by Karen Rose
He tilted his head to stare at the ceiling, his fingers kneading her arms, his touch still gentle. Finally, his gaze met hers again. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt, either.”
He frowned. “I won’t be.”
“You don’t know that. DJ tried to kill Gideon yesterday. When he finds out you’re on the case, he might go after you. Don’t tell me that I’m wrong.” She echoed his words deliberately and his small flinch told her that she’d hit her mark. “Tell me this, and be honest. If you had the skills, would you have volunteered for the position?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “But I can’t. Too many people know my face.”
It’s such a nice face. “But you would if you could.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me this. What training have you had that makes you so sure you wouldn’t be hurt if you were able to go undercover?”
“I went to the Academy. We were trained in—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he realized she’d set him up.
She smiled up at him sadly. “I went to boot camp. I’ve been trained as well. In addition to that, I’ve been in active war zones. That’s more experience than you have.”
He stared at her helplessly. “I want to shake some sense into your thick skull.”
“But you won’t,” she murmured.
He frowned. “What?”
“You won’t shake me. You won’t hurt me. Ever.”
His hands dropped immediately to his sides. “But I did hurt you.”
She missed his touch, just as immediately. “Not physically. And not on purpose. Because you are not your father, Tom Hunter, and you never will be.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. It appeared he had no argument left. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but I only speak the truth.” She paused a beat, then asked, “How did you know I’d gotten the job? If you thought I hadn’t told Raeburn, he didn’t tell you.”
“I have access to Sunnyside’s employee database. It’s how I knew there was an opening.”
“And how you identified Penny Gaynor as approachable.”
He nodded once. “I was filling in that hole that Pebbles dug under the fence when I got an alert on my phone that the database had been updated.”
That explained his dirty clothes. “And I’ve been added.”
“Yes. They’ve done extensive background checks on you. They’re still searching.”
She lifted a brow. “Did they find anything that connects to you?”
“No. I did a deep check of my own, just to be sure that I knew about anything that was out there that could compromise you. You have no social media presence and no property registered to you, so that helps a lot. You’re in the white pages, but there is no phone number or other mineable information. They have a copy of your military record. It’s a damn good record, Liza.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “That means a lot.”
“I’m proud of you. I just wanted you to know.” He cleared his throat. “When do you start?”
“Tuesday morning.” She hesitated, then asked, “Were you following me yesterday?”
He paled. “No. Did someone follow you?”
“Yes. I was driving Karl’s SUV. He keeps one at the apartment where I’m staying. I wasn’t driving my Mazda, so they can’t trace me to you.”
“You think that’s what I care about? Them tracing you to me? Really?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “No. But I thought you should know.”
His chuckle was bitter. “Oh, so now you’re telling me things I should know? Thank you so much.” He shook his head and squared his shoulders. “Text me your new address. I’m not planning to drop by. I promise. I’m going call my boss to get you protection there in addition to the protection we’re providing outside the Sunnyside gate.”
She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, but that would be wrong. It was necessary, if only to protect those she cared about. “All right.”
He hesitated a moment more. “Did I . . . did I push you into doing this?”
“No, Tom. You did not break my heart so thoroughly that I did the first cockamamie, self-harming thing that I thought of. I accepted this job because I thought I could help. Because I needed to help my friends. Not because you don’t love me.”
He flinched at her blunt words but then nodded. And then he was gone.
When Liza left the garage, Mercy was leaning against Rafe’s closed door, waiting for her. “You okay?” she asked quietly.
Liza managed to nod. “He was annoyed because Pebbles dug a hole under the fence and I forgot to tell him about it. He was worried that she’d gotten out.”
Mercy wasn’t buying it but had the grace to pretend that she was. Saying nothing, she held open her arms, and Liza took the hug. Took the comfort.
“It’ll be okay,” Mercy murmured into her hair. “Somebody told me so this morning, so I’m having faith that it’s true. You should, too.”
GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, MAY 27, 8:00 P.M.
Something was going on at the Sokolovs’ house. DJ was certain of it. He’d taken a break from his search for Kowalski when he’d noticed the SUVs driving back and forth. There were three different vehicles, none of which he’d been able to trace back to their owners. Each SUV had made at least two round trips, all spaced a few hours apart. The windows were so heavily tinted that DJ hadn’t been able to get a look at the driver or the passengers.
Seemed like Mercy’s team had upped their game. They were being a lot more careful. They had to know he was watching. Not from where he was watching, otherwise he’d have been surrounded by Feds already. But they knew he was watching.
Mercy could have been in one of the SUVs. She could be nearby, in the Sokolovs’ house, even now. So could Gideon. And Amos.
A well-placed explosive could take care of the entire house, but he wasn’t sure he could get close enough to plant a device, even if he could get his hands on one. Kowalski could, if he weren’t actively trying to kill him.
But DJ was getting closer to finding Kowalski’s family. Once he did, he’d put that on his list of conditions. He wanted Kowalski to back off from trying to kill him, first and foremost. But some weapons would also be good.
He frowned when one of the black SUVs passed by again, on its way to the Sokolovs’ house. Suddenly restless, he grabbed the keys to his truck, his rifle and his handgun, a new magnetic sign, and a new set of license plates. Tonight he’d be a septic service technician.
He’d left his truck parked up against Smythe’s privacy fence with signs for a landscaping company prominently displayed, but he wasn’t really worried about his truck being reported. In the three days that he’d been there, none of Smythe’s neighbors had come outside. The closest house had the lights come on at the same time every night, clearly on a timer.
It was hotter than hell and it was Memorial Day weekend. Maybe the rich folks went to the mountains where it was cooler. It was what DJ would do when he became rich.
Eyes on the prize, he thought as he lined up the edges of the new magnetic signs on each of the truck’s doors. The license plates were next, and within minutes he was pulling onto the deserted street. He’d drive to the entrance to the neighborhood and wait there.
If the SUVs stuck to their pattern, the one that had been on its way to the Sokolovs’ house would soon be heading out again. Sure enough, within five minutes, the SUV passed by on its way out of the neighborhood.
DJ waited until the SUV had turned toward the interstate before following, keeping a safe distance. From the height of the truck’s cab, he could see over ninety-five percent of the vehicles on the road. He put five cars between himself and the SUV, then settled into a steady pace in the right lane. DJ
made no move to get closer. It would only draw attention to him.
He followed for miles, hoping the SUV wasn’t going to take the exits into the city. It would be harder to follow them there. His wish was granted when the black vehicle exited onto I-5, toward the airport. DJ continued to follow, now directly behind the SUV, assuming the airport would be their final destination when the vehicle exited onto Airport Boulevard.
And then everything went to hell.
“Fuck,” he growled, his pulse shooting to the moon when a police cruiser came up on his left, lights flashing. He’d been made.
“Pull over,” came the command from the cruiser’s speaker.
“I don’t think so,” he muttered, glad that he had the truck. He swerved, forcing the cruiser off the road into the median. He then rammed into the back of the SUV in front of him, causing it to veer off the shoulder. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor, the truck accelerating so fast that it fishtailed, but he got it under control and thundered down the highway.
He made the most of his lead, knowing the cops wouldn’t give up. After a minute of the fastest driving he’d ever done, he slammed on the brakes and turned onto one of the roads that led to the river. There was no place to hide the truck, so he’d use it to buy more time. He parked the truck sideways so that it blocked the road, then grabbed his rifle out of its case and ran into the trees that lined the river.
Slipping the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he let it rest on his back as he slowed his pace, trying to find a tree that he could easily climb. His arm was so much better since he’d been resting in Smythe’s soft bed, but it still didn’t have a lot of strength.
