Infiltration Rescue

“No,” Avery said. He was a good interviewer, and the warmer personality of the two. Her reticence had little to do with him, though she found it difficult to meet his eyes. They were too intense, too arresting. She also didn’t want to continue, period. She wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about this to anyone. “I ran away for two reasons. First, because I didn’t want to get married at fourteen. Father Jeff had already told my stepfather that I’d become a bride on my birthday, to whomever he selected as my husband.”

“What did your stepfather say?”

“Nothing. He was okay with it, but my mother cried when she found out. She thought I was too young. She begged him to ask Father Jeff to wait another year.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“She accepted his decision?”

“No, she didn’t,” Avery admitted. “She talked about running away as soon as the weather cleared. Then she got pregnant, after a series of miscarriages. She wasn’t in any position to leave with me, and I wouldn’t go on my own.”

“What specific events led to your escape?” Diaz asked.

“My mom went into labor that summer, a month before her due date. The midwife came to help. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn’t allowed in the room. I could hear her screaming.” She exhaled a ragged breath, blinking rapidly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “Take your time.”

After a short pause, she continued. “My stepfather slapped me for getting hysterical. He told me to pray for her, so I did. I prayed for hours.” She omitted the visit by Father Jeff, who’d attempted to console her in the creepiest manner possible. “When they finally let me see her, it was too late.”

Neither Richards nor Diaz expressed any condolences. Avery appreciated their silence while she regained her composure. Talking about her mother’s death hadn’t torn her apart as much as she’d expected, but she had a lot of practice holding her emotions at bay. She pushed past the pain in her chest and forced the words out. “I asked to be alone with her to say goodbye. Then I climbed out the window and started running. I thought I’d be killed if I got caught, but I didn’t care. Death seemed better than staying in the commune and marrying an old man. So I jumped the fence and ran into the woods, as far as I could. I didn’t have any food or water. I didn’t even have a jacket. I almost gave up the first night.”

“What kept you going?”

“Grief, I guess. Fear.” Tears flooded her eyes, finally. Proof that she had real emotions. “Also, I was lost. I couldn’t have found my way back if I wanted to.”

Diaz offered her his handkerchief. It was an ordinary gray pocket square, nothing fancy. Richards’s brow furrowed with disapproval, as if she thought he was overdoing the chivalry. Avery didn’t agree. Touched by the gesture, she accepted the square of fabric.

“Was there a road?”

“There was a dirt road, only accessible by SUVs. I stayed far away from it because I could hear them looking for me. I headed east, toward the sunrise. Then I followed a creek alongside the highway. If I saw a person, I’d hide.”

“What did you drink?”

“I stole a jug from a construction site and filled it up wherever I could.” She didn’t say what she’d eaten, because she couldn’t bear to think about it. “By the time I got to Oregon, I was starving. I raided Ruth’s garden one afternoon. I didn’t even wait until dark.”

“She gave us a picture of you,” Diaz said, reaching into the file folder.

Avery hadn’t seen the photo before. She was in a hospital bed, eyes closed, with an IV in her thin arm. She looked wild and emaciated. Her hair was tangled with debris, her face dirty. Although she didn’t recognize herself in the photo, she felt exposed by it all the same. She felt like an oddity to be studied by scientists. A feral creature. No wonder Ruth had taken her in. She’d always had a soft spot for wounded animals.

Avery turned the picture facedown and slid it across the table. Now it was impossible to meet Diaz’s eyes. She didn’t know why she felt so ashamed. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been a victim of childhood trauma. She vastly preferred being on the other side of the couch, doing the psychoanalyzing.

Diaz tucked away the photo without comment. Maybe he admired her courage, but what she saw in the image wasn’t that. It was weakness and vulnerability. She couldn’t confront the visual evidence of her worst experience, even if it had resulted in a triumph of sorts. She’d escaped the cult, against all odds. But she’d also left her heart behind.

“Are we finished?” she asked in a light tone.

“Not quite,” Diaz said.

