“Make me, hotshot,” Gorman uttered, moving up in Eddie’s grill.

A loud metallic clanging hurt Truman’s ears. Five pairs of eyes turned to see Dr. Lockhart still on her stool and waving a large crowbar, which she’d banged against the leg of the autopsy table. “This is my workplace. Get out. All of you.”

“Truman, Mercy was partnered with this ATF agent on her assignment,” Jeff said into the silence.

Truman spun around and met Jeff’s tormented gaze.

His heart stopped. The ATF? “What? Where is she?”

“Agent Garrison—”

Jeff whirled on Aguirre, heat raging from his eyes. “He’s her fiancé.”

Aguirre closed her mouth, her eyes wide.

“What’s happened to her?” Truman snarled, looking from one agent to the next. “Just fucking tell me!”

Is she dead?

Eddie raised his hands in a calming motion, making Truman want to knock his head off. “Truman . . . we don’t know,” he answered quietly. “We have no way to contact her.”

Truman closed his eyes as his heart shattered and fell to the floor.

TWENTY-TWO

Truman leaned against the rear of Eddie’s SUV, his stomach still on a roller coaster. The four agents and Truman had convened in the ME’s parking lot, leaving Dr. Lockhart to finish her autopsy in peace. Truman didn’t trust himself to drive at the moment. Fury had him seeing red after Jeff and Agent Aguirre told him the details.

Their words spun in his head. Undercover operation. Militia. Remote compound. Weapons theft. No contact.

And now her partner had been murdered.

Truman refused to believe she had been killed. Every time his brain tried to go down that path, nausea swamped him and he yanked it back. He would shatter if he allowed the speculation to fully bloom.

“Why did you let her go?” he asked Jeff for the third time. His voice was calm when every fiber of his body wanted to scream the question at Mercy’s boss. He felt as if he were straddling a sinkhole, his foundation in pieces at the bottom.

“I couldn’t stop her.”

Truman knew this was true.

“What are we doing about it?” he asked, including all four agents in his question.

“The FBI is taking the safety of one of their agents very seriously. HRT has been activated,” answered Eddie.

The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team was the best of the best, called out in high-risk operations. Catching the bad guys wasn’t their objective. Getting the job done and rescue were the priorities. It was rumored they didn’t carry handcuffs; they used their weapons instead.

It didn’t calm Truman’s rage. Anger was his friend; it kept despair at bay.

“They’ll be on the ground near the compound late tonight,” Jeff added. “We’re all the way across the damned country from their headquarters, but Portland FBI’s SWAT team is also on its way. The minute Agent Aguirre contacted me about the death of their agent, I lit a fire all the way up the chain of command to get immediate action.”

“Late tonight,” Truman repeated. Almost an entire day lost.

“With a murdered ATF agent and a possible FBI hostage in an armed militia compound that might have a huge store of weapons or explosives, it was agreed to move the teams into place immediately. Negotiation comes first, but we want the manpower in place and ready if they are needed. The Portland FBI team should arrive first. They’re flying in and landing near Pendleton.” Jeff looked grim. “Our negotiators will get started immediately, and we should know by the time HRT arrives if we’ll even need their tactical expertise.”

It could be too late.

“We can’t get recent satellite photos,” Gorman added. “The cloud cover and snow are causing issues. We’ve considered sending a drone, but it’d have to fly low under the clouds and could be seen and tip our hand, so we’ll have to operate off what we have from last week.”

“How did this operation go to hell?” Truman burst out at the ATF agents. “What the fuck happened up there?”

Carleen Aguirre took a deep breath. “I wish I had a better answer for you. Our last communication with Agent O’Shea before Agent Kilpatrick joined him was encouraging. He felt he’d earned the trust of some of the more important men in the compound, but he still didn’t have a confirmation on the stolen weapons or this ‘major plan’ he was hearing rumors about.” She looked him in the eye. “By all accounts, it was moving smoothly, although it was a little slower than we hoped.”

