Final Vow, page 26
A chorus of “Copy” comes back.
She holds up three fingers. Two. One.
“Mark.”
The canisters arc through the air from multiple angles, trailing gray plumes as they hit the dirt and begin to hiss. A thick haze billows across the yard, obscuring the trucks, garage bays, and the men crouched behind them. Almost immediately, coughing fills the air, confused shouts, a child’s frightened wail.
“Go!”
She’s up and running, sprinting wide around the edge of the dark cloud, boots pounding packed earth. Woods is on her heels. Other agents peel off in both directions, flanking left and right, using the cover to circle behind the cultists’ position.
The smoke burns Avery’s eyes, claws at her throat, but she’s been through worse in training. She presses on, rifle up, scanning for targets through the gray haze.
A figure stumbles out of the cloud—a man in dark trousers, coughing, his shotgun hanging loose at his side. No hostage. Avery closes the distance in three strides and drives the stock of her rifle into his solar plexus. He folds with a grunt. She kicks the shotgun away and zip-ties his wrists before he can recover.
More shouts. More coughing. She can hear her team calling out contacts, the sounds of brief scuffles, the plastic zip of restraints being cinched tight.
“Clear left!”
“Two in custody!”
“Got one runner—he’s down!”
Avery stalks through the thinning haze, weapon sweeping. A woman crouches near one of the trucks, clutching two small children against her chest. Her eyes are streaming, her face twisted with fear. No weapon.
“Stay down,” Avery tells her. “We’re here to help. Stay down and you won’t be hurt.”
The woman just stares, frozen. Avery moves past.
The yard is chaos—agents swarming, men being forced to the ground, women and children huddled in frightened clusters. But the gunfire has stopped. The resistance is crumbling.
Avery does a quick count. About fifteen men in custody. Several wounded, none dead that she can see. The women and children are shaken but appear unharmed.
Her radio crackles again. Choi’s voice, more urgent now. “Alpha Lead, convoy is two miles out from the gate. They’re not slowing down.”
Damn it.
Avery’s eyes sweep the yard and land on a lifted truck parked at the edge of the garage—big black thing with reinforced bumpers and oversized tires. With any luck, she can have it hot-wired in under a minute.
She makes a decision.
“Vargas!” She spots him emerging from the cover, three zip-tied men at his feet. “You have command here. Secure the prisoners, get medical for the wounded, and hold this position until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
She’s already running toward the truck. “To stop that convoy.” She swings up into the seat and grins when she finds the keys in the ignition.
The engine roars to life on the first try.
Avery slams the truck into gear and floors it, tires spinning on gravel before they catch and launch her forward. The vehicle is a beast—powerful, built for exactly this kind of terrain. She tears down the main road through the compound, leaving a dirt cloud behind her, hands tight on the wheel.
Radio chatter floods her earpiece. She tunes it out, focusing on the road ahead. The compound blurs past—trailers, shacks, rusted vehicles, frightened faces peering from windows. The white spire of the church gleams in her rearview mirror, then falls behind.
She stomps the accelerator to the floor and the lifted truck surges forward, eating up the distance. The speedometer climbs past a hundred. The convoy is mostly box trucks—not built for speed. She grips the wheel tighter. Even with their head start, she can catch them before the east gate.
There.
Up ahead, she spots several vehicles kicking dust up down the long, straight road through the compound. They’re moving fast, but she’s faster. Gaining on them. She pushes the truck harder.
The convoy is ahead of her now, strung out along the narrow desert road, hemmed in on both sides by tall earthen berms that rise like walls. The road runs straight for nearly another mile before they’ll get to the east gate. If they break through that, they can scatter into the desert, and it’ll be harder to catch them.
She’s not going to let that happen.
Avery’s closing in on that narrow stretch between the short desert mounds. At the last moment, she has an idea. She cuts left, barreling over scrub brush and dodging mesquite trees as she races along the embankment, just above the main road. She overtakes the rear vehicle, then flies past several moving trucks and a semi cab before pulling up alongside the lead box truck.
She rolls down the passenger window and lays on the horn, catching the attention of the driver. The man looks up at her with wide eyes. “Pull over!” she shouts. “FBI! Stop the vehicle!”
The response is a muzzle flash that takes out the rear passenger window. She jerks the wheel instinctively, swerving wide and barely missing a boulder before straightening out and pulling back alongside the lead vehicle.
New plan.
Avery drops back slightly, just behind the lead truck’s back bumper. She draws her sidearm with her right hand, steering with her left. She fires off three rounds.
One takes out the box truck’s rear tire. The rubber explodes. The truck lurches violently to the right, the driver overcorrecting, and then it’s rolling.
Avery slams on her brakes as the box truck tips onto its side in a shower of sparks and shrieking metal. It slides across the road, momentum carrying it, and comes to rest wedged between the berms. Tires screech, deafeningly loud, as the rest of the convoy come to skidding stops. Dirt billows. Glass tinkles.
The road is blocked. The convoy is trapped in that narrow channel of road. Engines rev as drivers try to find a way around. But there’s nowhere to go. The embankments are too steep, the road too narrow. They’re trapped. They can’t even turn around and head back the other way.
