Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)

Liza found everyone eating pancakes in Rafe’s small studio apartment the next morning. They’d scattered among the three floors when it had been time for bed the night before. Liza had been worried that Abigail would want to camp on the floor with sleeping bags, but the girl had informed them that she’d slept on the floor “back there” and liked a soft bed better.

Liza had been the odd woman out, all the other adults—except for Amos—having partners. So she’d shared Abigail’s bed with the little girl, telling herself to stop feeling sorry for herself.

Amos had prepared her for Abigail’s nightmares. Liza was ready to hold Abigail and tell her that it would be all right. What she hadn’t expected was that she’d wake up gasping herself. She’d dreamed about Fritz again, except that at the last minute, Fritz’s face had become Tom’s.

Equally unexpected was that Abigail had comforted her. The child had wrapped her arms around Liza’s neck in a fierce hug, telling her sleepily that it was just a dream and that everything would be all right.

The aroma of bacon hit her nose as soon as she walked into Rafe’s apartment. Gideon offered his chair, but Liza waved him away, sitting on the floor instead.

“I have eaten in far worse conditions,” she assured him. She felt her phone buzz and tensed, instantly thinking it was Tom.

But it wasn’t and she had to scold herself for being disappointed.

“Who is it?” Abigail asked, peeking at her screen.

“It’s a text from the eye doctor,” Liza said with a smile. “Our glasses are ready.”

“No,” Gideon and Rafe said together.

“Mercy isn’t going anywhere near that place again,” Rafe added.

Amos had grown pale. “Neither is Abigail. Neither will you.”

Liza sighed. “I didn’t say I was going to pick them up. Can one of the agents go?”

“I’ll go,” Sasha said. “Erin and I need to pick up some groceries and we aren’t on anyone’s hit list. But won’t the glasses need to be fitted?”

“They took our measurements when we picked out the frames,” Mercy said. “And we called them with our credit card information that afternoon, when everything calmed down. I really want to get glasses on Abigail. She’s been getting headaches. Besides,” she added fondly, “we’re going to do a movie marathon later and it will be more fun for Abigail if she can see the TV screen.”

“We’ll leave after breakfast,” Sasha promised while Rafe served the pancakes. “And, once you can see better, we’ll catch a movie on a big screen, like in a real movie theater.”

“When it’s safe,” Abigail said matter-of-factly, and Amos looked stricken.

So did the other adults in the room. No child should ever treat danger like it’s normal, Liza thought, more determined than ever to help put DJ Belmont away forever.

“Yes,” Amos managed. “The minute that it’s safe.”

“What was the last movie you saw in the theater?” Daisy asked Amos, to change the subject.

“Batman,” he answered after a moment’s thought.

“Which one?” Daisy countered.

Amos frowned. “What do you mean, which one?”

“Oh wow,” Daisy breathed when she realized he was serious. “We need to Netflix you up.”

They spent the rest of breakfast telling Amos about all the Batman movies he’d missed during his thirty years in Eden while Abigail listened, eyes wide.

“I think the Batman movies are too scary for me,” Liza said, picking up on the child’s apprehension. “Maybe we’ll look for a new Disney flick.”

“I like Disney,” Abigail whispered, relieved.

“So do I,” Liza whispered back.

Amos mouthed a Thank you and Liza gave him a wink.

Breakfast was finished and they were drawing lots for who would do the dishes when Liza’s phone rang. Her pulse picked up because she knew this number. She’d hoped for a return call and dreaded it all at once.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” she said, leaving Rafe’s tiny studio apartment to sit on the steps in the foyer. “This is Liza,” she answered once she was alone.

“Miss Barkley, this is Portia Sinclair from Sunnyside Oaks. I hope I haven’t called too early on a Saturday.”

“Oh no, ma’am. What can I do for you?” she asked, trying to sound calm and collected.

“We’ve completed our interviews and would like to offer you the nursing assistant’s position.”

Liza didn’t have to fake her enthusiasm. “Thank you! That’s wonderful! When do I start?”

Miss Sinclair chuckled again. “Don’t you want to hear the salary?”

