It could be too late.
“We can’t get recent satellite photos,” Gorman added. “The cloud cover and snow are causing issues. We’ve considered sending a drone, but it’d have to fly low under the clouds and could be seen and tip our hand, so we’ll have to operate off what we have from last week.”
“How did this operation go to hell?” Truman burst out at the ATF agents. “What the fuck happened up there?”
Carleen Aguirre took a deep breath. “I wish I had a better answer for you. Our last communication with Agent O’Shea before Agent Kilpatrick joined him was encouraging. He felt he’d earned the trust of some of the more important men in the compound, but he still didn’t have a confirmation on the stolen weapons or this ‘major plan’ he was hearing rumors about.” She looked him in the eye. “By all accounts, it was moving smoothly, although it was a little slower than we hoped.”
“You sent her in there with no prep time.” Truman ran a hand through his hair as he paced, glaring at Aguirre and Gorman. “You sent her in blind.”
“We appreciate what she did for us,” Aguirre said quietly. “She was sharp and smart. With the little time we had, there was no one else I would have felt as comfortable with to send into that situation. I have confidence in her. I still do. We’ll get her out.”
It hit Truman that Agent Carleen Aguirre was the first person who’d outright implied she believed Mercy was still alive. Everyone else had spoken about the rescue. No one had said they believed it would be successful.
“Mercy is fucking resourceful,” added Eddie. “She probably has half those guys tied to trees and the other half convinced they should let her do the same to them.”
Truman stopped and squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. “What am I going to tell Kaylie?”
“Shit,” mumbled Eddie, looking away.
“I can’t do it.” Truman continued his pacing. “If I tell Kaylie, I have to tell Mercy’s sisters and her parents and Ollie—I’d have to tell my men why I’m headed out of town.” I can’t handle their grief in addition to my own. He rubbed his chest, feeling his heart’s fierce rhythm. “I can’t bring myself to do that right now.”
“I can help you tell the family,” offered Eddie.
“No—it’s not just telling them. They’ll be worried out of their heads and unable to do anything about it.” He shook his head. “Mercy wouldn’t want her family needlessly worried.” He met Carleen’s dark gaze. “I can’t do that to them until I have some facts.”
“You mentioned heading out of town,” Carleen slowly said. “There’s no role for you in this—”
“He’s going with us,” Jeff asserted. “The FBI takes responsibility for his presence.” He looked pointedly at Truman. “Don’t get any ideas that you will be rushing a militia camp with the HRT team. You’ll be behind the scenes with me.”
Truman nodded. If that was the only way to get near the compound, he’d take it.
When he got there, he’d decide what to do.
Right now he was apt to Rambo his way inside.
A familiar Ford Explorer turned into the lot, and Truman recognized Bolton’s vehicle. He’d completely forgotten the county detective was coming to brief him on something about the second John Doe. Truman walked away from the federal agents, desperately needing to put some space between them and himself.
A hole had been punched through his chest, and wind kept whipping through, chilling his heart and lungs.
It hurt.
A passenger got out of Bolton’s vehicle, and Truman searched his memory to attach a name. Darrell Palmer. Britta’s neighbor who she had first thought might be the dead man on her property.
Interesting.
Truman nodded at Bolton and held out a hand to Darrell, pretending he hadn’t just received the worst news of his life. “Mr. Palmer.”
The man’s eyes were red and swollen, and he had a hard time making eye contact with Truman.
“What can I do for you?” Truman aimed the question at Bolton, who looked grim enough to strangle someone.
“Darrell has identified our second John Doe. It’s his brother, Stephen.”
Truman spun to Darrell. “Your brother? Why didn’t you say anything when we showed you the photo?” He remembered how shaken Darrell had appeared when he looked at the picture of the dead man. Truman had chalked up his reaction to seeing a dead body.
Darrell looked at Truman, twisted his mouth, and then looked away. Truman impatiently raised a brow at Bolton. “Well?”
I don’t have time for this.
Bolton grimaced. “Darrell believes his brother’s body was left as a warning to him.” He glared at the older man. “He didn’t say anything the other day because he feared for his own life.”
“Keep talking,” said Truman. The explanation didn’t make sense. “Who did it? And why was he left on Britta’s property?”
“I think they mistook it for my land.” Darrell finally spoke up. “The layout of the field and driveway is identical to mine—just a half mile farther down the road.”
Truman waited for the rest.
Darrell squeezed his eyes closed. “I haven’t seen Stephen in a long time. We parted ways a few years back. He was bitter and angry and blamed everyone for his financial problems but himself.” His eyes opened, and he looked earnestly at Truman. “It all was of his own doing.” He shook his head. “My brother didn’t care to work and spent every dollar he had and then some, but I’d heard he’d joined some group.” Darrell stopped speaking and shoved his hands in his pockets, his focus drawn to the federal agents across the parking lot.
“Group?” Truman prompted, tamping down the anger that threatened to distract him.
“Antigovernment, living on an isolated compound,” supplied Bolton.
The hair rose on Truman’s arms. “Where?” he choked out.
It can’t be the same.
Bolton frowned and gave him an odd look. “Darrell’s not sure. Somewhere east of here. Closer to Pendleton or John Day.”
“What does this have to do with your brother’s murder?” Truman asked Darrell.
Discomfort flashed. “I talked to Stephen about a month ago. He told me about the place he was living in. He sounded cocky and pleased, and said this group was going to stand up to the government and get what they wanted—”
“What did this group want?” Truman cut in.
“I don’t know exactly,” Darrell said. “Stephen was being secretive and smug about it. I think the only reason he called me was to sell me some rifles. Said he had access to several and asked if I was interested. Promised me a fantastic price and rattled off a half dozen different types he could sell me. When I asked where the weapons came from, he got defensive. ‘What kind of brother do you think I am?’ and that sort of bullshit. He said he was trying to raise money—that his friends were legitimate dealers. I didn’t believe him and told him so. His records as a minor are sealed, but he was arrested a few times for breaking and entering, and the only thing he stole was weapons.” Darrell shook his head. “Even when he was young, he was always after a fast buck.
“Then he talked again about how his group was going to get the government off their backs and make the US a better place for Americans. More cocky crap I didn’t need to hear. So I threatened to call the police—I wouldn’t really. I just wanted to shake him up a little bit. It sounded like a stupid place to be, and it was the only thing I could think of that might make him leave. He’s always been one to protect his own ass. Anyway, his demeanor and tone changed when I mentioned the police. He sounded scared. He warned me not to, saying the last guy who’d gotten shit from his family back home had disappeared.”