Avery throws her truck into Park and grabs her rifle. “East Gate, this is Alpha Lead. Convoy is stopped approximately half a mile past your position. I need backup and medical. Multiple vehicles, unknown number of occupants. Approach with caution—assume hostiles are armed.”
“Copy, Alpha Lead. Backup en route.”
Avery steps out of the truck, long gun raised, and scrambles down the steep slope to the road below. She advances toward the overturned front box truck. The dust starts to settle. She can hear groaning from inside, a child crying, someone praying in a high, frightened voice.
The cab is crumpled, the windshield shattered. The driver hangs slumped over the steering wheel, blood on his forehead, chest rising and falling. Unconscious but alive.
“I need medical at the lead vehicle,” she says into her radio. “Driver is injured, status unknown.”
“Copy.”
The driver’s door is jammed, crushed inward by the impact. Avery uses her gun to clear the glass teeth clinging to the window frame, then reaches down and plucks out the rifle the man used to fire on her. She dumps the bullets onto the ground and hurls the weapon over the berm.
Then she edges to the rear of the truck.
The back roll-up door is dented but intact, held shut by a simple latch. Crying and murmuring reaches her from inside. She positions herself to the side, weapon ready, and throws the latch, then shoves the door upward.
Bodies are piled sideways against the interior wall that’s now the floor—women in prairie dresses, children of all ages, thrown together by the crash. They’re bruised and bloodied, some clutching each other. A little girl, maybe four years old, is wailing, her arm bent at a bad angle. An older woman cradles a toddler against her chest, shielding him with her body.
And in the middle of them all, struggling to rise from the tangle of limbs, is a tall man with gray hair and pale eyes that burn with fury.
“‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.’” His voice is commanding even now, even sprawled on the floor of an overturned truck surrounded by the wreckage of his failed escape. “‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside still waters—’”
“Can you walk?” Avery keeps her rifle trained on him.
He stands shakily. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—’”
“Come toward me.” She could do without the holy lecture. “Slowly. Hands where I can see them.”
His eyes never leave her face. Blood stains his white shirt from a cut on his cheek, but he carries himself tall, stiff, nose in the air. The women and children shrink away from him.
“‘For Thou art with me,’” he continues, his voice rising. “‘Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me—’”
“Okay.” Avery’s had enough. She slings her rifle around her shoulder, grabs his arm, and spins him face-first against the wall, pulling her cuffs from her belt. “You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you use it.”
He doesn’t.
“This is because of her, isn’t it?” His voice has changed—no longer the rolling thunder of a preacher, but something sharper, more venomous. “That Jezebel. That serpent in the garden.” He twists his head, trying to look at her. “My wanton daughter, Eden.”
He spits.
Huh. Avery cinches the cuffs tight enough that he grunts.
“You must be Jebediah Walker.” She leans close, her voice low. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” She gives the cuffs another tug. “All of it terrible.”
She drags him out of the truck and forces him to his knees on the dusty road. Behind them, FBI vehicles are arriving from the east gate, agents spilling out to secure the rest of the convoy. The other trucks’ drivers and passengers have stopped trying to escape. Doors are opening. Hands are rising.
Her radio crackles. Vargas’s voice. “Alpha Lead, this is Alpha Command. We’ve secured the area in front of the mansion. Multiple elders are surrendering—they’re coming out with their hands up.”
Avery allows herself a small smile. “Copy, Alpha Command. Arrest them all.”
“Understood. What’s your status?”
She looks down at Jebediah Walker, kneeling in the dirt, his eyes blazing with impotent rage. Around them, agents are helping women and children out of the overturned vehicles, calling for medics, securing prisoners. The dust is settling. The chaos is quieting.
“Convoy is secure,” she says. “I’m calling in additional units to process the scene, and then I’m heading back to you.” She pauses. “Have Alpha team hold position at the mansion. Don’t sweep the interior until I get there.”
“Copy.”
She crouches down in front of Walker, meeting his gaze. He glares at her with all the righteous fury of a man who believes God is on his side.
“We’re about to uncover all your secrets,” she says quietly. “And I’m going to personally nail you for every one of your crimes.”
He opens his mouth—to curse her or quote more scripture, she doesn’t know and doesn’t care. She brings a finger to her lips. “Shh.”
He splutters, and she smirks as she stands and waves down the arriving vehicles.
The compound isn’t fully secure yet. There may be a few more skirmishes, more frightened people to coax out of hiding. But the leaders are captured. The escape has failed.
For the first time since the garage doors exploded open, Avery lets herself breathe.
They’ve won.
CHAPTER 44
The grate is heavy. I grip the rusted iron bars and pull, but the deadbolt holds firm, mocking me with its simple, brutal effectiveness.
“Daniel.” I crouch lower, pressing my face between the bars. “Daniel, I’m here. I’m going to get you out.”
He stares up at me from the bottom of the pit, his blue eyes too bright in his gaunt face. He hasn’t moved since he said my name. I’m not sure he believes I’m real.
Shadow paces around the grate, whining.
