A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(29)

Dammit.

She settled for pacing with her arms crossed. Vera had pointed out the supply depot as they returned to the main portion of the compound. “Good luck,” the sour woman had commented. “I’d stick around to watch, but I have work to do.” Vera sniffed and walked away.

Watch what?

Mercy was determined to get some acetaminophen for Noah and then get a look at the camp’s medical supplies. Slow, heavy footsteps sounded inside, and the door opened.

Shit.

It was the overweight man from yesterday’s lunch line. The one who’d complained when she kissed Chad.

His current scowl matched the one from the day before.

No. It was worse.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, his bearded face clearly unhappy with her presence.

She searched her memory for his name but came up empty. “I’m Jessica—”

“I know who you are. Why are you banging on my door?”

“Are you in charge of supplies?” she asked, praying he was not.

“I’m the quartermaster.” He emphasized his title as he crossed his arms, and she spotted a round scar on his wrist.

Great. He’s a trusted member of Pete’s posse and hated me on sight.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name yesterday.” She gave a nervous, small smile, hoping to thaw the ice in his pale-blue eyes.

“Beckett.” No thaw.

“Pete told me you’d separate out the medical supplies for me.”

The scowl deepened. “He told me to do that but didn’t say anything about you.”

“He’s put me in charge of medical care for the group,” she told him. “I need to know what we have on hand.”

“You’re supposed to requisition something when you need it.”

Mercy drew a breath and silently asked for patience. “Pete and I talked about me having quick access to the medical supplies.”

“I heard nothing about that.”

Mercy doubted that. “So I need to go find Pete right now?”

The scowl faltered, and she knew she’d touched a sensitive spot. Like Vera, Beckett was protective of—or fearful about—his leader’s time. He knew what duties Pete would concern himself with and which would be delegated.

The large man shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the dusty flooring. “I pulled the supplies together. You can take a look for now,” he said reluctantly.

Mercy considered that a win. “Thank you.”

“Wait here.”

He closed the door in her face just as she caught a glimpse of a dozen shelving units packed with cartons and sacks.

They wouldn’t store weapons here.

Although Beckett was as protective of his supplies as if he were guarding stolen weapons. She tried to imagine him taking part in the heist that had intercepted the ATF’s transportation of weapons. The agent who survived the attack had described fast-moving, prepared, and precise men who overpowered him. Beckett didn’t move swiftly. His steps were ponderous and heavy. In the brief moment she’d watched him move, he’d clearly favored one leg.

Pete could move fast. Small, wiry, explosive.

The group of men she’d seen rush out of the mess hall yesterday hadn’t moved with trained precision. They’d been an awkward group, some moving much slower than others. If she sorted through the men, she could probably pick out an efficient crew, but she hadn’t spent enough time with them. Ed was older and slow. No military exactness there. So far Pete topped her list.

Chad was fit.

The theft was eight months ago. Chad had been on the outside.

Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been involved.

Dirty agents weren’t a new concept. Stuff happened. Agents were pushed over the edge and sometimes sympathized with the people they were supposed to investigate. She hadn’t seen sympathy from Chad, but she still questioned his lack of information for the amount of time he’d spent in the compound.

Guilt pierced her chest.

I need facts before I can suspect him.

But she believed in keeping all options available.

The door opened, and Beckett appeared with a small, dingy cardboard box under one arm. He handed it to her. “You can look in it right here.”

Mercy stared into the box. It was a jumbled mess of crushed Band-Aid boxes and old pill bottles. It looked like an ancient bunch of supplies found under a bathroom sink. Horror twisted through her brain.

I’m supposed to treat injuries with this?

She dug with one hand, looking for her supplies, which Pete had said would be added to the stock. They weren’t there. No XStat syringes or sutures. Possibly they were still in Pete’s office.

Would he keep them for himself?

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she dug. Dirty spools of medical tape, loose bandages, and empty syringes. “Is this all of it?” she asked Beckett.

“Yep.”

“There isn’t even a blood-pressure cuff or stethoscope or thermometer in here. This isn’t a medical kit. It’s someone’s medicine cabinet rejects.”

He shrugged and leaned against the doorjamb.

You’ll be sorry when you’re in need.

She dug a little more. Yes! A grimy bottle of eighty-milligram Children’s Tylenol. She shook it and exhaled as several pills rattled inside. It’d expired a month ago, but right now she didn’t care.