Merciless (10 page)

We opted to use the ATVs rather than drive a pickup. Antelope were smaller than deer,
and we could each easily strap a carcass onto the back of an ATV and haul it home
before the meat spoiled.

By first light, we’d arrived at my suggested starting point and left the machines
parked at the bottom of a small hill. At a balmy forty-five degrees, it didn’t feel
like November. The wind blew like a bitch, which was actually good—antelope have a
finely tuned sense of smell. With the fastest animal land speed in North America,
once antelope catch a whiff of human, all you see are those white butts bouncing away.

Antelope prefer wide-open spaces, so I’d chosen a two-mile-long bowl-shaped draw with
water at the bottom and great vantage points above. The grass was tall in some places,
providing excellent cover and hidden resting points as we zigzagged over the terrain.

I’d slung my H-S Precision .308 takedown rifle over my shoulder. As a kid I’d hated
using a shoulder strap. I preferred to carry my gun as I belly crawled. As an adult
I wanted both hands free.

Dawson wasn’t one of those never-shut-up types of hunters. The ones who really don’t
give a damn if they shoot anything. For them, securing a hunting license, slipping
on camo clothes, and toting around a fancy gun were really just excuses to hang out
with the guys and drink beer.

I kept my binoculars trained on the area around the water, while he kept scanning
the ridges and hidden dips in the vast landscape. There wasn’t a speck of snow on
the ground, allowing the antelope to hide in plain sight. The dead grasses with hues
ranging from the faded gold of dried corn stalks to the darkness of coffee grounds
provided perfect camouflage. The one advantage we had? This time of year the males
were slaves to their baser instincts and deep in rut. The bucks were constantly sniffing
for females, which meant they were always on the move, looking for more action. And
if they couldn’t fuck, then they’d lock horns with other horny males of their species,
trying to keep them from fucking.

Dawson tapped my arm and pointed.

I refocused, making minute adjustments for the change in distance and my eyes. About
twenty antelope were hunkered down, on the edge of a ridge. But they were a good fifteen
hundred yards away.

Over the next ten minutes, we watched the group, comprised of does, probably hiding
from the amorous attentions of the bucks. But rest assured, our targets were very
close by.

Target.
How quickly I slipped back into sniper lingo when I wore camo and held a gun in my
hand.

We moved our position closer to the watering hole. Ducking low. Moving slowly. Creeping
quietly. My guess was the bucks would wander from their hidey-holes to the water and
quench their thirst before seeking out the herd of females. The harem was farther
downwind than we were, so chances were good we’d have first crack.

After we settled into our new position, I nudged Mason and whispered, “We didn’t talk
about who gets first shot.”

“I’m sure you think you do, Sergeant Major, since you outrank me.”

“Yep.”

“Not a fuckin’ chance,” he hissed. “I should get the first kill since I applied for
the hunting licenses.”

“Yeah? You wouldn’t
be
hunting if not for the fact I own this chunk of land, Sheriff.”

“How do you suggest we decide this problem, now that you’re a crime-solving specialist
in the FBI?”

A pause.

We said, “Rock, paper, scissors,” at the same time.

Dawson grinned at me, and I grinned back.

Hands out, fists on palms, we locked gazes, whispered, “One, two, three,” and looked
at our hands.

He’d chosen rock.

I’d picked paper.

I won.

I leaned over and pecked his puckish mouth. “Don’t pout. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and
I’ll miss.”

He snorted. “Not likely. And that’s the first time I’ve ever had a huntin’ buddy kiss
me. It’s kinda weird.”

We returned to our watchful stance.

As much as I loved the pulling-the-trigger part of hunting, I also loved this quiet
time. I might’ve felt differently if I was stretched out on frigid snow-covered ground,
trying to hide my white puffs of breath as the cold seeped into my bones. But I was
content, lying on my belly in the tall grass, scanning the area with my binoculars,
grateful my hood blocked the wind from my face.

I never thought I’d miss spending my days and nights in the great outdoors. While
lying in the sand or on a rooftop, or standing in the back of an assault vehicle,
I had dreamed of a soft mattress. Of crisp sheets that carried a freshly laundered
clean scent. Of cool, puffy pillows beneath my weary head. Of one night of uninterrupted
slumber. Of early-morning tendrils of light teasing through the window blinds as a
gentle wake-up call. Not mortar rounds. Not machine-gun fire.