“Oh.” Liza hoped she hadn’t blown the opportunity. “Yes, please.” Sinclair said a number and Liza’s eyes widened. “That’s . . . more than I was anticipating.” It was double what she’d made at the veterans’ home.

“We get that a lot,” Sinclair said smugly. “Can you start on Tuesday? Your shift starts at seven thirty a.m., but we’d like you to arrive an hour early for orientation with your supervisor.”

“I’ll be there. Who should I ask for?”

“Nurse Innes. She’s one of our charge nurses. She’ll be training you.”

Innes. The one person Liza had planned to avoid. “Should I bring my own scrubs?”

“No, dear. We have uniforms for you here. Wear comfortable shoes, of course.”

“Of course. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

Liza ended the call, her hands now trembling. She’d done it. She was in.

With any luck, she’d meet Pastor and be able to talk to him. With any luck, he’d be in pain, on meds with his guard down, and he’d tell her where Eden was. Or at a minimum she could plant a few bugs so that the FBI could listen to anything Pastor and DJ discussed when the younger man came to visit. And, with any luck, both Pastor and DJ Belmont would go to prison for a very long time and would never be able to hurt Mercy or the others again.

Clenching her teeth, she steadied her hands enough to type out a text to Special Agent Raeburn. I was offered the job. Accepted. Starting Tuesday. Please advise.

She looked up from her phone when the door to Rafe’s apartment opened. Mercy stood in the doorway, looking anxious. “Is everything all right?”

Liza mustered up a smile. “Everything’s good. I just got a new job.”

Mercy frowned. “Then why do you look like you lost your best friend?”

Because I did.

Seeing Liza’s expression, Mercy winced. “That wasn’t what I meant to say.”

“It’s fine. Did I get the short straw on the breakfast dishes?”

“No. Sasha did. She’s appealing the decision, saying that the straws were rigged, but Erin’s already got most of the dishes in the dishwasher. Abigail is asking if you’re coming back. We’re getting ready to watch The Little Mermaid.”

“Better than Batman for a seven-year-old,” Liza agreed. She stood up. “I can watch one movie, and then I need to go home. I’ve got laundry to do.”

“Would you consider staying here for one more night? We’re worried about DJ. Especially after what he did yesterday.” The evenness Mercy had displayed since she’d heard the news began to fracture as Liza watched. “If Gideon hadn’t been wearing that vest . . .”

Liza shuddered. “Yeah. I get that. I’ll be fine, though. He doesn’t want me.”

“You don’t know that. You were there on Wednesday, too. Will you humor me?”

“Sure.” She slid her arm around Mercy’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “It’ll be all right.”

Mercy’s smile was sad. “You don’t know that,” she repeated.

She was tempted to tell Mercy the truth—that Pastor was in a rehab facility and she’d just gotten a job there so that she could help Tom put him away forever. But there was no way she was saying any of that, so she went with what was in her heart.

“But I do know it’ll be all right, because a seven-year-old told me so when I had a nightmare last night. Have faith, Mercy. I have a feeling things are going to get better very soon.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, MAY 27, 11:00 A.M.

The man was a motherfucking ghost. DJ had spent most of the morning trying to locate Roland Kowalski, which, of course, was not his real name.

It would be easier to search if he could think. Which would be easier if he didn’t have the fucking hangover from hell.

This was why he didn’t drink often. He’d woken to find he’d thrown up on Smythe’s floor, the empty whiskey bottle next to him in bed. Not a drop remained.

He didn’t remember finishing the bottle, which was alarming. He’d quickly checked all of his devices to be sure he hadn’t e-mailed or texted or posted anything damning, nearly wilting with relief when he saw that he had not.

He was never going to drink again. Which wasn’t going to be a problem if he didn’t figure out a way out of this mess. Right now, he was one guy with a bum arm, a rifle, and a handgun. And a laptop, which wasn’t worth jack shit, because Kowalski didn’t show up in any police reports, and according to the Internet, he owned no land or vehicles. He did, of course. He owned several vehicles, but DJ had never seen a legit license plate on any of them.

Not a surprise. Kowalski had been the one to teach him to use a 3D printer to make fake license plates. None of the addresses DJ had visited with Kowalski were registered to any real people. Like DJ’s house in Yuba City was owned by “John Derby.”

