ONE

Mercy held her breath and stepped back as they dragged the bleeding man past her. The other observers cleared a path, their faces solemn, their gazes locked on the moaning man. Two of the members, rifles slung over their shoulders, gripped the man’s upper arms and pulled him toward their commander, Pete, at the front of the group. They threw him to the ground at Pete’s feet, and he stayed down, curling into a tight ball, his gasps echoing in the forest clearing.

What will Pete do?

Pete’s stance was wide, his hands clasped behind his back, his spine perfectly straight. His chin jutted forward, and he stood immobile. Without moving his head, he lowered his gaze to the beaten man, and his mouth pressed into a thin white line. Disdain and disappointment flowed from him, and mutters sounded through the group, its own anger growing.

The mob’s ire was palpable, slamming through Mercy’s skin and skidding up the back of her neck. Goose bumps lifted the hair on her arms as she stared at the man who stood in front of the group. Pete wore his usual dark-olive pants and shirt and a Glock on his hip. The weapon seemed to grow larger, almost pulsate with power, even though he didn’t move his hand in its direction.

He didn’t need to demonstrate his authority. His people fell into line. They hung on his every word, and right now the group leaned forward, greedy for his decision.

Ed Merrick had broken a rule.

Mercy knew the rules. Everybody knew the rules. What everyone didn’t know was the penalty for breaking a rule. Pete was judge and jury, and the punishments were his decisions.

The muttering faded away, and absolute silence filled the clearing. Approximately forty people waited for Pete’s declaration. Most were men. A few dressed similarly to Pete, in olive from head to toe. They also carried weapons. Either a handgun or a rifle on the shoulder. But most of the men wore jeans or rugged work pants. The weather was cool for late September, and everyone wore durable jackets, many stained with sweat and hard work.

Mercy tried to make eye contact with a woman to her left, but the woman stared straight ahead, her brows raised, impatiently awaiting Pete’s declaration with the rest of the group. The few women in the camp had already shown Mercy that they did not speak out against injustice.

This won’t end well.

Foreboding filled the air, and Mercy shifted her balance to her toes. Her partner, Chad Finn, felt her move and tightened his arm around her, giving her upper arm a reassuring squeeze. She leaned into him, grateful for his touch, and rested her cheek against his shoulder. He smelled of sweat. Everybody smelled of sweat. Showers were scarce, and the laundry system was primitive.

Pete raised his gaze to take in the crowd. He scanned the group, and even Mercy felt anticipation of his words. He made eye contact with her and moved on, leaving her feeling acknowledged and included. It was one of Pete’s gifts. He looked at you as if you had a fascinating story to tell, as if you were relevant, as if you mattered.

Everyone felt accepted.

“Ed had a cell phone.” Pete’s calm voice reached every set of ears. “You know cell phones aren’t allowed.” His gaze scanned the group again, and heads nodded. “If you need to make a call, you come to me. I will help you.” More nods.

They believe he is generous, but he outlawed cell phones.

“We all know what the phones can lead to. We can’t have that. We won’t be divided.”

One of the men who’d dragged Ed to the front handed Pete an old flip phone. Pete tossed it in his hand a few times, a crisp slapping sound against his palm.

“Why did you break the rule, Ed?” Pete asked, keeping his gaze on the group.

A collective intake of breath came from the crowd.

Still in a ball on the ground, Ed shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Fresh abrasions covered one side of his face. The men who’d dragged him to Pete stared down at the victim, their expressions impassive.

Pete and the crowd waited for Ed to answer. People shuffled their feet, glancing among each other. Some eyes were worried; some were eager. They all wanted something to happen. To get it over with.

Pete abruptly stepped back and pointed at a pole ten feet to his right. “String him up. Twenty lashes.” The two soldiers hauled him to his feet.

“Pete! No! I won’t do it again!”

“I don’t give second chances. We’ll dissolve into anarchy if everyone believes they can break the rules without consequences.”

Ed shrieked as two men stripped off his shirt and tied his wrists to the pole, his back to the audience.