He found a tree with low-hanging limbs that appeared strong enough to support his weight and, one-armed, hefted himself to the first limb. He didn’t need to climb high, just enough to be out of the cops’ sight when they came looking for him.
It didn’t take long. Within minutes, a pair of SacPD uniforms appeared, searching among the trees, shining their flashlights along the ground.
Surprise, he thought. Bracing his rifle on a tree limb, he got a line on the first cop’s head, then the second’s. Both were wearing vests over their uniforms, but neither wore a helmet. He pulled the trigger on the first, then the second.
They both dropped like bricks. Not wasting a minute, DJ swung down from the tree and raced to the first cop. He was bigger than DJ, but he’d do.
Removing the cop’s vest, DJ tugged his shirt off, buttons going everywhere. DJ slipped it over his own shirt, setting his rifle on the ground only long enough to pull the shirt into place and the vest over it. The pants he left on the body. He didn’t need them for what he had in mind.
The cop’s gun belt was next. It hung low on DJ’s leaner hips, but again, it would do for what he had in mind. The cop had dropped his handgun when he’d been hit. DJ scooped it up, grabbed his own rifle, and ran for the truck.
Sure enough, the cop car was parked behind it, lights still flashing. Engine still running.
Not stopping to think or second-guess himself, DJ got in the police cruiser and started toward the interstate. He saw his mark—a late-model Honda Civic—and fell into place behind the car.
The car pulled over to the shoulder like a good citizen. DJ approached the driver’s window, his own silenced gun drawn. He didn’t want to draw attention with more gunfire.
“Hands on the steering wheel!” he barked. But the young woman behind the wheel wasn’t obeying. She was holding her damn phone. Recording him.
For fuck’s sake.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she started. “I’m recording you for my own protection and I will be talking to your supervi—”
Reaching into the car, DJ grabbed her phone, dropped it to the asphalt, and shot it. The screen splintered. He kicked it under the tire.
“Ohmygod!” the woman screeched. “You can’t—”
DJ opened her door, pulled her out, and dragged her to the cruiser. He tossed her in the back seat and shot her in the head, then shot her a second time. Just to be sure. He took off the cop’s shirt and threw it over her face. The cop’s vest and gun belt he kept.
Then he got into her car and drove away. Drawing a breath, he exhaled, his pulse slowly returning to normal. “Not exactly what I’d planned,” he said aloud, “but it turned out okay.”
He’d acquired a new vehicle and he knew that the SUVs had been making runs to the airport. The Sokolovs were entertaining company—quite a lot of company, based on the number of times the SUVs had passed by his camera’s checkpoint.
One less SUV now, he thought, a laugh bubbling from his throat as he passed the SUV he’d been following, still on the shoulder on the other side of the road. A man stood at the back bumper, talking on his cell phone while examining the extensive damage done by DJ’s truck.
DJ had been just quick enough. No fewer than ten cruisers came tearing up the opposite side of the road, sirens blaring, headed for the crime scene.
As soon as he was clear of the hubbub, he’d find a place to pull over and disengage the Honda’s GPS and change the license plate. Then he’d return to his comfy bed and keep searching for Kowalski’s kid.
He needed access to Kowalski’s weapon reserves now more than ever. Something was going on at the Sokolovs’ house and he needed to take advantage of whatever that was.
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, MAY 27, 9:30 P.M.
Tom scowled at the bulletin board on the wall of his home office. The board was half filled with photos, maps, and documents he’d gathered in the month he’d been searching for Eden. He had aerial maps of the sites listed in the notebook they’d found in Ephraim Burton’s safe-deposit box. He had photos of Kowalski and his family, photos of DJ and Waylon that he’d taken at Joni Belmont’s house, and photos of DJ Belmont’s two victims.
The two who they knew of, anyway—Minnie Ellis and Penny Gaynor. Belmont had no compunction about murdering in cold blood. It was more than likely that he’d killed others and their bodies hadn’t been found yet. Or ever would be.