He hit dead end after dead end. None of Kowalski’s associates were traceable, because none of them used real names, either.

The cell phone charging on the nightstand pinged with an incoming text. DJ grabbed it to silence it but stopped when he saw the screen.

This was Nelson Smythe’s cell phone and the man had missed at least five calls and twenty text messages from his wife while DJ slept. This latest one read: Answer me or I’m calling 911. Did you have a stroke? Are you there? ANSWER ME!!!!

“Shit,” DJ muttered. He’d been good about keeping up with the woman’s texts, providing one- or two-word replies, such as Yes, No, Maybe, I’ll check, and Love you. Those were pretty typical of Smythe’s replies over the past six months, so DJ felt pretty confident that the woman hadn’t been suspicious.

Except then he’d drunk an entire bottle of whiskey and missed a whole assload of texts.

Groaning, he descended the stairs to the garage, where he grabbed a hair dryer and lifted the chest freezer’s lid. Ice crystals had formed on Smythe’s face, just like they had every day after he melted them off the day before.

Turning the hair dryer on, he blew warm air over Smythe’s frozen face until it was ice-free, then held the phone over his face until the screen unlocked. He hadn’t been that concerned about the texts until now, but if she called 911, it would suck. He needed a little time to pack his printers and the few belongings he’d taken from the Yuba City house.

I’m fine, he texted back. Not dead. 24-hr bug. Feeling better. Love you.

Glad u r not dead! The message was punctuated by heart emojis. Will call tonight. Miss u.

“Fuck,” he muttered. If she called and he didn’t answer, she might call 911. That was what he needed to avoid. Miss u, he replied.

He’d get the truck loaded up with his stuff, just in case. But he’d use some of the time to print more license plates. What he hoped for was to get Kowalski to back off and stop trying to kill him, but he didn’t think that was likely. So now he was focused on finding Kowalski’s hangouts. What he really wanted was Kowalski’s weapons stash, but if he stumbled on a vehicle along the way, he’d take it, because the Lexus was too dangerous to drive now. The BOLO on him listed the car’s make, model, and color along with the note that it would have fake plates.

Assholes. He was putting the blow dryer away when another text arrived on Smythe’s phone. It was a photo of some really cute kids all lined up, mouths open like birds. They were singing.

The next text read: Liam was the very best!

Liam, DJ had deduced, was the couple’s grandson, the event a concert at the kid’s school.

Send video, DJ typed back, because that was what Smythe usually said. DJ had wondered why the man hadn’t gone with his wife, but had realized through reading their texts that Smythe and his son-in-law did not get along.

He was lowering the freezer lid when a memory tickled his brain.

Concerts. Children.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Kowalski had a kid. A little boy, around six years old. On Wednesday, the kid had done a recital at his school. It was a private school, because DJ remembered Kowalski complaining about the cost of tuition when they’d been negotiating with a customer who’d wanted a break on the price of the kilo of coke they were selling.

This could work. He knew what the kid looked like, kind of, having once seen a photo of the boy while peeking at Kowalski’s phone. He’d taken every opportunity to spy on Kowalski because, while he’d trusted him to a point, Kowalski was all about himself. As are we all.

He’d wanted to learn, wanted to know the important details, so he’d risked looking over Kowalski’s shoulder. Therefore, DJ had a decent recollection of the boy’s face.

Schools had Facebook pages and websites. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, MAY 27, 1:15 P.M.

King Triton embraced the newly wedded Ariel, drawing a happy sigh from Abigail, who cuddled between Mercy and Liza on the floor of Rafe’s apartment. The place was small and its TV tiny, but they’d all congregated there because, even though last night had been a “girls’ night,” no one wanted to exclude Gideon and Rafe, who couldn’t climb the stairs.

“Ariel’s gonna be okay now, right?” Abigail asked.

Mercy kissed the top of the child’s head. “She is. And she and Prince Eric are going to live happily ever after.”

“Even though she’s only sixteen and kind of a brat,” Gideon commented dryly from the sofa.

Liza thought that Abigail would object to this, but the girl surprised her yet again.