“You sent her in there with no prep time.” Truman ran a hand through his hair as he paced, glaring at Aguirre and Gorman. “You sent her in blind.”

“We appreciate what she did for us,” Aguirre said quietly. “She was sharp and smart. With the little time we had, there was no one else I would have felt as comfortable with to send into that situation. I have confidence in her. I still do. We’ll get her out.”

It hit Truman that Agent Carleen Aguirre was the first person who’d outright implied she believed Mercy was still alive. Everyone else had spoken about the rescue. No one had said they believed it would be successful.

“Mercy is fucking resourceful,” added Eddie. “She probably has half those guys tied to trees and the other half convinced they should let her do the same to them.”

Truman stopped and squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. “What am I going to tell Kaylie?”

“Shit,” mumbled Eddie, looking away.

“I can’t do it.” Truman continued his pacing. “If I tell Kaylie, I have to tell Mercy’s sisters and her parents and Ollie—I’d have to tell my men why I’m headed out of town.” I can’t handle their grief in addition to my own. He rubbed his chest, feeling his heart’s fierce rhythm. “I can’t bring myself to do that right now.”

“I can help you tell the family,” offered Eddie.

“No—it’s not just telling them. They’ll be worried out of their heads and unable to do anything about it.” He shook his head. “Mercy wouldn’t want her family needlessly worried.” He met Carleen’s dark gaze. “I can’t do that to them until I have some facts.”

“You mentioned heading out of town,” Carleen slowly said. “There’s no role for you in this—”

“He’s going with us,” Jeff asserted. “The FBI takes responsibility for his presence.” He looked pointedly at Truman. “Don’t get any ideas that you will be rushing a militia camp with the HRT team. You’ll be behind the scenes with me.”

Truman nodded. If that was the only way to get near the compound, he’d take it.

When he got there, he’d decide what to do.

Right now he was apt to Rambo his way inside.

A familiar Ford Explorer turned into the lot, and Truman recognized Bolton’s vehicle. He’d completely forgotten the county detective was coming to brief him on something about the second John Doe. Truman walked away from the federal agents, desperately needing to put some space between them and himself.

A hole had been punched through his chest, and wind kept whipping through, chilling his heart and lungs.

It hurt.

A passenger got out of Bolton’s vehicle, and Truman searched his memory to attach a name. Darrell Palmer. Britta’s neighbor who she had first thought might be the dead man on her property.

Interesting.

Truman nodded at Bolton and held out a hand to Darrell, pretending he hadn’t just received the worst news of his life. “Mr. Palmer.”

The man’s eyes were red and swollen, and he had a hard time making eye contact with Truman.

“What can I do for you?” Truman aimed the question at Bolton, who looked grim enough to strangle someone.

“Darrell has identified our second John Doe. It’s his brother, Stephen.”

Truman spun to Darrell. “Your brother? Why didn’t you say anything when we showed you the photo?” He remembered how shaken Darrell had appeared when he looked at the picture of the dead man. Truman had chalked up his reaction to seeing a dead body.

Darrell looked at Truman, twisted his mouth, and then looked away. Truman impatiently raised a brow at Bolton. “Well?”

I don’t have time for this.

Bolton grimaced. “Darrell believes his brother’s body was left as a warning to him.” He glared at the older man. “He didn’t say anything the other day because he feared for his own life.”

“Keep talking,” said Truman. The explanation didn’t make sense. “Who did it? And why was he left on Britta’s property?”

“I think they mistook it for my land.” Darrell finally spoke up. “The layout of the field and driveway is identical to mine—just a half mile farther down the road.”

Truman waited for the rest.

Darrell squeezed his eyes closed. “I haven’t seen Stephen in a long time. We parted ways a few years back. He was bitter and angry and blamed everyone for his financial problems but himself.” His eyes opened, and he looked earnestly at Truman. “It all was of his own doing.” He shook his head. “My brother didn’t care to work and spent every dollar he had and then some, but I’d heard he’d joined some group.” Darrell stopped speaking and shoved his hands in his pockets, his focus drawn to the federal agents across the parking lot.