Terror made Mercy straighten. I can’t just stand here. She leaned forward to look past Chad and froze. Someone had brought the children. Two women clutched small toddlers as a few children between five and ten silently watched the proceedings, their little faces blank.

Surely Pete will send them away.

“Hold still,” Chad hissed. His arm cemented her against him. The earlier care and affection gone.

“He’s going to whip him,” she whispered back. “For a fucking phone.”

“Ed knew the rules.”

She stiffened. “This is wrong.”

“Shhhh!” Gripping her jaw, he turned her face up to meet his gaze. His green eyes were hard and cold.

“Mr. Finn!” Pete snapped.

Chad jerked his head toward Pete. “Yes, sir!”

“Quiet your woman.” Pete’s impassive gaze met Mercy’s.

Swallowing hard, she looked at her feet. A rare second chance.

She tamped down the fury in her chest and scanned the group, searching for someone, anyone who supported her. Fifteen feet away, Eden caught her eye. The teen read Mercy’s expression and held her finger against her lips, silently pleading for Mercy to be quiet. Then she drew the finger across her throat.

Eden knows any protest will earn me a turn with the whip. Or worse.

The whip cracked, and Ed screamed, his shrieks echoing through the tall firs.

Mercy closed her eyes and turned into Chad, her knees slightly weak.

How did I end up here?

TWO

Two days earlier

“What does Jeff want?” FBI special agent Eddie Peterson asked Mercy as they simultaneously tried to pass through the conference room doorway. Eddie stepped back, a laptop under one arm and two books under the other as he precariously gripped a cup of coffee by its lid.

Mercy darted through before he lost control of the coffee. “I don’t know, but he told me to clear my afternoon.”

Eddie frowned as he set the cup on the conference table. “He didn’t tell me that. I’ve got three meetings.”

Mercy shrugged. It was part of her job to change direction on a dime, and Jeff’s vague message had perked up what had promised to be a dull day of paperwork. Mercy had been a special agent with the FBI’s Bend, Oregon, field office for nearly a year after spending five years at the big Portland office. Including her and Eddie, Bend had five agents, in contrast to the hundred agents in Portland.

But Bend was close to her heart. She’d been raised thirty minutes away in the tiny town of Eagle’s Nest, and until she arrived in Bend on a case last September, she hadn’t visited in fifteen years. After that case she left behind Portland’s hustle and bustle for the stunning vistas of the Cascade mountain range to Bend’s west and the wide-open plains to its east.

Her boss, Jeff Garrison, entered the room with two official-looking strangers close behind him. Instinct told Mercy they weren’t FBI—but something about them felt very governmental, and she noticed instantly they were discreetly armed. The woman was tall, dark, and elegant—she could have been a model twenty years earlier, and her gaze zoomed in on Mercy, studying her from head to toe. After the moment of intense scrutiny, she gave Mercy a warm smile. Whatever evaluation she had performed, Mercy had passed.

The male looked as if he could be Eddie’s brother. Young, hair too long, a bit of scruff. He wore jeans and a light jacket.

Jeff made introductions. Carleen Aguirre was the resident agent in charge from the Portland ATF office, and the man was ATF special agent Neal Gorman. As they took their seats, Neal frowned at Mercy, studying her in the same fashion that Carleen had. Mercy returned his stare as Jeff shut the door.

“Nothing said in here leaves this office,” Jeff announced, looking directly at Eddie and Mercy.

Mercy hid a small spark of irritation; she and Eddie weren’t gossips. She lifted a brow and gave Jeff her best side-eye, wondering if she should be offended or immensely curious. She decided on immensely curious and gave the ATF agents the same deep scrutiny she’d received.

Carleen grinned and leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, her dark gaze holding Mercy’s. “One of our agents is undercover in a militia-slash-conspiracy-theorists-slash-arms-selling group outside of Ukiah.”

Mercy blinked. “That’s a mouthful.”

“Where’s Ukiah?” asked Eddie.