“We’ve searched the ATF and FBI in the Pacific Northwest. You tick every box—not just in looks. You’re conveniently close, you know this state, and from what I’ve read, you know the surrounding culture. Our undercover agent has convinced the leader that his girlfriend will be an asset to America’s Preserve. Reportedly Jessica Polk—that’d be you—has medical experience.”
“I don’t have med—”
“Says the woman who kept me from bleeding out from a gunshot wound four months ago,” muttered Eddie. “You know how to handle medical emergencies. There’s no question. But why am I here?”
“You’ll be taking over Mercy’s caseload while she’s gone,” Jeff answered.
Eddie groaned as Mercy replied, “If I go.”
Neal slid a photo across the table. Mercy looked at it but didn’t pick it up. It showed a green-eyed, dark-haired woman in a polo shirt with the ATF logo on the chest.
Eddie had no qualms about picking up the picture. “The two of you could be related, Mercy. Actually, she looks a lot like your sister Rose, but yeah, they have a good match here.” He crinkled his nose as he looked from the photo to her and back again, his gaze curious behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
More uncomfortable scrutiny.
“We need someone tomorrow,” emphasized Carleen. “We worked for months to get our agent inside. The leader of the group doesn’t let his people out in public often, but our agent has permission to pick you up at the bus station.”
“Tomorrow.” Mercy sucked in a steadying breath. “I don’t have time to prepare. I’d make a mistake . . . I’d say something wrong.”
“We’ll work with you. The agents’ histories have been carefully created and vetted.” Carleen shifted forward in her chair, a hint of desperation in her tone. “We’ve spent a lot of time, effort, and money to get two agents into this camp. Chad—that’s the undercover name of our agent—says the leader, Pete Hodges, won’t let any more men join right now, but women are a different story. We might not get another chance.”
“Of course he lets in women,” said Mercy, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “With a big group of men, you need cooks, cleaners, and someone to keep your bed warm. I know how he thinks.” During the militia incident last winter, a sexual hunger had frequently burned in a few of the men’s eyes when they’d looked at her. If the situation had escalated, none of them would have cared about consent.
She shuddered.
“This sounds volatile.” Eddie planted his forearms on the table and glared at Jeff. “Why on earth would you even consider this?”
“You don’t know all the facts,” Jeff answered quietly.
“Then tell me,” Mercy stated. “Because I’m about to return to my desk.”
The two ATF agents and Jeff exchanged a glance.
Mercy started to stand.
“Wait!” Carleen asked, holding up a hand and rising from her own chair. “Give me a moment.” She leaned close to Neal, and they shared rapid, quiet words.
“You don’t have to do it,” Eddie said in a low voice to Mercy. “It’s just a favor for the ATF—a dangerous favor, it sounds like. Don’t let them pressure you.”
She glanced at the whispering couple across the table. “Does it feel like they’re desperate?” Both agents had appeared cool and calm, but an air of urgency simmered around them.
“I’m getting that vibe,” he said softly. “This must be bigger than they’re letting on. It’s not illegal for private parties to sell guns.”
“Okay.” Carleen cleared her throat, and her dark eyes focused again on Mercy. “You deserve to know what you’re walking into.”
“Damn right,” muttered Eddie.
Mercy ignored him, trying to read the body language of the ATF agents. It was impossible; both held perfectly still, their faces expressionless.
They’re trying too hard.
It’s big.
“We followed a buyer. A local guy. A small-time rancher. He bought a few guns from another undercover agent. Small stuff. Nothing to write home about. But he talked during the transactions, dropping a few references that we followed up on.” Carleen took a deep breath. “Now we’re looking for a big seller, and his lead has pointed to this group. We’re not positive who the big seller is—our assumption is it’s the gang’s leader, Pete Hodges, but that is not confirmed.”
“A big seller of what kind of weapons?” Mercy asked. Carleen’s story was still missing a few big pieces.
