A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(22)

To keep us in or keep attackers out?

“The drill won’t last much longer,” Vera whispered, her voice muffled through the mask.

“How did you know it was a drill?” Mercy asked as she kept an eye on the figure blocking the door.

“The siren was steady. If this had been the real thing, the sound would have pulsated.”

“Who do you expect to attack this camp?”

“Get your mask right or you’ll get a strike,” Vera told her, ignoring her question. “You’re of no use to the group if you’re dead from poisonous air.”

Mercy adjusted the straps until they fit smoothly around her head. It smelled strongly of rubber. “What’s a strike?”

“Pete didn’t tell you about strikes?”

“No.”

“Three strikes and you’re punished. Strikes are given for missing work or missing the drills. You can also get one at a lieutenant’s discretion for insubordination or just being messy.”

“Who are the lieutenants?” Carleen had briefed Mercy on the group’s simple command structure. Pete delegated to four lieutenants.

Vera jerked her head toward the door. “That’s one right there. He’s in charge of the women during drills.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to have you in charge of the women?” Vera seemed very competent.

Vera’s eyes widened behind her mask’s eye protection, and she slowly shook her head. “You have a lot to learn.”

“I’m trying.”

The siren abruptly stopped, and from the direction of the lieutenant Mercy heard the crackle of an inaudible question over a radio.

“Mess hall secure,” answered the man at the door. He raised his voice. “Line up!”

The women scrambled out from under the table, and Mercy joined them in a straight line before the lieutenant. He was dressed from head to toe in camo and had slung his AR-15 over his shoulder. He didn’t wear a gas mask but walked the line of women and inspected theirs. He tugged on a strap here and there but didn’t issue any strikes.

I think he used to be a cop.

Mercy recognized it in the way his balance was always forward and by the movement of his hands—always up front and ready—and the continuous visual assessment of his surroundings. She wondered what had happened to make him leave the world behind and join this compound. Pete’s group was firmly anti–law enforcement at all levels.

He got to Mercy and stopped, scanning her from boots to mask, and she hoped her mask was adjusted correctly. He was in his midtwenties and reminded her of a blond actor whose name was on the tip of her tongue—she could see him in her mind but couldn’t come up with the name. The lieutenant was a younger version of the actor.

He moved on. No strike.

“As you were.”

The women pulled off the masks and finger combed their hair, talking quietly among themselves. Mercy fumbled to loosen the straps she couldn’t see, taking a deep breath once she was free. The lieutenant briefly met her gaze.

“Polk!” he said loudly.

A split second passed before Mercy realized he’d called her last name.

“Yes, sir?”

“Report to the command center in five minutes.” He adjusted the strap of his rifle and left the mess hall.

The other women stopped to stare at her.

“Did I screw up? What does Pete want?” Dread filled her chest as the other women all looked away. “Vera?” she asked. “Do you know why?”

Vera shrugged and took Mercy’s mask from her hands to return it to the cabinet. “Probably nothing. Maybe Pete realized he forgot to cover something in your introduction—like strikes.” Her throat moved as she swallowed, and she didn’t meet Mercy’s eyes.

Shit.

Mercy sat back down at the table and considered what was left of her now-cold gravy, bread, and beans. She had five minutes to finish, but it didn’t matter.

Her appetite was long gone.





NINE

Mercy hesitated at the outer door of the command center. Do I knock? She squared her shoulders, turned the handle, and walked into the waiting area to find Chad and Ed. Chad was pacing the small room, his back stiff and his hands restless. Ed leaned against a table, his arms crossed on his chest. The air was thick with tension.

Pete figured us out.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mercy.

“Pete has some questions about some of the stuff from your bag,” Chad answered as he walked over and took both her hands. He held eye contact, and Mercy felt reassurance flow from him. She took a deep breath.

“I didn’t pack anything you told me not to.”

“That’s not quite right,” Ed stated. He hadn’t budged from his position at the table.

“What shouldn’t I have packed?” She ran through a mental list of her belongings and froze on Advil.

Vera’s comments about analgesics.

The commander’s door opened, and Pete appeared. “Polk. Inside.”

Mercy glanced at Chad and Ed. Both were silent. Chad’s gaze was sympathetic and Ed’s emotionless. Inside Pete’s office she spotted her plastic bag of medical supplies on his desk. She’d thrown several pieces from her vehicle’s medical kit into a large ziplock bag. Advil, a tiny bottle of epinephrine, syringes, bandages, topical antibiotic cream, a curved needle, and sterile sutures. Beside the plastic bag lay her favorite Leatherman tool and the XStat syringes.