by Jenna Kernan
Rylee’s fellow agent stood five inches taller and had clear brown skin with russet undertones. She wore her black hair close-cropped and an impenetrable expression.
The standoff stretched, tight as a stretched rope.
Finally, Wayne spoke. “It would be out of the question to allow two women into the men’s quarters.”
Rylee had elected to wear a DHS ball cap, in deference and as a reminder of who and what she was. No need to announce or explain to his followers. They likely already knew she was a federal agent. Whether that would attract or repel was an open question.
“We will start with the women’s quarters, then,” Rylee said and turned to go.
Wayne hurried around his desk. The man was thin with a fleshy face and neck that would make a tom turkey proud. His hair was sparse, but he had grown the back out and wore it braided in some aberration of the elves of Middle-earth. Unlike his followers’ drab attire, Wayne’s robes were white. The rest of his congregation wore the more practical brown, which was perfect for the thaw that turned the icy roads here into a muddy quagmire.
He managed to get ahead of them as they reached the lobby beside his office and before his church of death.
“You can’t go alone.”
“Federal officers,” drawled Agent Jackson. She waited as Wayne scowled and stared at his reflection in her glasses. Now his gray complexion had a healthy flush. The man was not used to being challenged. That much was clear.
“An escort, then.”
“If they can keep up,” said Jackson and headed outside.
Rylee was glad for the hiking boots that remained on despite the sucking mud.
Jackson swore as she lifted her pant leg to reveal a shoe and sock smeared with what Rylee hoped was only mud. There were farm animals wandering about.
Before they had reached the women’s quarters, a young female dashed up before them, arms raised to stop them.
Jackson had her hand on her sidearm. “You do not want to do that,” she warned.
“Sister Della is coming. She’s right there.” The woman’s wave had changed to a frantic combination of pointing and motioning.
Jackson kept her attention on the young woman and her hand on her weapon while Rylee glanced back the way they had come.
Striding toward them from the stables was a tiny stick of a woman who held her skirts high to avoid the mud. The result was a troubling view of her striped socks and rubber clogs below cadaverous knees. She moved quickly for one so small. Rylee judged her to be in her fifties from the heavily etched lines around her mouth and the fainter ones around her eyes. Unlike her pale legs, her face was ruddy and tanned as if she spent every minute of the day out of doors.
“That’s her. Sister Della is an elder,” said their obstructer. “She’ll take you in.”
The woman lifted a hand. “Sister Nicole, I am here. What is the trouble?”
“These two demand access to the women’s quarters,” said Sister Nicole.
“Demand? Not a pretty start. Ask, children. Just ask.” She reached beneath her robes.
“Stop,” said Jackson.
Della did and cast her a curious expression. Rylee cocked her head as she stared at familiar blue eyes and that nose... She recognized this woman but was certain they had never met. Had they?
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my keys, girl.”
“But slowly,” said Jackson, her weapon now out of the holster.
The woman’s face did not register fear so much as fury.
“You bring weapons into this holy sanctuary?” asked Sister Nicole.
“We are federal officers and we carry guns,” said Rylee.
Sister Nicole tugged at her brown garments, looking affronted. Sister Della lay a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.
“I’ll take them from here,” said Sister Della.
Sister Nicole opened her mouth as if to raise an objection and then acquiesced, nodding and lowering her gaze. She lifted that gaze to glare at the intruders before returning the way she had come.
Sister Della watched her, the smile on her face peaceful as a summer sky. Then she slowly withdrew the keys. “I’ll take you anywhere you wish.”
Jackson pointed at the women’s quarters and Sister Della led the way. Over the next hour, they wandered in and out of stables, gardens, residences and any outbuilding large enough to hold a shovel. Sister Della gradually lost the reclusive reserve and asked Rylee a few questions about herself and her beliefs.
“Are you enjoying your time here on the St. Lawrence?”
“Working, mostly.”
“Have you met our son, Axel Trace?” asked Sister Della.
“Our?” asked Jackson.
“Children belong to all of us,” she explained. “We were grieved when he joined the army and now, a sheriff, still using weapons to solve the world’s problems. What he never understood is that there is no saving the world. Only yourself—your soul must be clean, you see.”
“I have met him,” said Rylee.
“Have you? What does he look like?”
Clearly, Axel did not visit.
“Would you like to see a photo? I have one on my phone.”
“On a phone? Really?”
She looked mystified, as if she had never seen a mobile phone.
“How long have you been inside these walls, Sister?” asked Rylee, as she pulled up the photo she had taken of Axel and Morris Coopersmith on the bench outside the ice-cream stand her first night in town. She wasn’t sure why she had kept the shot instead of deleting it. Axel looked relaxed and had a gentle, sweet smile on his face as he sat with his head inclined toward Morris. Looking back, she realized that it was the first moment when she began to fall in love with Axel.
Sister Della moved in as Rylee stared at Axel’s kind, handsome face.
“Hockings? You all right?” Jackson asked.