She furrowed a hand through her still-damp hair. “I’m sorry, but it’s been a long day, and I have some work to catch up on.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed, drawing her attention to the fine grains of stubble there. “I wish I could offer to come back at a more convenient time. Unfortunately, I have to return to Sacramento tomorrow morning to attend a colleague’s funeral.”

Avery felt a stab of sympathy. “My condolences.”

Diaz inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Was he killed in the line of duty?”

“Yes. He was shot by a member of Silva’s militia.”

Her stomach fluttered with unease. No wonder Diaz was on a tear to locate cult members and ferret out information. He had a fallen comrade to avenge, and a narrow window of opportunity to complete this interview.

Diaz leaned forward to press his advantage. “This investigation is of grave importance, Ms. Samuels. I’d appreciate your cooperation. I have a lot of questions, and you might be the only person who knows the answers.”

“I’ve already told you everything I remember.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Her lips parted in surprise. He’d been polite and friendly, thus far. She’d expected him to listen to her story, make the appropriate noises and go away. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d accuse her of withholding information.

She rose to her feet abruptly. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

Diaz glanced at Richards, who whipped out her phone. “I’ll order pizza. Why don’t we take a break and regroup?”

Avery didn’t argue, though she had no desire to dine with them. She realized she still had Diaz’s handkerchief crushed in her hand. She tossed it on the coffee table and strode down the hall, into the bathroom. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying to summon a cool, confident expression.

Instead she saw the wild, desperate girl from the photo, her gaunt features superimposed over Avery’s.

Chapter 2

Nick tucked away his pocket square and rose to his feet.

He rotated his head, trying to relieve some tension. He’d caught the red-eye to Portland this morning, and he’d spent most of the day in the passenger seat of Richards’s government-issued sedan. Although he was no stranger to long hours in cramped spaces, he was wound up pretty tight right now. He needed an extended session in the gym, a stiff drink and some sweaty, anonymous sex to take the edge off.

That last part was wishful thinking. He’d settle for a full night’s sleep. Actually, he’d prefer it, because he was exhausted. He knew he’d been working too much when going to bed early appealed to him more than getting lucky, even after a long drought.

Richards ordered a couple of pizzas while Samuels was in the bathroom. Nick’s visit with Ruth Garrison in Lorella had felt like a huge break. He’d almost given up on finding a former Haven member to interview. Now that he had one in his sights, he couldn’t afford to lose her, and his instincts told him he was on the verge.

Richards gave him an assessing glance as she set her phone aside. She was an experienced agent and a smart liaison. She’d let him take the lead all day, supervising rather than participating, and he liked that. He hadn’t needed her assistance—until now. He gestured for her to join him in the corner of the room for a quick conference.

“Was I too harsh?” he asked quietly.

“No. You were fine.”

“I think she’s holding back.”

“Let her.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you mean, let her?”

“If she’s not comfortable with personal questions, don’t ask them. You don’t need her to recount every painful experience.”

Nick wanted to know if someone had abused her, so he could prosecute the sick bastard. He wanted to take down Silva, his militia and the entire community of backwoods, brainwashed child molesters.

Richards put a hand on his forearm. “Slow down and focus on what you can get, which is general information about the commune and its members. Try treating her like a consultant, instead of a victim.”

Nick massaged the nape of his neck, nodding his agreement. Richards seemed confident in her assessment, and he believed in female intuition. Most FBI agents were men, and not all of them had the communication skills to be successful interviewers. The job required listening to subtext and interpreting body language. Women were often better at that. They could evaluate emotional responses and read facial expressions with greater accuracy. Nick still wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong with Avery Samuels. She hadn’t been eager to talk about her past, obviously. Then the hospital photo had upset her. He’d thought the image would spark her memories, not shut them down.

Getting personal wasn’t working. Richards had that right.

He also had to admit he’d been rattled by the pretty psychologist from the start. When he’d grasped her elbow to prevent her from falling on the stairs, and she’d gazed up at him with trepidation, he’d been thunderstruck.

