A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(65)

Truman looked to Jeff. “That was a success?”

“He didn’t threaten anyone, and he was polite. Baby steps.”

“He also didn’t mention the FBI or Mercy,” Truman pointed out.

“Another good thing. We want him to believe only the ATF is here. If he brings her up, we can inform him of an FBI presence.”

If he brings her up, does it mean she’s already dead?

Foreboding raced through his blood, making him struggle to hold still. This could take days.

Ghattas darted up the steps and into the RV, panting for breath. ATF agents Carleen Aguirre and Neal Gorman were directly behind him, concern on their faces.

“Call’s over,” Jeff informed them.

“Shit. How’d it go?” asked Ghattas.

“Very good,” Sanchez said over his shoulder. “We’ll continue to call every half hour.” He returned to his three-man huddle, peering at the notes of the other men.

“Pete Hodges didn’t mention the FBI,” Jeff told the three agents. “He wanted to know why the ATF was here. Sanchez emphasized concern for the children inside and casually mentioned the gun sales, then Hodges politely ended the communication.”

“Sounds like an excellent start.” Carleen nodded with enthusiasm.

Truman steamed, his chest swelling. Jeff did a double take at his face and excused the two of them, dragging Truman outside. He hauled him several yards away from the RV.

“You need to find some patience,” Jeff said, his face close, his grip on Truman’s upper arm. “I get it, Truman. I really do. But you’re going to get your ass sent home if you’re a distraction.” Jeff’s own concern for Mercy flashed before he packed it back in the box of emotions that every law enforcement officer tried to keep under lock and key.

Truman yanked his arm free but didn’t speak. If he voiced the clutter of rage and fear spinning in his brain, they’d banish him from the RV. He was lucky to have witnessed what he had; he wouldn’t get a second chance if he was a liability. “I know,” he said between clenched teeth as politely as he could.

“That call shows Hodges is curious,” Jeff told him. “He wants to know what is going on. He’ll want more information—there will be another call.”

Truman saw his logic.

Everything is taking too long.

“Go cool off. Tromp around in the woods for a bit and come back in a half hour. You shouldn’t be in the RV, but as long as they let me in, I’ll try to bring you with me.” Jeff pointed at him. “As long as you don’t do something stupid.”

“Thank you,” Truman muttered. He turned and blindly strode toward trees, the falling snow brushing across his face.



Truman wasn’t the only one pacing in the woods.

After a minute’s walk deep into the trees, he encountered an FBI agent pacing in snowy circles, stretching his arms behind his back and muttering a mantra. He wore the olive-and-black gear of the HRT members. Truman had watched the team’s men check their huge bags of equipment. Ballistic vests, helmets, neck covers, eye protection, cameras, grenades, flashbangs, custom-made weapons.

Each man seemed to have over sixty pounds of equipment to carry on his body. Maybe more.

The agent spotted him and halted, recognition showing in his eyes. He was of medium height and wiry, with close-cut sandy-blond hair. Truman didn’t remember his name—he’d been introduced to too many people.

The agent held out his hand as Truman approached. “Theo Cook. You’re the police chief.” Age lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. His face was well weathered. This wasn’t some fresh-faced gym rat rookie; he was an experienced agent.

Truman shook it. “Truman Daly. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“You’re not. I’m just clearing my brain and sucking in a little of this amazingly crisp air. My team has spent hours poring over intel on the compound and running scenarios. We needed a short break before we dive back into it.”

“What if your team is needed for a different emergency before you’re done here?”

“There’s a second team back home. We’re always ready to go when called upon.”

Truman studied the man. He and Mercy had talked in the past about the HRT. No woman had ever qualified for the team; all had been unable to pass the brutal physical tests. He’d heard the members called modern-day warriors, trained to strike. They were fast, violent, and deadly.

“You’re staring,” Cook said, pinning Truman with his gaze.

“Sorry. I was wondering what your job is like.”

Cook shrugged and relaxed. “There is nothing else like it. Well—Delta or Team Six would disagree with that statement.”

Truman nodded. The Army and Navy Special Missions Units were also elite professionals. “What’s your position?”

“I’m part of the assault team. Not a sniper.”

Cook would be on the front lines if they invaded the compound.

“Our snipers are currently doing recon,” Cook said. “We have three in positions around the compound. They’ve been feeding us intel since the middle of the night. Their scopes are good for more than lining up their shots.”

Truman froze. “Have they seen the FBI agent?”