A Merciful Promise

by Elliot, Kendra

  What emergencies was this compound prepared for?

  The snowy agent grabbed two axes from a bottom shelf and dashed out the front door.

  Eddie and Truman exchanged a look and ran after him.

  They followed the man, running south across the snow. He caught up with five agents jogging in the same direction, most of them carrying flashlights. Truman recognized the large bulk of Ghattas in their midst. He and Eddie joined the tail end of the group.

  Something is up.

  Several minutes later they entered a large clearing. Ahead was the largest building Truman had seen on the compound. “That’s the new one that Agent O’Shea couldn’t get into, right?” he panted at Eddie.

  “I think so.”

  The men reached a side door. The agent with the axes handed one off and entered first. The rest filed in, their flashlights roaming over two parked vans and a wall with shelves and storage units.

  “That smell . . . ,” said one of them, covering his nose. The odor was coming from a storage unit.

  Truman recognized the odor of death. Dizziness swamped him.

  No.

  The agent swung the ax at the first storage unit’s padlock. The clang of metal on metal echoed in the large space. The padlock didn’t break. He swung again with the same results. Truman’s mind screaming in alarm, he shoved forward and grabbed the second ax from an agent waiting to take a turn at the door. Foreboding choked him.

  “Get back,” he ordered as he strode to the unit. The agent who had swung at the lock took one look at his face and leaped out of the way.

  Anger and fear fueled his swing. The lock split and scattered across the floor.

  Truman froze, the ax clenched in his grip as he faced the door.

  I can’t open it.

  A hand on his shoulder gently pulled him back. Agent Ghattas stepped past Truman and opened the door.

  Flashlights lit up the interior as a putrid wave of odor hit the group. On the floor a man lay facedown wearing only underwear. His back was a rotting mess.

  Not Mercy.

  Truman’s knees became water, relief and dread battling inside him.

  Where is she?

  “What happened to his back?” asked an agent.

  “I think he was whipped,” answered Ghattas. “Some of the interviews mentioned whipping as punishment, but no one has said these storage units are prison cells.”

  Units. Plural.

  Truman whirled back to the group. “Open the other doors,” he croaked.

  The next two rooms were empty.

  Truman stared at the padlock on the fourth door.

  I’d know if she was gone. I’d feel it.

  Right?

  But right now he felt nothing. Nothing but nausea.

  An agent swung, and the padlock on the last door flew off.

  Empty.

  A long exhalation escaped him. Eddie met his eyes, his relief reflecting Truman’s.

  Ghattas stepped into the last unit, his flashlight focused on the floor. He bent over, staring at something. Truman couldn’t stay back. He slipped through to the front of the group that had gathered at the fourth unit. On the concrete were dark-brown smears.

  “They were locking up their own people,” Ghattas spit out. “After they tortured them.”

  Truman’s gaze locked on the unit’s floor.

  Caught in the dried blood were several long, black, wavy hairs.

  The screams in his brain started again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The compound was a snowy landscape, buried under nearly a foot of white fluff. And it continued to fall as Truman wearily strode up the steps to the mess hall. The morning had brought much-needed light to the investigation, and the compound had been searched from top to bottom again. Truman had joined the team of agents who’d scoured the buildings in the daylight.

  No Mercy.

  But there had been a huge breakthrough. The women who had left with their children verified that Mercy had been in the compound. They claimed Noah Trotter would have died if Mercy hadn’t insisted he be taken to the hospital. One woman said she’d heard the men grumbling about her pushy ways, but no one had seen her since she was escorted to the command center after breakfast the day before yesterday.

  She’d gone in and never come out.

  Pete was dead. His interactions with Mercy forever silenced.

  Why did no one else admit she’d been in the compound?

  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.

  “I’m looking for my fiancée,” he said in a quiet, calm voice. And waited.

  Ghattas will have my head for revealing that.

  Confusion crossed the faces of the younger women, and each stole a glance at him. Vera stared into the distance.

  “We’re getting married in December.”

  Satisfaction flashed on Vera’s face, and fury flew up Truman’s spine.

  She knows what happened.

  He took a long breath, determined to not reveal any emotion.

  “We’ve determined that she was seen going into the command center the day before yesterday.” He paused, waiting for the two younger women to look at him. They did. “You knew her as Jessica. She was working undercover.”

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he hoped revealing Mercy’s cover wasn’t an enormous mistake. It was time. We weren’t getting results.

  Ghattas might disagree.

  Shock registered, and the two younger women looked at each other. Vera held fast, her attention focused beyond Truman.

  “Vera,” said the woman with brown hair. “Did you know Jessica was a spy?”

  She wouldn’t meet the two women’s gazes.

  “I’d say Vera was well aware of that fact,” answered Truman, studying the silent woman. Finally. We’re getting somewhere. “She didn’t share that secret with the two of you?”

  They emphatically shook their heads.

  “I wonder why the two of you weren’t told.”

  “Yesterday Pete ordered that no one was to ever mention Jessica again,” said the redhead. “We were to act as if she was never here.” She frowned, holding Truman’s gaze. “Did you know she was sleeping with Chad?”

  No wonder Pete left them in the dark.

  “The relationship was part of her cover,” he explained.

  “I can’t believe they expected her to have sex with someone,” the brunette said in disgust. She sent Truman a pitying look.

  Truman prayed for strength. “Where did she go from the command center?”