Carleen pressed her lips together. “We had a theft about eight months ago—”
“I heard about that,” Eddie interrupted. “Two of your agents died. A stockpile of weapons the police had removed from the streets in the Southwest got intercepted in transit with a big shoot-out in Nevada.” He looked at Mercy. “Some of the weapons collected are not legal in the US.”
Aha. Murdered agents and illegal guns.
“The guns were probably back on the streets within days,” Eddie continued.
Every agent’s nightmare. Mercy tilted her head, watching Carleen.
“We think most of the guns, including the illegal ones, ended up with this group, and possibly America’s Preserve was behind the attack.”
“And behind the deaths of your agents,” Mercy supplied as pain flashed in Carleen’s eyes. “Tell me about Pete Hodges.”
“He’s been on our radar for a while. He emerged back east several years ago when he was associated with a militia group out of Pennsylvania. He split from them after publicly arguing with their leader.”
“What was the problem?” Eddie asked.
“The militia group had decided to stand up for and protect all free speech—not just the free speech they agreed with.”
“As they should,” Mercy pointed out.
“Well, their idea of protecting free speech was to send their armed, fatigue-wearing members into the center of pro-immigration rallies to stand between neo-Nazi protesters and the organizers to protect both sides’ rights to speak.”
“They were acting as police,” Eddie said. “Good intentions, but that’s not how it’s done.”
“Correct, and Pete Hodges didn’t like this First Amendment stance one bit,” Carleen continued. “He’s quoted as saying, ‘You either fight fascism or you enable it.’ He said there is no neutral peacekeeping. This didn’t sit well with the leadership of the group, and Pete left. Before that he was associated with the Three Percenters.”
Eddie raised a questioning brow at Mercy.
Since she’d worked domestic terrorism for years, the group’s name was familiar. “The Three Percenters have strong opposition to gun control laws. All of the laws,” she emphasized. “They’re very vocal.”
“Yes,” said Carleen. “Pete Hodges refers to the ATF as out-of-control gun cops.”
“So it’s not surprising that he would have stolen an ATF stockpile of weapons,” said Mercy.
“Illegal arms, remote antigovernment group.” Eddie lowered his voice as he looked at Carleen. “You don’t want another Ruby Ridge incident.”
Desperation flashed on Neal’s face. “Why does everyone bring up—”
“No one wants another tragedy like Ruby Ridge,” Mercy answered quickly, attempting to check Neal’s response. Three people—including a child—had died in the eleven-day rural siege that had grabbed the attention of the nation decades ago. “That was one family with one minor weapons purchase. The similarities between this case and that one aren’t that close, but I understand why the memory pops up. The case will always be a shadow over the ATF and FBI. Both agencies learned to do better.” She met both Neal’s and Eddie’s gazes. Neal looked away, and Eddie grimaced. This wasn’t the time for an interagency argument.
“So now you see why we need more people inside,” Carleen went on. “We need to tread carefully because it is an unpredictable situation.” She paused. “Our agent told us he heard rumors of a big plan. Something targeting us.”
“Us?” asked Mercy.
“The ATF.”
Carleen met his gaze. “Something to cripple the agency. I know that’s vague, but all Chad could say was that explosives had been mentioned.”
The room went quiet.
“I know some of these types of groups feel the ATF treads on their constitutional rights by enforcing current gun laws,” Mercy said slowly. “Crippling your agency would make this faction heroes to certain populations.”
“But how could they actually affect the workings of the ATF?” muttered Eddie. “A cyberattack would probably be the most effective, but I assume that’s not their forte. Blowing something up would make the largest visible message—I’d guess that’s their goal. Something splashy.”
“We want our agents to be safe. That’s our main objective.” Carleen looked at Mercy. “We need to know what’s going on in that compound.” She pressed her lips together for a long second, and Mercy knew she didn’t want to say the next sentence. “You won’t be allowed to tell your family what you’re doing or where you are. We can’t risk an accidental leak.”
“Are you kidding me?” asked Eddie. He turned to Mercy, shaking his head, concern in his brown eyes. “Truman will never go for it. Not after what happened to you last winter with that militia.”
