“Mercy?” Truman held his breath.
“Mercy?” He looked at his screen. The call had been disconnected.
The shot and shattering glass had made the hair rise on his arms. But Mercy’s immediate silence made bile creep up his throat.
He made a quick call. The backup was still fifteen minutes out, and he told the operator to let the responding officers know that he was at the scene.
I can’t sit still that long.
Were we right about Ryan Moody?
Images of the Hartlage skulls and Clint Moody’s decaying body went through his mind.
“How long can Britta hold out?” he whispered. The worry had been evident in Mercy’s voice when she spoke of the woman’s wound. She needed medical help soon.
He slammed his good hand on his steering wheel. “Dammit!”
I can’t just sit here.
Another shot boomed through the darkness.
Active shooter. I need to move in. Broken arm or not.
“Fuck.” He pulled up his location on a map and switched to the satellite imagery. Loading the image took forever. He spotted the long driveway and the rooftop of Britta’s house. Mercy had said Ryan was at the back of the house. But is he still there? He memorized the surrounding area. Trees on one side of the house. Pastures and a dirt farm road on the other.
Truman turned his engine back on and his headlights off and moved down Britta’s driveway, squinting to see through the pounding rain. After a few hundred feet, he pulled to the side of the driveway and parked. No point in announcing my arrival and becoming a target.
Crap. Mercy is armed.
He paused, seeking a way to let her know he’d entered the scene but to also stay hidden from the shooter.
There wasn’t one.
All I can do is go in.
He slipped out of his truck and darted to the other side of the driveway. Essentially there was no cover except for the orchard on the far side of the house. He jogged along the wood fence lining the driveway, keeping low, his weapon in hand. He felt completely off balance with one arm in a splint. He’d ditched the sling early that day, hating the strap near his neck.
A one-armed cop was better than none.
He hoped.
Delight rolled through me as I saw Britta drop on the porch.
I got her!
She had that damned dog in her arms and was quickly yanked back in the house by a woman.
Who is the other woman?
Through the rain I see the outline of a vehicle near the house; creeping closer I see government plates. Who?
The lights shut off in the house, and the blinds and curtains close. I ignore them, focused on the mystery vehicle. The silhouette of Britta’s rescuer flashes in my memory. Long, wavy, dark hair. Tall. Lean.
That FBI agent? The one who told me they found Clint’s truck?
Chills raise bumps on my skin.
Why is she here?
Did she follow me? Paranoia freezes my muscles. I’d believed I’d convinced the cops that I had nothing to do with Clint’s disappearance. Did they figure it out?
I snort. As if that is my greatest sin.
Lightning flashes and is soon followed by thunder.
I dart to the back of the house, seeking a way in. The back door is locked. I step back and fire at a window with my rifle. The crash of the glass is deeply satisfying, but the window is too high for access. Holding back my laughter, I fire again, imagining the terror that must be filling the women. I move around to the side of the home and choose a third window. At the third shot, a rush of power fills me. I’m making my own thunder and lightning.
I reload, craving more. Are they armed?
The house is still silent. No screams. No shots.
You were my brother.
I freeze as the voice fills my head. Clint’s voice. Noooo. Not now.
You killed me. I was trying to help you.
“Stop talking to me,” I whisper to the rain. “I had no choice.”
You had a choice.
“No. I had to. You were going to stop me. I needed him out of my head, and the only way was to finish his work.” My hands freeze on my rifle, and my knees weaken. I kneel in the mud, terrified I might fall. I wait, scanning the dark sky, but Clint’s voice is silent.
Guilt floods me with pain and roars in my head, eviscerating my soul.
“NOOOOOOO!” I shriek. The rifle drops as I cover my ears, trying to get rid of the roar. I scream again.
I didn’t want to do it!
In my mind’s eye, I see my father screaming after he killed the Verbeeks. Is this roaring in my head what he heard?
Lightning illuminates the sky, and I see movement to my left by the fence.
A man.
I grab my rifle and drop to my belly, aiming into the darkness. I focus, clearing my head, waiting for another flash of lightning.
It doesn’t come.
Where is he?
If I shoot, I show him where I am.
Lightning answers my prayers. The man has traveled fifty feet along the fence, moving past the house. He is hunched over, hiding behind the fence.
