Jeff introduced him to the three negotiators, who were all eating thick sandwiches. They were calm-looking older men. Jim Sanchez, the negotiator he’d met last night, was the primary who would communicate directly with the subject—if they ever managed to make contact. The other two men would listen and take notes, ready to take over the primary role if the compound leader showed a dislike for the first negotiator. For a split second Truman was surprised there wasn’t a woman on the team, but then he realized that the militia leader would not be happy to speak with a woman.
“Time,” said one of them with his mouth full.
Agent Sanchez nodded and took a drink from a water bottle to wash down his sandwich. He pulled on a set of headphones and pushed a few buttons. “This is Jim Stapleton with the ATF,” he said calmly into his microphone. “Can someone answer the radio please?”
Truman raised a brow. Stapleton? ATF? Again, the FBI had prepared carefully, aware of Pete Hodges’s white supremacy views and hiding the fact that the FBI was heavily involved in this operation.
Every half hour for nearly the last twelve hours, they’d repeated the plea.
Did Hodges destroy the radio?
Truman wondered if they were wasting time.
“This is Commander Pete Hodges,” came a polite, low voice over the speaker. “What can I do for you?”
Everyone in the RV jerked to attention. The other two negotiators shoved their food aside and grabbed headsets. Jeff jumped to his feet from his perch on a countertop and quietly radioed for Ghattas to report to the RV. Truman froze, every nerve focused on the voice filling the command center from the speakers. He’d expected the agents to hear Hodges only through the headsets.
“Good afternoon, Commander,” Sanchez answered pleasantly. “We’d like to discuss the children who are living in your compound. It’s come to our attention that one of them was very ill when he arrived at the hospital recently.”
“Why is the ATF involved in personal matters?” The tone was still polite.
“Medical professionals are required to report when they feel a child’s health is in danger. After interviewing the boy and his father, we’re concerned for the health and safety of the other children.”
“That doesn’t answer my question about the ATF.”
Truman tensed.
“You’re right,” Sanchez said smoothly. “The local authorities were concerned about being able to reach you. As you know by the radio in your hand, we have the equipment necessary to conduct a conversation and keep a respectful distance.”
“I don’t believe for a second that the ATF is only here because they have access to radios.”
“That is correct,” said Sanchez. “We were already looking into a few reports of illegal weapons being sold in the area. But the safety of children will always take priority over a few sales.”
“Have a good day, Agent Stapleton.”
“Commander Hodges?”
Silence.
“Commander Hodges?”
Truman held his breath.
Agent Sanchez removed his headphones. “I’d say that was a successful first contact.” The other negotiators nodded enthusiastically. The three of them put their heads together and started an intense discussion about the content of the call.
Truman looked to Jeff. “That was a success?”
“He didn’t threaten anyone, and he was polite. Baby steps.”
“He also didn’t mention the FBI or Mercy,” Truman pointed out.
“Another good thing. We want him to believe only the ATF is here. If he brings her up, we can inform him of an FBI presence.”
If he brings her up, does it mean she’s already dead?
Foreboding raced through his blood, making him struggle to hold still. This could take days.
Ghattas darted up the steps and into the RV, panting for breath. ATF agents Carleen Aguirre and Neal Gorman were directly behind him, concern on their faces.
“Call’s over,” Jeff informed them.
“Shit. How’d it go?” asked Ghattas.
“Very good,” Sanchez said over his shoulder. “We’ll continue to call every half hour.” He returned to his three-man huddle, peering at the notes of the other men.
“Pete Hodges didn’t mention the FBI,” Jeff told the three agents. “He wanted to know why the ATF was here. Sanchez emphasized concern for the children inside and casually mentioned the gun sales, then Hodges politely ended the communication.”
“Sounds like an excellent start.” Carleen nodded with enthusiasm.
Truman steamed, his chest swelling. Jeff did a double take at his face and excused the two of them, dragging Truman outside. He hauled him several yards away from the RV.
