Once the children were out, new negotiations would begin to empty the compound of all residents. If Hodges failed to comply promptly, HRT would enter to find Mercy.
We’re one step closer to getting her out.
Truman still refused to consider the other possibility: Mercy was dead. He had decided to believe she would soon be out. Because if he paused or looked back, he might not find the strength to go on.
His inner fortitude grew weaker by the hour.
He had to keep looking forward.
He moved his gaze from monitor to monitor, primarily watching the three snipers’ scope transmissions, fascinated by the sight of people moving in the compound. His eyes ached as his brain attempted to turn each figure into Mercy. The sun had set, and the camp was displayed in shades of gray on the monitors. The snow was a constant dust falling across the screens, affecting the clarity of the images.
“I don’t like that this is happening after dark,” Ghattas murmured.
“We can see better than anyone inside,” said another agent. “We have the best equipment, and our men are used to working in the dark.”
One of the snipers’ scopes was trained on the gate, which was estimated to be three hundred yards from the center of the compound. It was a simple livestock gate made of horizontal steel bars, the type available at any farm equipment store. Two of Hodges’s men sat in a truck with several inches of snow piled on the hood and cab. For a very, very brief moment, Truman pitied them their freezing, dull guard duty. The snipers’ earlier reports had stated that both men were armed. Each with a rifle and a pistol.
Truman switched to the view that showed the Portland FBI’s SWAT agents escorting Jason Trotter to the gate. The agents wore full gear, carrying Colt M4 Carbines on their shoulders and 9mm Sigs on their thighs. Those were the weapons that Truman could see; he knew there were more. The men followed the long drive, breaking three paths in the snow. Trotter was cuffed and wore a ballistics vest under his coat along with a helmet.
Ghattas wasn’t taking any chances with his prisoner.
According to Jeff, Trotter had been reluctant to participate. He’d seemed content to sit in jail and hadn’t wanted to face Pete Hodges. “Trotter got caught,” Jeff had told Truman. “I suspect the boss isn’t happy. Trotter is scared to see him.”
“Shouldn’t have kidnapped his own kids,” Truman had answered.
Truman couldn’t see them, but he knew the area near the compound’s gate was crawling with HRT and more SWAT. Some of the monitor views were from their cameras, and their commanders occasionally voiced instructions. A few more agents were stationed to the southwest and southeast of the gate, watching the compound’s perimeter.
“There are eight children and several adults leaving the cabin area and moving in the direction of the gate,” one of the snipers announced. Every head in the RV swiveled toward that camera view.
Apprehension buzzed in the command unit. The air felt charged. Truman shifted his feet and crossed and uncrossed his arms, unable to stay motionless.
The view of the children was fuzzy, but it was clear two toddlers were being carried and several other kids held the hands of adults. Truman strained to make out the adults’ features. Judging by hair, most of them were women, but he wasn’t certain.
“Seven men have just left the command center,” spoke a different voice over the speaker. “Six are carrying rifles. The seventh man has a weapon at his hip.”
Ghattas leaned closer to the monitor. “That’s Hodges.” He tapped the man in the center of the group without a rifle. “I’m positive.” The men walked seven abreast; two of them held flashlights.
Truman had seen photos of Hodges and agreed with the agent. Hodges’s posture was ramrod straight, and he put out a natural air of command. Even in pictures.
The flashlights bobbed as the seven men made the long trek to the gate through the falling snow. The gate did not have an overhead light, and usually the guards made do with flashlights or lanterns. As the flashlights moved closer inside the compound, the guards flipped on the headlights of their truck and stepped out. The agents and Trotter had already reached their position fifty feet from the gate and stopped. The truck’s headlights shone directly on Trotter and his two escorts.
“Shit,” said Eddie under his breath. “I don’t like that at all.”
Truman didn’t either. The three men stood in a spotlight.
He checked the monitor that showed the group of children. They were still moving south but had more ground to cover to reach the gate.
“We’re in position,” said one of the escorting SWAT agents. “Fifty feet out. Can we ask them to move the headlights?”
“Go ahead,” said the SWAT commander.
“Can you point the headlights in a different direction?” one of the agents shouted to the two guards.
Now standing in front of the gate, the guards ignored the request as they waited for the two groups inside the compound to arrive.
Tension in the RV skyrocketed. “They’re sitting ducks,” said the SWAT commander.
“Hodges is still coming,” asserted Ghattas. “So are the children. The headlights aren’t good, but I believe they’re following through.”
“Does Hodges need six escorts?” muttered Agent Aguirre.
“Show of power,” answered Truman.
“All the adults with the children are women,” one of the snipers announced. “There are no men in the group. Six women. One appears to be very pregnant.”
Ghattas pressed his lips into a line. “The fathers won’t leave? Or Hodges won’t let the fathers leave?” he asked quietly of no one.
Truman suspected the second reason was accurate. Hodges had fewer than thirty men. There weren’t enough to spare. There were supposed to be eleven women in the camp, including Mercy. He guessed some had also not been allowed to leave.
Or did they choose not to leave?
“Keep the guards in your sights,” ordered the SWAT commander. Confirmations sounded over the speakers.
The group of children continued to approach as Hodges and his six men stopped on the inside of the gate. Truman leaned forward, staring at a grainy view of the women, his gaze locked on one of the women holding a toddler.
Mercy.
