What if he went after the girls?
Fear blossomed in her lungs. She turned to retrace her steps and search for a renegade path in the snow.
Fire shot through her right thigh, and the report of a gun filled her ears. Looking down, she saw a spray of red had stained the white snow. My blood? She took a step, her leg collapsed, and she fell on her stomach, the rifle flying out of her hands and sinking into the snow.
White-hot pain surged up her nerves and exploded in her brain. “Fuuuuuck!”
She scrambled to lift herself out of the snow, but everywhere she set her hands they sank deep, nearly burying her face. The pain flourished, expanding and multiplying. She gasped, inhaling suffocating mouthfuls of white fluff.
Managing to roll on her side, she stared at the blood seeping out of a hole in her leg. It’s not pulsing. No artery hit.
Gabriel shot me.
Anger radiated through her as she thrashed to look in every direction for her attacker.
I’m as vulnerable as a bird with a fucking broken wing.
She frantically lurched to her feet. Get to the barn. Unable to dig out her rifle, she drew her handgun. Her thigh was a hot, throbbing electric wire, and with every step she nearly blacked out.
The barn was out of the question.
She flung herself at the base of a gigantic pine, its trunk wide enough to stop a truck. Placing her back flat against the tree, she gripped her handgun in front of her, using the tree to support her stance. She erratically swung her weapon from the right to the left, searching for her shooter, ignoring her crooked trail of blood.
If I didn’t know it was mine, I’d think a dying deer had struggled through the snow.
Her vision started to tunnel and she grew light-headed. She blinked rapidly, refusing to give in.
“Hello, Mercy.” His voice came from a distance, but she heard every syllable.
Instant sweat coated her spine at Gabriel’s words. She pivoted in all directions, trying to pinpoint his location. He wasn’t to be seen.
“That’s a lot of blood.”
There he is. He stood thirty feet away, between her and the barn, his body behind a pine as wide as hers.
She lifted her pistol in his direction, trying to line up the sights, but the gun weighed fifty pounds and her arms shook with the effort. Her frozen fingers could barely move. I’ll never make a head shot.
He laughed, not even bothering to protect his head.
Furious, she fired six times, sending the bark of his tree flying through the air.
She slightly lowered her arms, the shots ringing in her ears.
“You missed.” This time he kept his head behind the tree.
“What do you want, Gabriel?” She tried to get behind her own tree, but her leg refused to cooperate, pain rocketing up and down her nerves. Her right knee tried to bend backward and she flailed, grabbing at the trunk, the impact knocking her pistol from her numb hand. It sank into the snow an easy five feet away.
It might as well have been a mile.
Twice I lost my weapon? This time it was her own fault.
A cold that wasn’t from the low temperature ached in her bones as she stared at the small hole in the snow where her weapon had sunk. If I lunge for it, I’ll be stuck.
If I do nothing . . .
At least he probably still believed she had the gun.
I still have a knife.
She settled for partially getting around the tree and sliding to a sitting position, her injured leg straight out in front of her, the other bent. She was still in Gabriel’s view, but now her side was toward him and she made a narrower target. She drew the knife and clenched it to her chest, swearing to never let go. The back of her head dug into the tree, and she wished she could disappear into its trunk. The chill of the snow seeped through her pants, and shivers racked her body. At least I wore my vest.
“I want the whoring witch. Tell Christian I’ll trade you for her.”
“Why Salome?”
“I tried to burn her out. That’s the only way to kill a witch, right?”
The crackle of the flames threatened to make her cry. “She’s not a witch.” Blood continued to flow from her leg, seeping into the snow beneath it. A red shadow lazily grew under the limb, expanding outward through the white. She unwrapped one frozen hand from the knife handle and put pressure on the hole. Blinding fireworks flashed in her eyes, and she fought not to faint.
“Her mother was one. She ruined our family.”
“I don’t think she did that by herself. It takes two, you know.” Her teeth chattered around the words.
“I’d been willing to let it go until I heard the judge was changing his will to leave all his money to her and her spawn.”