“She really is,” Abigail said. “She should have obeyed her papa.”

Liza glanced at Amos, smiling at the contented look on his face. But anything she was about to say fled from her mind when someone started knocking impatiently on the outer door.

A moment later, everyone relaxed. It was Sasha and Erin returning from doing their errands.

Rafe’s cane thumped as he walked to his apartment door in irritation. “Why didn’t you just use your key?” he demanded. “Instead of knocking loud enough for the neighbors to hear?”

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Sasha said. “I wasn’t the one who made all that racket. I have a key.” She leaned around Rafe, a plastic bag with the optometrist’s logo dangling from her fingers. “Glasses, anyone?”

Liza pushed to her feet, crossing the room to retrieve the glasses. “Thanks, but who—”

She sighed. Dammit. Tom stood on the front stoop, his blue eyes flashing. Liza had no idea what he was angry about now.

“You knocked?” Liza asked him. “Loudly?”

“I didn’t realize I was being loud,” Tom said, penitent. In fact, someone who didn’t know him well wouldn’t be able to tell that he was angry at all. “May I speak to you, Liza?”

She smiled to put everyone at ease even though her heart was pounding. “Of course.”

She crossed the foyer into the garage, once again not waiting to see if Tom followed.

He did, of course, closing the door behind him and walking right up to her, getting in her space. His body filled out the tight T-shirt he wore and his jeans were dirty, like he’d been working outside. She didn’t care that he was filthy and sweaty. Hungry for the sight of him, she drank him in.

Until he spoke. “You didn’t think to call me?”

“About?”

His expression was forbidding. “Sunnyside Oaks? Were you going to tell me that you got the job? Were you going to tell Raeburn?”

“I already did. I texted him as soon as I got off the phone with Sunnyside Oaks.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched as he ground his teeth. “But you didn’t text me?”

Okay. “I . . . didn’t know I was supposed to.”

Hurt flashed in his eyes. “Supposed to?”

She hesitated. “I was under the impression that Raeburn and Molina were my contacts.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “They are. Because you went over my head.”

She squared her shoulders. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

She wasn’t sure what he expected her to say. “Because you weren’t willing to support me.”

His fingers tightened in his hair, yanking on it hard. He was hurting himself and she needed him to stop. But she said nothing, waiting for the flood of words that she could sense coming.

But when he finally spoke, it wasn’t in a shout, but in a hoarse whisper. “Why are you doing this? Why is this so important?”

She told him the same thing she’d told him Thursday night. The same thing she’d told Molina and Raeburn. “If I can make contact with Pastor, I might be able to get him to tell me where Eden is. Then, once everyone in the compound is safe, you can use Pastor to lure DJ to the rehab center and arrest them both. Then this will be over. I can help Mercy this way. I can keep Abigail safe.”

He dropped his hands to his sides, looking defeated. “Because you couldn’t save your sister?” he asked quietly.

Her mouth fell open in stunned surprise. “What? No.”

“Yes,” he said, shocking her further when he gripped her upper arms, his hold firm yet gentle. “You couldn’t save Lindsay. You couldn’t save your mother. You couldn’t save Fritz. So you’re saving Mercy and Abigail. Don’t tell me that I’m wrong.”

She started to tell him exactly that, but the words wouldn’t come. Was he wrong? Was she trying to play savior because she’d failed so many others?

“Do you know when I saw Mercy for the first time?” she asked instead.

He frowned. “That day we saw Burton’s mother at the nursing home.”

“That was the first time I met her. I saw her for the first time a few days before that, on the news. She’d nearly been abducted by Burton at the airport when she returned to Sacramento.”

He nodded, not sure where she was going. “She was in shock.”

“She was terrified.” Liza swallowed hard. “I saw the look in her eyes, the knowledge that someone she feared had just tried to hurt her again, and I thought of Lindsay. Of how terrified she must have been.” Her voice broke. “Of how she died alone, because nobody was there to help her. So, yes. I’m doing this because I couldn’t save my sister. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing what I believe is right.”

He tilted his head to stare at the ceiling, his fingers kneading her arms, his touch still gentle. Finally, his gaze met hers again. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, either.”