Rylee shook her head and turned the phone, so the sister could see. Sister Della opened both hands and placed them on either side of the phone, cradling his image and Rylee’s hand.
“Oh, he’s so handsome. Looks just like his father,” said Sister Della.
Rylee glanced back at the image. She didn’t see the resemblance between Axel and Reverend Wayne. And she was certain that Axel would do anything to change his lineage.
Sister Della sighed and released Rylee’s phone, pressing both hands over her heart. “He looks well.”
“He’s a strong, capable man.” Despite your efforts, she thought.
“We’ve only had three leave us. All boys and all to the army. Can you comprehend? We are pacifists. Killing is against God’s law.”
“What about killing yourself?” asked Jackson.
“Do you refer to the Rising? That’s not killing, Lamb. That is responding to the call of our Lord.”
Della’s placid smile was disturbing. Rylee shifted uncomfortably in the austere quarters.
“Has the sheriff been helping you to find what you seek?” asked Della.
Rylee took a chance. “He is. We are looking for a person. Foreign national, likely Chinese.”
“Really? Here? I’ve seen no one like that.” Her face was troubled and Rylee sensed she did know something.
“Axel has been searching with us. It’s important to him.”
“What has he done, this Chinese person?”
“He’s a threat to national security,” said Jackson.
“National.” She laughed. “There are no nations. We are all one.” The sister turned to Rylee. “May I see that photo again?”
“I can make a copy for you.”
“Really? I’d like that. Though we are not supposed to have photos of—well, yes, but he’s not my old family, so perhaps... I’m not certain.” After this conversation with herself concluded
, she beamed at Rylee. “I’d like that.”
Dark clouds continued to build throughout the late afternoon. As the sun dipped, so did the air temperature.
“Are there any other buildings on the compound?” asked Jackson, now shivering from the cold and casting a glance skyward.
“None here.” Despite her small stature, Rylee thought she noticed the sister straightening, growing and setting her jaw.
“What is it?” asked Rylee.
“Have you been down to the river?”
“Yes. Do you mean here on your grounds?” Rylee was not looking to the north toward the St. Lawrence but to the west, where the St. Regis River glinted steel gray through the trees.
“That river is a dangerous waterway. We only use our boats in fair weather.”
“Boats?” said Jackson. “Here?”
“Yes, they are outside of the compound but belong to Father Wayne. Some of the male members of our congregation are lobstermen who use the boats daily to check their pots. One of the men at the boathouse could show you.”
“What do you use the boats for?” asked Rylee.
“I’m sure I don’t know. I’m in charge of the animals. And the women are not allowed near the boats.”
A few more questions and they discovered where the boats were located. Sister Della walked them back toward the church and sanctuary, where their car was parked.
“Right through there.” She pointed toward the open gate. “If you are quick, you might find your...man.”
Rylee didn’t like her impish smile, as if she were the only party privy to some joke.
“The road to the boathouse is on the north side of the outer wall, judging from the engine noise I hear.”
Sister Della offered a wave before she turned and walked toward the barn and the animals in her care.
“Why did she tell us that, about the boathouse?” asked Jackson.
Rylee shook her head, perplexed. She had been wondering exactly the same thing. But Sister Della had told them something else. She had told them to hurry.
“Boathouse?” asked Rylee.
“Oh, yeah,” said Jackson. “Calling in our position and destination,” she said, and with that done, they headed to their car and left the compound grounds, turning north to the dirt road that paralleled the high concrete block walls. The afternoon bled into evening, with the gray clouds making the twilight come early. The lights of some buildings beyond the wall and below their position came into view.
“That’s right on the river. How did we not see it?” asked Jackson.
“We saw it, but there is no affiliation between that business and this church. I’ve checked all their holdings. A marina is not among them.”
Jackson gripped the wheel over some kidney-jarring ruts and steered the sedan to the shoulder. “Wonder what else Reverend Wayne left off the list.”
“Lots of vehicles for this late in the season,” said Rylee.
She took out her binoculars. Below them lay a small inlet, cut from the river, with steep banks. On the concrete pad were several cars and trucks and beyond was a metal commercial garage or small warehouse that was likely the marina. Stacks of blue-and-green plastic crates, used to ship live shellfish, lined the docks before a crane. Below the jetty, bobbing in the water, three brightly colored lobster boats were tied.
“What do you see?”
“Looks like a quay with commercial fishing vessels, wharf, lobster traps and crates to ship seafood.” She lowered the binoculars. “We need a drone.”
“We need a warrant.” Jackson put the vehicle in reverse and glanced in the rearview mirror. The curse slipped past her lips. “We’ve got company.”
Chapter Eighteen
“How many?” asked Rylee as she pivoted in her seat. Behind her, she was blinded by the flashing, bouncing headlights.
“Too many!” said Jackson.
“Can’t go back.”
“What do you think they want?”