I have no doubt he is hunting me.
I smile. I know this property like the back of my hand. I’ve studied it and walked it. Even in the dark, I can find my way.
Bring it on.
I get up and dart after him.
Did he see me?
Truman jogged along the outside of the fence, cursing the lightning, but also begging for more to light his path. He’d already stumbled three times, the third time catching himself with his left hand. Fire shot up his arm, and he bit his tongue against crying out. That was exactly the type of movement he wasn’t supposed to use his healing arm for.
He wanted Ryan to see him; he wanted Ryan to follow.
Anything to get him away from the house so that Mercy could get Britta out and leave.
I’ll have to fire at some point so she knows we’ve moved away from the house.
Apprehension filled him at the thought of shooting. He was shaky, still off balance, and his head had started to throb. I’m not recovered enough for this.
He’d probably have one opportunity. After that Ryan would know exactly where he was.
I have to make it count.
The shot had to either take Ryan down or be used as a last resort to signal Mercy.
Rushing water sounded behind him, growing louder and closer as he moved farther from the house. There hadn’t been water on the satellite image. But there’d been a dirt farm road.
Not a road. A dry riverbed.
“Who’s playing the hero?” came Ryan’s voice through the rain.
Truman turned toward the voice, straining to see him and trying to judge the distance. Twenty feet? Thirty?
“I know this land,” Ryan called out. “I don’t need light to find you.”
The large creek was now close on his right. Truman knew Ryan was on the other side of the wooden fence, which gave him a false sense of protection. A few horizontal rails made for lousy cover, but he stayed silent and crouched lower behind them as he stumbled, his legs shaking from the effort.
Now I’m the prey. Weakened prey.
The sensation of being hunted weighed heavily on his shoulders, making his stomach churn. The strength and focus needed to take an accurate shot at Ryan had dwindled unnervingly. It was no longer an option.
Keep leading him away from the house.
He mentally repeated the mantra, ignoring the pain in his arm and head. He needed to get the man as far away as possible. And try to cover his own ass.
Lightning flashed, and Truman dropped awkwardly to the ground, twisting to protect his arm.
He saw me.
The crack of Ryan’s gunshot was simultaneous with the thought.
Truman had landed on his right shoulder and now rolled to his back to get his weapon arm free.
His left leg dangled in open air. There was no ground beneath it, and he felt the dirt collapse under the left side of his back.
I’m falling.
Terror gripped him as he flung out his arms to catch himself. There was no foliage to grab.
Gravity pulled him over the edge and into the rushing water.
At the sound of Ryan’s primal male scream, Mercy crawled to the closest window and peeked out into the dark.
What happened to him?
Lightning revealed Ryan on his knees about fifty feet from the house, his hands over his ears. Suddenly he turned his head toward the fence that ran along the property.
Mercy caught her breath. She’d seen what had caught Ryan’s eye.
Truman was running along the other side of the fence.
She’d know him anywhere. The microscopic split second had been enough to tell her he’d not listened to her order to stay away.
He’s running away from the house. And Ryan just followed.
“That damned idiot.” Anger flushed her face. “He’s leading Ryan away.”
He’ll get himself killed.
She knew how weak Truman was. She also knew that it would be impossible for her to move Britta. The woman couldn’t walk, and Mercy couldn’t carry her. Truman’s heroic maneuvers would be for nothing.
Unless I get to Ryan first.
Mercy darted back to the bathroom and saw the faint light of the flashlight under the door. “It’s me.” She pushed the door open, grabbed the Glock she’d seen earlier, and knelt next to Britta. “Take this.” She pressed the weapon into Britta’s shaking hand. “I’m going outside.”
“No.” Her voice was almost inaudible.
“Truman’s out there. I won’t be alone.” Mercy ran a hand over Zara’s soft ears and then squeezed Britta’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Our backup should be here any moment. Don’t shoot any of them,” she joked half-heartedly.
“No,” Britta said again.
Mercy picked up the flashlight and checked Britta’s leg. Still slow seepage. How long can she last? “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to take the flashlight.” She leaned closer to Britta, holding her gaze. “I’ll get the bastard for you,” she said in a harsh voice, her throat swelling with emotion. Britta had been through hell. Multiple times. This was the chance to end it.
