“There is a satellite phone hidden outside the compound. He knows where it is. It’s for emergencies only. If he is caught with it, they’ll probably kill him.”
Mercy said nothing, searching Carleen’s brown gaze. She spotted a flicker of the woman’s concern for her agent before it vanished. Carleen was fully aware of the danger and the unknowns.
“We considered sending in a backup battery with you for the satellite phone. It has one, but another can’t hurt.” She grimaced. “I was voted down. Too risky if you’re caught.”
Great. “How did Chad use a pay phone?”
“A perk of being the guy in charge of maintaining the vehicles. He drives into town occasionally.”
Neal entered the office with an ancient duffel over his shoulder. “I added a heavier coat,” he said as he dropped the bag on the floor. “It can get cold at that elevation at night.”
Mercy stared at the ugly bag. “What is that?”
“Your belongings,” he answered, his hands on his hips. “No fancy polycarbonate hard-sided suitcase when you’re roughing it.”
“Oh no you don’t. I pack my own stuff.” Mercy was instantly on the ground, digging through the duffel.
“We were very particular about what we chose for you,” Carleen said. “This has been worked out for weeks. Everything you need is in there.”
“No gloves, no poncho. Not even a first aid kit,” Mercy muttered as she scattered the belongings. “I’ll bring my own underwear, thank you very much,” she said, tossing used underwear into the wastebasket.
“They’re new,” Carleen clarified. “But they’ve been washed.”
“Still . . . I’ll wear my own shit.” She set aside three pairs of pants. “These aren’t my size. I’ll grab my own tonight.” She held up a sweatshirt, eyeing the proportions. “This works.”
“Don’t pack designer jeans,” Neal told her. “Jessica wouldn’t have the money for those. Pack old stuff. There’s little power out there, so that means no hairdryers or curling irons. And you can expect your belongings to be searched by members of the group—possibly a few times. Privacy won’t exist.”
“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 T-shirts, 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.