Mercy (Atlee Pine #4)(89)

The next moment, the gates had been rammed and came down. And then several hells had broken loose. In the darkness the gunshots roared for hours. Explosions rocked the sky, flames and smoke and the screams of both terrified and dying people punctured the darkness as the chaos continued to play out.

Buckley, all of twelve years old, had grabbed a rifle and taken up his position in the barn’s hayloft. He had sighted through his scope and fired on the federal agents, hitting two but killing neither because he had aimed for their armored torsos and not their heads.

When it was all over, more than two dozen of the Faithful lay dead, and his father had suffered multiple gunshot wounds. They arrested the bleeding Buckley Sr., who was still clutching empty pistols in each of his hands. It was a heroic sight, Buckley thought, the leader fighting with everything he had right to the last.

Only three federal agents lay dead, a product of their superior training, weaponry, and body armor, and the Faithful’s inability to shoot straight. Buckley had always assumed that his father had killed all three. He was an excellent shot. Buckley had always felt shame that he had failed to kill a single one of them.

The Faithful had either been arrested or, in the case of the mothers and their children, dispersed around the country to begin new lives without the faith. Buckley and his siblings had been placed with family members who had never subscribed to the doctrine of their parents. The time with his parents had been the best of Buckley’s life. The time right after, the worst. When he had turned eighteen, Buckley had worked hard to scrape together enough money to bring his siblings to live with him. He had leased a house not too distant from here, and Buckley took it upon himself to raise them in a way that was reflective of their parents’ beliefs. But, to no avail. The moment his sisters had turned eighteen, they had fled, never to be seen again. His brothers had grown up to be petty and unsuccessful criminals, slaves to the booze and the drugs and the women who exploited them.

And then only Buckley had been left. Freed of his familial obligations, he had set out building his personal empire. He had done it with a single-minded focus that allowed him to outsmart even those smarter than himself because he simply wanted it more. He outworked everyone because he knew what it was like to lose everything. And that fear burned through him every minute of every day and powered him like a nuclear core did an aircraft carrier.

And now he was here. For something truly monumental. This had gone far beyond merely avenging his sad sack brother’s death. This was taking on the federal government and finally holding them to account for destroying his family.

An eye for an eye was a remnant of a savage culture, though it was espoused in pretty much every book of religion there was. But it fit his situation perfectly. What he would accomplish here would not change the world, he knew. But it would make the unjust death of his father and his way of life feel suitably avenged.

Buckley was dressed in jeans, a sweater, a tan hunter’s jacket, and Wellington boots, for the ground was muddy after recent rains. He walked the perimeter of the new fencing, nodding to the guards in the tower who were armed with AR-15s and watched the land out to the horizon for threats. The place was not thriving with hundreds of people as it had in the past. Other than himself and some select associates, the only other people here were Britt Spector and one other person. Perhaps, for his plan to work, the most critical person of all.

Buckley opened the door to one building that had a sign out front reading, simply, JAIL. Even among the Faithful you had those who needed to be punished, and this was where they had performed their penance. His father had been a stickler on that. Rule violators needed to be made examples of. That was one reason Buckley had rebuilt it, as just a symbol. However, he had never expected to actually use it.

But now, this building housed Carol Blum.





CHAPTER





61


SHE SAT ON A SMALL, HARD BED behind a set of steel bars. Her clothes had been replaced with old-fashioned black-and-white-striped prison scrubs that Buckley had bought and used to stock the jail. Back then his father had favored the striped prisoner uniforms. Wrongdoers needed to stand out and be made to look foolish. Zebra stripes fit the bill nicely.

She looked up at his approach. He could tell she was trying to put on a brave face, but right behind that fa?ade was stark fear. Buckley would be afraid, too. It was just in the nature of human beings facing the end of their lives to be fearful.

He stood on the other side of the bars and looked at her. She didn’t have a blindfold on. There was no need of one.

“Are you being well taken care of?” he asked.

“Are you serious?” she asked. “Or did you just come here to play mind games with me? If so, I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

“I’m sorry if my query offended you. And I believe you’re right. It was, under the circumstances, callous.” He sat down in a chair and crossed one leg over another. “So let’s get down to it. Tell me about the Pine sisters.”

“Why?”

“They’re fascinating. I’m curious.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what they’re like.”

“I just met Mercy,” said Blum.

“Still, whatever you can contribute.”

“I will tell you nothing that will cause harm to them.”