Britta blinked moist eyes and nodded.
Mercy turned off the flashlight and shoved it in her pocket. She closed the bathroom door behind her, drew her weapon, and wondered if she’d ever speak to Britta again.
No time for thoughts like that.
She went out the back door and headed in the direction she’d seen Truman go. She silently jogged through the rain, thankful she was dressed in her usual black to blend in with the dark. The ground was uneven, and she moved carefully, favoring her leg and wishing she could use the flashlight. Why’d I even bring it?
From her previous visit, she knew the fence kept going beyond the house. But she didn’t know how far. Or what else was out there. She heard the rush of the large creek and wondered if it was near to overflowing from the heavy rain. A new sound reached her ears, and she froze.
Is someone talking?
The voice was male and unfamiliar, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Mercy took careful, slow steps, her ears straining to hear more through the rain. The voice was definitely ahead of her, but she didn’t know how far. Her gun tight in both hands, she moved forward, rolling heel to toe, keeping her arms taut. She slowed her breathing, concentrating on the dark ahead.
Don’t shoot Truman.
She might only have a split second to decide whether to shoot.
Lightning.
The back of a person aiming a rifle appeared twenty feet directly in front of her. He fired as the light disappeared.
Mercy held her fire, knowing Ryan must have shot at Truman. Which meant Truman could be in her line of fire beyond Ryan.
A muffled gasp and then a splash reached her.
The heavens gave her another flash of light, and she saw Ryan peering over the fence rails, his rifle slung over his shoulder on its strap.
She whipped out her flashlight, clasped it against her weapon, and shone the spotlight on the person in front of her. “Federal officer! Raise your hands!”
Ryan’s hands slowly went up in the air. He tried to glance over his shoulder and winced at the beam from the flashlight.
“Don’t move!” she ordered.
He froze.
Where’s Truman?
“I didn’t do anything,” Ryan called to her.
She wanted to laugh. “We found your brother today.”
His immediate shudder pleased something deep inside her.
“We also found a binder devoted to Britta and her family. I assume that belonged to you?”
No answer.
“Grady Baldwin didn’t kill those families years ago, did he?” she asked. “Did you help your father with those tasks?”
“No!” he shot back. “I had nothing to do with him.”
“Put your left hand on your head.” He obeyed, and Mercy mentally ran through the best steps to safely get the rifle away from him. The sounds of faint sirens reached her.
Finally.
“With one finger of your right hand, I want you to slowly lift the strap of the rifle off your shoulder and bring it all the way out to your right.”
She took a few steps closer, concentrating on his movements. “Slower!” He finally dangled the rifle with his outstretched hand. “Slowly lower it until it touches the ground, then drop the strap.”
Again he obeyed.
“Right hand on your head, lace your fingers. Take four big steps to your left and then two backward toward me.”
When he was far enough away from the rifle she exhaled. “You killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. Why?”
He muttered something.
“Kneel. Keep your hands on your head. And I didn’t hear what you said.” She stepped closer, her weapon and flashlight still trained on his back.
“I needed him out of my head!” he exclaimed after he was on his knees. “I needed him to stop talking to me!”
“Who?”
“My father! His work needed to be finished!”
Britta. He means Britta needed to be finished.
“I’m pretty sure the death of those two families had nothing to do with your father. And I bet your brother’s murder didn’t either.”
He lowered his head. “It kept his voice quiet for a while,” he said in a softer tone.
“On your stomach,” she ordered.
“It’s wet.”
“Lie down!”
He moved one hand to the dirt for balance and slowly started to lower his body into the mud. The sirens drew closer.
“Where’s Truman?” she asked, impatient with Ryan’s turtle-speed movements.
“I don’t know. I think he went in the water.”
The roar of the wide creek intensified in Mercy’s ears. The water? Horror turned her hands to ice. Did Ryan’s shot hit him?
I’ve got to get down there.
Transferring her flashlight and gun to one hand, Mercy slipped cuffs out of her pocket.
At the clank of the metal cuffs, Ryan spun toward her on his knees, whipping a gun from his waistband.
Time slowed.
Ryan’s smug gaze met hers as he came around. He grinned, and she saw the muzzle of his weapon.
I didn’t search him.
Mercy fired until he toppled over.