He didn’t understand his reaction. Her beauty hit him like a punch in the gut, but he’d seen beautiful women before. She was a blue-eyed blonde, pale-skinned and stylishly dressed, with a smattering of freckles across her nose. He didn’t favor blondes in particular. He liked nice curves, and she had those, but he’d hardly noticed her figure. He was too captivated by her rain-splattered face.

Good looks alone weren’t enough to send him into a stupor, so he figured there was something else at play. He’d felt a magnetic pull that went deeper than surface attraction. Which was odd, because she’d clearly been repelled by him, at first glance. He’d noted her stance. She’d been ready to fight him.

Richards had introduced them while he pulled himself together. It had taken several minutes to regulate his heartbeat. He’d tried not to stare, because it wasn’t professional to ogle an interviewee. It certainly wouldn’t win her trust or put her at ease.

Samuels returned to the living room now, her expression subdued. She’d put on a soft cardigan and black-framed reading glasses. She’d also exchanged her fashionable heels for a pair of fuzzy slippers. She looked adorable, if a bit miffed by his parting insinuation that she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

“I ordered a large pepperoni and a large veggie,” Richards said.

“Sounds good,” Samuels replied, avoiding Nick’s gaze. She seemed reluctant to sit down with him again.

Treat her like a consultant.

Nick picked up his file folder from the coffee table. He had aerial photos of the commune inside his briefcase, but he needed more space to display them. He approached the kitchen table. “Do you mind if I work here?”

“No.”

“Feel free to get caught up on whatever you need to do,” he said. “We can reconvene after the pizza’s delivered.”

Nick got busy arranging his images. She sat down at a computer desk and started typing. Richards gave him a nod of encouragement. He was on the right track. He couldn’t force Ms. Samuels to answer his questions, but he could give her some breathing room. He hoped she’d cooperate, because she was his only source of information. He wished he had several days to work on her, instead of one night.

The pizza came while he organized his photos and jotted down a new list of questions. Samuels offered him a glass of agua mineral, which he accepted. The pizza boxes had been placed on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a paper plate and inhaled a couple of slices where he stood. Samuels’s apartment was cozy and spotless. It looked like an Instagram layout, with perfectly coordinated furniture and warm accent colors. There were several framed photos hanging on the wall. One of Ruth in the garden. Two of a fluffy tabby that he hadn’t seen any evidence of. A fourth of Samuels standing on a beach with a stunning dark-skinned woman. They were both smiling. It said Best Friends across the top.

There were no men in the pictures. No men in her life?

Samuels noticed him snooping, so he gestured toward the wall. “You have a cat?”

“Smoke died last month. Old age.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, and meant it. Nick hadn’t expressed condolences about her mother’s death, but he’d been in interview mode, and the incident was twenty years in the past. He’d also sensed that she didn’t want to get too emotional. He could relate. He glanced around the apartment again, contemplative. There was an emptiness to it, despite the pleasant decor. Perhaps the cat had filled the space.

Samuels moved toward the dining table. She wanted to get this over with.

Nick was ready. He finished his last bite of pizza, wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed his paper plate in the trash. They gathered in the kitchen area, which felt more casual than the living room. He took a seat across from Samuels and set his phone to Record while Richards lurked in the periphery.

“I’m interested in the daily operations of the commune,” he said. “Can you identify any of these buildings, and tell me what they’re used for?”

Samuels had no problem with this task. She pointed out the church, school and cafeteria. It was set up like a summer camp, with family cabins and communal areas. There was a playground, sports field and acres of farmland.

So far, so good.

“This building wasn’t there before,” she said, indicating Silva’s compound. Her nails were short and painted with midnight-blue polish that accentuated her pale skin. The style struck him as sexy and modern, if a bit witchy.

“That’s where Silva lives.”

She flinched at the mention of the cult leader. “It looks like a fortress.”

“Yes.”

