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Summary
Summary
From award-winning author Lori Armstrong comes a gripping tale of brutal murder, as former army sniper Mercy Gunderson learns anew when she returns to the family ranch that, for the weak, the western plains of South Dakota hold . . .
NO MERCY The body of a teenage Indian boy found on land belonging to the Gunderson ranch is just the beginning. When a second teen is killed, the crime moves even closer to home for Mercy. The Iraq veteran is no stranger to death, but these murders are deeply personal, recalling all too clearly a childhood marred by violence and tragedy. The local sheriff seems strangely apathetic, so Mercy throws herself into an investigation that is driven by a desire for justice . . . and retribution. But as she digs up the truth behind the shocking crimes, she uncovers dark and dangerous secrets involving those she loves. Now she must race to stop a killer before everything she's fought for is destroyed forever.
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
This compelling if prosaically plotted saga of dysfunctional family life, racial tension and liberated-woman romance, the first in a new series from Shamus-finalist Armstrong (Blood Ties), introduces Mercy Gunderson, a U.S. army sniper who's one-quarter Minneconjou Sioux. The discovery of a dead Indian boy on Mercy's late father's South Dakota ranch complicates her return home on medical leave. (Retinal detachment threatens her military career, while wet-work mission flashbacks disturb her sleep.) Then there's Sheriff Dawson, who, as Mercy admits after he snags her nephew for burglary, "raised my hackles and my interest like no other man I'd crossed paths with in the last decade." Mercy is as tough as an old army boot, with a vocabulary and weapons proficiency to prove it, but she's always had it bad for cowboys. This soft spot, along with her racial identity crisis and a piled-on assortment of family-related guilt trips, leads to a contrived gee-whiz conclusion. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Well, technically there is Mercy: Mercy Gunderson, the star of this first installment of a projected new series. Mercy is an army sniper, currently on medical leave back home in South Dakota, where she is trying to figure out what to do with the family ranch, now that her father has died. But she is soon distracted by the death of a young boy or, more accurately, she is distracted by the local police's apparent lack of interest in solving the crime. And when Mercy's own nephew is murdered, she determines to get to the bottom of things. Armstrong, author of the popular Julie Collins private-eye series, has created a grittier character in Mercy Gunderson, a combat veteran who brings her unique skills into her private life. Fans of the Collins mysteries should embrace this new novel with open arms, but the author could pick up some new readers, too, on the strength of this new heroine.--Pitt, David Copyright 2009 Booklist
Kirkus Review
A war-hardened daughter returns home to find small-town South Dakota life as perilous as her tour of Iraq. The Army grants medical leave to sharpshooter Mercy Gunderson, but she just misses her father's passing. And that's not the only chip on this tough gal's shoulder. Her flaky sister Hope is on the latest in a string of good-for-nothing boyfriends, her surly nephew is determined to get into trouble and people keep going and getting themselves killed on her land. When cocky actingsheriff Dawson, the successor to Mercy's father, refuses to get involved, she has no other choice than to lead her own informal investigation. The more she finds out, the more trouble she gets into, as she uncovers a group of Native-American teens from the local reservation whose silence seems to be her biggest clue. She knows she must be on the right path when people start turning up dead, but her search heats up as it becomes increasingly clear that she's next on the list. Things get more personal as Mercy has to face her past in order to get the help she needs. The more determined she is that she won't let herself and her family down, the more deeply she gets invested in her hometown. Something for everyone in this tale of two cultures in collision. The mystery is mostly solid, the climax suitably complex, and there's enough blood and guts for those so inclined. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
PROLOGUE I could not believe this was happening. The man I married, the man that fathered my children, could not be capable of such a thing. I sat in a hotel room riveted to the television set as images of John flashed across the screen. It was surreal. I walked up to the TV, put my hand on the screen--and whispered, "What happened to you?" I was a zombie, not the real Mildred, the one who dreamed of simply being a good wife, a good mother and a good servant to God. I had just left a police station where an officer had looked me in the eyes and proclaimed, "Ms. Muhammad, we're going to name your ex-husband as the sniper." For two years I had looked over my shoulder for two people: John, my ex-husband who had promised to kill me, and "the D.C. Sniper," who had terrorized the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area