But the photos, maps, and documents didn’t represent progress and Tom was frustrated. He had nothing new after hours spent searching for DJ Belmont. Searching for Kowalski.
Irritated and tired, he took a break from searching for the two men to try searching for Pastor’s wife, who supposedly lived in Modesto with her architect husband.
He knew that the woman wouldn’t likely be able to tell them where to find Eden. She’d run from the cult twenty-five years before. But Tom was curious. He wanted to know how Eden had begun and how they’d managed to hold on to power for so long. He was curious about what kind of woman would marry Waylon Belmont only to divorce him for Pastor.
Was she a criminal, too? Or had she been manipulated like everyone else?
Unfortunately, he hadn’t found any architects in Modesto with a wife named Margo.
He’d had only one true success in all the hours he’d spent searching. He tacked the photo of eighteen-year-old William Holly—a.k.a. Boaz Travis—next to a photo he’d found in the archives of an L.A. newspaper. The photo featured Pastor, his wife, and their twins, five years old at the time, and had been taken for a Christmas newsletter the year before he’d been accused of embezzling tens of thousands of dollars from his church.
The quality of the photo wasn’t good. The original had been photocopied for the newsletter before being included in the newspaper article, and the result was dark and grainy. It had been one of the few articles that Tom had been able to find on the investigation into Pastor’s embezzlement and identity fraud.
It told the story of Craig Hickman, who’d been a college-aged member of Pastor’s L.A. church. He’d become suspicious of Pastor after beginning his own degree in psychology, because Pastor had claimed to have a degree that didn’t exist. Digging deeper, Craig had discovered that church mon
ey was missing. That had eventually led to charges being leveled against Pastor.
And then Craig was beaten badly by a group of masked brutes brandishing baseball bats shortly after Pastor disappeared. A few weeks later, Craig’s family home had been burned to the ground. The young man had disappeared soon after.
Some of this information Tom had found online. Some had been in a month-old report prepared by Jeff Bunker, the teenage journalism major who’d brought Cameron Cook to the field office on Wednesday morning. Jeff had started searching for Craig Hickman a month ago.
“I wonder what he’s found,” Tom murmured, and sent Jeff a text.
Any progress on locating Craig Hickman?
The reply was instantaneous. Got sidetracked with finals, but they’re done now. Will get back on it. The woman who mentored Hickman is a kickass reporter with the L.A. Times. Now mentoring me on research. The text was followed by a gif of Kermit the Frog flailing excitedly.
Tom had to smile. He often forgot that Jeff was only sixteen. LMK when you find something.
A thumbs-up emoji from Jeff popped up seconds before Tom’s phone screen was filled with an incoming call.
Raeburn. “This is Hunter.”
“We have a situation. Texting you an address. Meet me there ASAP.”
A text popped up with an address near the airport. “I’m on my way. Can you tell me what it’s about?” Because his mind was spinning images of Mercy dead, of Gideon dead. Of Liza dead.
“SacPD got a call from one of its off-duty cops who was working a private security gig.”
Tom’s gut twisted. “Bowie Security?”
“Yes. I understand you hired them?”
“I did, yes. For Mercy Callahan’s birthday party and out of my own pocket. No connection to the Bureau. What happened?”
Raeburn sighed. “You need to stop paying for things out of your own pocket, Tom.”
Tom blinked, unaccustomed to hearing Raeburn address him by his first name. “That’s fine, sir. Can you tell me what happened first?”
“A truck matching the description of the one on the office building security footage was following Bowie’s SUV. The driver was a Bowie employee. Shotgun was the off-duty cop. When the SUV turned for the airport, the truck followed. SacPD was called. A cruiser tried to stop the truck, but it pushed it off the road and sped away. The two cops pursued. They were instructed to wait for backup, but did not. They were shot in the head. One of the bodies was missing his shirt, vest, and gun belt. The truck is still on the scene, along with the two bodies.”