He frowned. “I won’t be.”

“You don’t know that. DJ tried to kill Gideon yesterday. When he finds out you’re on the case, he might go after you. Don’t tell me that I’m wrong.” She echoed his words deliberately and his small flinch told her that she’d hit her mark. “Tell me this, and be honest. If you had the skills, would you have volunteered for the position?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “But I can’t. Too many people know my face.”

It’s such a nice face. “But you would if you could.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me this. What training have you had that makes you so sure you wouldn’t be hurt if you were able to go undercover?”

“I went to the Academy. We were trained in—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he realized she’d set him up.

She smiled up at him sadly. “I went to boot camp. I’ve been trained as well. In addition to that, I’ve been in active war zones. That’s more experience than you have.”

He stared at her helplessly. “I want to shake some sense into your thick skull.”

“But you won’t,” she murmured.

He frowned. “What?”

“You won’t shake me. You won’t hurt me. Ever.”

His hands dropped immediately to his sides. “But I did hurt you.”

She missed his touch, just as immediately. “Not physically. And not on purpose. Because you are not your father, Tom Hunter, and you never will be.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. It appeared he had no argument left. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but I only speak the truth.” She paused a beat, then asked, “How did you know I’d gotten the job? If you thought I hadn’t told Raeburn, he didn’t tell you.”

“I have access to Sunnyside’s employee database. It’s how I knew there was an opening.”

“And how you identified Penny Gaynor as approachable.”

He nodded once. “I was filling in that hole that Pebbles dug under the fence when I got an alert on my phone that the database had been updated.”

That explained his dirty clothes. “And I’ve been added.”

“Yes. They’ve done extensive background checks on you. They’re still searching.”

She lifted a brow. “Did they find anything that connects to you?”

“No. I did a deep check of my own, just to be sure that I knew about anything that was out there that could compromise you. You have no social media presence and no property registered to you, so that helps a lot. You’re in the white pages, but there is no phone number or other mineable information. They have a copy of your military record. It’s a damn good record, Liza.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “That means a lot.”

“I’m proud of you. I just wanted you to know.” He cleared his throat. “When do you start?”

“Tuesday morning.” She hesitated, then asked, “Were you following me yesterday?”

He paled. “No. Did someone follow you?”

“Yes. I was driving Karl’s SUV. He keeps one at the apartment where I’m staying. I wasn’t driving my Mazda, so they can’t trace me to you.”

“You think that’s what I care about? Them tracing you to me? Really?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “No. But I thought you should know.”

His chuckle was bitter. “Oh, so now you’re telling me things I should know? Thank you so much.” He shook his head and squared his shoulders. “Text me your new address. I’m not planning to drop by. I promise. I’m going call my boss to get you protection there in addition to the protection we’re providing outside the Sunnyside gate.”

She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, but that would be wrong. It was necessary, if only to protect those she cared about. “All right.”

He hesitated a moment more. “Did I . . . did I push you into doing this?”

“No, Tom. You did not break my heart so thoroughly that I did the first cockamamie, self-harming thing that I thought of. I accepted this job because I thought I could help. Because I needed to help my friends. Not because you don’t love me.”

He flinched at her blunt words but then nodded. And then he was gone.

When Liza left the garage, Mercy was leaning against Rafe’s closed door, waiting for her. “You okay?” she asked quietly.

Liza managed to nod. “He was annoyed because Pebbles dug a hole under the fence and I forgot to tell him about it. He was worried that she’d gotten out.”

Mercy wasn’t buying it but had the grace to pretend that she was. Saying nothing, she held open her arms, and Liza took the hug. Took the comfort.

“It’ll be okay,” Mercy murmured into her hair. “Somebody told me so this morning, so I’m having faith that it’s true. You should, too.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, MAY 27, 8:00 P.M.

Something was going on at the Sokolovs’ house. DJ was certain of it. He’d taken a break from his search for Kowalski when he’d noticed the SUVs driving back and forth. There were three different vehicles, none of which he’d been able to trace back to their owners. Each SUV had made at least two round trips, all spaced a few hours apart. The windows were so heavily tinted that DJ hadn’t been able to get a look at the driver or the passengers.

