Edge of Mercy (A Kate Reid Novel Book 11) by Robin Mahle (freda ebook reader TXT) 📕

“She’s not wrong.”

Gutierrez said something in Spanish and pointed ahead.

“I think he wants us to go this way,” Fisher added.

“Why don’t I take this street ahead and you and he can take this one,” Nick replied.

“You aren’t going alone. Not a chance in hell. That wasn’t part of the plan,” Fisher replied.

“Being here wasn’t part of the plan either. Look, we don’t have time to stroll around this neighborhood while Bishop could be out there finding his next victim. I can handle myself. You know that, and you know I’m right. I’ve got the radio if I need help.” He started in the opposite direction.

Fisher shook his head but didn’t object to the last-minute change in plans. He continued to trail the guard and surveyed the rest of the area.

Half a dozen aid workers were huddled atop a mound of debris, shouting in Spanish and pointing below their feet.

“Levi, look over there.” Kate glanced at the scene ahead. “They’re looking for people. This is where we want to be.”

“Let’s widen our perimeter and check out the surrounding areas. I see a few ambulance trucks, a first aid station....” He continued to assess the area. “National Guard stationed right over there.” He looked over his shoulder at Kate. “Bishop would be crazy to get this close.”

“We aren’t dealing with a sane man. He thinks he’s untouchable. We’re about to prove him wrong.” Kate started ahead, giving a wide berth around the rescue area. She needed to be right on this one. Money, resources, and international favors had all been granted. If it turned out she missed the mark, there would be consequences and probably consequences much greater than a Letter of Censure.

“Perdóneme.” (Excuse me.) Bishop tapped a man on the shoulder.

The rescue worker spun around and eyed him. “Agarra una pala,” (Grab a shovel). He wore a beige jumpsuit with a safety vest, a hard hat, and a mask.

Bishop had arrived late yesterday evening and gathered the gear he would need along with a badge he stole from a nearby worker. After spending the night on a park bench a few miles away, he made the trek on foot early this morning and was ready to get to work. Except the work he was looking for didn’t involve the use of a shovel. An ambulance had been left unattended long enough for him to slip inside and take whatever they had that would do the job. Although, he wasn’t overly concerned about disguising the end result. No one would bother going through the effort of performing an autopsy on victims around here. It would prove difficult enough to ID the bodies. Given the state of the surrounding area, most people had been crushed beyond recognition.

“Red Cross.” Bishop held up his badge to show the man. “Medicine.”

“Por ahí.” (Over there). The worker pointed to the nearby medical station.

“Gracias.” Bishop had no intention of being seen with other doctors or medical aid workers. He needed to find where the bodies were. But if they were buried, what chance would there be to find anyone alive?

Bishop combed the area, moving away from the huddle of workers who focused on one main area. Farther up the street, more buildings appeared in tatters with concrete fragments resting in the middle of the road. He walked inside what appeared to have been a TV repair shop. Merchandise lay on the floor, shattered. Shelves collapsed. He scoured the area but found no one inside.

Back out into the rising sun and heat. The smell of dust and death permeated the region. He returned his mask to his face and continued to traverse the devastated area, away from the people, away from anyone who might wonder what he was doing. The bag he carried over his shoulder looked like a medical bag and if anyone had questioned him, he had a prop to aid in his cover story.

Another building that remained standing, though just barely, appeared ahead. A cell phone store. Bishop walked inside. “Hello? Uh, Doctor en Medicina?” He walked inside and listened.

“Ayuda.”

Bishop leaned in as he’d heard something faint. “Medicina?”

“Ayuda.”

The voice cried again, and Bishop started in the direction of the sound. He stepped over displays and crushed iPhones under his feet until he made his way to the rear of the building. Bishop squatted and peered below what looked like a cashier desk.

A young woman, possibly still in her teens, peered at him. Her eyes were swollen from tears and the salty trails they left cut through the grime that had landed on her skin when the dust settled. Her left arm had been impaled by a piece of rebar protruding from the foundation. She was stuck and blood pooled around her. “Ayuda,” she cried.

Bishop stroked her long black hair. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe now.”

27

Radio contact between the team had, so far, indicated a giant goose egg. No one had seen Bishop or had spoken to anyone who had seen him. Bishop was either not there and had never been there, or he was making one hell of a good ghost, slipping in and around people unseen.

The grim reality had set in. Kate’s neck was on the line and she had yet to find the murderer. “We’ve been at this for an hour. What if I was wrong?” Her eyes pleaded.

“Give it time,” Walsh replied. “Did you think he would just turn up with his hands in the air for us? This isn’t over yet.”

“What are we missing? Where else could he have gone?” She gazed around the street they had already searched twice. “The team has been inside every building. Spoken to everyone they’ve come across and shown them Bishop’s picture.”

“I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet,” Walsh began. “Let’s keep going and trust in the process. We’ll reassess with the team in an hour.”

“If you say so.”

Nick was on his own. There had been no sign