where I lived by randomly killing people. Now I was forced to reconcile that there was only one man--that John, the man who used to cuddle with me at night and fuss over his children during the day, was also the terrorizing gunman. I remembered what John once told me: "You know I could take a small city and terrorize it and they would think it would be a group of people. But it would only be me." Still, this was John posturing, wasn't it? Talking was far different from actually killing. Yet when police asked me if I thought John was capable of doing something like this, I surprised myself by not hesitating for one moment to reply, "Yes." I knew he could kill. He was a military man and had fought in a war. I also knew that he had promised to kill me because he believed I had taken his children away from him. And I knew John to be a man of his word when it came to a threat or a promise of revenge. Still, over the harrowing months during which one person after another was gunned down by the man labeled as "The D.C. Sniper," not once did I think of John. Not once. It was unfathomable. The sniper had to be a madman. The sniper had to be inhuman. The sniper had to be like someone I had never known. Now I was recalling every frightening comment John had ever made to me. He once said, "When a man hits a woman, it means that he has lost all respect for her. It would be easy for him to kill her after that." But I did not foresee, not even in my wildest nightmare, that John would ever kill people who had nothing to do with me or our troubled marriage. I stepped back from the television and realized my son was crying and my daughters were weeping into their pillows. I turned to console them, though I had no idea what to say. I held them close. They were scared. I was, too. In the past several hours, we had all learned that John was the sniper suspect and that police were searching for him. Then we had to hurry to pack and police sped us away from our house and to the hotel room where we were being held under police protection. It is amazing how exhausting trauma can be, even when it is not accompanied by physical blows. The news had pummeled us. My son had nearly passed out when he heard the news. My girls were spent from the weight of one question: How could their father commit such a reprehensible act? Once the children went to sleep, I tipped into the bathroom to let go of my own emotions. I had been "the good mother" for my children. I had comforted them until they closed their eyes. I had been the strong shoulder, the consoler. They only had one parent left and they deserved a good one. I turned on the water in the bathtub and sink faucet so they could not hear me. I sat on the cold floor of the bathroom, buried my face into a pillow and sobbed. I cried for hours, hoping that by daybreak when the children woke, I would be ready for the great unknowing that awaited us. It was October 23, 2002. It would become a day of demarcation for me and my children. Before this date, my son and daughters were like other children, barely aware of the challenges that adults faced. But after their father was publicly named as the sniper, I watched the light in their eyes grow dimmer. They knew that the worst things were possible. That one day you could be romping in the yard with your parents and on another day you could sit in front of a television set, your heart nearly beating out of your chest, as you watched armed police officers search for your father. When the person you love becomes the one you fear, you are scared to the core of your being. Everything you thought was real has become an illusion. It is disconcerting. You feel as if you are falling into a deep hole and there is nothing to hold onto because everything you thought was there is gone. You slip deeper. And deeper. John was going to kill me, and now I knew that he had conspired to kill other people just to create a smokescreen. Soon I would learn all the details of how he planned to kill strangers and then shoot me down and have police blame it all on "the D.C. Sniper." But he got caught. Thank God, he got caught. When the person you love tries to kill you, the pain is unspeakable. How do you explain such an act to anyone? To yourself? What can you possibly say? I had been a girl with simple dreams. One of my greatest prayers was to be a good wife. Now I thought of the many ways in which John had dismissed me and diminished my existence. I heard his familiar retort, "I don't mind because you don't matter." I was thankful he had not killed me, and I grieved over those whose lives he had taken. I cried for their families, too. But the silencer on John's gun had silenced me in another way. Shame cut off my tongue. Fear paralyzed my throat. Surely people hated me, I thought. I was the reason innocent people were killed. A bullet did not take my life, but it would be years before I found my voice. Meanwhile, every gentle word I thought of I used to help my children heal. This is what a good mother does. It took months, even years for my own healing. But now, seven years later--finally--I am no longer scared silent. © 2009 Mildred D. Muhammad Excerpted from No Mercy by Lori Armstrong All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.