Seemed like Mercy’s team had upped their game. They were being a lot more careful. They had to know he was watching. Not from where he was watching, otherwise he’d have been surrounded by Feds already. But they knew he was watching.

Mercy could have been in one of the SUVs. She could be nearby, in the Sokolovs’ house, even now. So could Gideon. And Amos.

A well-placed explosive could take care of the entire house, but he wasn’t sure he could get close enough to plant a device, even if he could get his hands on one. Kowalski could, if he weren’t actively trying to kill him.

But DJ was getting closer to finding Kowalski’s family. Once he did, he’d put that on his list of conditions. He wanted Kowalski to back off from trying to kill him, first and foremost. But some weapons would also be good.

He frowned when one of the black SUVs passed by again, on its way to the Sokolovs’ house. Suddenly restless, he grabbed the keys to his truck, his rifle and his handgun, a new magnetic sign, and a new set of license plates. Tonight he’d be a septic service technician.

He’d left his truck parked up against Smythe’s privacy fence with signs for a landscaping company prominently displayed, but he wasn’t really worried about his truck being reported. In the three days that he’d been there, none of Smythe’s neighbors had come outside. The closest house had the lights come on at the same time every night, clearly on a timer.

It was hotter than hell and it was Memorial Day weekend. Maybe the rich folks went to the mountains where it was cooler. It was what DJ would do when he became rich.

Eyes on the prize, he thought as he lined up the edges of the new magnetic signs on each of the truck’s doors. The license plates were next, and within minutes he was pulling onto the deserted street. He’d drive to the entrance to the neighborhood and wait there.

If the SUVs stuck to their pattern, the one that had been on its way to the Sokolovs’ house would soon be heading out again. Sure enough, within five minutes, the SUV passed by on its way out of the neighborhood.

DJ waited until the SUV had turned toward the interstate before following, keeping a safe distance. From the height of the truck’s cab, he could see over ninety-five percent of the vehicles on the road. He put five cars between himself and the SUV, then settled into a steady pace in the right lane. DJ made no move to get closer. It would only draw attention to him.

He followed for miles, hoping the SUV wasn’t going to take the exits into the city. It would be harder to follow them there. His wish was granted when the black vehicle exited onto I-5, toward the airport. DJ continued to follow, now directly behind the SUV, assuming the airport would be their final destination when the vehicle exited onto Airport Boulevard.

And then everything went to hell.

“Fuck,” he growled, his pulse shooting to the moon when a police cruiser came up on his left, lights flashing. He’d been made.

“Pull over,” came the command from the cruiser’s speaker.

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, glad that he had the truck. He swerved, forcing the cruiser off the road into the median. He then rammed into the back of the SUV in front of him, causing it to veer off the shoulder. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor, the truck accelerating so fast that it fishtailed, but he got it under control and thundered down the highway.

He made the most of his lead, knowing the cops wouldn’t give up. After a minute of the fastest driving he’d ever done, he slammed on the brakes and turned onto one of the roads that led to the river. There was no place to hide the truck, so he’d use it to buy more time. He parked the truck sideways so that it blocked the road, then grabbed his rifle out of its case and ran into the trees that lined the river.

Slipping the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he let it rest on his back as he slowed his pace, trying to find a tree that he could easily climb. His arm was so much better since he’d been resting in Smythe’s soft bed, but it still didn’t have a lot of strength.

He found a tree with low-hanging limbs that appeared strong enough to support his weight and, one-armed, hefted himself to the first limb. He didn’t need to climb high, just enough to be out of the cops’ sight when they came looking for him.

It didn’t take long. Within minutes, a pair of SacPD uniforms appeared, searching among the trees, shining their flashlights along the ground.

Surprise, he thought. Bracing his rifle on a tree limb, he got a line on the first cop’s head, then the second’s. Both were wearing vests over their uniforms, but neither wore a helmet. He pulled the trigger on the first, then the second.

They both dropped like bricks. Not wasting a minute, DJ swung down from the tree and raced to the first cop. He was bigger than DJ, but he’d do.

