A Merciful Promise

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Mercy held her breath and stepped back as they dragged the bleeding man past her. The other observers cleared a path, their faces solemn, their gazes locked on the moaning man. Two of the members, rifles slung over their shoulders, gripped the man’s upper arms and pulled him toward their commander, Pete, at the front of the group. They threw him to the ground at Pete’s feet, and he stayed down, curling into a tight ball, his gasps echoing in the forest clearing.

What will Pete do?

Pete’s stance was wide, his hands clasped behind his back, his spine perfectly straight. His chin jutted forward, and he stood immobile. Without moving his head, he lowered his gaze to the beaten man, and his mouth pressed into a thin white line. Disdain and disappointment flowed from him, and mutters sounded through the group, its own anger growing.

The mob’s ire was palpable, slamming through Mercy’s skin and skidding up the back of her neck. Goose bumps lifted the hair on her arms as she stared at the man who stood in front of the group. Pete wore his usual dark-olive pants and shirt and a Glock on his hip. The weapon seemed to grow larger, almost pulsate with power, even though he didn’t move his hand in its direction.

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