A Merciful Promise (Mercy Kilpatrick #6)(72)

Truman paused and turned around, one hand on the mess hall door. Tall firs surrounded the compound, many of their branches coated in snow, drifts forming against their trunks. A thorough outdoor search was nearly impossible and might be delayed until spring.

His heart couldn’t wait that long.

Numb, he stepped inside and took a seat at a table where a few agents were eating breakfast. The smell of eggs and coffee turned his stomach.

The FBI had started to transport the militia members off the compound. Several were still in the mess hall. Overnight, blankets and pillows had been brought in from the cabins for the detainees, and agents had supervised bathroom breaks. The interviews had continued through all hours of the night. Everyone in the mess hall—men and women—had denied meeting anyone named Jessica. No matter that the half dozen released women back at the base camp claimed she’d been there.

Did Pete order that she not be discussed?

The rest of the agents had been informed of Truman’s relationship to Mercy, but it wasn’t mentioned during the interviews. The members of the compound knew only that the agents were searching for Jessica Polk—not why.

Not long after the storage units had been discovered, the agents had found enough C-4 in the adjacent vans to destroy a large building. The militia interviews had uncovered a plan that had been scheduled for last night to destroy the ATF office in Yakima. The appearance of the ATF with a radio and questions at the America’s Preserve gate had halted the plan.

“Why that building in Yakima?” Eddie had asked the agents during a break from conducting interviews. “It can’t be that important. It’s a small satellite office, and the explosions were supposed to go off at night—chances were no one would be hurt. I don’t get it. That was the big plan we heard rumors about?”

Ghattas had been grim. “For some reason they believed it was an important hub for ATF servers, which it’s not, but the driving force behind their plan was to destroy what they believe was illegal information on gun owners that was stored on these nonexistent servers. It was to be a Second Amendment victory. One to be celebrated across the US. They thought they’d be heroes.”

“Where did they get that false information?” Eddie had wondered out loud. “Why did they deem it reliable enough to risk going to prison?”

“I don’t understand how a lot of these people think,” Ghattas answered. “We’re not dealing with the sharpest tools in the shed here, and they are as uncooperative as possible. Most of them won’t tell us their names or how many men lived here. I’m not even sure we have the right names for the dead.”

Truman had listened but didn’t say a word. He didn’t give a shit about the militia’s plan or the names of its members.

He had one mission.

Find Mercy.

Truman eyed the three female compound members who were still in the mess hall. They sat together against the wall, wrapped in their blankets, slightly separated from the men. Two looked at the floor, occasionally glancing up with fear in their wide eyes. One caught Truman’s gaze, and terror flashed before she immediately focused on the floor again. The third woman had her chin up and glared at everyone who walked by. She was horribly thin, and the yellow cast to her skin disturbed Truman. He estimated she was in her sixties but then wondered if her poor health made her appear older than she was.

“She didn’t say a word in her interviews,” said a female FBI agent at Truman’s table, noticing his consideration. “Her name’s Vera. She’s got the brand, so I’m not surprised she’s staying silent.”

“Brand?”

The agent touched her own wrist. “Right here. Hodges’s most loyal followers wear his brand. I can’t imagine allowing someone to do that to me. Even if my husband suggested it as a sign of commitment, I’d say, ‘Hell no.’”

Truman stared at the woman on the floor in wonder. “But he’s dead. Her allegiance to Hodges goes beyond the grave?”

“It appears to be that deep for a few of them. They’re completely closemouthed. Eventually they’ll come around.” She took a bite of scrambled eggs. “The other two women talked a little bit, but nothing useful.”

“I’d like to talk to the three women together,” Truman said.

The agent scrutinized him. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen. You’re an observer, nothing else. I’m sorry about your fiancée, Chief, but that doesn’t mean we don’t follow procedure.”

Truman mulled this over.

“It can’t be against the rules to openly speak to them,” Truman suggested. “I’ll just ask them if they need anything else—bathroom break . . . coffee . . . tea.”

The agent scratched at her neck. “We’re all fucking exhausted, you know. Right now I can’t focus on anything beyond my breakfast.” She concentrated on her plate, scooping up more eggs, avoiding Truman’s eyes.

Thank you.

He went and poured a cup of coffee at the counter. Instead of returning to his seat, he sat on the end of a bench close to the women and faced them, keeping the coffee for himself. All three averted their eyes. Even Vera did after giving him a hard glare. He sipped his coffee, and his gut burned with acid. The other two women appeared to be in their thirties. One redhead and one brunette. All three wore grungy clothing and had their oily hair pulled back in ponytails. Their life at the compound hadn’t been an easy one.