“I know what to pack when roughing it,” Mercy stated. She wasn’t surprised by the prospect of multiple searches. Paranoia was rampant in that type of crowd, and it started with the leaders, trickling down to everyone else. “I need my own bags from my vehicle.”

Mercy was always prepared. She’d grown up the child of survivalist preppers and had never been able to shake the compulsion to plan for disaster. Any disaster. Fires, destruction of the nation’s electrical grids, attacks from foreign governments. Even attacks from her own.

Secreted in the Cascade mountain foothills, she had a cabin prepped and ready if she and her loved ones needed to hide. They could survive for years. Maybe decades.

“No. Everyone is allowed a single bag of belongings.”

“Then I’ll cram my contents into this.” Mercy looked up from the floor. “It’d be stupid to show up without appearing semiprepared.” An idea struck her. “My person has a medical background. She’d have some supplies on hand.” She spoke quickly before Carleen could disapprove. “I’ll let you examine what I choose to take with me, and you’ll see it’s not out of character.”

The ATF agents exchanged a glance. “We’ll take a look,” Carleen agreed.

Mercy tossed her key fob to Neal. “Black Tahoe. Second row. There’s a backpack and a medical kit in the back.” He spun and left without saying a word. Mercy continued to empty the duffel. “Jessica isn’t stupid,” she mumbled. “She grew up in the center of Washington State. She’d know how rough the weather and land can be. She’d be prepared for that.”

I don’t even see a Leatherman tool.

Carleen was silent as she watched Mercy root through the bag. Mercy kept the socks, the Tshirts, two sweaters, and a jacket. She approved of the bare-bones plastic bag with basic hair products, toothpaste, and toothbrush.

Neal reappeared with Mercy’s GOOD (Get Out of Dodge) bag and medical kit, both of which she always kept in her vehicle. She thanked him and proceeded to dissect the contents of the GOOD backpack, weighing what was most important. Neal opened the medical kit and inspected each item. He set most of the products to the side as she watched out of the corner of her eye, clamping her lips shut.

That was her equipment. Her lifelines. Her preparations. And he was artlessly dividing them up.

He might as well be slowly removing each of her fingers.

Neal eyed the packs of large syringes full of tiny white tablets and tossed them in the reject pile. Her heart jumped.

“No!” Mercy shuffled over on her knees and grabbed the packages, shoving them into the duffel.

He stared at her. “What are they?”

“Fucking lifesavers,” she told him. She’d plunged the tablets of crustacean shells into a gunshot wound in Eddie’s chest. They’d expanded, stopped the bleeding, and saved his life. She wouldn’t leave them behind. Ever.

Neal sat back and let her sort. Bandages, tape, Benadryl, ibuprofen, an analgesic inhalant, scalpels, supplies for stitches, and on and on. She mentally grappled with leaving any of it behind.

The old duffel was nearly bursting at the seams by the time she was done. She’d also added water purification tablets and a few MREs, crossing her fingers that food wouldn’t be an issue at the camp. She’d wear her own boots and heavier coat, but she still needed space for her own pants and underwear.

Screw their one-bag rule. She had a casual shoulder bag with a deceptive amount of storage. They’d expect a woman to have a purse.

She sighed and sat back on her heels, feeling satisfied with her preparations. Her earlier sensation of floating in the air had been tempered by the act of packing. Neal and Carleen silently regarded her.

“What’s next?” she asked.

Neal removed a folder from his case. “Time to learn about the people you’ll meet in America’s Preserve.”

“I thought you didn’t know much about anyone beyond the leader, Pete Hodges.”

“We don’t. This intel has been gleaned from Chad’s reports and the few background checks we’ve managed to do. A lot of these guys have changed their names several times.”

“Great.” Mercy checked the time. It was nearly eight o’clock. “One more hour. Then I’m going home.”

Carleen nodded. “We’ll pick you up at six a.m. tomorrow and take you to the bus station.”

Mercy exhaled and looked at the remains of her GOOD bag, feeling as if she were leaving half of herself behind.

