I’ll have to fire at some point so she knows we’ve moved away from the house.
Apprehension filled him at the thought of shooting. He was shaky, still off balance, and his head had started to throb. I’m not recovered enough for this.
He’d probably have one opportunity. After that Ryan would know exactly where he was.
I have to make it count.
The shot had to either take Ryan down or be used as a last resort to signal Mercy.
Rushing water sounded behind him, growing louder and closer as he moved farther from the house. There hadn’t been water on the satellite image. But there’d been a dirt farm road.
Not a road. A dry riverbed.
“Who’s playing the hero?” came Ryan’s voice through the rain.
Truman turned toward the voice, straining to see him and trying to judge the distance. Twenty feet? Thirty?
“I know this land,” Ryan called out. “I don’t need light to find you.”
The large creek was now close on his right. Truman knew Ryan was on the other side of the wooden fence, which gave him a false sense of protection. A few horizontal rails made for lousy cover, but he stayed silent and crouched lower behind them as he stumbled, his legs shaking from the effort.
Now I’m the prey. Weakened prey.
The sensation of being hunted weighed heavily on his shoulders, making his stomach churn. The strength and focus needed to take an accurate shot at Ryan had dwindled unnervingly. It was no longer an option.
Keep leading him away from the house.
He mentally repeated the mantra, ignoring the pain in his arm and head. He needed to get the man as far away as possible. And try to cover his own ass.
Lightning flashed, and Truman dropped awkwardly to the ground, twisting to protect his arm.
He saw me.
The crack of Ryan’s gunshot was simultaneous with the thought.
Truman had landed on his right shoulder and now rolled to his back to get his weapon arm free.
His left leg dangled in open air. There was no ground beneath it, and he felt the dirt collapse under the left side of his back.
I’m falling.
Terror gripped him as he flung out his arms to catch himself. There was no foliage to grab.
Gravity pulled him over the edge and into the rushing water.
At the sound of Ryan’s primal male scream, Mercy crawled to the closest window and peeked out into the dark.
What happened to him?
Lightning revealed Ryan on his knees about fifty feet from the house, his hands over his ears. Suddenly he turned his head toward the fence that ran along the property.
Mercy caught her breath. She’d seen what had caught Ryan’s eye.
Truman was running along the other side of the fence.
She’d know him anywhere. The microscopic split second had been enough to tell her he’d not listened to her order to stay away.
He’s running away from the house. And Ryan just followed.
“That damned idiot.” Anger flushed her face. “He’s leading Ryan away.”
He’ll get himself killed.
She knew how weak Truman was. She also knew that it would be impossible for her to move Britta. The woman couldn’t walk, and Mercy couldn’t carry her. Truman’s heroic maneuvers would be for nothing.
Unless I get to Ryan first.
Mercy darted back to the bathroom and saw the faint light of the flashlight under the door. “It’s me.” She pushed the door open, grabbed the Glock she’d seen earlier, and knelt next to Britta. “Take this.” She pressed the weapon into Britta’s shaking hand. “I’m going outside.”
“No.” Her voice was almost inaudible.
“Truman’s out there. I won’t be alone.” Mercy ran a hand over Zara’s soft ears and then squeezed Britta’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Our backup should be here any moment. Don’t shoot any of them,” she joked half-heartedly.
“No,” Britta said again.
Mercy picked up the flashlight and checked Britta’s leg. Still slow seepage. How long can she last? “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to take the flashlight.” She leaned closer to Britta, holding her gaze. “I’ll get the bastard for you,” she said in a harsh voice, her throat swelling with emotion. Britta had been through hell. Multiple times. This was the chance to end it.
Britta blinked moist eyes and nodded.
Mercy turned off the flashlight and shoved it in her pocket. She closed the bathroom door behind her, drew her weapon, and wondered if she’d ever speak to Britta again.
No time for thoughts like that.
She went out the back door and headed in the direction she’d seen Truman go. She silently jogged through the rain, thankful she was dressed in her usual black to blend in with the dark. The ground was uneven, and she moved carefully, favoring her leg and wishing she could use the flashlight. Why’d I even bring it?
From her previous visit, she knew the fence kept going beyond the house. But she didn’t know how far. Or what else was out there. She heard the rush of the large creek and wondered if it was near to overflowing from the heavy rain. A new sound reached her ears, and she froze.
Is someone talking?
The voice was male and unfamiliar, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Mercy took careful, slow steps, her ears straining to hear more through the rain. The voice was definitely ahead of her, but she didn’t know how far. Her gun tight in both hands, she moved forward, rolling heel to toe, keeping her arms taut. She slowed her breathing, concentrating on the dark ahead.
Don’t shoot Truman.
She might only have a split second to decide whether to shoot.
Lightning.
The back of a person aiming a rifle appeared twenty feet directly in front of her. He fired as the light disappeared.
Mercy held her fire, knowing Ryan must have shot at Truman. Which meant Truman could be in her line of fire beyond Ryan.
A muffled gasp and then a splash reached her.
The heavens gave her another flash of light, and she saw Ryan peering over the fence rails, his rifle slung over his shoulder on its strap.
She whipped out her flashlight, clasped it against her weapon, and shone the spotlight on the person in front of her. “Federal officer! Raise your hands!”
Ryan’s hands slowly went up in the air. He tried to glance over his shoulder and winced at the beam from the flashlight.
“Don’t move!” she ordered.
He froze.
Where’s Truman?
“I didn’t do anything,” Ryan called to her.
She wanted to laugh. “We found your brother today.”
His immediate shudder pleased something deep inside her.
“We also found a binder devoted to Britta and her family. I assume that belonged to you?”
No answer.
“Grady Baldwin didn’t kill those families years ago, did he?” she asked. “Did you help your father with those tasks?”
“No!” he shot back. “I had nothing to do with him.”
“Put your left hand on your head.” He obeyed, and Mercy mentally ran through the best steps to safely get the rifle away from him. The sounds of faint sirens reached her.
Finally.
“With one finger of your right hand, I want you to slowly lift the strap of the rifle off your shoulder and bring it all the way out to your right.”
She took a few steps closer, concentrating on his movements. “Slower!” He finally dangled the rifle with his outstretched hand. “Slowly lower it until it touches the ground, then drop the strap.”
Again he obeyed.
“Right hand on your head, lace your fingers. Take four big steps to your left and then two backward toward me.”
When he was far enough away from the rifle she exhaled. “You killed the Hartlage and Jorgensen families. Why?”
He muttered something.
“Kneel. Keep your hands on your head. And I didn’t hear what you said.” She stepped closer, her weapon and flashlight still trained on his back.
“I needed him out of my head!” he exclaimed after he was on his knees. “I needed him to stop talking to me!”
“Who?”
“My father! His work needed to be finished!”
Britta. He means Britta needed to be finished.
“I’m pretty sure the death of those two families had nothing to do with your father. And I bet your brother’s murder didn’t either.”