The shots were close by.

“Dammit,” said Rowan. “Thor!” Far ahead, the black dog froze against the white of the snow, his head swerving in the direction of his handler. “Here!” Thor raced in their direction, snow flying behind him.

“Which direction did it come from?” Bolton murmured, turning in a circle. “That way?” He pointed.

“That’s what I thought,” answered Truman, now that his heart had resumed beating.

Mercy?

He removed his gloves and unholstered his weapon as Bolton did the same.

“I won’t have my dog getting shot,” Rowan stated as Thor arrived and sat at her feet. She eyed their weapons, and her hands twitched. Truman knew she was armed. He’d spotted the familiar bulge at her ribs as she put on her orange vest.

But she left it at her side.

“Let’s go,” Truman ordered. He led off in the direction he believed the shot had come from. He jogged in the snowshoes, adrenaline keeping him moving, weaving among the thin trees. Behind him Bolton panted, and Rowan murmured to her dog.

We’re close.

A third shot sounded.

Truman ran harder.

Most people ran away from gunfire; he always ran toward it.

The sparse cover of the trees ended, and a wide expanse of snow spread before them. Far up ahead two people were fighting.

Truman sprinted up the gentle slope, his weapon ready, Bolton and Rowan on his heels.

Rowan said something, and Thor took off like a bullet.

The fighting woman hit the man in the mouth with her ax.

Mercy.

Truman knew her shape; he knew her movements. It was Mercy.

The man was on his knees, a hand to his bleeding face. Mercy raised the ax over her head, and Truman’s heart stopped again.

She’s going to split his head open.

She paused, the ax wavering in the air.

Thor caught her attention, and she turned to protect herself from the black attacker.

“Stop!” shouted Rowan. Thor halted.

“Mercy!” The name burst out of Truman, directly from his heart.

She looked past the dog. Truman was too far away to make eye contact, but an instant connection lit up his brain like a firework. In his mind his fingertips felt her skin, and his nose smelled her scent. As he ran closer, horror clogged his throat at the sight of the bruises and scabs on her face.

But their eyes locked.

She lowered the ax as if its weight had suddenly tripled, and took a hesitant step in his direction. “Truman?”

His name wavered in the air.

The bloodied man on his knees gathered himself to knock her down. Truman halted and pushed his weapon forward, his arms shaking with exertion. “Behind—”

Mercy was already spinning back toward her attacker, the tip of the ax handle in one hand. Her momentum swung the blunt end of the ax into his temple and he dropped. Mercy stood over him, the ax ready again. He didn’t move.

“Asshole.” Mercy’s curse floated across the snow.

“I like her,” muttered Rowan. “Heeere!” she ordered Thor. The dog shot across the snow.

Truman slowed to a walk, his energy evaporated, but nothing would stop him now.

She was alive.

His fiancée turned her head, keeping one eye on the man in the snow while watching the three of them approach. She swayed on her feet.

Her face was black, blue, green, and a hideous shade of yellow. Scabs crusted her lips and nose. Her black hair was a stringy, tangled mess.

She was beautiful.

He strode directly to her and wrapped her in his arms. She shook and quietly sobbed, her face buried in his coat. He was barely aware of Bolton cuffing the man in the snow and pulling him into a seated position.

The stress, anxiety, worry, and despair of the past several days melted away, and his head throbbed at the release.

He had her. She was back. And he wasn’t going to let her go again.

His eyes squeezed tight, his lashes growing damp.

“Stop right there!” Rowan snapped, making Truman jump and lift his head. Beside her, Thor growled, and Bolton raised his weapon.

Rowan had spoken to a small approaching figure. A girl.

Mercy spun around. “Eden! It’s safe. Come here, honey.”

With a hesitant look at a glaring Rowan, the girl approached. The missing teenager, Truman realized as the girl fell into Mercy’s arms the same way she had fallen into his.

Mercy’s green eyes met his. “Eden helped me escape. We need to locate her mother.”