Removing the cop’s vest, DJ tugged his shirt off, buttons going everywhere. DJ slipped it over his own shirt, setting his rifle on the ground only long enough to pull the shirt into place and the vest over it. The pants he left on the body. He didn’t need them for what he had in mind.

The cop’s gun belt was next. It hung low on DJ’s leaner hips, but again, it would do for what he had in mind. The cop had dropped his handgun when he’d been hit. DJ scooped it up, grabbed his own rifle, and ran for the truck.

Sure enough, the cop car was parked behind it, lights still flashing. Engine still running.

Not stopping to think or second-guess himself, DJ got in the police cruiser and started toward the interstate. He saw his mark—a late-model Honda Civic—and fell into place behind the car.

The car pulled over to the shoulder like a good citizen. DJ approached the driver’s window, his own silenced gun drawn. He didn’t want to draw attention with more gunfire.

“Hands on the steering wheel!” he barked. But the young woman behind the wheel wasn’t obeying. She was holding her damn phone. Recording him.

For fuck’s sake.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she started. “I’m recording you for my own protection and I will be talking to your supervi—”

Reaching into the car, DJ grabbed her phone, dropped it to the asphalt, and shot it. The screen splintered. He kicked it under the tire.

“Ohmygod!” the woman screeched. “You can’t—”

DJ opened her door, pulled her out, and dragged her to the cruiser. He tossed her in the back seat and shot her in the head, then shot her a second time. Just to be sure. He took off the cop’s shirt and threw it over her face. The cop’s vest and gun belt he kept.

Then he got into her car and drove away. Drawing a breath, he exhaled, his pulse slowly returning to normal. “Not exactly what I’d planned,” he said aloud, “but it turned out okay.”

He’d acquired a new vehicle and he knew that the SUVs had been making runs to the airport. The Sokolovs were entertaining company—quite a lot of company, based on the number of times the SUVs had passed by his camera’s checkpoint.

One less SUV now, he thought, a laugh bubbling from his throat as he passed the SUV he’d been following, still on the shoulder on the other side of the road. A man stood at the back bumper, talking on his cell phone while examining the extensive damage done by DJ’s truck.

DJ had been just quick enough. No fewer than ten cruisers came tearing up the opposite side of the road, sirens blaring, headed for the crime scene.

As soon as he was clear of the hubbub, he’d find a place to pull over and disengage the Honda’s GPS and change the license plate. Then he’d return to his comfy bed and keep searching for Kowalski’s kid.

He needed access to Kowalski’s weapon reserves now more than ever. Something was going on at the Sokolovs’ house and he needed to take advantage of whatever that was.

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, MAY 27, 9:30 P.M.

Tom scowled at the bulletin board on the wall of his home office. The board was half filled with photos, maps, and documents he’d gathered in the month he’d been searching for Eden. He had aerial maps of the sites listed in the notebook they’d found in Ephraim Burton’s safe-deposit box. He had photos of Kowalski and his family, photos of DJ and Waylon that he’d taken at Joni Belmont’s house, and photos of DJ Belmont’s two victims.

The two who they knew of, anyway—Minnie Ellis and Penny Gaynor. Belmont had no compunction about murdering in cold blood. It was more than likely that he’d killed others and their bodies hadn’t been found yet. Or ever would be.

But the photos, maps, and documents didn’t represent progress and Tom was frustrated. He had nothing new after hours spent searching for DJ Belmont. Searching for Kowalski.

Irritated and tired, he took a break from searching for the two men to try searching for Pastor’s wife, who supposedly lived in Modesto with her architect husband.

He knew that the woman wouldn’t likely be able to tell them where to find Eden. She’d run from the cult twenty-five years before. But Tom was curious. He wanted to know how Eden had begun and how they’d managed to hold on to power for so long. He was curious about what kind of woman would marry Waylon Belmont only to divorce him for Pastor.

Was she a criminal, too? Or had she been manipulated like everyone else?

Unfortunately, he hadn’t found any architects in Modesto with a wife named Margo.

