The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) by Tobin Wells

shoulder exploded in a violent wave of blood, bone, and muscle.  Knocked on his back by the force of the bullet’s impact, Mitch screamed with such powerful intensity he felt as if his lungs might explode. 
    With the same precision of the shot he had just placed, Porter strapped his rifle on his back, descended the tree, gathered his supply bag, insured that his Glock was firmly on his hip, and ran as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.
    Struggling to both understand what had just happened and to sit up with only one useful arm, Mitch surveyed his surroundings.  Unbeknownst to him, Porter had intentionally placed the shot so that death would linger.  Rocking back and forth and tightly grasping his left bicep to alleviate some of the throbbing, Mitch focused on the pain's intensity and not Porter's approach, until there was only 30 feet between them. 
    When Mitch's eyes did register the stranger, they were wild, like those of a deer immobilized by a gut shot; unable to focus or comprehend what had happened.  His agony clouded his thoughts a nd he mistakenly presumed the stranger had both accidentally shot him and come to his aid. 
    “Man, you got me in the sho ulder!” Mitch said, spitting his words venomously at Porter as he sat up slightly to show the damage.  With blood running down his right arm, Mitch extended his left hand to Porter.  “Help me up.  My four wheeler’s right there.” 
    With his head covered in total by the neoprene mask and his eyes disguised by black Oakleys, Porter assessed the ATV for a moment and then slowly looked back at Mitch.  Twisting his head to the left, Porter’s movement communicated that he had not come to help.
    Only two feet separated the men when Porter said slowly and clearly, “I know what you do to Laura.”  The ice now gone from his mouth, Porter's condensed breath poured over his victim as if Hell's vapor had begun to envelop its newest resident.
    Puzzled and alarmed, Mitch wriggled from his seated position trying to get to his feet and over to his four-wheeler.  Like the fox that has wounded a rabbit but withholds the death strike to observe its victim, Porter placed his sunglasses on top of his head and unsheathed his hunting knife.  The blue grey steel was six inches from the wounded man’s face when Mitch pleaded, “Hey man, come on.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 
    “Oh, you do,” offered Porter in a low growl.  “And you know that I know.” 
    Mitch froze. 
    “You and Laura came into the Village Grill two weeks ago.  I remembered your face and the bully you used to be.  When I noticed that the make-up didn’t fully cover the bruises on Laura’s neck, I realized you were still a bully,” Porter calmly stated.  “So I had the bartender buy you a round; then another, and another.” 
    “Bullshit,” said Mitch, clearly defensive. 
    "Bullshit?” retorted Porter.  “Here you go.  Steve is the bartender at the Grill; early fifties, real nice guy with a huge smile and all business.  He had your Coors Light and Laura’s Jack and Coke waiting on you when you sat down.  His partner behind the bar is Brandon.  He’s full of tats, and more subdued than Steve, but friendly in his own way, and he has a voice that’s a mix of Louis Armstrong and Robert Deniro.  Is that enough?” Porter defiantly asked Mitch, who offered no response.
    “After you two were half in the bag, I followed you to your place and watched you beat the shit out of her; like you did it just for kicks.  And they were sick beatings too you bastard; hard enough to hurt but soft enough to not break anything.  And only body shots so no one would know.  How much practice did you have to be that accurate when you were drunk off your ass?” 
    Porter breathed deeply to calm the rage building up inside of him.  “So why’d she have those bruises?  Did she do something your pride couldn’t take?  My guess is she fought back and you got pissed