Frowning, she moved her fingertip to a cluster of cabins in the center of the commune. “He used to live here, near the church.”

He wondered which cabin she’d lived in. “According to our intel, Jeff Silva stays in a separate compound with his wives and children. He visits The Haven, but he’s not involved in its daily operations. He’s become fixated on building his militia, and hatching terrorist plots, while Jonah manages the commune.”

If she found the arrangement odd, she didn’t comment. “What are you going to do with this information?”

He leaned back in his chair, weighing his response.

“If you had enough evidence to make an arrest, you wouldn’t be here,” she pointed out. “How does studying the commune help your investigation?”

“We tried getting to Silva by approaching him as an ally to his antigovernment cause. That ended in the death of an experienced undercover agent.”

“A colleague of yours?”

“I knew him, yes.”

“So now you’re considering, what? Trying to infiltrate the cult?”

It was exactly what he intended, but he couldn’t talk about the details. Also, he had no idea how he’d accomplish the task, or if he could get clearance for another undercover operation. “I’m just collecting intel,” he said, keeping it vague. “The Haven doesn’t have a website. They don’t use technology. They’re completely isolated. Which is why I need to collaborate with someone who’s been inside.”

She seemed to like this word, collaborate. It played to her strengths as a problem-solver. He didn’t have photos of any individual members, other than Jeff and his sons. He asked her for the names of Silva’s top followers. She recited at least a dozen before drawing a blank.

“Do you remember who did the farming?” he asked.

“The young men, mostly. They worked in the fields every summer.”

“Who was in charge of the crops?”

“Brother Michael,” she said, after a moment. “He was the head farmer.”

Nick examined the fields again. Upon closer inspection, the crops didn’t appear healthy or well-maintained. That could be a serious issue for a community that lived on food they grew themselves. He wrote down the name and circled it, pleased with their progress. Richards’s advice had been spot-on.

“Where were you born?” Samuels asked him.

“Venezuela.” Nick glanced up from his notebook. “Why?”

“I thought I heard an accent.”

His brows rose in surprise. Most people didn’t notice his accent, which was almost indiscernible these days. It tended to show up when he was exhausted, tongue-tied...or in the throes of passion. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had commented on it. “You have a good ear.”

She studied him with interest. “How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“You came with your parents?”

“No.”

She didn’t press for the backstory, so he kept it to himself. He wasn’t here for a personal analysis, though he wouldn’t say no to a session on her couch. In his fantasy scenario, she didn’t ask intrusive questions. They didn’t talk at all.

He frowned at the direction of his thoughts. Imagining Ms. Samuels in a compromising position wasn’t appropriate. She was examining his mouth, as if still pondering his accent. Her gaze lowered to his right hand, lightly gripping a pencil. When she moistened her lips, his pulse jumped with excitement.

Santa Maria.

He set aside his notebook, his neck hot. He needed to get a hold of himself. Actually, he needed to get out of here. According to his phone, two hours had elapsed since they’d had pizza. It was late, and he was losing focus.

“Can I email you the rest of my questions?” he asked. “I have to wrap this up.”

“Sure,” she said, seeming relieved. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she needed a good night’s sleep as much as he did, not a hot time in bed. He felt a stab of guilt for letting his imagination run wild.

He scrawled down her personal email and gathered his photos. The interview had gone well, despite the rough spots. He’d gained a wealth of information. He was reluctant to leave because there was so much more to learn. They’d barely scraped the surface. Instead of dwelling on what he was missing, he organized his files and put them away. Samuels stood by the door to see them out. They exchanged a polite handshake. Then he grabbed his jacket and stepped into the rainy night.

Richards walked toward her car, which was parked on the street nearby. He lifted his face to the sky and let the moisture cool his overheated skin. His neck muscles were still sore, his eyes grainy with fatigue. But he felt revitalized, rather than drained. He felt electric.

“You want me to take an Uber?” he asked, following Richards.

“Where’s your hotel?”

He consulted his phone. “It’s a mile from the field office.”

