The diner was the only source of life on the street. A half dozen large windows allowed its fluorescent light to spill onto the sidewalk. He pulled open the glass door, making a bell chime, and stepped in, welcoming the scents of coffee, grease, and meat that washed over him. Instant homegrown comfort.

An older couple sat in a booth near the window. Neither looked up as he came in, both intent on their slices of pie. At the counter, two stools were occupied. One by a man and the other by his hat. Truman took the stool next to the hat, setting his own on his other side. The man glanced his way and nodded amiably. He appeared to be in his midtwenties and wore the usual uniform of the area: worn jeans, scuffed boots, and thick coat.

An older man with heavy jowls appeared from the kitchen. He wore a white short-sleeved T-shirt, a paper hat, and a black apron. His arms were incredibly thin and covered with tattoos from wrist to sleeve. “Need a menu?”

“Nope. I’ll take the biggest burger you’ve got and fries. Coffee too, please.”

“Want a fried egg on that burger?”

“Absolutely.”

He returned to the kitchen. From his seat Truman watched him start the burger and drop fries in the fryer. As they cooked, he came back to pour Truman a cup of coffee.

“Passing through?” he asked without any interest.

“Yep. It shows?”

“Most people are just passing through,” the waiter/cook commented.

“Your food makes them not want to stay, Clyde,” joked the man to Truman’s left, speaking around a mouthful of fries.

“Is that why you’re in here stuffing your face five nights a week, Ethan?” the older man shot back, dark eyes twinkling. He topped off the joker’s coffee cup and returned to the kitchen.

“Good food?” Truman asked conversationally, scoping out his counter-mate. A local. And if he was in here five nights a week, it meant he didn’t belong to America’s Preserve.

“The best.” Ethan waved a ketchup-dipped fry in the air before popping it in his mouth.

Truman took a plunge. “You familiar with the people living up at the old church camp?”

The young man kept his gaze on his fries. “Why?”

“Heard there are children living up there too. Doesn’t seem like a group that’d have kids around.”

Another fry disappeared into Ethan’s mouth. “Seems okay.”

“Could be,” Truman said, but he used a dissenting tone. He silently sipped his coffee for a long minute, waiting to see if the man would fill the silence. He felt his neighbor study him from his boots to his hair.

“You heard things about the kids?” the man finally said.

Truman shrugged and drank his coffee.

“They don’t go to school,” said Ethan in a low voice. “Some of the teachers in town have complained. Said they need to be educated, and homeschooling doesn’t seem to be a priority for those folks.”

“That’s not good,” Truman agreed.

Ethan glanced over at the old couple, who were still eating their pie. “My brother works at the hospital. Said one of those kids was brought in on an emergency.”

Truman had struck gold. He met Ethan’s gaze. “The kid okay?”

“Yeah. But everyone at the hospital was pissed. Said the boy should have been seen at least a week ago. His infection was out of hand.”

“Poor guy. This was recent?”

Frustration filled Ethan’s face. “I think he’s still in the hospital. If he’d had antibiotics when the infection started, he wouldn’t have nearly died.”

Truman set down his mug. “Died?” Ethan had his full attention.

Ethan nodded, leaning closer. “They don’t believe in modern medicine up there. Say it’s made by the government to control us.” He rolled his eyes.

“Is that the first time someone has come in that sick?” Truman asked.

“Far as I know. My brother says they’ve had a couple of adults with bad cuts and some broken bones, and then they never pay. They just vanish, but the hospital knows where they live. The administrators don’t think it’s worth going up there to confront them.” He shook his head. “It’s not right.”

Clyde placed a burger in front of Truman. The patty was wider than the bun, and it dripped juice and grease on his plate. The fries were piled high, making Truman’s stomach growl at the sight.

“Coconut pie’s good if you got room after,” Clyde stated as he poured Truman more coffee.

Truman couldn’t look away from the burger. “We’ll see.”

