“So it’s not surprising that he would have stolen an ATF stockpile of weapons,” said Mercy.

“Illegal arms, remote antigovernment group.” Eddie lowered his voice as he looked at Carleen. “You don’t want another Ruby Ridge incident.”

Desperation flashed on Neal’s face. “Why does everyone bring up—”

“No one wants another tragedy like Ruby Ridge,” Mercy answered quickly, attempting to check Neal’s response. Three people—including a child—had died in the eleven-day rural siege that had grabbed the attention of the nation decades ago. “That was one family with one minor weapons purchase. The similarities between this case and that one aren’t that close, but I understand why the memory pops up. The case will always be a shadow over the ATF and FBI. Both agencies learned to do better.” She met both Neal’s and Eddie’s gazes. Neal looked away, and Eddie grimaced. This wasn’t the time for an interagency argument.

“So now you see why we need more people inside,” Carleen went on. “We need to tread carefully because it is an unpredictable situation.” She paused. “Our agent told us he heard rumors of a big plan. Something targeting us.”

“Us?” asked Mercy.

“The ATF.”

“Define ‘big plan,’” added Eddie.

Carleen met his gaze. “Something to cripple the agency. I know that’s vague, but all Chad could say was that explosives had been mentioned.”

The room went quiet.

“I know some of these types of groups feel the ATF treads on their constitutional rights by enforcing current gun laws,” Mercy said slowly. “Crippling your agency would make this faction heroes to certain populations.”

“But how could they actually affect the workings of the ATF?” muttered Eddie. “A cyberattack would probably be the most effective, but I assume that’s not their forte. Blowing something up would make the largest visible message—I’d guess that’s their goal. Something splashy.”

“We want our agents to be safe. That’s our main objective.” Carleen looked at Mercy. “We need to know what’s going on in that compound.” She pressed her lips together for a long second, and Mercy knew she didn’t want to say the next sentence. “You won’t be allowed to tell your family what you’re doing or where you are. We can’t risk an accidental leak.”

“Are you kidding me?” asked Eddie. He turned to Mercy, shaking his head, concern in his brown eyes. “Truman will never go for it. Not after what happened to you last winter with that militia.”

“I don’t need Truman’s permission,” Mercy said, but the thought of being completely out of contact made her light-headed. Truman was her rock; their wedding was in three months.

Carleen raised her chin and looked away from the FBI agents and out the window. “There are several children in the compound,” she said softly.

Shock filled the room.

“Aw, shit,” mumbled Eddie, slumping back in his chair.

Images flashed in Mercy’s mind. Weapons. Explosives. Children. Bitter, suspicious adults.

A recipe for tragedy.

Mercy’s doubts were shattered by a crushing mantle of responsibility. “I’ll do it.”

THREE

The rest of the day was a whirlwind. Mercy felt as if she were cramming a semester’s worth of information into five hours and the final was tomorrow. The FBI conference room table was now cluttered with files, notebooks, and photos. Mercy had read and reread each one.

A dry-erase pen in hand, Mercy stood at the whiteboard as Carleen drilled her on the history the ATF had created for Jessica Polk.

“Where did you get your associate’s degree in nursing?”

Easy one. “Big Bend Community College. Moses Lake, Washington. Where I grew up,” she added.

“Work history,” Carleen requested.

“Uh . . .” Mercy turned to the board and made a list to keep it straight in her mind. “Three different nursing homes in Moses Lake. Good Heart, A Place to Rest, and Sally’s Home.” She emphatically underlined the last, pleased she hadn’t mixed up the names this time. “I worked at each one for about two years. I left Sally’s Home about six months ago and have been waitressing at the Lake Diner ever since.”

“Parents’ names and professions.”

“Douglas Polk. Plumber. Susan Polk. Housewife, but she also worked at the Dollar Tree. Both passed away in a car accident ten years ago.” She raised a brow at Carleen. “Convenient.”

“Just keeping it simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple.”

