“About thirty miles south of Pendleton. It’s a tiny town. About two hundred people,” answered Neal.

Mercy followed a road map in her head. “That’s a good four hours northeast from here.”

Neal nodded. “Just west of the Umatilla National Forest. If you’re looking for a good place to escape society, this is it. No one will bug you here.”

“But clearly something about this extensively labeled group bugged you enough to embed an agent,” Eddie stated.

“They call their compound America’s Preserve. The group has approximately forty people living in an abandoned campground,” Carleen told him. “The camp is the type of place churches rent for retreats. It has several cabins with bunk beds and a large hall with a kitchen for meetings, but it hadn’t been used in twenty years until this group took up residence about a year ago. The property is owned by a Ukiah resident who gave them permission to move in.” Carleen grimaced. “The ATF doesn’t want to reveal our interest, so no one has talked to the owner, but the general word in Ukiah is that the group is repairing the buildings in exchange for living there.”

“And you embedded an agent because of the arms-selling aspect,” said Mercy. Selling guns secondhand wasn’t illegal. The ATF was holding something back.

Both agents nodded. And didn’t expand.

Mercy waited, but neither Carleen nor Neal jumped in to fill the silence. Or the holes in their story.

But Eddie did. “What do you need from us?”

Carleen took a deep breath. “We need Mercy. Tomorrow a second agent was to join our undercover agent and pose as his girlfriend, but she came down with shingles.” She turned pleading eyes on Mercy.

Sweat started under her arms, and her pulse pounded in her ears.

They want me undercover in an arms-selling militia?

Last winter she’d gotten uncomfortably close to a budding militia outside of town and nearly paid for it with her life. It wasn’t something she cared to do again.

Jeff met her gaze. He knew how dangerous her last experience had been. His eyes were sympathetic, but he sat silent, allowing the agents to ask.

“Get someone else,” Mercy forced out. “It doesn’t have to be me.”

Carleen and Neal shot each other a look. “We’ve searched,” Neal told her. “You are the only federal agent similar in looks and build to our agent.”

“Expand your search,” Mercy argued. “I can’t be the only tall female with long, dark hair.”

“We’ve searched the ATF and FBI in the Pacific Northwest. You tick every box—not just in looks. You’re conveniently close, you know this state, and from what I’ve read, you know the surrounding culture. Our undercover agent has convinced the leader that his girlfriend will be an asset to America’s Preserve. Reportedly Jessica Polk—that’d be you—has medical experience.”

“I don’t have med—”

“Says the woman who kept me from bleeding out from a gunshot wound four months ago,” muttered Eddie. “You know how to handle medical emergencies. There’s no question. But why am I here?”

“You’ll be taking over Mercy’s caseload while she’s gone,” Jeff answered.

Eddie groaned as Mercy replied, “If I go.”

Neal slid a photo across the table. Mercy looked at it but didn’t pick it up. It showed a green-eyed, dark-haired woman in a polo shirt with the ATF logo on the chest.

Eddie had no qualms about picking up the picture. “The two of you could be related, Mercy. Actually, she looks a lot like your sister Rose, but yeah, they have a good match here.” He crinkled his nose as he looked from the photo to her and back again, his gaze curious behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

More uncomfortable scrutiny.

“We need someone tomorrow,” emphasized Carleen. “We worked for months to get our agent inside. The leader of the group doesn’t let his people out in public often, but our agent has permission to pick you up at the bus station.”

“Tomorrow.” Mercy sucked in a steadying breath. “I don’t have time to prepare. I’d make a mistake . . . I’d say something wrong.”

“We’ll work with you. The agents’ histories have been carefully created and vetted.” Carleen shifted forward in her chair, a hint of desperation in her tone. “We’ve spent a lot of time, effort, and money to get two agents into this camp. Chad—that’s the undercover name of our agent—says the leader, Pete Hodges, won’t let any more men join right now, but women are a different story. We might not get another chance.”

