Calm, cool, and collected. Gratitude and awe filled Truman. Cook was the type of person who could get Mercy out of the compound. “Thank you,” he told the agent, offering to shake his hand again. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Cook quirked a brow as he took the hand. “It’s my job,” he said simply. “But you’re welcome.” He gave a brief nod and walked off, again stretching his arms behind his back, working them in circles.

Truman knew Cook wasn’t unique. All the members of his team were just as driven and committed.

For the first time, Truman felt a glimmer of hope.

TWENTY-FIVE

The day dragged, and Truman struggled to stay patient.

He tried to make himself useful, moving equipment, bracing tent poles, and even washing dishes, while sticking as close to the negotiators’ RV as possible. The storm had picked up, a heavy white fall that made the base camp feel more isolated than ever. The snow set Truman on edge.

It was a ticking clock.

What if Ghattas decided the snow would grow too deep to continue the operation? Every half hour, the negotiators had attempted to reach the compound. And every half hour they had been ignored.

“Maybe he got rid of the radio,” Truman suggested to Jeff when he came out of the RV after the fourth failed call.

“They’re weighing that possibility, but they’re convinced he’s playing a waiting game, trying to keep the upper hand by showing that he’ll answer on his own time.”

A pissing contest.

Truman went back to his odd jobs around the base camp.

At four o’clock Jeff stepped out of the RV and signaled Truman, who had been talking with a small group from the FBI’s SWAT team. Truman excused himself, his eyes fixed on Jeff as he strode over, his skin vibrating with the unknown.

Good news? Bad news?

“Hodges answered,” Jeff said quietly as he led Truman into the RV. Inside were the same three negotiators, SSA Bill Ghattas, Agents Aguirre and Gorman, and the SWAT team leader. Agent Sanchez was writing rapidly on a yellow legal pad as he focused on Hodges’s words. The tension in the RV was palpable, but Agent Sanchez’s voice was calm as he replied to Hodges.

“I don’t understand your benefit from such a request,” Sanchez said into his headset mic.

Truman gave an inquiring glance at Jeff, who shrugged one shoulder. Ghattas caught Truman’s eye for a moment, and he knew the SSA wasn’t happy to have him listening, but he would let it slide for the moment.

“I need to hear from Jason himself that he’s being treated fairly,” Hodges’s voice came through the speakers.

“Jason?” Truman mouthed to Jeff.

“The sick boy’s father,” Jeff whispered back.

“I’m sure we can arrange a phone—” Sanchez began.

“No. Not a phone call,” said Hodges. “I need to see that he hasn’t been injured or isn’t being threatened. I don’t have any reason to trust the ATF.”

“And this will help establish that trust?” Sanchez asked into his mic while eyeing Ghattas.

Ghattas nodded.

“It will help,” said Hodges.

“I can make this happen. I can get Jason Trotter up here for you,” Sanchez answered. “But before I do, I’m going to ask something of you in return for the same reason. Trust. We need a two-way street here.”

“I’m listening.”

Truman recalled a negotiator’s guideline: make concessions, but always get something in return.

“I’d like you to let some of the children come out,” Sanchez said.

“I don’t think so. This is their home.”

“I understand. But maybe their parents are a bit worried now since the Trotter boy became so ill. If their parents want to leave with the children, they are free to go wherever they please. We will not detain them.”

Hodges was quiet for a long moment.

“We’re just looking out for these kids,” added Sanchez. “At the moment, you and I are simply having a talk. No one is in any trouble. Let’s keep it that way by making certain that the children have access to medical care.”

Another negotiator guideline: minimize the consequences.

“I’ll see what the parents think. Hodges out.”

Sanchez spun around in his chair with his hands up in the air. One of the other men slapped his palm. “Yes!”

Now that Truman understood what the negotiators were looking for from Hodges, he knew that call had been a solid step forward.

“He even signed off,” Agent Aguirre said. “All very civil so far.”