“It’s okay, buddy.” I reach out to touch his head, steadying us both. “We’re going to get him out.” At least the firefight seems to have ceased. The chatter on the radio sounds as though things are going our way. I key my own radio and call for aid, then keep talking to Daniel, letting him know that help is on the way.
What feels like an eternity later, but is probably only twenty minutes, the sound of a revving engine draws my attention. I look up to see an FBI vehicle bouncing across the packed dirt toward the church, kicking up a plume of dirt. It skids to a stop, and Agent Carver jumps out of the passenger side. Two other agents pile out behind her, rifles up, scanning the perimeter.
Carver jogs toward me, something heavy in her hand.
Bolt cutters. I sigh. Thank goodness.
“As requested.” She hands them over, then crouches beside me. I see the moment her eyes adjust to the shadows in the hole. Her jaw tightens. “Jesus.”
I position the blades around the deadbolt’s shackle and squeeze. The metal resists for a heartbeat, then shears apart with a satisfying snap.
I yank the lock free and toss it aside. Carver and I grab opposite sides of the grate and heave. It’s solid iron, meant to hold—but together we manage to drag it off the opening and let it thump down in the dirt nearby. I hurry back and drop down beside the opening.
Daniel presses himself tighter against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, making himself small.
My heart cracks.
“Daniel.” I keep my voice soft. “It’s Eden. I’m going to help you up now, okay?”
He blinks. Slowly, like he’s moving through water, he uncurls himself and reaches up toward me.
His hand is skeletal, the knuckles swollen and purple. Two of his fingers jut at wrong angles—broken and never set.
I grab his wrist as gently as I can. Carver takes his other arm, and the two other agents who rode with her move in to help. Together, we pull.
Daniel cries out. His legs scrape against the dirt walls as we haul him up, his body limp, offering no help or resistance.
We get him over the edge and onto the ground, and he just… collapses. He crumples onto his side, gasping.
I get to my knees and look him over.
He’s worse than I thought. His clothes—what’s left of them—are filthy and torn, stiff with dirt and dried blood. His skin is covered in sores, some of them oozing, others scabbed over. His ribs stand out in sharp relief beneath his shirt. Every bone in his body seems to press against his skin, desperate to escape.
I don’t care. I gingerly gather him into my arms and hold him, pulling him against my chest.
He whimpers. The sound is so small and broken.
“I’ve got you.” My voice cracks. Tears stream down my face, cutting tracks through the dust. “I’ve got you, Daniel. You’re safe now.”
Shadow circles us, his nose nudging Daniel’s shoulder, his matted hair. He licks Daniel’s cheek, then sits against me, a warm solid presence at my back.
Carver straightens and steps back, giving us space. Her tone is clipped, professional, though emotion fills her dark eyes. “I’m leading Alpha team in to sweep the mansion. Medic’s on the way.” She holds my gaze. “You okay here?”
I nod, not sure I can speak.
She gestures to her team, and they move out—jogging up the steps of the church and disappearing inside with their rifles raised. The distant gunfire has faded to sporadic pops now, the resistance crumbling.
None of it matters. The only thing that matters is the too-light weight of my brother in my arms. Up close now, I’m seeing the welts, some healed into raised scars, others still raw and weeping.
Heat surges up my neck, and I clench my jaw.
I force myself to breathe. Force my hands to stay gentle, even while I want to make whoever did this to him pay.
“How long?” The words come out rough. “How long have you been down there?”
Daniel’s brow furrows. His eyes are unfocused, drifting. “I… weeks? The days became difficult to count.”
Weeks. My stomach turns over. Weeks in that pit, baking in the desert sun, starving, alone.
“Who did this to you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His lips tremble.
“Father,” he finally whispers, hoarse.
The fury that rips through me is white-hot and absolute. I want to scream. I want to tear this place apart with my bare hands.
But Daniel is watching me with those glassy eyes, and I can see the fear in them. I don’t want to add to that fear. So I grit my teeth and force the rage down.
“He’s never going to touch you again.” I smooth the matted blond hair back from his forehead.
The rumble of another vehicle. I look up to see an ambulance pulling up, lights flashing but sirens off. Two paramedics jump out and haul a gurney from the back.
An agent I don’t recognize jogs over from the direction of the church. “Perimeter’s secure,” she calls. “Alpha team’s got the mansion locked down. You’re clear.”
“I don’t think he can walk,” I tell the paramedics as they approach.
They nod, already assessing. One of them—a woman with short gray hair—crouches beside us. “Sir? We’re going to help you.”
Daniel’s eyes flutter. “Eden?”
“I’m here.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The medics ease Daniel onto the gurney, strapping him in, and start an IV line. He’s severely dehydrated—I can see it in the papery texture of his skin, the way his eyes have sunk into his skull.
I stay beside him, holding his hand as they work. His grip is weak, his fingers cold, but he doesn’t let go.
“Daniel!”
The shout comes from somewhere to my left. I spin, hand dropping to my weapon—
A young man runs toward us. Dark hair, shorter than me, slim build. His clothes are the same homespun style all the cult members wear, and there’s a scar cutting across his left cheekbone, puckered and pale against his tanned skin.
