A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(66)

“No. They’ve seen women, but none of them are Special Agent Kilpatrick.”

That wasn’t the answer Truman had wanted to hear.

“What else have they seen?”

Cook pressed his lips together, and Truman knew the agent regretted sharing as much information as he had.

“Never mind,” Truman told him. A craving for information about the compound was gnawing away at his gut, but he didn’t want to press the agent. It wasn’t his place.

But he wasn’t ready to let Cook go yet. “How do you handle it?” Truman asked, scrambling for a question that didn’t apply directly to the mission.

“Handle what?”

“You go directly into the hot zone for your job. It’s not a question of if you’ll be shot at, but when you’ll be shot at. How does fear not affect you?”

Understanding crossed Cook’s face. “Fear isn’t a bad thing. It can be good. I don’t experience a scared type of fear.” He hesitated, twisting his mouth as he tried to find the right words. “It’s a fear that gives me more respect for things. It keeps me on my toes.”

Truman was skeptical.

“The only person who should have fear is the guy on the other side of the wall when we come in.”

“You walk right into gunfire.” Truman knew he was repeating himself, but he still couldn’t comprehend the mind-set needed for Cook’s job.

“Sometimes. As long as it doesn’t hit me, I’m okay.” Cook was completely serious.

Jesus.

“We train,” Cook continued. “We know how to analyze a situation and go hard. You aren’t on this team if you can’t make a split-second decision under pressure. When all else has failed, our job is to be the professionals that get it done.”

Calm, cool, and collected. Gratitude and awe filled Truman. Cook was the type of person who could get Mercy out of the compound. “Thank you,” he told the agent, offering to shake his hand again. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Cook quirked a brow as he took the hand. “It’s my job,” he said simply. “But you’re welcome.” He gave a brief nod and walked off, again stretching his arms behind his back, working them in circles.

Truman knew Cook wasn’t unique. All the members of his team were just as driven and committed.

For the first time, Truman felt a glimmer of hope.





TWENTY-FIVE

The day dragged, and Truman struggled to stay patient.

He tried to make himself useful, moving equipment, bracing tent poles, and even washing dishes, while sticking as close to the negotiators’ RV as possible. The storm had picked up, a heavy white fall that made the base camp feel more isolated than ever. The snow set Truman on edge.

It was a ticking clock.

What if Ghattas decided the snow would grow too deep to continue the operation? Every half hour, the negotiators had attempted to reach the compound. And every half hour they had been ignored.

“Maybe he got rid of the radio,” Truman suggested to Jeff when he came out of the RV after the fourth failed call.

“They’re weighing that possibility, but they’re convinced he’s playing a waiting game, trying to keep the upper hand by showing that he’ll answer on his own time.”

A pissing contest.

Truman went back to his odd jobs around the base camp.

At four o’clock Jeff stepped out of the RV and signaled Truman, who had been talking with a small group from the FBI’s SWAT team. Truman excused himself, his eyes fixed on Jeff as he strode over, his skin vibrating with the unknown.

Good news? Bad news?

“Hodges answered,” Jeff said quietly as he led Truman into the RV. Inside were the same three negotiators, SSA Bill Ghattas, Agents Aguirre and Gorman, and the SWAT team leader. Agent Sanchez was writing rapidly on a yellow legal pad as he focused on Hodges’s words. The tension in the RV was palpable, but Agent Sanchez’s voice was calm as he replied to Hodges.

“I don’t understand your benefit from such a request,” Sanchez said into his headset mic.

Truman gave an inquiring glance at Jeff, who shrugged one shoulder. Ghattas caught Truman’s eye for a moment, and he knew the SSA wasn’t happy to have him listening, but he would let it slide for the moment.

“I need to hear from Jason himself that he’s being treated fairly,” Hodges’s voice came through the speakers.

“Jason?” Truman mouthed to Jeff.

“The sick boy’s father,” Jeff whispered back.

“I’m sure we can arrange a phone—” Sanchez began.

“No. Not a phone call,” said Hodges. “I need to see that he hasn’t been injured or isn’t being threatened. I don’t have any reason to trust the ATF.”

“And this will help establish that trust?” Sanchez asked into his mic while eyeing Ghattas.

Ghattas nodded.

“It will help,” said Hodges.

“I can make this happen. I can get Jason Trotter up here for you,” Sanchez answered. “But before I do, I’m going to ask something of you in return for the same reason. Trust. We need a two-way street here.”

“I’m listening.”

Truman recalled a negotiator’s guideline: make concessions, but always get something in return.