Of her eight children, three were cops—Rafe, Damien, and Meg. Ephraim wasn’t touching them with a ten-foot pole. They’d all carry guns.

Sasha was the social worker, but she was also going to be on guard after getting shot yesterday afternoon. Cash was a physical therapist to basketball stars and traveled. Who even knew where he was? Patrick was a firefighter, and Jude was an L.A. prosecutor, both looking like they could bench-press a damn house. Ephraim was not going to risk getting into a showdown with either of them.

But . . . yes, the eighth Sokolov child would work. Hello there, pretty girl. Irina’s youngest daughter was a sweet young thing. Still in high school. Zoya.

And, according to his Google search, young Zoya had an Instagram account. Whatever the hell that was. He’d heard of Instagram and figured that it was like Facebook. He clicked on the link and scrolled through her many photographs. Most of them were of her with her friends from school. He kept swiping through photos until he found one of her wearing a soccer uniform, the name of her school clearly printed on the jersey.

Zoya Sokolov went to a private school in Granite Bay. Enlarging the soccer photo, he saw that she was blond like her sister and brother. Didn’t look too ferocious. She was a little old for his tastes, but he wouldn’t need her for sex.

Just as bait to lure Mercy and Rafe into his crosshairs.

Not that Rafe Sokolov would know that. He’d assume his baby sister was being defiled and it would drive him crazy. Crazy enough to knock him off his guard.

Leaving Mercy unprotected.

Smiling, Ephraim drained his coffee. He liked this plan. A lot.

He tossed the dishes in the small sink and started to get the camper ready to go.

RENO, NEVADA

TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 7:05 A.M.

Abigail sat back, patting her tummy with a satisfied sigh. “That was good, Papa.” She’d cleaned the disposable plate of every bite of pancakes and sausage, and would have licked off the lingering syrup if he hadn’t shaken his head. “How is yours?”

He chuckled because she was eyeing his Egg McMuffin calculatingly. She’d taken to the concept of a restaurant with surprising ease, especially once he’d described it like dinners in the common room in Eden—a few women making food for them all to enjoy. Except here in the world, the cooking wasn’t just done by women. She’d been particularly interested to hear that he’d cooked in a restaurant like this, back in the olden days, as she called it. He pushed what was left of his McMuffin across the table to her. “You want to try it?”

“Yes, please.” She wolfed it down as well, sighing again. “When we go back home, maybe you can make these for us. Deborah would love it.”

When we go home. Right. They weren’t ever going back home again. She would never see her best friend, Deborah, again. Unless someone could free everyone in the compound.