“It wasn’t easy,” said the younger agent. “When we approached the gate, two guys got out of a parked truck near the fence and pointed their rifles at us.” He blew out a breath. “Thought that was the end of it right there.” He thumped a fist on the ballistic vest hidden under his coat. “I’m thankful for these things, but they won’t do shit for a head shot.”

“They told us we were on private property and to turn around,” added the female agent. “I think we made the right decision to have me drive.” She raised an eyebrow. “They were a little surprised to see me. I’m not much of a threat, you know.” Her partner snorted. “I told them we’d leave, but before I identified ourselves, I politely asked them to not jump to conclusions and to first hear what I had to say.”

The younger agent turned to Ghattas. “Webber was great. You’d think she was addressing the queen of England. They were suspicious, but they listened. I kept my mouth shut.”

“I said we were with the ATF and that our boss would like to speak with their boss. I offered them the handheld radio. They tensed up when they realized who we were and refused to take the radio. One insisted it was a bomb.” She looked at the negotiator. “That’s when I used it to call you guys and prove to him it was a real radio. I also popped the back off to let him see the inside.”

“I figured you’d need to do that,” said the negotiator. “No one is more suspicious than these types of people.”

“He still wouldn’t take it,” Webber continued. “He gave me some line about the ATF having no jurisdiction in America’s Preserve, but I pointed out that his boss would probably prefer to decide who he spoke to and wouldn’t be happy that the guards had made the decision for him.”

“He said he didn’t want to wake up his boss,” the male agent added. “It’s pretty clear that they revere Pete Hodges.”

“Or at least are scared to death of him,” Webber said. “I asked if his boss would be happy to wake up and find out that his guards had been sitting on important information all night. He finally took the radio.”

“Good work,” said Ghattas. “I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night. Are you ready to get started?” he asked the negotiator.

“Absolutely. We prepped the whole drive here.”

“Okay,” Ghattas said. “Let’s make a call.” He checked the time. “Maybe we’ll have some peaceful results by daybreak.”

Truman thought the comment was overly optimistic. He knew men like Pete Hodges. When they felt trapped, they didn’t give up without a fight. They swung and punched and kicked, their own blood splattering on the ground, hoping to inflict damage and pain on their enemy—now the ATF—until they could battle no more.

Truman jerked awake in his camp chair to find Eddie staring at him.

He blinked. “Did you shake my chair?” he asked the agent.

“Yep.”

Panic blossomed in his chest. “Is it Mercy?” Truman sat up straight, running a hand through his hair. “What happened? Is there word?”

Regret flashed in Eddie’s eyes as he handed Truman a bottle of water. “Sorry, no word yet. I shouldn’t have shaken your chair, but I said your name five times. You’d asked me to wake you at noon. It’s almost one.”

Still disoriented, Truman surveyed the base camp. He had fallen asleep below one of the huge tarps, apparently too tired to care about the cold weather. The snow had formed drifts around every tree and on top of the vehicles. He shivered.

People moved here and there, still unpacking and getting organized. Truman had stayed awake until eight that morning, hoping for word from the compound. Overnight the negotiators had called on the radio every half hour with no answer. Truman hadn’t been allowed in the RV to observe. He’d relied on updates from Jeff and Agent Ghattas. Frustrated, he had finally given in to an overwhelming need for sleep, Mercy’s face in his mind.

He was painfully aware that the federal Waco standoff had taken fifty-one days and Ruby Ridge eleven. Neither operation had ended well. Truman wouldn’t stay sane if he had to wait that long, and he just needed to hear if Mercy was still alive. His nerves were shot.

Not knowing was hell.

“The two ATF agents arrived right after you fell asleep. Aguirre and Gorman,” Eddie said.

Truman still held them personally responsible for sending Mercy on the dangerous mission. “Any new information on the stolen-weapons heist?”

“Not on their part.” He gave Truman a weak smile. “They immediately went into town to follow up on your leads from the restaurant. My understanding is your dinner companions from last night are the only fresh leads they have.”