“You need to find some patience,” Jeff said, his face close, his grip on Truman’s upper arm. “I get it, Truman. I really do. But you’re going to get your ass sent home if you’re a distraction.” Jeff’s own concern for Mercy flashed before he packed it back in the box of emotions that every law enforcement officer tried to keep under lock and key.
Truman yanked his arm free but didn’t speak. If he voiced the clutter of rage and fear spinning in his brain, they’d banish him from the RV. He was lucky to have witnessed what he had; he wouldn’t get a second chance if he was a liability. “I know,” he said between clenched teeth as politely as he could.
“That call shows Hodges is curious,” Jeff told him. “He wants to know what is going on. He’ll want more information—there will be another call.”
Truman saw his logic.
Everything is taking too long.
“Go cool off. Tromp around in the woods for a bit and come back in a half hour. You shouldn’t be in the RV, but as long as they let me in, I’ll try to bring you with me.” Jeff pointed at him. “As long as you don’t do something stupid.”
“Thank you,” Truman muttered. He turned and blindly strode toward trees, the falling snow brushing across his face.
Truman wasn’t the only one pacing in the woods.
After a minute’s walk deep into the trees, he encountered an FBI agent pacing in snowy circles, stretching his arms behind his back and muttering a mantra. He wore the olive-and-black gear of the HRT members. Truman had watched the team’s men check their huge bags of equipment. Ballistic vests, helmets, neck covers, eye protection, cameras, grenades, flashbangs, custom-made weapons.
Each man seemed to have over sixty pounds of equipment to carry on his body. Maybe more.
The agent spotted him and halted, recognition showing in his eyes. He was of medium height and wiry, with close-cut sandy-blond hair. Truman didn’t remember his name—he’d been introduced to too many people.
The agent held out his hand as Truman approached. “Theo Cook. You’re the police chief.” Age lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. His face was well weathered. This wasn’t some fresh-faced gym rat rookie; he was an experienced agent.
Truman shook it. “Truman Daly. Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“You’re not. I’m just clearing my brain and sucking in a little of this amazingly crisp air. My team has spent hours poring over intel on the compound and running scenarios. We needed a short break before we dive back into it.”
“What if your team is needed for a different emergency before you’re done here?”
“There’s a second team back home. We’re always ready to go when called upon.”
Truman studied the man. He and Mercy had talked in the past about the HRT. No woman had ever qualified for the team; all had been unable to pass the brutal physical tests. He’d heard the members called modern-day warriors, trained to strike. They were fast, violent, and deadly.
“You’re staring,” Cook said, pinning Truman with his gaze.
“Sorry. I was wondering what your job is like.”
Cook shrugged and relaxed. “There is nothing else like it. Well—Delta or Team Six would disagree with that statement.”
Truman nodded. The Army and Navy Speci
al Missions Units were also elite professionals. “What’s your position?”
“I’m part of the assault team. Not a sniper.”
Cook would be on the front lines if they invaded the compound.
“Our snipers are currently doing recon,” Cook said. “We have three in positions around the compound. They’ve been feeding us intel since the middle of the night. Their scopes are good for more than lining up their shots.”
Truman froze. “Have they seen the FBI agent?”
“No. They’ve seen women, but none of them are Special Agent Kilpatrick.”
That wasn’t the answer Truman had wanted to hear.
“What else have they seen?”
Cook pressed his lips together, and Truman knew the agent regretted sharing as much information as he had.
“Never mind,” Truman told him. A craving for information about the compound was gnawing away at his gut, but he didn’t want to press the agent. It wasn’t his place.
But he wasn’t ready to let Cook go yet. “How do you handle it?” Truman asked, scrambling for a question that didn’t apply directly to the mission.
“Handle what?”
“You go directly into the hot zone for your job. It’s not a question of if you’ll be shot at, but when you’ll be shot at. How does fear not affect you?”
