When the truck had worn out, Waylon had wanted a new one, but Pastor had insisted he buy the same make and model—and not new. He’d been insistent that as much around the compound stay the same as was possible.

It was Pastor’s way of trapping time in a bubble. If the congregation got dulled to the passage of time, they would grow more compliant.

The concept had made sense to DJ. He’d planned to replace his truck and was going to get another used black Ford F-150.

Except his truck had been stolen by that bastard Amos Terrill. The man had stowed away in the back and, when DJ was occupied, had driven away in it.

DJ’s temper boiled. He hadn’t been aiming at Amos that day a month ago. He’d meant to shoot Mercy Callahan, but Amos had come running from the woods to throw himself on top of her. The bullet had gotten Amos in the neck and DJ had spent the last month satisfied that the man had bled out.

DJ paused the video. This F-150 was brand spanking new. The chrome still shone and there wasn’t a trace of rust. Slightly envious, he noted its license plate, then zoomed in. And—

“Motherfucker,” he hissed. “What the fuck? What is he doing here?”

It was Amos. Amos Terrill. It was just a glimpse, less than a half second of video, but DJ would know that bearded aw-shucks face anywhere.

The fucker was alive. And he’d had the nerve to get a truck just like the one he’d stolen.

DJ’s fists clenched and he had to draw a breath to calm himself, because he was angry. Furious. And tempted to throw his laptop into the wall.

But you can’t kill him if you can’t track him. And you can’t track him without your laptop.

When he’d sufficiently calmed, he examined the truck’s interior. There was someone in the back seat, but the windows were covered by shades, too dark for him to see any details other than the fact that they were small.

That could be Abigail, he thought, encouraged. When he found out where Amos was living, he could kill him, grab the kid, and deliver her to Eden. That would make Pastor happy, at least.

Hitting play, he shrank the video screen so that it was side by side with the browser tab he opened next. He could keep an eye on the video as he ran a search on Amos’s license plates.

He stole a lot of the information he came across, but he paid for the search tools that he used. They were more reliable and, as he’d found out the hard way, could make a critical difference when approaching a new customer or supplier.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered when the results flashed on his screen. The truck had been bought by a corporation. That was going to take a little more time.

He’d maximized the video screen, focusing again on the traffic up and down the street, when his sat phone buzzed. Startled, he jumped a little, then groaned. It was Kowalski.