He calls his father “the judge”?
Movement off to the right, far behind Gabriel’s tree, caught her eye. Christian. Focusing on her friend took great effort and he blurred, vanishing and reappearing in her vision.
“Was it necessary to kill him?”
“He had to die before he made the changes legal. I need that money.”
“You killed your father for money,” Mercy uttered. “Such a good son.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
“He had it coming! He had no right to abandon his family!”
“And you had the right to kill him for it?”
Silence.
Christian had moved closer, his rifle ready. Farther to his right, Mercy spotted a flash of color between the trees that had to be Salome.
Christian’s angle on his brother must be poor. I know he could make the shot from that distance.
Or does he not want to shoot?
“You don’t want to hurt anyone else, Gabriel.” A point from her negotiating workshop popped into her head. “Don’t make the situation worse than it is. I’ll tell them you backed off when you could have killed me. That’s worth something.”
“Shut up, you lying bitch! I need to end this!”
Distract him. “Why the pattern on the bodies, Gabriel? What were you trying to say?”
“A suitable death for the abomination and her brainwashed lover. I wanted that whoring daughter to know her mother’s powers couldn’t stop me.”
“And Rob Murray?”
Gabriel gave a coarse laugh. “That idiot walked up behind me when I was getting rid of the knife in Christian’s garage. I don’t think he thought it was important, but he might have figured it out later. He didn’t matter.”
Mercy flinched at the ice in his voice. His brain was cracked, rotting with anger and hate. Was it from decades of verbal barrages from his mother? “What did Michael Brody see?” she asked.
“Who? Oh. The reporter.”
Do I hear regret in his voice?
“I agreed to meet him in the park for an interview. He’d said on the phone that he’d found something interesting he wanted to discuss.” His tone intensified. “I think he found out about the loans from the judge.”
“And you shot him for that?” He must believe Michael is dead.
Silence.
“Brody lived,” she said. “You didn’t kill him. I’m sure you can work out a deal—”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I fucking study the law! They’ll hang me.” An element of hopelessness entered his voice. “I won’t go to prison.”
“It’s not too late—”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”
“They’ll go easier on you for not kill—” She lost her words as he stepped out from behind his tree, fully facing her, his gun at his side, barrel down, bleak acceptance in his gaze.
He wants me to shoot him.
I have no weapon.
She froze, unable to speak or move. Every coherent thought flew out of her brain as they locked eyes. She waited.
Gabriel stared at her for a long moment, and then his eyes lit up. “Where’s your gun, Special Agent Kilpatrick?”
He raised his weapon.
Mercy couldn’t breathe.
/> THIRTY-NINE
Truman followed the tire tracks down Mercy’s winding lane. Two vehicles had traveled the road before him.
Smoke, gasoline, and burning rubber assaulted his nose, and he slowed, his fear and anxiety about what lay ahead spiking.
He rounded a curve and saw the open back hatch of Christian’s black Lexus. He halted. The crackle of flames filled his ears. A large red gas can lay on its side behind the SUV.
Where’s my shooter now?
He swung his leg over the ATV and pulled out his rifle, then carefully made his way to the vehicle. No driver. Debris was scattered, clearly emptied from an overturned duffel bag in the snow. Rob said Christian carried gas and emergency supplies in all his vehicles. Protein bars, MREs, duct tape, a tarp. Truman spotted a large plastic bag with the remains of a liquid inside. He picked it up and sniffed. Gas.
He could rig a large bomb with gas and a plastic bag.
Truman moved forward, leading with his weapon until a smoking Hummer came into view. That is what he blew up with the makeshift bomb. Past it, Mercy’s cabin burned. Flames and smoke pouring out of the windows, fire poking through the roof.
Dear Lord.
Is Mercy inside? Kaylie?
No one could survive in that inferno.
His grip tightened on his weapon as he fought back nausea, his head spinning.
