’s have a look and see what we can find. Did you leave anything, buddy?” He didn’t have any clue what that something might be, but he needed some way to make sense of this.

  As he poked around the office, he had the odd feeling that someone had been here, searching for something.

  After looking over the desk, which had a desktop computer, he paused for a moment, wondering where Nate’s laptop was. Dylan spent a few moments searching drawers and cabinets, but didn’t find anything.

  He went to the bookshelf and ran his gloved finger over the titles, mostly classics. Nate had loved to read. Dylan stopped when he came to one book that was sticking out by half an inch past the other books on the shelf. It was a book he recognized at once by the name on the spine, and he felt an odd twist in his gut.

  Baseball, An Informal History.

  Nate had carried the book around with him in school. It had been the last gift his father had given to him before he’d disappeared with Nate’s mother.

  Dylan’s heart clenched as he carefully withdrew the book from the shelf. The well-worn book jacket was torn in places, exposing the hard cover beneath.

  He went to the copyright page and saw that the hardcover was printed in 1969. He continued on through the yellowed pages when something dropped out of the book and hit the floor. He crouched to pick up a postcard of Main Street in Old Bisbee. When he turned it over, he saw his own name and address printed in Nate’s handwriting. In the space to the left of the address was a note.

  Dylan,

  While you’re off on vacation, I’m stuck here in good ol’ Bisbee. I want you to promise me something. Remember what you had, buddy. If it happens, second chances only come once. Don’t let it pass you by.

  Hey, remember when I served in Iraq? At the risk of sounding like a lovesick teenage girl, I missed your surly ass then,
too.

  WYB,

  Nate

  Cold prickles ran up and down Dylan’s spine as he stared at the postcard. Not only was he reading something from the dead, but one big detail was wrong with the card. Nate hadn’t served in Iraq. He’d served in Afghanistan. He’d received the Purple Heart when he ended up with a leg full of shrapnel, along with an honorable discharge.

  Dylan took a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket, dropped the postcard in, then sealed it. He should give the postcard to the BPD, but instead he shoved the bagged card into his back pocket. It couldn’t be seen beneath the overshirt that also covered his service weapon, a Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol. The postcard was between him and Nate, and Dylan didn’t intend to leave it for the BPD to take over before he had a chance to study it.

  He stood and slid the book back into its place on the bookshelf and then ran his finger along the spine. What the hell had been going through Nate’s mind when he’d written that note? He shook his head and turned to leave the room. As he strode through the office doorway and closed the door behind him, Dylan felt as though a physical weight was in his back pocket where he’d slid the card.

  Iraq? Maybe Nate had been drinking a bit too much when he’d written that note. Dylan frowned. No, Nate would have to have been beyond plastered to mess up something like that. But why would he purposely make that mistake?

  Putting the postcard out of his mind wasn’t easy, but Dylan did his best and went into the kitchen where a few dirty dishes were piled in the sink with more stacked on the counters. Takeout and pizza boxes were scattered on the surfaces and the kitchen table, and crammed into a tall garbage container.

  He used a dishtowel to open the fridge, keeping his fingerprints off the handle, and looked inside. The only things on the shelves were a range of condiments and more takeout boxes from local restaurants and delis, as well as Bisbee’s best-known pizza place, the Puma Den. He studied the kitchen, seeing Nate in everything.

  Joe’s leash hung from a hook by the refrigerator. Nate had always been good about taking the dog for walks.