Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(60)

The two Russians.

And then there was the umbrella-wielding ass kicker.

He wanted her to go with him somewhere. He said he would explain things to her, the predicament she found herself in.

She wanted to know how he had come upon her. Had he been watching the house and seen her enter? Or seen her leave and followed?

That might be the likelier scenario, because she’d taken great care to ensure no one saw her going in.

Was he connected to the other two men? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

Then was he an adversary of theirs?

The Russians were clearly just muscle. The Asian seemed to be something more than that.

She put the bag of ice down, reached over, and plucked her shield off the nightstand.

She knew every facet of the embossed metal. After she’d been awarded it upon graduating from Quantico, she had held it all night, fingering it over and over, like she was reading Braille.

In some ways—no, maybe in the only way—the figure of Justitia represented all there was in the world to Pine. Justice. It wasn’t about the greater good. It was about what was right and wrong on an individual basis. Person by person. Because if you neglected the people, the idea of a greater good was a pipe dream created by those whose idea of the “greater good” almost always tended to favor themselves and people like them.

She crossed her arms over her chest. The shield in one, the Glock in the other.

Two critical components not only to her work, but also perhaps to her identity.

Without them, what was she?

The lost, bereaved little girl from Andersonville, Georgia?

She closed her eyes and, as she went to sleep, mouthed the same words she had for nearly thirty years: I will never forget you, Mercy. Never.





Chapter

32



IT WAS STILL STORMING outside when Pine awoke early that evening. She rolled over and let out a groan as soon as all the aches and pains hit her.

She shuffled into the bathroom and took a steaming hot shower, letting the water sink into her soreness. She toweled off, dressed, and walked out into the kitchen, where Blum was sitting with Pine’s laptop and a cup of coffee in front of her.

“Your face looks a lot better,” noted Blum.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“You want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“I’m good.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“I got it.”

Pine opened the fridge and grabbed some yogurt. She took a spoon from a drawer, sat down at the table, and started slowly spooning the yogurt into her mouth.

“That’s not a lot of nourishment,” said Blum.

“For someone who got kicked in the face with a sledgehammer made of flesh and bone, it’s just fine. I’m not up to chewing yet. Or hot beverages. The tea you gave me earlier did a number on the inside of my mouth.”

“Oh, right.”

Pine looked at the laptop screen. “Figured out the password?”

“Not even close. And without Bureau resources, how do we crack it?”

Pine set her yogurt and spoon down.

“Let’s put this into some context. I found the flash drive in a basketball. Along with an old football trophy. There were also some gym socks and a basketball jersey.” Pine paused and thought back. “On the jersey was printed ‘Catholic Church League.’”

“Catholic churches have basketball leagues?” said Blum.

“Apparently so.”

“What’s your friend’s Wi-Fi password?”

Pine said, “Semper Primus.” When Blum glanced at her, she explained, “Latin for ‘Always First.’ It’s the Army motto.”

Blum went online and typed in a search for Catholic churches near Priest’s home.

“There’s the Basilica of St. Mary Catholic Church in Old Town Alexandria. It’s only a short walk from Priest’s house.”

Pine rose and grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To church.”

“You want company?”

“No. You better stay here.”

“Since you’re going to a place of worship, I’ll say a prayer for you.”

“Can’t hurt,” said Pine over her shoulder.

*



The Basilica of St. Mary was the oldest Catholic church in Virginia. It was located on South Royal Street and its gray stone facade was gothic in appearance. Its stark front was softened somewhat by four sets of wooden double doors with brass kickplates.

The rain had slackened when Pine pulled to a stop across the street and looked around. There were a few people on the sidewalks, and a truck slowly drove down the street before its taillights disappeared into the darkness.

The sign in front of the church said it had been established in 1795. A white statue of the eponymous Mary was set in a niche of the building’s facade high above the main front door.

Pine got out and walked across the street. She made a searching look all around and then headed up the steps.

The door was fortunately unlocked. She stepped inside and shut it behind her.

She moved through another set of doors and found herself in the worship area proper.

The stained glass windows were immense and colorful. As she looked toward the front of the church she saw Jesus hanging on a cross, which was mounted to the wall behind the marble-floored altar. There were two sets of wooden pews set on either side of the broad nave.