Without Mercy (Mercy 1)

“And Bernsen,” Rolfe added, his voice booming across the icy, too-quiet landscape. “In exchange, you get her”—he pushed Jules so hard she stumbled a bit before catching herself—“and the two others.” He nodded at Shay and Nell, including them in the deal.

Missy Albright gave Shay a shove with her rifle. Jules’s sister didn’t so much as flinch.

Roberto Ortega had Nell Cousineau in his crosshairs and Nell looked like she expected to die at any second. When he nudged her, she mewled plaintively.

Trent didn’t flinch, though he was dying inside. Instead, he stared straight at Rolfe, the bully. “You’re making a big mistake, Eric.”

“Oh, right.”

“I mean it.”

“Oh, yeah! And blah, blah, blah.” Rolfe wasn’t buying it and Trent wondered how he, alone, with a single pistol tucked in his jeans, would be able to take out three of the psychos and somehow save all of the hostages. Even with Meeker behind him, no way would this turn into anything but a bloodbath. There could be no good ending and Eric, the brute, smiling despite his cold, murderous eyes, knew it. “Look, man, you’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Rolfe said, getting antsy. “And we’re freezin’ our asses off out here, so let’s cut to the chase. I already said we want an exchange. But since you’re fuckin’ around, I think I’m changing the terms.”

“How?” Trent asked, seeing the situation deteriorating. Still, he had to keep the guy talking, buy more time.

“You give us Bernsen and Spurrier, and you can have this one.” Again he prodded Jules with his gun. “And Cousineau. She’s about to pee all over herself anyway. She’s yours. But we keep Stillman until we’re safe, then we’ll let her go.”

“No!” Jules cried.

“Shut up, bitch,” he growled.

It was all Trent could do not to grab his weapon and take aim at the bastard’s head as he walked toward the group. “I can’t promise that.”

Rolfe wasn’t listening. He was already thinking ahead, past his negotiated exchange of prisoners. “We’ll need the helicopter and the seaplane. That’s part of the deal.”

“And go where? Roseburg? Or Medford? Come on, man, Spurrier’s in no condition to leave, much less fly,” Trent said, trying to reason with a maniac. “Give it up, Eric. It’s over. Spurrier needs medical attention ASAP or he won’t make it, and Zach’s singing like a bird, naming names, giving all of you up.”

Missy shook her head. “No way,” she said. “He … he wouldn’t.” But there was a seed of doubt in her high-pitched voice.

“Way.” Trent was still walking forward, ignoring the slight shake of Jules’s head, the fear in her eyes.

“You know that he’ll do anything to save his own skin. He’s got a father or an uncle or someone in the family who’s a lawyer or a judge. Anyway, he’s already demanding to speak to the DA. Wanting immunity so that you can all rot in prison for the rest of your lives.”

“Trent’s lying!” Missy cried, desperately disbelieving.

“I know.” Eric wasn’t bullied.

“How do you know?” Ortega demanded, sending a worried glance to Rolfe. So Ortega was the crack in the armor. Good. The anxious boy licked his chapped lips and his nerves were evident in his drawn face. “Zach could turn.”

“He wouldn’t!” Missy was insistent as a bit of wind kicked up, ruffling her hair.

“Don’t let this loser rattle you,” Eric advised.

Trent’s eyes found Jules’s, and he saw the terror within, knew she’d read his mind that he was going to take Rolfe out. No, she mouthed.

Rolfe grinned. “I guess we’re at an impasse, aren’t we?” He shifted the barrel of his gun away from Jules and aimed directly at Trent’s head. “Too bad. I kinda liked you, Trent.”

Trent reached for his gun.

Craaaak!

A rifle shot echoed through the canyon.

Jules screamed.

Rolfe’s head spun. Blood sprayed, red spatter on the snow-white ground. Twirling, dropping his weapon, Rolfe fell into the snow, blood and gray matter darkening the pristine ground.

“What? No!” Missy shrieked, her eyes rounding. “Eric! No! Jesus Christ, what have you done?”