by Karen Rose
It was high time to move on. Time to stop pining for what and who she couldn’t have.
Mercy tapped Abigail’s nose. “Now me. Pick a pair for me. I’ve worn the same style since college. I’m ready for something different.”
Still wearing the rhinestone frames, Liza turned away, needing to process the sudden swell of grief that had solidified in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She closed her eyes, telling herself that she’d get over Tom Hunter. She’d done it before.
Which was a lie. She’d never gotten over him. She’d simply found an . . . adequate replacement. The memory of Fritz had another wave of grief hitting harder than the last. She pressed the heel of her hand against her breastbone, trying to give herself room to draw a breath.
One breath. Then another.
I am not a nice person. A nice person wouldn’t have allowed Fritz to fall in love with her. A nice person wouldn’t have convinced herself that she loved him back.
A nice person wouldn’t have married him in front of his family.
But Tom had been with Tory at the time. Engaged. Taken forever.
Tory was gone now. So was Fritz.
Tom still grieved his lost love and had no room in his heart for anyone else.
Liza grieved Fritz, but mostly the fact that, while she’d loved him, it hadn’t been as he’d loved her. She could only hope that he hadn’t known the truth.
Time to move on. Mike, the nurse from the VA facility, was a nice guy, and they’d had a good time at dinner the night before. Hell, Tom had even liked him. Liza had felt guilty, though, the entire time. Like she was using Mike.
Because you are. Like you used Fritz. But she had to do something. Sitting around crying about Tom Hunter was not going to be her life. Maybe she needed a new hobby. Maybe another part-time job until she started nursing school. She’d planned this gap between her job and school, foolishly thinking she might take a vacation.
The idea of a vacation itself hadn’t been so foolish. That she’d daydreamed about taking it with Tom had been colossally stupid, and there was no way she was taking one alone. Not now.
So a new job it would be. She’d start looking tonight.
Opening her eyes, she lowered the hot pink frames so that her vision wasn’t obscured by the display lenses. She scanned the buildings across the street through the plate glass wall of windows, an act more habit than intentional. She’d learned the hard way to scan rooftops, searching for the enemy in Afghanistan.
But there was nothing up there. Just rooftops and a few pigeons. Nothing . . . nothing . . .
Something. She froze, recognizing the flash of light on a visceral, instinctive level. She’d seen it before.
A scope. Of a rifle. In her mind she heard the sharp crack of gunfire, the screams of the women and children in the marketplace. The shouts of the men. The bleating of the animals who knew something was wrong but didn’t know what. She smelled the blood.
And saw the lifeless eyes staring up at her from what was left of her husband’s face.
Go. Run. Those had been his last words, and they echoed in her memory.
Go. Run.
Abruptly she turned to the sisters, who were giggling over the pair of glasses Abigail had chosen for Mercy. Get them out of here. Without scaring Abigail.
“Abigail,” Liza said, hoping the tension in her voice wasn’t obvious to the seven-year-old, “we need to be going now. Do you need to go to the bathroom before we leave?”
Abigail blinked, then tilted her head, evaluating. “Yes, I do.”
Mercy’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t question. “Let’s find the bathroom, sweetheart.”
Liza followed them to the restroom at the rear of the optometrist’s office, keeping her body between the sisters and the glass door. When they were safely inside, Liza speed-walked to the front and opened the door.
“Agent Rodriguez. Top of that building, twelve o’clock. I saw a scope.”
Rodriguez gave her a disbelieving look. “You saw a scope?”
Liza met his gaze unflinchingly, keeping her tone level when she wanted to snarl. He was a good agent, she reminded herself. “Half my unit was killed by a rooftop sniper in Afghanistan. The rest of us got down in time because I saw the flash of a scope. I saw a flash. Just now.”
Agent Rodriguez turned to scan the roofline. “I don’t see—” He stopped abruptly. “Fuck,” he muttered, one hand going to his firearm, the other to his phone. “I’m calling it in.”
“You saw it?”
