A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(70)

Who was hurt?

“Headlights!” Eddie exclaimed as a soft glow appeared in the distance.

The engine sounds were the best noises Truman had heard in months. Beams of light lit up the trees around him and Eddie, and three sets of headlights came into view. Truman was opening doors before the vehicles had fully stopped. Children were crying, but he couldn’t stop to comfort them. He searched faces.

No Mercy.

He raced to the next SUV. The driver had already hopped out and was helping the hugely pregnant woman. “She’s in labor!” he announced, his eyes wide. “Get medical.” The woman’s face contorted in pain as she stepped down.

Mercy wasn’t in this one either.

“In a minute,” said Truman, already moving to the last vehicle. Dread crawled up his spine. Was she shot?

At the third SUV a toddler was shoved in his arms as the women helped the children out. His gaze locked on one figure. Tall, slender, dark haired, and holding the other toddler.

His heart stopped. He couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t Mercy.

He’d been wrong.

Jeff had been wrong.

The ground seemed to melt away under his feet.

Is she still inside the compound?





TWENTY-SIX

Hours later, Truman gave a wide berth to the bodies scattered in the snow at the gate. Seeing the deaths in person was overwhelming. A million times worse than viewing it on a monitor. He looked away as bile climbed in the back of his throat.

Again.

He was nauseated, sorrow and anger waging war in his brain and body.

After an initial search of the compound, Mercy was still missing.

“Lord help them,” Eddie murmured beside him as he took in the destruction.

Many men had died near the gate, ripped apart by bullets from SWAT and HRT. Truman recognized the overweight bearded man he’d watch limp and struggle to catch his breath during the march to the gate before the horror began. Now his pale-blue eyes were open, staring at nothing, his beard bloody.

The scene crawled with agents. They’d shifted into investigation mode as the SWAT and HRT men were debriefed back at base camp. Someone had transported the lights from the base camp to help illuminate the scene. “We need metal detectors,” one agent said as Truman passed by. “The hot shells sank in the snow.”

Conditions were far less than ideal in the steady snow and poor light.

SSA Ghattas looked as nauseated as Truman felt. “Who fired?” he asked a group of investigators as Eddie escorted Truman past. “Who fired the first shot at Trotter?”

The agent had been asking the same question since the gunfire had ceased. No one had a definite answer yet.

Truman pitied the SSA. The operation had flipped upside down and gone to hell within a tenth of a second, and Ghattas would be held accountable for it. The story would rip through the media like a wildfire. No doubt rumors had already started, because three injured men from inside the compound and the pregnant woman had been rushed to the hospital.

Questions would be asked.

Answers would be presumed.

Conjecture would reign in the public domain.

No agents had been hurt; that was the only bright side. Two had been hit, but their vests had stopped the rounds, and now they nursed sore ribs. Jason Trotter’s life had also been spared due to the ballistics vest Ghattas had made him wear.

Ten yards inside the gate, Truman paused. Pete Hodges lay faceup in the snow. He’d been shot in the face and the chest, but his vest had stopped the shot to the chest. Truman had been told he was the only person in the compound wearing body armor. His men had been unprotected.

Truman despised the man for that fact.

More than he already had.

He suspected Hodges had ordered Trotter shot if he revealed that he hadn’t shared what he knew with the investigators. When Trotter had answered Hodges by stating that he’d maintained his right to remain silent, the trigger had been pulled with the intent for his knowledge of the compound’s illegal activities to die with him.

Another backup plan of Hodges’s that had failed.

Truman pulled his gaze from Hodges as they continued deeper into the compound. His feet were heavy, his muscles begging for rest. Part of him wanted to find a dark place and hide for twenty-four hours. The other part of him wanted to rip the compound apart until he found Mercy.

She had to be here somewhere.

A fresh grave would be hidden by the snow.

He moaned and pressed his temples with both hands, and Eddie glanced at him.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No.”

Eddie nodded, and they continued their trek. Their destination was the mess hall, where the remaining members were being held and questioned. At least there was light inside the buildings of the compound, Truman thought as they entered the mess hall. Weak, yellow light, but it was better than nothing.

The men and women had their wrists zip-tied behind their backs. They sat on the floor, leaning against the walls, carefully watched by armed agents. Three other agents were individually interviewing the residents, taking them one by one to the back of the mess hall for privacy, where their neighbors couldn’t hear who was lying and who was telling the truth.

Eddie stopped near the closest agent standing guard. “Any results?” he asked in a low voice.

The agent was grim. “Nothing on our missing agent.”