“Her mother is already waiting for her,” Truman said, unable to look away. “I didn’t know if I’d find you.” His voice cracked.

“That makes two of us,” she said softly. “But it doesn’t matter now.” She leaned into Truman, still holding the girl, who was sobbing frantically.

“Everything is good,” Mercy whispered. “Everything.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Mercy hung on Eddie’s every word, and Truman gripped her hand as they sat in his living room, exhausted from her rescue yesterday. Truman had brought Mercy back to his home in Eagle’s Nest after a visit to the ER. The doctor had pronounced her fine but a little beat-up. Exactly what she’d informed Truman on the drive home from the woods, but he’d insisted on hearing it from someone else. She’d been x-rayed and poked and prodded while drinking a hot caramel macchiato and eating a Big Mac. Her stomach had churned at the rich food, but her tongue and brain had been in heaven.

The food had helped more than the painkillers.

“Sean spilled everything,” Eddie told them as he sipped from a cup of coffee, his usual jovial face fully serious. “It took all of two minutes before he told us that Neal Gorman had betrayed Tim O’Shea and Mercy to Pete Hodges.”

“What?” Mercy was in shock. “But Neal . . . he . . .” She shook her head, unable to reconcile the actions with the ATF agent who had helped her prep for the assignment. “That can’t be right.”

Eddie grimaced. “We arrested him this morning. We didn’t communicate our suspicions to the ATF, worried that the leak went deeper than just Gorman.”

“That asshole,” grumbled Truman. “Gorman stood with us every minute as we waited through negotiations and then watched the operation blow up.”

“Right?” said Eddie. “You should have seen his face when we showed up at his office this morning. He knew the minute we walked in. I thought he was going to piss his pants.”

“What about Carleen?” Mercy asked as the female agent’s kind brown eyes popped up in her memory.

“Agent Aguirre is clean, according to Gorman,” said Eddie. “It appears this was all on him. Somehow Gorman discovered who had committed the ATF robbery—”

“And murders,” added Mercy.

“Eight months ago. Instead of taking the information to his boss, Gorman kept it close, using it to blackmail Pete into giving him several of the stolen weapons.”

“But why did Gorman want weapons?” Truman asked.

“He sold them. Since he worked for the ATF, he knew who would pay top dollar.”

“Money,” Mercy said with disgust. “It always comes down to money.”

“I think Gorman’s ego took over. Sean said he frequently communicated with Pete.”

“Is that when Gorman told Pete about Chad—I mean Tim—and me?” Mercy’s voice cracked on the agent’s name. His death would always haunt her.

“Sort of.” Eddie took a deep breath. “At some point Gorman decided he wanted glory at the ATF. He started to feed Pete information about crucial servers that were being used at the ATF’s Yakima satellite branch.”

“Servers that didn’t exist,” Truman pointed out.

“Correct. But once the men of America’s Preserve blew up the office, Gorman would turn them in and bask in the triumph for quickly solving a domestic terrorism case.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mercy. “Pete would have immediately fingered Gorman as a leak.”

“Gorman didn’t say it outright, but I think he planned for Pete to have a very short life span after the explosion.”

“But Sean knew someone from a federal agency was feeding Pete information.”

Eddie grinned. “Well, I can tell you Neal Gorman fully believes Pete hadn’t told anyone he had help, but I wonder how many other people knew. Anyway, Pete grew hesitant about the server plan, worrying that it could be traced to them. Gorman started to sweat that his plan would fall apart before it was executed, so he gave Pete information about the spies in his compound, hoping Pete would take care of Tim and Mercy.”

“Sean also knew a federal operation was being set up outside the compound. Gorman must have warned Pete,” Mercy said quietly. “I don’t think Pete trusted anyone—even his closest men. What a horrible way to live.”

“I suspect Pete’s confidence in Gorman was bolstered when he got your names.” Anger vibrated in Truman’s tone.