Jessica. My name is Jessica.

How will Truman react to my no-contact assignment?

Eagle’s Nest police chief Truman Daly heard the rumble of Mercy’s Tahoe outside her apartment. He poured a glass of wine for her, which he’d been waiting to pour for the last three hours. His own glass had been filled twice, and it’d taken restraint not to have more.

Something was up.

It had sounded in her voice when Mercy had called to warn him she’d be late. She hadn’t gone into details and had promised to explain when she got home. She’d sounded distracted, worried, her tone slightly higher than usual. He wasn’t surprised. Their jobs came with twists and turns. Shit happened, and both of them knew how to roll with the punches.

He scooped two cheese enchiladas from the huge pan Kaylie had baked and popped them in the microwave. Mercy’s teenage niece was a damned good cook and baker. Truman was pretty good with a grill, but whenever he heard Kaylie was cooking dinner, he always tried to eat at their apartment. Usually with Ollie, his eighteen-year-old ward, in tow.

Tonight the two teenagers were at the library. Kaylie was working on college applications, and Ollie was studying . . . something. Truman couldn’t keep track of the teen’s classes. The boy was driven. He’d grown up isolated in the forest until he came to live with Truman last spring and had attacked his education like a starving child. In a way, Ollie had been starving, and information was the only thing that satiated him. He would have his GED by Christmas, and then he planned to study to become a teacher.

Truman leaned against the counter and waited, watching the front door as Kaylie’s cat, Dulce, figure-eighted around his ankles. Truman vibrated with energy. A common occurrence when he knew Mercy was about to arrive. From the first day she’d appeared in his life a year ago, he’d looked forward to every minute with her. Now they were planning their Christmastime wedding.

The doorknob rattled, and Dulce abandoned him, dashing to leap onto the back of the chair next to the door and stretch toward the woman who stepped through. Mercy’s gaze immediately went to Truman, love and exhaustion shining in her eyes.

A smile stretched across his face, triggered as usual by the sight of her.

She dropped an unfamiliar duffel from her shoulder and had her arms around him, leaving Dulce to meow in protest on her perch.

Something relaxed in his spine as he kissed her, and he caught a hint of her usual light lemon-bar scent as he inhaled deeply against her hair. She leaned into him, taking longer than usual with their evening greeting.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Mmmhmm,” she vibrated against his neck.

He held her several more seconds, absorbed in the headiness of her touch, the simple act of being in each other’s presence. They knew each other inside and out, enough to speak without words.

Pulling back, she met his gaze. Her green eyes were slightly bloodshot, and her lips curved to one side as she studied his face as if memorizing it. “Kids?” she asked.

“Library. Kaylie left enchiladas.”

“I need food.”

They reluctantly pulled apart, and he removed the enchiladas from the microwave as she took a seat at the kitchen bar with a sigh, her glass of wine in front of her. She rested on one elbow, her chin in hand, watching him intently.

“Yes?” He set the plate before her as she sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving his.

She set down the glass. “They’re sending me out of town.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Six a.m.”

So far this wasn’t a big deal, but the uncertainty in the tilt of her head told him she hadn’t shared all the details. He leaned on the bar, his weight on his forearms, his eyes level with hers, studying her face. She’d pulled back her long, dark hair and secured it in a messy knot at her neck, indicating it had been a tough day.

He savored the intensity of her green eyes. She was the queen of the poker face, but he knew how to read her.

Something was bothering her.

He waited.

“They don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Might be two weeks . . . possibly three.”

Surprise struck him. “That’s long.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“Where are you going?”

She spun the wineglass stem with her fingers and dropped her gaze. “They won’t let me tell anyone,” she said softly and looked up at him again.

He felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. He searched her face. Misery shone.

“It’s that important?” he asked.

“They believe so.” Her attention went back to her wine.

“Is it dangerous?” He held his breath but tried to sound nonchalant. Every part of their jobs held an element of danger. His question wasn’t fair.

She shrugged. “It could be. No more than usual, I guess.”