After all the years I’d spent in the army, my days and nights fighting heat, cold,
bugs—intestinal and the creepy-crawly types—insurgents, insomnia, cramped quarters,
and no quarters, and the weeks without a shower, I swore I’d never willingly subject
myself to such primitive situations ever again. No camping, no hiking, no wilderness
treks for me.
My new idea of roughing it would be no complimentary breakfast at my vacation hotel.

So why was I stretched out in the dirt, weeds poking me in the face, surrounded by
the warning scent of male animal urine?

Because my man had done something special for me, reminding me that I’d missed this.
Reminding me this reconnection with nature and where I was raised also defined me.

I hadn’t been to this part of the ranch for years. I suspected the watering hole had
dried up during the almost decade-long drought. For a few decades, the Gunderson family
had hayed a small section at the bottom, leaving the bales as emergency feed if any
of the cattle got stranded during a blizzard. This area didn’t produce enough feed
in comparison to other areas with easier access, so it’d been allowed to go fallow.

Fallow was good for wildlife. With access to water, and a stand of scrub oak and pine
trees to run and hide in, this was an ideal place for them to gather.

Time passed in a pleasant void. I wasn’t getting antsy as much as worried our entry
into the animals’ domain hadn’t been stealthy enough. Were the bucks hunkered down
watching us?

I considered asking Mason how long he wanted to wait these animals out, because he
had to leave for Denver today, when three big bucks picked their way to the edge of
the water.

Hello, boys.

They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When they were spread out, I whispered, “Mine is
the far right.”

“I’ll take the left side.”

Chances were high this would be our only shot today, so we had to make it count. “You
sighted in?” I asked Dawson, keeping the antelope in my crosshairs.

“Yep.”

“Count of three.”

“One,” he said.

“Two,” I said.

“Three,” we said together.

Ba-bam. Ba-bam.

Near perfect symmetry.

My buck dropped.

Dawson’s animal struggled and acted confused. By the time it staggered a few steps
then lay down, the third buck was long gone.

As soon as Dawson’s buck quit twitching, we grabbed our stuff and hightailed it down
the hill.

We stopped first and looked at his buck. Nice clean kill, a few inches behind the
front leg, which was a perfect heart/lungs shot. The buck had a decent set of horns.
Then we walked to my kill.

Dawson said, “Jesus, Mercy. That’s fuckin’ nasty.”

My shot had been a head shot. The buck’s brain had exploded, horns hanging off what
was left of the skull. I found Dawson staring at me strangely. “What?” I asked.

“Why would you shoot . . .?”

Because I was used to taking head shots.

Other snipers might talk about hitting center mass. But at ranges below two hundred
yards, I always aimed for the head.

A habit that was hard to break, apparently. I also had no intention of having a mount
made. Another habit I shunned—showing off a kill. Just knowing I’d hit my target satisfied
me.

But maybe . . . I should’ve done it differently. Should I pretend I’d missed the spot
I’d aimed for?

“If I’da known you weren’t interested in mounting it, I’d have gotten you a doe tag.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Good thing I brought a hacksaw. No need to drag the head back now,” Dawson said dryly.

“Yeah. Good thing. ’Cause all I brought was a knife.”

Mason stood and smirked at me.

“What?”

“Is that your way of asking me to gut your antelope, little lady?”

“Fuck off.” I unsheathed my knife. “And just for that smart-ass remark, I’ll race
you. Let’s see who gets their kill cleaned up fastest.”

“God, I love you.”

I blew him a kiss before my hands were covered with blood.

As soon as he stood above his buck, I said, “Ready?”

“Yep.”

“Go.” I dropped to my knees. I rolled the buck on his back and carefully sliced through
the hide and muscle, starting at the sternum and ending at the tail. Then on the second
pass, I separated the tough membrane covering the body cavity. Using the tip of the
knife, I cut around the anus and the genitals, mindful not to cut into the urinary
tract or the poop chute. Then I sliced into the body cavity itself, turning the blade
side up as I cut, so the knife didn’t go in too deep and nick the stomach. I scored
the breastbone with the blade three times and pushed down, cracking it.