“What do we do now?” he muttered to Eddie.

“We wait some more.” The agent took a seat facing him and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. He was hurting too. Mercy and Eddie had joined the Bend FBI office at the same time after working together in Portland. Mercy regarded him as a younger brother, and Truman reminded himself that he didn’t have a monopoly on caring about her.

But damn, it hurt. He was missing half of himself.

“There was some excitement while you slept,” Eddie told him. “They arrested the father of the boy in the hospital. Child endangerment charges. The doctor had been about to call the county sheriff on the father, but our agents reached him before he did.”

“Good.”

Eddie rested his forearms on his thighs as he leaned toward Truman. “Turns out the father had run off with the kids while the mother was out of town. She returned home a few months ago, found an empty house without her kids, and has been out of her head with worry, not knowing what had happened to them. She’s at the hospital with her son now. Can you imagine what that reunion was like?”

“Kids? Plural?”

“Yes. There’s a sixteen-year-old daughter still in the compound, according to the father.”

“She’s alone in there right now?” Truman asked. “No family? Doesn’t sound like an ideal place for a teenage girl.”

“It’s not. The father also told the agents that there’s a woman in the compound about to give birth.” Eddie shook his head. “Who would risk having a baby in the middle of nowhere with no medical help? The negotiators are debating how to use that news.” He grimaced. “I don’t envy their job. If they say the wrong thing, everything can turn upside down in a split second.”

“Do you know where Jeff is?” Truman asked, wanting to find out the team’s next move.

“Last I saw he was taking the negotiators some lunch in the RV. And speaking of lunch, I’m going to get some before it’s gone. You coming?”

Truman wasn’t hungry. He swore his fries and burger from last night still sat in his stomach. “Later.”

“You might regret that,” Eddie said as he headed toward the other side of the base camp.

Thirstily draining the water bottle from Eddie, Truman headed toward the RV. It was huge, easily one of the longest RVs he’d ever seen. On the roof were several small satellite dishes along with two high-mast antennas. On both sides, pop-out sections had been extended, increasing the square footage indoors.

The door on the far side was open, and he heard people talking. He stuck his head inside and found himself in what looked like a set straight out of an action movie. A half dozen screens of every size covered one wall, along with high-tech electronics he couldn’t identify. A large room at the end could be sectioned off with sliding doors, and he spotted chairs, tables, and more screens in that room. Truman winced as he thought of his office’s ancient radio system back home. At least his department’s computers were up to date, but they had only three for the whole office.

Jeff spotted him and waved him in. Truman moved up the two metal steps, brushing the snow from his shoulders and eyeing Mercy’s boss. Usually Jeff Peterson never had a hair out of place or a wrinkle present. Now he’d clearly slept in his clothes and had shoved on a cap over his hair. So far showers were nonexistent at the base camp. Truman hoped they’d finish their mission before they were required.

Jeff introduced him to the three negotiators, who were all eating thick sandwiches. They were calm-looking older men. Jim Sanchez, the negotiator he’d met last night, was the primary who would communicate directly with the subject—if they ever managed to make contact. The other two men would listen and take notes, ready to take over the primary role if the compound leader showed a dislike for the first negotiator. For a split second Truman was surprised there wasn’t a woman on the team, but then he realized that the militia leader would not be happy to speak with a woman.

“Time,” said one of them with his mouth full.

Agent Sanchez nodded and took a drink from a water bottle to wash down his sandwich. He pulled on a set of headphones and pushed a few buttons. “This is Jim Stapleton with the ATF,” he said calmly into his microphone. “Can someone answer the radio please?”

Truman raised a brow. Stapleton? ATF? Again, the FBI had prepared carefully, aware of Pete Hodges’s white supremacy views and hiding the fact that the FBI was heavily involved in this operation.

Every half hour for nearly the last twelve hours, they’d repeated the plea.

Did Hodges destroy the radio?