“Of course he lets in women,” said Mercy, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “With a big group of men, you need cooks, cleaners, and someone to keep your bed warm. I know how he thinks.” During the militia incident last winter, a sexual hunger had frequently burned in a few of the men’s eyes when they’d looked at her. If the situation had escalated, none of them would have cared about consent.

She shuddered.

“This sounds volatile.” Eddie planted his forearms on the table and glared at Jeff. “Why on earth would you even consider this?”

“You don’t know all the facts,” Jeff answered quietly.

“Then tell me,” Mercy stated. “Because I’m about to return to my desk.”

The two ATF agents and Jeff exchanged a glance.

Mercy started to stand.

“Wait!” Carleen asked, holding up a hand and rising from her own chair. “Give me a moment.” She leaned close to Neal, and they shared rapid, quiet words.

“You don’t have to do it,” Eddie said in a low voice to Mercy. “It’s just a favor for the ATF—a dangerous favor, it sounds like. Don’t let them pressure you.”

She glanced at the whispering couple across the table. “Does it feel like they’re desperate?” Both agents had appeared cool and calm, but an air of urgency simmered around them.

“I’m getting that vibe,” he said softly. “This must be bigger than they’re letting on. It’s not illegal for private parties to sell guns.”

“Okay.” Carleen cleared her throat, and her dark eyes focused again on Mercy. “You deserve to know what you’re walking into.”

“Damn right,” muttered Eddie.

Mercy ignored him, trying to read the body language of the ATF agents. It was impossible; both held perfectly still, their faces expressionless.

They’re trying too hard.

It’s big.

“We followed a buyer. A local guy. A small-time rancher. He bought a few guns from another undercover agent. Small stuff. Nothing to write home about. But he talked during the transactions, dropping a few references that we followed up on.” Carleen took a deep breath. “Now we’re looking for a big seller, and his lead has pointed to this group. We’re not positive who the big seller is—our assumption is it’s the gang’s leader, Pete Hodges, but that is not confirmed.”

“A big seller of what kind of weapons?” Mercy asked. Carleen’s story was still missing a few big pieces.

Carleen pressed her lips together. “We had a theft about eight months ago—”

“I heard about that,” Eddie interrupted. “Two of your agents died. A stockpile of weapons the police had removed from the streets in the Southwest got intercepted in transit with a big shoot-out in Nevada.” He looked at Mercy. “Some of the weapons collected are not legal in the US.”

Aha. Murdered agents and illegal guns.

“The guns were probably back on the streets within days,” Eddie continued.

Every agent’s nightmare. Mercy tilted her head, watching Carleen.

“We think most of the guns, including the illegal ones, ended up with this group, and possibly America’s Preserve was behind the attack.”

“And behind the deaths of your agents,” Mercy supplied as pain flashed in Carleen’s eyes. “Tell me about Pete Hodges.”

“He’s been on our radar for a while. He emerged back east several years ago when he was associated with a militia group out of Pennsylvania. He split from them after publicly arguing with their leader.”

“What was the problem?” Eddie asked.

“The militia group had decided to stand up for and protect all free speech—not just the free speech they agreed with.”

“As they should,” Mercy pointed out.

“Well, their idea of protecting free speech was to send their armed, fatigue-wearing members into the center of pro-immigration rallies to stand between neo-Nazi protesters and the organizers to protect both sides’ rights to speak.”

“They were acting as police,” Eddie said. “Good intentions, but that’s not how it’s done.”

“Correct, and Pete Hodges didn’t like this First Amendment stance one bit,” Carleen continued. “He’s quoted as saying, ‘You either fight fascism or you enable it.’ He said there is no neutral peacekeeping. This didn’t sit well with the leadership of the group, and Pete left. Before that he was associated with the Three Percenters.”

Eddie raised a questioning brow at Mercy.

Since she’d worked domestic terrorism for years, the group’s name was familiar. “The Three Percenters have strong opposition to gun control laws. All of the laws,” she emphasized. “They’re very vocal.”

“Yes,” said Carleen. “Pete Hodges refers to the ATF as out-of-control gun cops.”