I took a break and glanced over at Dawson, who already had his hand in the cavity
and was pulling out the guts.

Son of a bitch.

He flipped his buck over to drain the last of the blood, resting on his haunches.

I half expected him to throw up his hands like a tie-down roper.

Mason ambled over, and I still hadn’t gotten to the gut-removal portion yet.

“Lagging behind, Sergeant Major.”

I grunted, then made the cut across the esophagus that allowed my hand to get inside
that still-warm cavity and start yanking out innards.

Point for Dawson that he didn’t offer to help.

Minus two hundred points that he started whistling “No Guts, No Glory” while I was
shoulder deep inside my kill.

“It’s too damn warm out to let these hang once we get them back to the ranch,” he
said. “We’ll have to get the meat cleaned up and frozen as soon as possible.”

“I’ll bow to your expertise. To be honest, I’ve never butchered my game.”

“Never? Why not?”

I rubbed the end of my nose. “My dad usually struck a deal with someone at Baylor
Brothers Meat Processing.” That wasn’t the whole truth. For some reason, it hadn’t
bothered my father to watch me kill something, but it’d bothered the heck out of him
to watch me butcher it. In fact, counting this antelope, I’d only gutted a kill three
times. My father had taken over, gutting the animal himself. Which seemed strange,
because Dad never treated me like a girl who might be squeamish. I hadn’t been, but
that hadn’t mattered. Every time we’d gone hunting, I made the kill shot; someone
else cleaned up the mess.

It struck me, then, how I’d carried that mind-set with me during my sniper years.

Dawson made a disgruntled noise and pulled me back to the present. “It ain’t that
hard to butcher. There’s not that much meat on antelope anyway.”

I finally scooped the last of the innards out and rolled my buck to let the blood
drain out.

He crouched down and scrutinized my kill. “This is one plump little sucker. He’ll
have more meat on him.” Then he said, “Hold still,” and took out a handkerchief. “You’ve
got blood on your face.” He dabbed at it. “It’s gone.”

“Thanks.”

“You want that hacksaw now?”

“Yeah.”

Really didn’t take much effort to lob off the head.

We both pushed to our feet, and he handed me another hankie to use on my hands and
arms. “Seems crazy that we both got our bucks on the very first shot.”

I shrugged and wiped at the blood. Didn’t seem that odd to me. The
one shot, one kill
mantra had been drilled into my brain during sniper training.

“Did you bring another gun?” Then he laughed. “Of course you did.”

“You wanna have a little shooting contest? I gotta redeem myself somehow since you
whipped my butt in quick field dressing.”

“What’d you bring?”

“H&K P7. Nine mil.”

Dawson shook his head. “I’m not easily intimidated, but Christ, woman, you have a
lot of guns.”

“Think of it as the equivalent of other women’s obsession with shoes.”

He laughed again. “Show me.”

I let him go first.

I still won.

By a lot.

Even with my bad eye.

Luckily, my man was a good sport—even if I was a much better shot. We wrapped and
strapped up the kills, then started toward the ATVs. Packing out the animal was probably
the worst part of hunting. I was surprised birds weren’t already circling above the
two piles of guts, waiting for us to leave so they could fight over a quick-and-easy
meal. The birds would get the first go, and then the bigger predators would come in
and chase them out.

Circle of life and all that shit.

Dawson shouted, “Double time, Sergeant Major, you’re lagging behind.”

•   •   •

At the ranch, we had to lock up the dogs.

I watched Dawson part out the carcass. He’d rinse and cut and rinse some more. Antelope
were hairy creatures, and nothing ruined a piece of meat like a bunch of hair frozen
to it. But luckily, antelope hair was very fine, and once it floated to the top of
the water, it could easily be skimmed or poured off.

His expertise didn’t surprise me, but his efficiency did. He had both bucks skinned,
butchered, cleaned, and parted out in two hours. I helped as much as I could—or as
much as he’d let me. I was secretly
happy I wouldn’t have to walk past an animal kill for several days waiting for the
meat processors.