A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(90)

“Well, they lived a few miles away, but in a rural community like ours, we considered them neighbors.” Britta’s voice trailed off.

“Britta?” Is she passing out?

“Tired . . . but Mercy . . .”

“Yes?”

“I hope you shoot that murdering fucker.”

There’s the Britta I’ve come to know.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Mercy felt the pulse at the woman’s neck. Slow but strong. She tightened the belt on Britta’s thigh. “I’m going to shut the door. I’ll be right outside.”

“Okay.”

Mercy gave the dog a final pat and closed the door. She sat outside, leaning her back against it, and clenched her weapon in her hands as her eyes adjusted to the poor light, studying the remaining windows. She didn’t protest my closing her in. Britta’s acquiescence alarmed her more than the injury. She’s getting weaker.

I’ll be waiting for him right here.

She blew out a long breath, and her nerves settled into preparation mode.

“Just try to come and get her, Ryan,” she whispered into the dark.





FORTY-FIVE

“Mercy?” Truman held his breath.

“Mercy?” He looked at his screen. The call had been disconnected.

The shot and shattering glass had made the hair rise on his arms. But Mercy’s immediate silence made bile creep up his throat.

He made a quick call. The backup was still fifteen minutes out, and he told the operator to let the responding officers know that he was at the scene.

I can’t sit still that long.

Were we right about Ryan Moody?

Images of the Hartlage skulls and Clint Moody’s decaying body went through his mind.

“How long can Britta hold out?” he whispered. The worry had been evident in Mercy’s voice when she spoke of the woman’s wound. She needed medical help soon.

He slammed his good hand on his steering wheel. “Dammit!”

I can’t just sit here.

Another shot boomed through the darkness.

Active shooter. I need to move in. Broken arm or not.

“Fuck.” He pulled up his location on a map and switched to the satellite imagery. Loading the image took forever. He spotted the long driveway and the rooftop of Britta’s house. Mercy had said Ryan was at the back of the house. But is he still there? He memorized the surrounding area. Trees on one side of the house. Pastures and a dirt farm road on the other.

Truman turned his engine back on and his headlights off and moved down Britta’s driveway, squinting to see through the pounding rain. After a few hundred feet, he pulled to the side of the driveway and parked. No point in announcing my arrival and becoming a target.

Crap. Mercy is armed.

He paused, seeking a way to let her know he’d entered the scene but to also stay hidden from the shooter.

There wasn’t one.

All I can do is go in.

He slipped out of his truck and darted to the other side of the driveway. Essentially there was no cover except for the orchard on the far side of the house. He jogged along the wood fence lining the driveway, keeping low, his weapon in hand. He felt completely off balance with one arm in a splint. He’d ditched the sling early that day, hating the strap near his neck.

A one-armed cop was better than none.

He hoped.



Delight rolled through me as I saw Britta drop on the porch.

I got her!

She had that damned dog in her arms and was quickly yanked back in the house by a woman.

Who is the other woman?

Through the rain I see the outline of a vehicle near the house; creeping closer I see government plates. Who?

The lights shut off in the house, and the blinds and curtains close. I ignore them, focused on the mystery vehicle. The silhouette of Britta’s rescuer flashes in my memory. Long, wavy, dark hair. Tall. Lean.

That FBI agent? The one who told me they found Clint’s truck?

Chills raise bumps on my skin.

Why is she here?

Did she follow me? Paranoia freezes my muscles. I’d believed I’d convinced the cops that I had nothing to do with Clint’s disappearance. Did they figure it out?

I snort. As if that is my greatest sin.

Lightning flashes and is soon followed by thunder.

I dart to the back of the house, seeking a way in. The back door is locked. I step back and fire at a window with my rifle. The crash of the glass is deeply satisfying, but the window is too high for access. Holding back my laughter, I fire again, imagining the terror that must be filling the women. I move around to the side of the home and choose a third window. At the third shot, a rush of power fills me. I’m making my own thunder and lightning.

I reload, craving more. Are they armed?

The house is still silent. No screams. No shots.

You were my brother.

I freeze as the voice fills my head. Clint’s voice. Noooo. Not now.

You killed me. I was trying to help you.

“Stop talking to me,” I whisper to the rain. “I had no choice.”

You had a choice.

“No. I had to. You were going to stop me. I needed him out of my head, and the only way was to finish his work.” My hands freeze on my rifle, and my knees weaken. I kneel in the mud, terrified I might fall. I wait, scanning the dark sky, but Clint’s voice is silent.