“I don’t need Truman’s permission,” Mercy said, but the thought of being completely out of contact made her light-headed. Truman was her rock; their wedding was in three months.
Carleen raised her chin and looked away from the FBI agents and out the window. “There are several children in the compound,” she said softly.
Shock filled the room.
“Aw, shit,” mumbled Eddie, slumping back in his chair.
Images flashed in Mercy’s mind. Weapons. Explosives. Children. Bitter, suspicious adults.
A recipe for tragedy.
Mercy’s doubts were shattered by a crushing mantle of responsibility. “I’ll do it.”
THREE
The rest of the day was a whirlwind. Mercy felt as if she were cramming a semester’s worth of information into five hours and the final was tomorrow. The FBI conference room table was now cluttered with files, notebooks, and photos. Mercy had read and reread each one.
A dry-erase pen in hand, Mercy stood at the whiteboard as Carleen drilled her on the history the ATF had created for Jessica Polk.
“Where did you get your associate’s degree in nursing?”
Easy one. “Big Bend Community College. Moses Lake, Washington. Where I grew up,” she added.
“Work history,” Carleen requested.
“Uh . . .” Mercy turned to the board and made a list to keep it straight in her mind. “Three different nursing homes in Moses Lake. Good Heart, A Place to Rest, and Sally’s Home.” She emphatically underlined the last, pleased she hadn’t mixed up the names this time. “I worked at each one for about two years. I left Sally’s Home about six months ago and have been waitressing at the Lake Diner ever since.”
“Parents’ names and professions.”
“Douglas Polk. Plumber. Susan Polk. Housewife, but she also worked at the Dollar Tree. Both passed away in a car accident ten years ago.” She raised a brow at Carleen. “Convenient.”
“Just keeping it simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple.”
“Your college mascot?”
Mercy stared at Carleen, her mind blank. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she said calmly, suddenly transforming into every instructor Mercy had disliked in college.
The Avengers. “Thor—I mean, Vikings for Big Bend.”
“High school mascot?
“Something with feathers.”
Carleen made a face. “Chiefs.”
“Chiefs,” Mercy repeated as she slumped into the chair by Carleen. “This is ridiculous.” She picked up a photo of her “boyfriend,” Chad Finn. “Chad and I met two years ago at a Kenny Chesney concert in Seattle,” she muttered. Carleen wouldn’t tell her Chad’s real name, and Mercy was not to tell him hers. The man in the photo was clean-shaven and wore an ATF polo.
He looked like a Verizon cell phone salesman.
His fake backstory included ranching and work as a mechanic. Carleen said that in real life, Chad was one of those guys who always had his head under the hood of a car. He’d repaired a truck at the group’s camp and impressed them, and now he was in charge of their fleet—which was about five vehicles.
Supposedly Chad had convinced Mercy—Jessica—to leave her miserable waitressing job in Moses Lake and come live with him and his like-minded friends at the compound for a new beginning.
Every woman’s dream.
“Chad knows there’s been a change in girlfriends, right?” Mercy asked as she tossed his photo back on the table.
“No. We don’t have a way to get ahold of him.”
Mercy spun her chair toward the agent. “What?”
“I told you there were no cell phones. The arrangements to bring in Chad’s girlfriend were made on a pay phone in town two weeks ago.”
“I have to instantly convince Chad that I’m her replacement? Possibly with other people watching?” Mercy leveled a stare at Carleen, stunned at the lack of communication. She felt unprepared and untethered, as if she were floating high above the earth without a landing site. “I look a little like your agent, but we’re still different. What if they’ve seen pictures of her?”
“Fake Jessica’s social media is being altered as we speak. They’re doing a little Photoshop to the few pictures of her online.”
Mercy sighed. “Any other big things you haven’t told me? What does your agent do if he’s in trouble?”
“There is a satellite phone hidden outside the compound. He knows where it is. It’s for emergencies only. If he is caught with it, they’ll probably kill him.”