“I saw a person,” Rodriguez said grimly, dialing his phone. “Just a glimpse. Where are Miss Callahan and Abigail?”
“I sent them to the bathroom. It’s secure with no windows. Please bring the car to the back. I’ll escort them out through the rear door.”
Moving his body in front of the door, Agent Rodriguez gave her a nod. “I’ll get the car, you get the ladies.” Through the door she heard him giving their location to whoever he’d called.
Taking off the pink glasses she still wore, Liza quickly gathered the frames the sisters had chosen and took them to the counter, stepping far enough away that both she and the woman tending the store were out of the line of fire. “Can you make a note of these frames? You have the little girl’s prescription because she just saw the doctor. My friend and I will have our prescriptions faxed and we’ll call back with a credit card this afternoon. Something’s come up and we need to leave. We may need to have someone else pick them up for us.”
The woman behind the counter nodded uncertainly. “Is everything all right?”
Liza debated telling the woman the truth. If she didn’t and the woman got hurt . . . No more blood on my hands. “Can you take your lunch break in the back? Away from that glass door?”
The woman paled. “Yes. Of course.”
Liza tried to smile. “Thank you. And if you could make sure anyone else stays away from the door as well? Is the doctor still here?”
“No. He went to lunch. It’s just me right now.”
“Then take care of just you,” Liza said, making sure the words came out like a warm request and not a barked order. “My group needs to go out the back.”
The woman managed a nod. “Of course. I’ll walk you out, then take my break.”
Liza put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and guided her to the back. When she was standing outside the restroom, no longer in front of the window, she got out her phone and fired off a text to Tom.
With Mercy and Abigail at eye dr. Agent Rodriguez on duty. I saw flash of a scope on roof across street. Taking Mercy and Abigail to Soko’s. Rodriguez calling 4 backup. Advise.
She began to pace, wishing for her sidearm as she waited for Tom’s reply. It came ten seconds later. Send address of eye dr. On my way. Keep your head down.
There was a pause, then a final text from Tom. Be careful. Call me as soon as you’re back at Sokolovs’.
Liza finished texting him the address as the restroom door opened. “We’re going out the back,” she told the sisters with a smile that she hoped was carefree. “Let’s go, Shrimpkin.”
Abigail regarded her with her old-soul eyes. “He’s back, isn’t he? Brother DJ. He’s back.”
Yes, Liza thought, this child knows a lot more than anyone gives her credit for.
Mercy’s mouth fell open in surprise. They’d all taken great pains not to discuss DJ Belmont or any of the Eden founders in front of Abigail.
Liza took a moment to choose her words and decided to go with the truth rather than sugarcoating it. The child’s life could depend on her obedience, so she needed to understand at least some of the danger. “I don’t know, baby girl. I saw something outside. I could be wrong, but we’re not taking any chances, okay?”
“Go and chase him,” Abigail whispered fiercely.
It was almost a certainty that
DJ Belmont—or whoever Liza had seen on the roof—was already long gone. “Agent Rodriguez is calling for backup.”
Abigail’s eyes filled with tears. “But he’ll get away. He’ll come back.”
Liza let out a careful breath. “Maybe. Probably, even. But the FBI will not let him win, Abigail. I need you to believe that. For now, I really need you to get into Agent Rodriguez’s SUV and lie down on the floor with Mercy and me.”
Abigail swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mercy put a protective arm around Abigail’s shoulders. “It’ll be all right, honey.” Her voice shook and her eyes held fear, but her jaw was firmly set. “I promise.” She looked at Liza. “Thank you.”
Liza gave her a nod, then shepherded them out. “Let’s go.”
FOLSOM, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 11:30 A.M.
Fucking hell. DJ scrambled to put his rifle in the guitar case he’d modified to carry it. He fumbled the buckles on the case and pulled his gloves back on, cursing that his clumsy right hand couldn’t feel the trigger with them on.
So much for Mercy Callahan letting her guard down. He’d been made. He jogged down the stairs from the roof of the office building across the street from the eye doctor.
