“Shut up.”
Mercer looked at me.
“We’ll escort you.”
My pulse jumped.
This was not in the plan.
Claire had predicted roadside demand.
Possibly towing.
Possibly a staged citation.
Not relocation.
“I thought you were impounding the truck.”
“Changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m giving you a break.”
Rourke stared at him.
Mercer stared at me.
Traffic kept roaring by.
I could refuse.
That would be safest.
It might also end the operation.
Eleven months.
Dozens of victims.
Tommy’s letter.
I thought of the former Marine who had written, I felt stupid.
“Fine,” I said.
Rourke closed his eyes.
Only for a second.
Mercer tossed me the keys.
“Follow us.”
The cruiser pulled ahead.
I climbed into the truck.
The moment my door closed, I whispered toward the hidden microphone.
“Route change. Six miles north. ATM.”
No answer.
The system was one-way.
That suddenly bothered me more than it had during training.
I started the engine.
The cruiser merged onto the highway.
I followed.
Four miles later, they passed the first bank.
Five miles, they passed a gas station ATM.
Six miles, they passed the commercial strip entirely.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Where are we going?” I murmured.
The cruiser turned onto a frontage road.
Then a narrow county road.
No ATM.
No stores.
Only scrubland, old fencing, and scattered industrial lots.
Something was very wrong.
The cruiser slowed.
A mile later, it turned through a chain-link gate beside an abandoned vehicle-storage yard.
I stopped outside.
Mercer stepped from the cruiser.
He waved me in.
I stayed put.
He walked toward me.
Rourke remained seated.
Mercer approached the window.
“What are you doing?”
“You said ATM.”
“It’s inside.”
I looked past him.
Rusting cars.
A cinder-block office.
Tow trucks.
No sign.
No bank.
No ATM.
“I don’t see one.”
“It’s in the office.”
My skin prickled.
“This is a tow yard.”
Mercer smiled.
“Congratulations.”
“What is this?”
“Last chance.”
“For what?”
“Get inside.”
“No.”
The smile disappeared.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going inside that building.”
His hand dropped toward his belt.
Not weapon.
Not yet.
But close enough.
“Get out of the truck.”
I didn’t move.
Rourke finally stepped from the cruiser.
“Mercer.”
“Stay out of this.”
“Dispatch doesn’t know we’re here.”
Mercer turned.
“Then tell dispatch.”
Rourke didn’t answer.
Mercer faced me again.
“Out.”
I considered locking the door.
Too late.
He yanked the handle.
I had forgotten it was unlocked.
Mercer pulled the door open.
My left hand instinctively tightened.
Old reflexes.
Old muscles remembering things the rest of me preferred to forget.
I could have resisted.
Maybe even won.
For five seconds.
At seventy, five seconds can feel heroic right before it becomes stupid.
So I stepped down.
Mercer grabbed my arm.
Rourke moved closer.
“Easy.”
Mercer shoved me toward the office.
“Walk.”
I stumbled but stayed upright.
“Mercer,” Rourke said again.
This time there was fear in his voice.
Not concern.
Fear.
That frightened me.
Because Rourke wasn’t afraid for me.
He was afraid of Mercer.
We reached the office door.
Mercer pushed it open.
Inside sat a metal desk, two plastic chairs, a filing cabinet, a humming mini refrigerator, and a surveillance monitor displaying four camera feeds.
One feed showed the yard entrance.
Another the office interior.
The third showed a rear lot.
The fourth was static.
A heavyset man in a gray work shirt stood behind the desk.
He looked at me.
Then at Mercer.
“What the hell is this?”
“Problem.”
The man’s expression darkened.
“You brought him here?”
“He’s got cash.”
“I said no more walk-ins.”
“He’s got a thousand.”
The man swore.
My heartbeat slowed.
Not because I was calm.
Because I finally understood.
The thousand dollars wasn’t the real scheme.
Not entirely.
It was a filter.
A test.
Who had money.
Who was alone.
Who would comply.
Who could be moved.
I looked toward the surveillance monitor again.
Rear lot.
Three vehicles.
One looked recently parked.
The heavyset man pointed toward the door.
“Take him back.”
Mercer laughed.
“Now you’re scared?”
“I’m not scared. I’m telling you we’re done.”
“Since when?”
“Since this morning.”
Mercer froze.
“What happened this morning?”
The man glanced at me.
“Not in front of him.”
That was when Rourke entered the office.
His face had gone pale.
“We need to leave.”
Mercer snapped, “Nobody asked you.”
Rourke ignored him.
He looked at the heavyset man.
“Dale, where’s Carson?”
The heavyset man—Dale—said nothing.
Rourke stepped closer.
“Where is he?”
Mercer’s expression changed.
“Who’s Carson?”
Rourke looked at him.
And in that instant, I realized something impossible.
Mercer didn’t know everything.
Dale did.
Rourke knew something else.
And all three men were afraid of different things.
A siren sounded in the distance.
One short burst.
Then silence.
Everyone froze.
Mercer turned toward me.
His eyes widened.
“You.”
I said nothing.
“You called someone.”
“No.”
He grabbed my shirt.
“You called someone!”
Rourke seized his wrist.
“Let him go.”
Mercer spun and shoved him.
Rourke crashed against the filing cabinet.
Dale moved from behind the desk.
“Enough!”
Mercer drew his weapon.
Everything stopped.
The room became very small.
The muzzle pointed low.
Not directly at anyone.
But a gun does not need to point at your chest to control the room.
“Everybody shut up,” Mercer said.
Dale raised both hands.
“Danny.”
“Don’t.”
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“No, you’re panicking.”
Mercer looked at me.
“What did you do?”
I swallowed.
“My phone call?”
“Yes.”
“I called my wife.”
“You said she was dead.”
I stared at him.
His face changed.
Because I had never told him that.
Not once.
Rourke looked at Mercer.
Dale looked at Mercer.
The room went silent.
I felt something cold move down my spine.
“How do you know my wife is dead?” I asked.
Mercer didn’t answer.
“Officer?”
His eyes darted toward the door.
Rourke whispered, “Danny…”
“How does he know?” I asked.
Rourke stared at Mercer.
Dale muttered a curse.
Then Mercer did something I never expected.
He lowered the gun.
Not slowly.