  “Last time I saw her was at breakfast two days ago,” said the redhead.

  “Same,” agreed the brunette. “I saw Pete speak with her during breakfast. Everything seemed fine. I didn’t see her go to the command center.”

  Vera’s eyes blazed as she finally met Truman’s gaze. “We deal with spies as necessary. Your little whore got what she had coming.”

  Truman was crouched before Vera in a flash. “Keep talking,” he ordered, trying to control the drumming in his chest. “Where is she?”

  “You FBI think you can tell us what to do.” She spit near his boots. He didn’t flinch, his gaze boring into her. “You’ll find her inside the new garage. Check door four.” She smirked.

  The storage unit with the dried blood.

  “That unit is empty,” Truman said with a calm he didn’t feel. “We found a beaten dead man in the first one. No one in the rest.”

  Vera’s brows came together. “Pete locked her up in there after he found out she was a spy.”

  His lungs stopped. She truly believed Mercy should be in that unit.

  But she’s not.

  The other two women were shaking their heads, desperation in their eyes. “We didn’t know about any storage unit,” said the brunette. “Pete told us Jessica left and not to mention her name again.”

  “Pete told me her name was Mercy,” Vera said, drawing the words out with a smug look on her face.

  A primal fire raged through Truman’s veins. He stayed motionless, staring at the bitch, his vision tunneling until her face was all he could see.

  Her cover was blown.

  “She’s in that unit,” Vera asserted. “Pete locked her up after he confronted her and then beat the crap out of her.”

  The fire inside him started to roar.

  “As I said,” Vera stated with a sneer. “We don’t like spies.”

  Where is she now?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Yesterday

  She would freeze to death.

  Mercy curled up in a ball on the icy concrete floor. Frigid air blew in under the back wall of the unit, so she huddled in a corner near the door, the least cold place she could find. She had no concept of time and didn’t know how long she’d been left alone. It could have been an hour; it could have been a day.

  She wanted sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. When she slept, she was no longer cold. She no longer ached.

  They say when you freeze to death, you simply fall asleep.

  She was okay with that.

  Truman would be there. If she couldn’t have him here, she’d settle for him there—where there was no cold. No pain in her gut. No throbbing in her knee. No dried blood in her nose and hair.

  Pete had added more blows as they dumped her, taking pleasure from each kick and punch after he’d attacked her in his office.

  She didn’t yell for help. There was no point. This was Pete’s domain, and these were his people. No one defied Pete.

  And she was the lesson for the people who did.

  No one outside the compound knew she was in trouble.

  Chad was dead; she was positive. There was no other way Pete could have discovered her name.

  Chad didn’t know my name.

  Then how?

  Nothing made sense.

  She touched her eyes to see if they were open. There was no adjusting of her vision in the sheer darkness of the tiny room. It was black. The absolute silence messed with her equilibrium. Or the imbalance was from the kicks to her head.

  Truman would hate this small space.

  Her fingers picked at the dried blood on her cheek, and it felt as if needles stabbed under her nails. Splinters had lodged under them as she sought to find a weakness in the storage room’s construction. She’d pulled them out the best she could with her teeth, but tiny ones still remained.

  The construction was strong.

  Images coursed through her thoughts. Kaylie. Her cabin. The mountains. Rose. Baby Henry. Her mother. Truman’s slow smile. Truman’s cat, Simon.

  She snorted and painfully grinned in the dark. Simon’s meow would be a welcome sound at the moment. She sucked in a shuddering breat
h.

  I won’t believe I’ve seen them for the last time.

  I can’t.

  Because if she did believe, it meant she’d given up.

  As long as she could breathe, she wouldn’t give up.

  She needed to be ready if someone opened the door. Fight. Scratch. Bite. Kick.

  Tears leaked. There wasn’t a body part that didn’t hurt, and simply shifting to a different position took her breath away.

  Sleep. I’ll feel better when I sleep.

  Drowsiness overtook her, and she sank into blessed nothingness.

  A clunking sound pulled her from sleep. She blinked hard, still unable to determine if her eyes were open.

  The storage unit door swung open, and faint light outlined the silhouette of a very large man.

  She coiled into herself.

  Fight.

  I can’t.

  “Can you get up?” rumbled a male voice.

  Beckett. She ducked her head tighter. No one hated her more than the quartermaster.

  “Come on. Get to your feet.”

  Hands slipped under her armpits and lifted. Her legs stiffly uncurled, and her gut wrenched with agony as she straightened her back. She inhaled sharply as tiny explosions of pain radiated up her spine. But she was standing.

  One foot was asleep, and she braced a hand on the wall, tentatively putting her weight on her throbbing knee. Beckett’s hands slid away, and he took a step back.

  She swayed a bit but stayed upright.

  I can do this.

  His face came into focus, and he glared at her, evaluating her from head to toe. “You’re up, but can you walk?”

  “Yes,” she croaked. She wasn’t going to fail in front of him.

  “Show me.” Skepticism rang in his voice.

  She held her breath and took a few steps, stopping in the doorway of the unit. He was alone.

  Kick to the groin.

  Wasn’t going to happen with her knee in pain.

  He bent over and picked up a mug. “Here,” he said gruffly, holding it out. “Water—wait.”

  He pulled a rag from his pocket and dipped it into the cup and then dabbed at the layers of blood under her nose. She saw stars.