Understanding crossed Cook’s face. “Fear isn’t a bad thing. It can be good. I don’t experience a scared type of fear.” He hesitated, twisting his mouth as he tried to find the right words. “It’s a fear that gives me more respect for things. It keeps me on my toes.”
Truman was skeptical.
“The only person who should have fear is the guy on the other side of the wall when we come in.”
“You walk right into gunfire.” Truman knew he was repeating himself, but he still couldn’t comprehend the mind-set needed for Cook’s job.
“Sometimes. As long as it doesn’t hit me, I’m okay.” Cook was completely serious.
Jesus.
“We train,” Cook continued. “We know how to analyze a situation and go hard. You aren’t on this team if you can’t make a split-second decision under pressure. When all else has failed, our job is to be the professionals that get it done.”
Calm, cool, and collected. Gratitude and awe filled Truman. Cook was the type of person who could get Mercy out of the compound. “Thank you,” he told the agent, offering to shake his hand again. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Cook quirked a brow as he took the hand. “It’s my job,” he said simply. “But you’re welcome.” He gave a brief nod and walked off, again stretching his arms behind his back, working them in circles.
Truman knew Cook wasn’t unique. All the members of his team were just as driven and committed.
For the first time, Truman felt a glimmer of hope.
TWENTY-FIVE
The day dragged, and Truman struggled to stay patient.
He tried to make himself useful, moving equipment, bracing tent poles, and even washing dishes, while sticking as close to the negotiators’ RV as possible. The storm had picked up, a heavy white fall that made the base camp feel more isolated than ever. The snow set Truman on edge.
It was a ticking clock.
What if Ghattas decided the snow would grow too deep to continue the operation? Every half hour, the negotiators had attempted to reach the compound. And every half hour they had been ignored.
“Maybe he got rid of the radio,” Truman suggested to Jeff when he came out of the RV after the fourth failed call.
“They’re weighing that possibility, but they’re convinced he’s playing a waiting game, trying to keep the upper hand by showing that he’ll answer on his own time.”
A pissing contest.
Truman went back to his odd jobs around the base camp.
At four o’clock Jeff stepped out of the RV and signaled Truman, who had been talking with a small group from the FBI’s SWAT team. Truman excused himself, his eyes fixed on Jeff as he strode over, his skin vibrating with the unknown.
Good news? Bad news?
“Hodges answered,” Jeff said quietly as he led Truman into the RV. Inside were the same three negotiators, SSA Bill Ghattas, Agents Aguirre and Gorman, and the SWAT team leader. Agent Sanchez was writing rapidly on a yellow legal pad as he focused on Hodges’s words. The tension in the RV was palpable, but Agent Sanchez’s voice was calm as he replied to Hodges.
“I don’t understand your benefit from such a request,” Sanchez said into his headset mic.
Truman gave an inquiring glance at Jeff, who shrugged one shoulder. Ghattas caught Truman’s eye for a moment, and he knew the SSA wasn’t happy to have him listening, but he would let it slide for the moment.
“I need to hear from Jason himself that he’s being treated fairly,” Hodges’s voice came through the speakers.
“Jason?” Truman mouthed to Jeff.
“The sick boy’s father,” Jeff whispered back.
“I’m sure we can arrange a phone—” Sanchez began.
“No. Not a phone call,” said Hodges. “I need to see that he hasn’t been injured or isn’t being threatened. I don’t have any reason to trust the ATF.”
“And this will help establish that trust?” Sanchez asked into his mic while eyeing Ghattas.
Ghattas nodded.
“It will help,” said Hodges.
“I can make this happen. I can get Jason Trotter up here for you,” Sanchez answered. “But before I do, I’m going to ask something of you in return for the same reason. Trust. We need a two-way street here.”
“I’m listening.”
Truman recalled a negotiator’s guideline: make concessions, but always get something in return.
“I’d like you to let some of the children come out,” Sanchez said.
“I don’t think so. This is their home.”