Clyde cleared his throat. “The boy was only five,” he added to Ethan’s story, surprising Truman with the knowledge that the man had heard their conversation from the kitchen. “Completely dehydrated and had one of the nastiest ear infections the doc had ever seen. Lotta people in town upset about that. I heard the boy’s pop didn’t show up until later. Someone else brought in the child.”

Anger created an upheaval in Truman’s chest. “That’s how things are run up there?” he asked Clyde and included Ethan with a raised brow.

The two men exchanged a glance. “We don’t know what it’s like. No one is let in,” said Clyde. “There’s guards. People don’t come out much, and when they do, they don’t talk. Everyone’s curious, so when something like the boy happens, word spreads fast.”

“No one’s been inside and seen what’s going on?” Truman asked skeptically, hoping to find a source of insider information about the compound.

“No . . .” Ethan didn’t seem certain.

“What is it?” Truman asked.

Ethan looked to Clyde, who gave a quick nod.

“A guy I worked with a few years ago is up there now,” Ethan said. “A couple of months ago he hunted me down and asked if I knew anyone who’d buy some of his rifles. Said he needed the money.”

Déjà vu struck Truman, and he gave Ethan an encouraging look.

“I thought I’d help him out a bit and asked what he was selling.” The young man grew serious. “The weapons he was selling didn’t jibe with the casual hunter I used to know. And he offered a lot of them.” He leaned toward Truman, speaking more quietly. “The prices didn’t make sense either. They were way too low, which made me suspect they’d been stolen.”

“What did you do?”

“Told him I didn’t have any money. I didn’t want any part of it.”

Clyde grimaced. “I’ve heard similar stories a few times. Selling guns seems to be how they make their money.” He wiped the counter with a towel, his face grim, his jaw tight. He appeared to be done talking. Ethan focused on his own plate.

Truman lifted his burger and took a bite as Clyde went back to his kitchen. Selling possibly stolen weapons. A child who’d nearly died from lack of treatment.

Truman believed he’d found the impetus Ghattas needed to back up the FBI and ATF’s show of force.

And hopefully protect Mercy’s identity.

TWENTY-FOUR

It felt as if the base camp had doubled in population when Truman returned. The Hostage Rescue Team had arrived, and more bodies strode purposefully about the clearing.

Truman spotted SSA Ghattas next to the mobile SWAT RV. He was talking to two men in olive fatigues and another agent in jeans and a jacket. Truman approached, his boots crunching in the snow, and the surprise in Ghattas’s eyes confirmed that the FBI agent had given Truman the hospital assignment to keep him busy.

“Chief Daly.” Ghattas introduced him to the other agents. One was in charge of the HRT, one was in charge of Portland’s FBI SWAT team, and the third was the lead negotiator. “Any luck?” Ghattas asked.

“There’s a young boy from the compound in the hospital right now who was brought in with a life-threatening infection. One that should have been treated a week ago. Supposedly his father is with him,” Truman stated.

“Excellent.” Ghattas’s face lit up in surprise. “I’ll get two agents to find the father. Some intel from him about the inside of the compound would be helpful.” The two agents in olive nodded emphatically.

“And I talked to a guy who said they tried to sell him underpriced weapons,” Truman added. “He backed off because the sale felt fishy to him. There’ve been a few other people in town who were approached for the same thing. My guy believes it’s how they raise money.”

Ghattas was pleased. “This is exactly what I needed to know.”

“We can use that medical information about the boy when we talk to them,” the negotiator said. “Could help us get the other kids out.”

“Get the kids out before we have to go in,” the HRT leader said, squaring his shoulders. The SWAT leader agreed. “At least we know one child is out. That leaves eight more inside.”

Truman hoped their intelligence on the number of children was accurate.

A truck pulled in behind the RV, and Truman noted it had come from the direction of the compound, not the town. Two ATF agents he had met earlier immediately got out of the vehicle and approached their group.

“Success?” Ghattas asked as the man and woman walked up.