He’d had Mercy in his sights. In my goddamn sights. Not only Mercy, but the little girl who was with her. He could have dragged Abigail Terrill back to Pastor after taking Mercy out.
He could have. If he hadn’t been made. Goddammit.
He’d taken too long to set up his shot. Goddamn bum arm. His finger had been on the trigger when the woman with Mercy had turned and . . . somehow spotted him. She had to be a Fed. The guy waiting outside certainly was.
I should have taken him out first, but that would have alerted Mercy to run. Now I’m running away. Again.
Exiting the office building, he looked both ways before calmly walking to his truck. Stowing the guitar case on the passenger-side floorboard, he drove away with no one the wiser.
Things had been going so well. It hadn’t taken much work to figure out where Mercy was hiding out. Several news stories about her in the past month had been videotaped in front of a house in Granite Bay, owned by Karl and Irina Sokolov.
DJ had started at the Sokolovs’ house, parking far enough down the street that no one would give him a hard time. He hadn’t been worried about interference. The magnetic sign on his truck identifying him as a plumber allowed him to operate under the radar. He was largely ignored wherever he went.
He was glad he’d kept an extra magnetic sign and extra license plates in his backpack. It had saved him a trip to the house he used during his time away from Eden, which was where he kept his supplies. He always had an extra rifle in his quarters in Eden. Coleen had made sure that it had been securely packed when they’d moved to the caves, which was good, because he’d lost the one he’d used the month before when he’d taken out five Feds and Ephraim Burton.
Which meant his prints were now in a federal database. That sucked.
Which also meant he had to be ultra careful now about avoiding any law enforcement of any kind. He would have done so anyway, but now the stakes were higher. Because now Mercy and Gideon were trying to find Eden. If they succeeded before he got the millions, he’d have to go to ground. No Caribbean. No white-sand beaches.
To say that he was motivated to stay under the radar was putting it mildly.
He’d gotten lucky that morning when an SUV that screamed “FED” had driven by, coming from the direction of the Sokolovs’ house while he’d been waiting. He knew how to follow a vehicle without arousing suspicion. He’d had a very good teacher.
Roland Kowalski had taught him nearly everything he knew about the outside world, specifically everything about making easy money and not getting caught. Kowalski was going to be pissed off that DJ’s prints were now on file.
He was unlikely to fire him, though. I know too much. DJ had closely watched Kowalski’s rise within their gang, listening and learning. He’ll either kill me or deal me in from the periphery. Either way, DJ’s days of enjoying favored status within the gang were probably over.
He pulled into an alley and got out, changing the plumber’s sign for an electrician’s. Then he pointed his truck toward the interstate. He’d end up back at the Sokolovs’ sooner versus later, but not today. They’d be looking for him now.
He needed to regroup and take care of some other business.
He’d already set the expectation with Pastor that he wouldn’t be back for a week. He could afford to wait and watch. Mercy Callahan would have to lower her guard sooner or later, and next time he had her in his sights, she wouldn’t have bodyguards.
Because the next time he had her in his sights, he’d take the bodyguards out first. He’d gotten a good look at the man’s face. Unfortunately, he’d only gotten a quick look at the female bodyguard, but he thought he’d recognize her if he ever saw her again.
MIDTOWN SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 11:30 A.M.
Shit, shit, shit. Liza’s texts had Tom’s heart pounding. Thanks to her sharp eye, a disaster had been narrowly avoided.
A sniper on a rooftop. Aiming at Mercy Callahan.
And Liza. Because he knew his friend. She’d protect Mercy and Abigail, even if it meant putting her own life on the line.
He wasn’t sure who his heart was pounding harder for, Liza, Mercy, or Abigail.
Dammit, Liza, don’t get yourself shot before I can tell you I’m proud of you. Because Molina’s casual observation still weighed heavily on his mind. Don’t get yourself shot, period.