On his side of the destroyed Hummer, he spotted a few glass canning jars, screw lids, and two more gasoline cans. Ripped strips of fabric serpentined in the breeze from the fire.
Molotov cocktails. He’d made enough as a teen to recognize the components.
Who bombed the cabin?
He wanted to yell and see if anyone was in the structure. Anyone in there is long dead.
Agony ripped through his brain, ordering him to give up. Not until I see she’s gone.
He scoured the area, and a spot of blue in the woods caught his eye. Truman darted off the drive and into the forest, jogging through the snow.
Gabriel Lake stood alone, wearing a blue coat, aiming a pistol at a tree.
It was Gabriel, not Christian.
Truman was close enough to see his delighted smile, but the unhinged look in Gabriel’s eye brought Truman to a halt, rattled by the animosity that was rolling off the man.
He’s evil.
A subtle movement on the ground made his heart speed up. Mercy was sitting below the tree.
She’s alive.
His knees shook in relief and he struggled to stay on his feet.
But then Mercy turned her face away from Gabriel, as if she couldn’t watch. Truman’s relief evaporated in shock as he realized that Gabriel was about to shoot her.
Why doesn’t she run?
She met Truman’s gaze and her eyes were a bottomless pit of regret.
She’s given up.
Time slowed as Truman raised his rifle, his entire world hanging by a thread.
I clench the knife Mercy gave me as I push through the snow, my gaze locked on her sitting at the base of the pine.
Christian hisses at me. “Stay back.” He has a rifle, and I’ve let him lead the way, but the sight of Mercy in the snow, her back to a tree and terror on her face, pushes me forward. The scents of burning boards and plastics interfere with my nose, but I’m not blind. A fading red shock is consuming her.
Gabriel’s back is to us, and he suddenly steps out from behind his tree.
Her time is up.
Gabriel raises his gun. Christian does the same.
I can’t trust that Christian will fire. I plant my feet and hurl the knife, a prayer on my lips that I won’t miss.
FORTY
Mercy saw part of Gabriel’s head disappear in a red haze, and the sound of gunshots bounced off the trees. She screamed as his body twisted and dropped to the ground, the gun still in his hand and his blood sprayed across the snow.
Mercy stared at the limp body, dimly aware of figures rushing at her from several angles. He’d fallen face-up, the handle of her knife sticking out of his chest.
Did I do that?
No. I gave that knife to Salome.
Gabriel had fired a shot before he fell. Am I hit again? She studied her chest and arms. No holes. A knife was still clutched in her grip.
Christian dropped to his knees beside her, and Salome was a split second behind him. “Are you okay?” they both shouted at her.
She pushed away their searching hands. They were touching her leg, pulling at her pants, and shaking her shoulders. But she ignored them, straining to see where Truman had been a brief moment before. Gabriel’s shot hadn’t hit her, but Truman had also been in his line of fire.
Truman?
“Mercy, can you hear me?” Christian grabbed her head and turned her face to him, cutting off her search for Truman.
She snarled, swinging her knife in his direction. He whipped his hands away, tumbling backward into the snow. “Where’s Truman?” she screamed as she flung her body to the right, not caring about the burning pain in her leg, fighting to see where Truman had been standing. “Where’s Truman?” she shrieked again.
“Right here.”
Suddenly he was with her, gathering her into his arms. Hyperventilating, she buried her face in his neck. He’s okay. The fragile hold she’d had on her emotions crumbled, and she sagged against him. More than anything she simply wanted to sleep with his arms around her. He pulled back and shook her. “Stay awake,” he commanded, his eyes deadly serious.
“Get pressure on that,” he ordered Christian. “Help me get my coat on her,” he told Salome. Everyone was silent as they frantically followed his directions.
Too silent.
“It’s bad,” she stated. Truman wouldn’t meet her gaze as he zipped her into his coat.
“You got him,” she whispered to Truman. “I thought he’d hit you.”
“I didn’t shoot him. Someone else shot first.”