“I’ll drop you off. It’s no trouble.”

Shrugging, he climbed in the passenger seat. “Thanks for your help today.”

“Just doing my job,” she said.

“How did you know that would work? Treating her like a consultant?”

“I interviewed a detective once who’d been the victim of a home invasion robbery. It was difficult to get a detailed statement from him. He couldn’t stand being on the other side of an investigation.”

Nick mulled that over in silence. Some victims refused to talk, for a variety of reasons. Others were eager to make a statement. They wanted to be heard. They wanted justice. Samuels spent her days listening to troubled kids, helping them overcome trauma. She clearly preferred that to telling her own story.

“Are you thinking about going under?” Richards asked.

“Yes.”

“How will you get in?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “They don’t actively recruit, and my SAC might refuse to green-light another undercover op, considering how the other ended. But I’d like to submit a proposal and see what happens.”

“Have you done that kind of work before?”

“Only short assignments. Nothing deep.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You should be careful about approaching Samuels for a follow-up.”

“Why is that?”

“She liked you.”

He tried to look casually disinterested, while his heart was pumping out of his chest. “You think so?”

“Yes, and it could be a problem, especially if her feelings are reciprocated.” She gave Nick a sideways glance that said she knew damned well this was the case. “You don’t want to muddy the waters by getting involved with a contact.”

He didn’t bother saying that he couldn’t get involved with Samuels from a distance. There were many ways to engage in sexual misconduct online. “Thanks for the advice,” he said, meaning mind your own business.

She smiled at his glib response. “You’re funny, Diaz. How close were you to the colleague you lost?”

“He was like a brother to me.”

“Is this a revenge mission?”

Nick moved his gaze to the rain-slick street, blurred red from brake lights. Then he gave an answer straight from the FBI handbook: “The best revenge is justice.”

Chapter 3

Avery thought of Special Agent Diaz often after their first meeting.

Over the course of the interview she’d gone from wishing he’d never found her to hoping he’d come back for another visit. Maybe the stress of the day and her heightened emotions had triggered a hormonal response, making him seem intensely attractive. As the evening wore on, she’d relaxed enough to study him in greater detail. She found herself glancing at his ring finger, which was bare. She liked his face, with its strong features and hawkish nose. She liked his voice, his accent, his watchful eyes.

Even his emails were kind of hot. He wrote a brief thank-you note about an hour after he left her apartment. She’d been sitting at her computer, too keyed up to sleep. When her email notification dinged, she’d felt a jolt of anticipation.

Of course, the note had been strictly professional. “I look forward to our next communication,” he wrote, which didn’t mean anything, but her cheeks had flushed with pleasure as if it was a flowery line from a love poem. She hadn’t answered the email that evening. She had no reason to get excited. She didn’t want to talk about the cult, no matter how sexy he was. This wasn’t going anywhere fun. There would be no intimate exchanges, no harmless flirting, no sexting.

Definitely no sexting.

Diaz wasn’t an appropriate candidate for a crush. He lived in another state. He probably adhered to a strict code of conduct prohibiting him from dating anyone he met on the job. He was out of reach, off-limits and unsafe. He worked in a dangerous profession. He’d scared the hell out of her on her doorstep and pressed her for uncomfortable information. She didn’t know why she was so interested in him. She wasn’t the best at self-evaluation, but even she could admit her reaction was strange. He represented a link to The Haven, the source of her worst nightmares and most painful memories. She should be giving him the cold shoulder, not getting all hot and bothered over him.

After a long deliberation, she replied to his email the following afternoon. She waited for his response with bated breath. He sent a list of follow-up questions a day later, as an attachment, with the request for as much detail as she could remember. He thanked her in advance for her time. Some of her giddiness dimmed as she read the list, which was extensive. His questions weren’t overly personal, but they also weren’t simple. They involved social structure and family connections. They required a deep dive into a subject she’d rather avoid, and a past she’d rather forget. She closed the document with a shudder. She made a mental note to deal with it over the weekend.