“Your college mascot?”

Mercy stared at Carleen, her mind blank. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said calmly, suddenly transforming into every instructor Mercy had disliked in college.

The Avengers. “Thor—I mean, Vikings for Big Bend.”

“High school mascot?

“Something with feathers.”

Carleen made a face. “Chiefs.”

“Chiefs,” Mercy repeated as she slumped into the chair by Carleen. “This is ridiculous.” She picked up a photo of her “boyfriend,” Chad Finn. “Chad and I met two years ago at a Kenny Chesney concert in Seattle,” she muttered. Carleen wouldn’t tell her Chad’s real name, and Mercy was not to tell him hers. The man in the photo was clean-shaven and wore an ATF polo.

He looked like a Verizon cell phone salesman.

His fake backstory included ranching and work as a mechanic. Carleen said that in real life, Chad was one of those guys who always had his head under the hood of a car. He’d repaired a truck at the group’s camp and impressed them, and now he was in charge of their fleet—which was about five vehicles.

Supposedly Chad had convinced Mercy—Jessica—to leave her miserable waitressing job in Moses Lake and come live with him and his like-minded friends at the compound for a new beginning.

Every woman’s dream.

“Chad knows there’s been a change in girlfriends, right?” Mercy asked as she tossed his photo back on the table.

“No. We don’t have a way to get ahold of him.”

Mercy spun her chair toward the agent. “What?”

“I told you there were no cell phones. The arrangements to bring in Chad’s girlfriend were made on a pay phone in town two weeks ago.”

“I have to instantly convince Chad that I’m her replacement? Possibly with other people watching?” Mercy leveled a stare at Carleen, stunned at the lack of communication. She felt unprepared and untethered, as if she were floating high above the earth without a landing site. “I look a little like your agent, but we’re still different. What if they’ve seen pictures of her?”

“Fake Jessica’s social media is being altered as we speak. They’re doing a little Photoshop to the few pictures of her online.”

Mercy sighed. “Any other big things you haven’t told me? What does your agent do if he’s in trouble?”

“There is a satellite phone hidden outside the compound. He knows where it is. It’s for emergencies only. If he is caught with it, they’ll probably kill him.”

Mercy said nothing, searching Carleen’s brown gaze. She spotted a flicker of the woman’s concern for her agent before it vanished. Carleen was fully aware of the danger and the unknowns.

“We considered sending in a backup battery with you for the satellite phone. It has one, but another can’t hurt.” She grimaced. “I was voted down. Too risky if you’re caught.”

Great. “How did Chad use a pay phone?”

“A perk of being the guy in charge of maintaining the vehicles. He drives into town occasionally.”

Neal entered the office with an ancient duffel over his shoulder. “I added a heavier coat,” he said as he dropped the bag on the floor. “It can get cold at that elevation at night.”

Mercy stared at the ugly bag. “What is that?”

“Your belongings,” he answered, his hands on his hips. “No fancy polycarbonate hard-sided suitcase when you’re roughing it.”

“Oh no you don’t. I pack my own stuff.” Mercy was instantly on the ground, digging through the duffel.

“We were very particular about what we chose for you,” Carleen said. “This has been worked out for weeks. Everything you need is in there.”

“No gloves, no poncho. Not even a first aid kit,” Mercy muttered as she scattered the belongings. “I’ll bring my own underwear, thank you very much,” she said, tossing used underwear into the wastebasket.

“They’re new,” Carleen clarified. “But they’ve been washed.”

“Still . . . I’ll wear my own shit.” She set aside three pairs of pants. “These aren’t my size. I’ll grab my own tonight.” She held up a sweatshirt, eyeing the proportions. “This works.”

“Don’t pack designer jeans,” Neal told her. “Jessica wouldn’t have the money for those. Pack old stuff. There’s little power out there, so that means no hairdryers or curling irons. And you can expect your belongings to be searched by members of the group—possibly a few times. Privacy won’t exist.”