Mercy swiveled to look at Christian, and her heart broke at the bleak expression on his face. He wouldn’t look up, focused on her leg. Salome met her gaze and laid a hand on Christian’s shoulder. “You had no choice,” she told him.
He was pale, and wet tracks covered his cheeks. He killed his brother. For me.
Mercy’s lungs wouldn’t work. “Christian . . .”
Christian gave her a sickly smile as he tightened the wrap on her thigh. “I guess I had it in me after all.”
“That’s not funny.” The weight of what he had done made Mercy’s brain want to shut down.
“He would have killed you,” Christian stated.
Salome nodded in agreement. “And he wouldn’t have stopped with just you.”
“You got him too,” Mercy told her, remembering the knife handle in Gabriel’s chest.
The woman shrugged. She would kill to protect her daughter.
Mercy abruptly jerked straight up. “The girls!” She dug for her radio, her fingers uncoordinated. I’m freezing. Lack of blood to keep me warm. The realization didn’t bother her. I’m not important. The girls and Truman are important.
Truman took the radio, and she was relieved to hear Kaylie’s voice as Truman told her to come back in.
Mercy closed her eyes. My people are safe. She was dimly aware of Truman shaking her again, ordering her to open her eyes, but she was too tired. I’m just going to nap for a little bit.
“Damn you, Mercy! Open your eyes!”
She smiled, her lids too heavy to cooperate.
It feels good to have people who care.
FORTY-ONE
One week later
One week out of surgery and Truman wanted to strangle Mercy. She was the worst patient ever. After two days she’d stopped her pain medication even though she still had pain in her leg. Now she wanted to drive up to her cabin. He had told Mercy he wouldn’t drive her, so she’d sworn she’d drive herself.
Driving was still out of the question, whether she was on painkillers or not.
After she scared the crap
out of him by passing out that day, Truman and Christian had loaded her into the back of the Lexus, and Truman had stayed in back next to her, unwilling to leave her side. Kaylie and Morrigan had cried on the drive, terrified Mercy would die, and with extreme calm Salome did her best to comfort them.
Truman had kept his fingers at her neck during the entire slow drive out of the forest. As long as there was a pulse under his fingertips, he promised himself he wouldn’t panic.
But damn, it’d gotten slower and slower.
They’d driven about ten miles when they’d spotted the responding county sheriff and ambulance. On Truman’s suggestion Christian had blocked the two-lane highway as the vehicles came toward them, worried they’d not stop.
The EMTs had immediately taken over, placing an IV and pumping who the hell knows what into her veins.
It was over. And he didn’t want to repeat it.
But she’d been asking to return to her cabin for the last three days. He’d refused. She was still weak, and he didn’t need the sight of her destroyed hopes and dreams breaking her down more.
But she was strong enough to annoy the hell out of him. Even Kaylie had been short with her aunt, ordering her to rest.
Mercy wasn’t one to sit still.
He’d given in and driven her to the cabin. A weeklong warm spell had melted nearly all the snow in the lower elevations, but the rough road that led past the Sabins’ cabin and hers was still covered with packed snow. The drive had been silent.
Now he watched as she stared in awe at the mess.
Her cabin had collapsed in on itself. An entire loss.
Blackened beams jutted out of the debris. The only recognizable parts were the fireplace and woodstove. The fireplace had stubbornly stood in place, refusing to submit to the flames. A few pines had been singed, but the snow and distance had kept them from fully burning and starting a forest fire. The smoky stench still hung in the clearing. It wasn’t the good wood smoke smell that everyone loves; it was a harsh, burned-chemical-and-plastic smell with an undertone of wood.
Truman shoved his hands in his pockets as Mercy stood four feet away, her back to him. He wanted to see her face, but he knew she needed a private moment. “I can’t even see a solar panel,” he heard her softly say. She took a few steps closer, and he followed. She kicked at some burned wood and watched carefully where she placed her feet on the scarred piles. She stopped in the middle of the mess and crouched next to a pile of ash and burned boards. Picking up a small piece of wood, she started to dig.
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