He checked the time and wanted to groan aloud. He and Ricki Croft were in Midtown, at the house Amos Terrill was helping to renovate. They were at least forty-five minutes from the eye doctor where Liza had taken Mercy and Abigail. The sniper was likely long gone already, but they could at least look at the scene.
That DJ Belmont had returned was Tom’s first assumption. The man was a skilled sniper. He was not to be underestimated.
Tom silently swore, wondering how to tell Amos that his child had been at the scene of a thwarted shooting. The man was going to freak out, and he’d be perfectly right to do so.
He looked up from his phone to see Croft showing Amos the photo array they’d made, including the picture Cameron Cook had provided of his missing, pregnant girlfriend.
“Yes,” Amos Terrill was saying with a brisk nod. His voice was raspy and hoarse, a lingering effect of the gunshot wound to his throat the month before. He leaned forward to tap the photo of Hayley. “That’s her in the bottom row, middle picture. Sister Magdalena.”
“You’re certain?” Croft asked him.
Amos pushed the laminated sheet of photos over the blueprints that covered the makeshift table to Croft, who’d led the interview. “One hundred percent, Agent Croft. It’s only been a month since I saw her. She was clearly unhappy to be in Eden. I worried for her. She wasn’t fitting in very well.”
Croft frowned at the photo. “Her name is Hayley Gibbs.”
Amos shrugged. “Not in Eden. Most in the community have biblical names. My parents named me Amos, so I was good to go when I got there. A few get to keep their old names, but that’s generally up to Pastor.”
“But why Magdalena?” Croft asked. “Wasn’t Mary Magdalene a fallen woman?”
“So is Hayley.” The caustic reply came from Rafe Sokolov, who was sitting next to Amos. Rafe had given Amos and Abigail an apartment in the house he owned in exchange for the help Amos was giving him on the renovations for his new place.
Tom liked Rafe, having felt an instant kinship with the man who’d also lost someone important to him to violence. That kind of loss changed a person. Made him open to . . . alternate means of ensuring justice was done, something Tom understood too well. It was one of the reasons he’d first gotten into hacking.
Information was power.
Croft’s brows rose. “Explain?”
“Hayley’s pregnant out of wedlock,” Rafe said. “They gave her the name of a prostitute to make sure everyone reminded her every time they said hello.”
“My first wife—Mercy’s mother,” Amos specified, “was named Selena, but I knew her as Rhoda. She told me much later that she’d been given that name on her first day in Eden because she hadn’t wanted to stay once she got there and found out the rules, especially those requiring women to be married. Rhoda was a servant in the early church. My Rhoda said that Eden’s elders wanted her to know her place.”
“I see,” Croft murmured.
Amos sighed. “There are quite a few people in Eden who are as desperate to escape as Hayley is. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You just did,” Croft said with a smile. “For now, you can help the most by staying safe.”
“And not interfering in your investigation,” Rafe added dryly.
Croft shot him a quick grin. “That too.”
One of the things Tom liked about working with Croft was that she genuinely cared about people. But the clock was ticking and he wanted to get to the building across the street from Abigail’s eye doctor.
He cleared his throat. “Agent Croft, something’s come up. If you’ve got everything you need, we should be going.”
Rafe’s brow immediately furrowed as he studied Tom’s face. He was a SacPD homicide detective on disability leave, and his instincts were still perfectly sharp. “Why? What’s wrong? Is it Mercy?”
Croft didn’t question Tom’s cue to leave. She rose from the table and gave both men her card. “Call me if you think of anything else. Agent Hunter? I’m ready when you are.”
Rafe lurched to his feet, his face now pale. “Tom?”
Tom hesitated, then shot Croft a look of apology. “She’s okay, Rafe,” he assured him. “She and Abigail are with Liza and Agent Rodriguez, on their way back to your parents’ house.”
“But something happened,” Amos said, his voice growing raspier. “Tell us.”
“I don’t know the details,” Tom said, which was mostly true. “When I do, I’ll let you know. For now, know that they’re all right. You can call Mercy if you need to make sure.”