Read Ravaged River (Men of Mercy #6) for Free Online Page A

with a French name no one in Mercy could pronounce, check. Picturesque wrought-iron lanterns casting a bright yellow glow every ten feet. Shiny cars parked in a precise line down the side. Manicured shrubs dividing the road. The crowd bubbling out of the little old movie theater—the women wearing new dresses and the men in creased slacks.
    This was the nice part of town.
    Hoyt kept going, faintly aware of Merc tapping on his magnesium-alloy, armor-protected laptop in the passenger seat beside him.
    He took a left onto South Main, clonked into a pot hole the size of a tar pit and cursed. That hit would require a visit to the auto shop for a realignment.
    A few hundred more pot holes dotted the road all the way into the horizon. They were like land mines waiting to take out the next vehicle daring enough to brave the crossing. Freaking North Korea could take notes from Mercy’s lack of maintenance.
    It didn’t take long for the neighborhood to change. The ancient stores lining this road had black bars on the windows and bright flashing signs advertising booze and beer. Women wearing low cut tops and miniskirts tottered on high heels, somehow managing to deftly maneuver the cracks and crackheads. Men in saggy jeans and oversized T-shirts swaggered in the mix. The lights on this street popped on and off, a few steady and dim, highlighting the seedier residents as they wavered in and out of the shadows.
    Hoyt and Merc had been assigned to go do a little recon. There were three names on their list of suspected sleeper cells. They were going to check out the first—the owner of the gas station on the way out of town. “You got the intel on this guy?”
    Less than a mile to go to the station.
    “Yeah, Raheem Jubar. Married. Three kids. His wife, Masarra, is here on a spouse visa. Both of them are from Pakistan.” The bright screen of the laptop cast a dim glow of light on Merc in Hoyt’s peripheral vision. “No criminal history. Raheem is a distant cousin to Zafar, but they haven’t had any recent contact. He’s gone on two trips to his homeland in the past ten years. Nothing to raise suspicion.”
    “So basically he’s done nothing to stand out.”
    “Exactly.” Merc closed off the computer and pulled out his pistol, locked and loaded.
    The good sleeper cells flew low on the radar. They owned cell phones and sold beer and lottery tickets. They didn’t wave a red flag and declare war. That’s why they were so damn hard to I.D. That is, until they strapped on a vest filled with ball bearings hooked up to a remote cell phone for a kill switch.
    “What I wouldn’t give to go back to the days of George Washington. Everyone knew who their enemy was,” Merc said.
    “Yeah, they also lined up fifty feet apart and took pot shots without armor. No, thank you.”
    The run-down gas station appeared about a hundred yards out, a beacon of lights. There were two rows of pumps, each with two stations apiece. They were spaced close together, like there’d originally been only one row and the second had been crammed into the small space left between the station and the road.
    As Hoyt turned into the drive, his headlights illuminated a bright yellow Hummer parked on the inside row of pumps. The driver was inside, head hunched down behind the steering wheel. Hoyt slowed the Jeep and angled it toward the outside row, next to the low curb lining the edge of the lot.
    A Honda sedan with a few rust spots dotting the rear end was parked facing away from them, the driver’s side door open. Hoyt made out the top of a dark head of hair as the man stood and went to check his pump.
    Male. Arabic. About twenty years old. Slim build. Loose clothing.
    “Shit. That’s the second mark on the list.” Merc cocked his pistol. The man cast a quick narrowed glance at their Jeep and then looked away, pretending not to care.
    “You see that? He made us.” Hoyt eased the car to a stop but didn’t put it in park. He pulled out his own Beretta and