He’d had only one true success in all the hours he’d spent searching. He tacked the photo of eighteen-year-old William Holly—a.k.a. Boaz Travis—next to a photo he’d found in the archives of an L.A. newspaper. The photo featured Pastor, his wife, and their twins, five years old at the time, and had been taken for a Christmas newsletter the year before he’d been accused of embezzling tens of thousands of dollars from his church.

The quality of the photo wasn’t good. The original had been photocopied for the newsletter before being included in the newspaper article, and the result was dark and grainy. It had been one of the few articles that Tom had been able to find on the investigation into Pastor’s embezzlement and identity fraud.

It told the story of Craig Hickman, who’d been a college-aged member of Pastor’s L.A. church. He’d become suspicious of Pastor after beginning his own degree in psychology, because Pastor had claimed to have a degree that didn’t exist. Digging deeper, Craig had discovered that church money was missing. That had eventually led to charges being leveled against Pastor.

And then Craig was beaten badly by a group of masked brutes brandishing baseball bats shortly after Pastor disappeared. A few weeks later, Craig’s family home had been burned to the ground. The young man had disappeared soon after.

Some of this information Tom had found online. Some had been in a month-old report prepared by Jeff Bunker, the teenage journalism major who’d brought Cameron Cook to the field office on Wednesday morning. Jeff had started searching for Craig Hickman a month ago.

“I wonder what he’s found,” Tom murmured, and sent Jeff a text.

Any progress on locating Craig Hickman?

The reply was instantaneous. Got sidetracked with finals, but they’re done now. Will get back on it. The woman who mentored Hickman is a kickass reporter with the L.A. Times. Now mentoring me on research. The text was followed by a gif of Kermit the Frog flailing excitedly.

Tom had to smile. He often forgot that Jeff was only sixteen. LMK when you find something.

A thumbs-up emoji from Jeff popped up seconds before Tom’s phone screen was filled with an incoming call.

Raeburn. “This is Hunter.”

“We have a situation. Texting you an address. Meet me there ASAP.”

A text popped up with an address near the airport. “I’m on my way. Can you tell me what it’s about?” Because his mind was spinning images of Mercy dead, of Gideon dead. Of Liza dead.

“SacPD got a call from one of its off-duty cops who was working a private security gig.”

Tom’s gut twisted. “Bowie Security?”

“Yes. I understand you hired them?”

“I did, yes. For Mercy Callahan’s birthday party and out of my own pocket. No connection to the Bureau. What happened?”

Raeburn sighed. “You need to stop paying for things out of your own pocket, Tom.”

Tom blinked, unaccustomed to hearing Raeburn address him by his first name. “That’s fine, sir. Can you tell me what happened first?”

“A truck matching the description of the one on the office building security footage was following Bowie’s SUV. The driver was a Bowie employee. Shotgun was the off-duty cop. When the SUV turned for the airport, the truck followed. SacPD was called. A cruiser tried to stop the truck, but it pushed it off the road and sped away. The two cops pursued. They were instructed to wait for backup, but did not. They were shot in the head. One of the bodies was missing his shirt, vest, and gun belt. The truck is still on the scene, along with the two bodies.”

“Belmont,” Tom said grimly. “And the cruiser? Did he steal it?”

“He did, but didn’t take it far. It was found on the shoulder of Airport Boulevard with the body of a young woman in the back seat.”

“Fucking hell,” Tom whispered.

“You have all the information. I’ll expect you to be at the scene as soon as you can.”

Tom had bounded down the stairs and was already in his own vehicle. “Sir? Mercy’s birthday party tomorrow is at the Sokolovs’ house. If Belmont followed Bowie Security’s SUV, he was in the Sokolovs’ neighborhood.”

“I’ll tell them to cancel the party.”

“I think it’s too late for that. All of the guests were to have arrived by now. They’re all in the Sokolovs’ house. Rafe Sokolov hired the off-duty cops as security. Ten of them. I hired six more of Bowie’s employees. I think we should have Bureau presence on the Sokolovs’ perimeter. If Belmont tries again, we can find him.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Raeburn promised.

Tom started his engine. “Do we have an ID on the victim left in the cruiser?”

“Not yet. Belmont destroyed her phone and she had no other ID. Midtwenties, Caucasian, and dead. That’s all we know.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there in thirty or less.”