He elbowed Eddie. “Look at the woman on the left with the toddler.”
Eddie stiffened and laid a hand on Truman’s shoulder, his fingers digging into his flesh through his coat. “I can’t tell. Are you sure?”
“Height is right . . . walks the same.” Like an icy shower, relief shot through Truman from head to toe. He briefly closed his eyes and shuddered as stress exited his body.
Her cover was intact. She was coming out with the children.
It was almost over.
“I think Agent Kilpatrick is the female on the left holding a child,” Truman announced to the rest of the watchers.
At the front of the group, Jeff leaned closer to the grainy monitor, pulled his head back, squinted, leaned close again, and then nodded. “Glory fucking hallelujah,” he muttered. A pleased murmur sounded from the rest of the observers.
Hodges raised his hand, and his line of escorts stood at attention. They had removed their rifles from their shoulders but held them casually, pointed at the ground. They were a ragtag bunch. Some wore camouflage coats or pants, while others were in jeans. They varied in size from reed thin to one bearded man who was so heavy he had struggled to make the walk. Even with the poor video, Truman could see his chest heaving from the effort.
“Jason,” Hodges shouted across the metal. “Are you being treated appropriately?”
Trotter didn’t immediately answer, and one of his escorts shook his arm.
“Yes, Commander Hodges,” Trotter answered in a raised voice.
“Are you injured?” returned Hodges.
“No, sir.”
Hodges turned to the group of women and children waiting far to his left and waved for them to move forward. He said something
unintelligible to the two guards, and they dragged the gate open. The children’s group walked through.
Truman held his breath, his heart drumming fiercely, his gaze locked on one woman.
A few more feet.
“Jason,” shouted Hodges again. “Has the ATF violated any of your rights?” His six armed escorts remained at attention, their rifles in hand but still pointed at the ground, watching the eight children and six women continue toward the two SWAT escorts and Trotter.
“Continue to the vehicles and get inside,” one of the SWAT team told the group as they approached. “Move faster, please.” Some of the children started to run, and the women followed. The pregnant woman lagged behind, one hand supporting her belly.
“No, Commander Hodges. I’ve retained my right to stay silent.”
A shot shattered the night, and Jason Trotter jerked. His escorts dropped his arms and returned fire, running to the cover of the woods. Trotter collapsed where he’d stood.
The agents in the RV jumped to their feet, and Truman’s heart seized as shouts erupted around him. He shoved aside an agent who had abruptly blocked his view of the monitor that showed the children and women being hustled into the waiting vehicles.
Shouts and orders streamed through the speakers as Hodges and his six escorts scattered, firing toward the escaping agents. The covert HRT and SWAT members returned fire, the sounds of the constant shots drowning out the shouts. Hodges’s men continued to fire, spinning and shooting in every direction. Within seconds every compound member at the gate had crumpled into the snow.
The three vehicles of women and children barreled away from the scene, snow flying from their tires.
She’s safe.
Like a wave, the HRT and SWAT agents poured out of the forest. Moving in steady unison toward the open gate and motionless bodies on the ground.
It all went to hell.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
His gaze leaping from monitor to monitor, Truman saw the agents on the perimeter of the compound enter and methodically start clearing the buildings. Bodies were strewn about the gate, their blood spray appearing black on the snow. Sporadic gunshots cracked in the air as other residents inside the compound continued to fire at the invading agents.
Pain shot up Truman’s arm. Eddie’s fingers had dug into his bicep, his eyes wide behind his glasses, staring at the monitors. Truman unhinged his grip, and Eddie blinked in surprise.
On the screens the compound members inside finally dropped their weapons, their hands in the air. They moved to their knees and stomachs on command and were searched by pairs of agents.
Within ninety seconds, the agents had cleared all the buildings, started aiding injured compound members, and rounded up the uninjured who were secured in the mess hall.
“Outside,” Eddie told Truman, pushing him toward the RV door. “The vehicles with the kids will be back here any minute.”
How had I forgotten that?
He bolted out the door, jogging through the snow toward where the three SUVs would appear with their precious cargo, Eddie right behind him.
“Oh my God,” Eddie said as he caught up. “What the hell happened up there?”
“Who shot Trotter?” asked Truman. He was out of breath, and it wasn’t from the short jog.
“I couldn’t tell. Where are they?” Eddie looked impatiently down the road that wove through the trees in the dark. “What’s taking them so long?”
“Maybe they had to stop to administer medical care.” Truman’s throat constricted. Only a few children had been in the vehicles when the shooting started.
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 t
o 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.”
Her name is Mercy.
“No one here will verify that someone of her description was even in the compound,” the agent added.
“Did she not make it to the camp?” Truman suggested. “Did something happen before she arrived?” His head throbbed at the thought. If she hadn’t made it to America’s Preserve, where was she? Why hadn’t she called?
“Crap,” agreed Eddie.
Mercy’s identity was no longer a secret to protect from the compound members. Finding her was the priority.
A snow-covered agent appeared at the mess hall door, and Truman’s heart gave a wild kick at the concern on his face. “I need an ax,” he shouted, gasping for breath and stomping the snow from his boots. “Where can I find an ax? Or bolt cutters?”
“There’s axes in those,” said a younger militia member, jerking his head toward a row of rickety cabinets. All the doors hung open; the contents had been searched. Truman caught his breath at the rows of gas masks on the shelves.
A Merciful Promise Page 21