Mercy said nothing, searching Carleen’s brown gaze. She spotted a flicker of the woman’s concern for her agent before it vanished. Carleen was fully aware of the danger and the unknowns.
“We considered sending in a backup battery with you for the satellite phone. It has one, but another can’t hurt.” She grimaced. “I was voted down. Too risky if you’re caught.”
Great. “How did Chad use a pay phone?”
“A perk of being the guy in charge of maintaining the vehicles. He drives into town occasionally.”
Neal entered the office with an ancient duffel over his shoulder. “I added a heavier coat,” he said as he dropped the bag on the floor. “It can get cold at that elevation at night.”
Mercy stared at the ugly bag. “What is that?”
“Your belongings,” he answered, his hands on his hips. “No fancy polycarbonate hard-sided suitcase when you’re roughing it.”
“Oh no you don’t. I pack my own stuff.” Mercy was instantly on the ground, digging through the duffel.
“We were very particular about what we chose for you,” Carleen said. “This has been worked out for weeks. Everything you need is in there.”
“No gloves, no poncho. Not even a first aid kit,” Mercy muttered as she scattered the belongings. “I’ll bring my own underwear, thank you very much,” she said, tossing used underwear into the wastebasket.
“They’re new,” Carleen clarified. “But they’ve been washed.”
“Still . . . I’ll wear my own shit.” She set aside three pairs of pants. “These aren’t my size. I’ll grab my own tonight.” She held up a sweatshirt, eyeing the proportions. “This works.”
“Don’t pack designer jeans,” Neal told her. “Jessica wouldn’t have the money for those. Pack old stuff. There’s little power out there, so that means no hairdryers or curling irons. And you can expect your belongings to be searched by members of the group—possibly a few times. Privacy won’t exist.”
“I know what to pack when roughing it,” Mercy stated. She wasn’t surprised by the prospect of multiple searches. Paranoia was rampant in that type of crowd, and it started with the leaders, trick
ling down to everyone else. “I need my own bags from my vehicle.”
Mercy was always prepared. She’d grown up the child of survivalist preppers and had never been able to shake the compulsion to plan for disaster. Any disaster. Fires, destruction of the nation’s electrical grids, attacks from foreign governments. Even attacks from her own.
Secreted in the Cascade mountain foothills, she had a cabin prepped and ready if she and her loved ones needed to hide. They could survive for years. Maybe decades.
“No. Everyone is allowed a single bag of belongings.”
“Then I’ll cram my contents into this.” Mercy looked up from the floor. “It’d be stupid to show up without appearing semiprepared.” An idea struck her. “My person has a medical background. She’d have some supplies on hand.” She spoke quickly before Carleen could disapprove. “I’ll let you examine what I choose to take with me, and you’ll see it’s not out of character.”
The ATF agents exchanged a glance. “We’ll take a look,” Carleen agreed.
Mercy tossed her key fob to Neal. “Black Tahoe. Second row. There’s a backpack and a medical kit in the back.” He spun and left without saying a word. Mercy continued to empty the duffel. “Jessica isn’t stupid,” she mumbled. “She grew up in the center of Washington State. She’d know how rough the weather and land can be. She’d be prepared for that.”
I don’t even see a Leatherman tool.
Carleen was silent as she watched Mercy root through the bag. Mercy kept the socks, the T-shirts, two sweaters, and a jacket. She approved of the bare-bones plastic bag with basic hair products, toothpaste, and toothbrush.
Neal reappeared with Mercy’s GOOD (Get Out of Dodge) bag and medical kit, both of which she always kept in her vehicle. She thanked him and proceeded to dissect the contents of the GOOD backpack, weighing what was most important. Neal opened the medical kit and inspected each item. He set most of the products to the side as she watched out of the corner of her eye, clamping her lips shut.
That was her equipment. Her lifelines. Her preparations. And he was artlessly dividing them up.
He might as well be slowly removing each of her fingers.
A Merciful Promise Page 2