“I understand. But maybe their parents are a bit worried now since the Trotter boy became so ill. If their parents want to leave with the children, they are free to go wherever they please. We will not detain them.”
Hodges was quiet for a long moment.
“We’re just looking out for these kids,” added Sanchez. “At the moment, you and I are simply having a talk. No one is in any trouble. Let’s keep it that way by making certain that the children have access to medical care.”
Another negotiator guideline: minimize the consequences.
“I’ll see what the parents think. Hodges out.”
Sanchez spun around in his chair with his hands up in the air. One of the other men slapped his palm. “Yes!”
Now that Truman understood what the negotiators were looking for from Hodges, he knew that call had been a solid step forward.
“He even signed off,” Agent Aguirre said. “All very civil so far.”
“But no mention of an FBI agent,” Truman reminded her, concerned that the team had forgotten one of its primary reasons for coming to the compound: to get Mercy out of a hostile situation.
“I’m thinking that no complaints about Agent Kilpatrick is good news,” said Ghattas.
Truman’s acid stomach didn’t agree with him; no one had heard from Mercy in five days.
Anything could have happened.
“I’ll send some agents to get Trotter out of the county jail and bring him up,” said Ghattas. “If Hodges wants to see one of his men, we can do that.”
“My men will transport Trotter to the meeting spot and provide backup at the gate. Out of sight of course,” said the SWAT leader, determination on his face. “We’ll figure out the logistics immediately.” He left the RV.
“Now,” said Ghattas as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What to do about the safety of our agent inside.”
“Her name is Mercy,” Truman stated. Beside him, he felt Jeff stiffen.
Ghattas exhaled and shot Truman an exhausted look. “Special Agent Kilpatrick,” he conceded. “We’ve received no indication of her status whatsoever from Hodges, and the HR
T snipers haven’t seen anyone of her description inside.”
“What have they seen?” Agent Gorman asked. The question had been on the tip of Truman’s tongue, but he’d held back; he’d already learned from Cook that it was considered none of his business.
“There is a guard rotation on the perimeter, and our men are trying to establish the pattern. They have eyes on the command center, the children’s cabin, and the mess hall. All the intel that was received from Agent O’Shea on the layout of the compound has been accurate.”
The RV went silent at the mention of the murdered agent’s name. Aguirre pressed her lips together, her eyes suddenly bright. Gorman set a comforting hand on her shoulder. Guilt flowed through Truman. He’d nearly forgotten about the man Ollie had discovered.
“So far,” Ghattas continued, “we haven’t seen any odd actions. People come and go from all the buildings. It appears to be business as usual.” He looked every person in the eye. “I expect to see that change now.”
An hour later Hodges told the negotiators he’d let all the children out after he saw that Jason Trotter wasn’t being mistreated. An agreement was reached that three government vehicles would park one hundred yards from the gate at 7:00 p.m. to transport the exiting children and their parents. Two FBI SWAT agents would accompany Trotter on foot within fifty feet of the gate. Once Hodges had spoken with Trotter, he would release the children and their parents.
The base camp had erupted with action. SWAT and HRT geared up. They would park out of sight two hundred yards from the gate but move closer on foot through the woods to observe and provide cover for the release of the children.
Truman watched the agents put on their body armor and helmets. The men were silent, their expressions showing deep focus. Their helmets were equipped with cameras, and all the agents had earpieces and microphones to stay in constant contact. The camera feeds from the snipers and the helmets would be monitored at the base camp, where other members of the teams would observe and relay information.
Truman and Eddie found a place with Aguirre and Gorman at the monitors in a second RV that had arrived that morning—the FBI’s command hub. This vehicle had a semi’s cab instead of looking like a traditional RV. Inside it was stocked with as much high tech as the negotiators’ SWAT RV, if not more. Truman stayed to the back of the group while watching, keeping his expression neutral, hiding that his heart felt as if he’d drunk ten shots of espresso.
A Merciful Promise Page 20