“But no mention of an FBI agent,” Truman reminded her, concerned that the team had forgotten one of its primary reasons for coming to the compound: to get Mercy out of a hostile situation.

“I’m thinking that no complaints about Agent Kilpatrick is good news,” said Ghattas.

Truman’s acid stomach didn’t agree with him; no one had heard from Mercy in five days.

Anything could have happened.

“I’ll send some agents to get Trotter out of the county jail and bring him up,” said Ghattas. “If Hodges wants to see one of his men, we can do that.”

“My men will transport Trotter to the meeting spot and provide backup at the gate. Out of sight of course,” said the SWAT leader, determination on his face. “We’ll figure out the logistics immediately.” He left the RV.

“Now,” said Ghattas as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What to do about the safety of our agent inside.”

“Her name is Mercy,” Truman stated. Beside him, he felt Jeff stiffen.

Ghattas exhaled and shot Truman an exhausted look. “Special Agent Kilpatrick,” he conceded. “We’ve received no indication of her status whatsoever from Hodges, and the HRT snipers haven’t seen anyone of her description inside.”

“What have they seen?” Agent Gorman asked. The question had been on the tip of Truman’s tongue, but he’d held back; he’d already learned from Cook that it was considered none of his business.

“There is a guard rotation on the perimeter, and our men are trying to establish the pattern. They have eyes on the command center, the children’s cabin, and the mess hall. All the intel that was received from Agent O’Shea on the layout of the compound has been accurate.”

The RV went silent at the mention of the murdered agent’s name. Aguirre pressed her lips together, her eyes suddenly bright. Gorman set a comforting hand on her shoulder. Guilt flowed through Truman. He’d nearly forgotten about the man Ollie had discovered.

“So far,” Ghattas continued, “we haven’t seen any odd actions. People come and go from all the buildings. It appears to be business as usual.” He looked every person in the eye. “I expect to see that change now.”

An hour later Hodges told the negotiators he’d let all the children out after he saw that Jason Trotter wasn’t being mistreated. An agreement was reached that three government vehicles would park one hundred yards from the gate at 7:00 p.m. to transport the exiting children and their parents. Two FBI SWAT agents would accompany Trotter on foot within fifty feet of the gate. Once Hodges had spoken with Trotter, he would release the children and their parents.

The base camp had erupted with action. SWAT and HRT geared up. They would park out of sight two hundred yards from the gate but move closer on foot through the woods to observe and provide cover for the release of the children.

Truman watched the agents put on their body armor and helmets. The men were silent, their expressions showing deep focus. Their helmets were equipped with cameras, and all the agents had earpieces and microphones to stay in constant contact. The camera feeds from the snipers and the helmets would be monitored at the base camp, where other members of the teams would observe and relay information.

Truman and Eddie found a place with Aguirre and Gorman at the monitors in a second RV that had arrived that morning—the FBI’s command hub. This vehicle had a semi’s cab instead of looking like a traditional RV. Inside it was stocked with as much high tech as the negotiators’ SWAT RV, if not more. Truman stayed to the back of the group while watching, keeping his expression neutral, hiding that his heart felt as if he’d drunk ten shots of espresso.

Once the children were out, new negotiations would begin to empty the compound of all residents. If Hodges failed to comply promptly, HRT would enter to find Mercy.

We’re one step closer to getting her out.

Truman still refused to consider the other possibility: Mercy was dead. He had decided to believe she would soon be out. Because if he paused or looked back, he might not find the strength to go on.

His inner fortitude grew weaker by the hour.

He had to keep looking forward.

He moved his gaze from monitor to monitor, primarily watching the three snipers’ scope transmissions, fascinated by the sight of people moving in the compound. His eyes ached as his brain attempted to turn each figure into Mercy. The sun had set, and the camp was displayed in shades of gray on the monitors. The snow was a constant dust falling across the screens, affecting the clarity of the images.

“I don’t like that this is happening after dark,” Ghattas murmured.