The answer came a moment later, when their rear windshield exploded. Rylee screamed as glass fell all about them, pelting the backs of their seats and flying between them, reaching the cup holders and console.
Jackson did not wait, but stepped on the accelerator, sending them jolting forward down the rough unpaved road to the quay. Their pursuers followed. The distinctive sound of bullets pinging off the rear fender sent Rylee ducking behind her headrest.
“Faster,” she yelled. Now more in control of herself, she had drawn her service weapon and removed her safety belt. Pivoting until she faced backward and stared out the shattered rear window at the trucks. The flash of headlights was enough for her to identify four pickups, much newer than the old battered models she had seen within the compound.
These might be from the order or someone else altogether.
A flash of gunfire told her which pickup truck was currently shooting at them. She returned fire and was gratified to see the trucks swerve off the twin ruts of a road and bounce into the wooded area to their right. The crash of metal colliding with the trunk of a tree made her flinch.
The rest came on like wolves pursuing the fleeing deer.
“Both dead ends,” said Jackson.
Rylee glanced ahead and saw that Jackson had to either veer to the left toward the concrete pad on which sat a commercial metal storage building or to the right and the opposite side of the canal, where the crane, traps and seafood shipping containers sat on a concrete slab above the three fishing boats moored to the jetty. Between the two and beyond both lay the black water of the channel.
“We can’t go back,” said Rylee. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned.”
“Right or left?” asked Jackson.
Both bad choices.
“Left,” said Rylee, choosing the metal building and the possibility of better cover.
Jackson turned the wheel, committing them to the side that held the commercial garage. As they approached, Rylee saw that the storage facility backed up to the canal on one side and the channel on the other. The building before them was a two-story structure made of sheet metal. On the front sat two bay doors, each large enough to drive a tractor trailer through, but both bay doors were closed. There were no windows that she could see, except in the side door that flanked the structure. Beside the building sat some sort of scaffolding.
“Aim for a garage door?” asked Jackson.
“Likely locked. Left side?”
“It’s too close to the river. We might go off into the water.”
“We need cover,” said Rylee.
“Going through the garage door?”
There was no way to tell if there’s a vehicle parked just beyond that door.
“Side door. Right side.”
Jackson’s elbows extended as she braced. Rylee could not see why but hugged the back of her seat as the car jolted, scraping the undercarriage. Rylee was thrown against her seat and then into the dashboard behind her. When she regained her position, it was to see the pickup trucks fanning out, surrounding them. The smooth ride marked their arrival on a concrete slab that held parking, the metal building and a scaffolding, she now saw, that held six boats at dry dock, parked one above the other and three across.
“Brace yourself,” called Jackson. Rylee had time to pivot in her seat as Jackson swerved, sending them careening in a half circle. Rylee lifted her gun arm, still gripping her pistol as she was tossed against her door. The impact jolted her service weapon from her hand.
They now faced their attackers. Jackson’s repositioning would allow their car doors to provide them with some cover as they escaped toward the garage’s side door.
Where was her gun?
A glance at Jackson showed blood oozed from her nose, running down her chin and disappearing into the navy blue wool of her coat’s lapel.
“We have to get inside.�
��
Jackson and Rylee threw open their doors simultaneously. Bullets ricocheted off the grill as Rylee ducked, her hand going to the floor mat. She flinched as her palm landed on something hard. Shifting, she recovered her pistol. Then Rylee exited through the door toward the back of the vehicle.
Jackson was already at the side door and using the butt of her pistol to smash the window glass. Dangerous, Rylee thought until she saw Jackson slip the safety back off.
Rylee reached her as she stretched her arm through the gap and released the door lock from the inside.
The two women slipped inside. Behind them, machine gun fire erupted, closer now, the bullets shrieking through the metal walls all about them.
“I can’t see a thing,” said Jackson.
Rylee returned her pistol to her hip holster and retrieved her cell phone, gratified to discover that it worked after the jolting exit.
She swiped on the flashlight app and the beam of light swept their surroundings, disappearing into the cavernous space. The shipping containers beside them were neatly stacked and now she realized they were not shipping containers, but the modern version of the clay pots once used to catch lobsters. The more efficient models were each spray-painted with the owner’s number. They rose from the floor to the ceiling.
“They’re coming!” Jackson pointed toward the bouncing beam of headlights darting through the open side door.
“We need backup.”
“Could we take cover under the dock?” asked Jackson as they backed, shoulder to shoulder, farther into the garage.
“There is no dock. It’s concrete and the seawall. Only way out of here is across the canal or back the way we came.”
“Trapped.”
That was it. A succinct one-word summary of their situation.
They were pinned and needed to survive long enough for backup to arrive.
Rylee used her phone to send a text with their situation. Then she hit her contacts list, using the mapping app that would send her location with her message. Finally, she added the names to the group text. First, Catherine Ohr and Sarah LeMaitre from Border Patrol. She swallowed back her doubt before adding the last name, selecting County Sheriff Axel Trace. She held her breath and pressed Send.
