“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Karl warned. “Everyone take a breath and relax.”

Irina was frowning at Mercy, then covered her mouth with her hand as understanding seemed to dawn. “Oh no. No, Mercy. I’m so sorry. I never thought . . . But I should have. Of course I should have.” Muttering in Russian, she got up from her chair to crouch next to Mercy’s chair. “I am so sorry, lubimaya. You think I’m upset with you. I’m not.” She took Mercy’s hand and squeezed. “We have some guests. I don’t want you caught unaware, but I’m not sure how to prepare you.”

Mercy shuddered, too relieved for words. Not upset with me. And the other words sank in and she tensed all over again. Prepare me?

Rafe took Mercy’s other hand. “Who’s here?”

Irina seemed to brace herself. “Jeff Bunker, for starters.”

Mercy could only stare at her. “The kid reporter?”

Behind her, Rafe growled quietly. “Jeff Bunker is here? Why?”

“Because he did a good thing,” Irina snapped. “Drop your bad attitude, Raphael. I’ve no patience for it at the moment. It’s been an eventful day.”

“That’s for sure,” Mercy muttered. “But Zoya is all right? You said she was fine.”

“She is fine,” Irina assured her. “The officer who got shot is not so much. He will live, though, so we must be grateful. He saw a Jeep down the road from Zoya’s school and recognized the license plate as the Jeep stolen from the honeymoon couple at the campground in Nevada. He called it in but ignored commands to wait for backup.”

“Young and stupid,” Rafe said with a scowl. “It’s a wonder rookies survive their first year.”

“That’s the damn truth,” André agreed.

Irina sighed. “So we have . . . protection. And company.”

“Miss Callahan?”

Mercy turned in her chair to find Agent Molina standing in the kitchen doorway. But she wasn’t alone. A man stood beside her, a small girl in front of him. His hands were on the girl’s shoulders, his face wary and afraid. But also alive. His eyes were alive.

And fixed on Mercy.

“Oh my God,” Mercy breathed, coming to her feet like she was in a dream. He was older. Of course he was older. His beard was streaked with silver. But his eyes were the same. Exactly the same.

Gideon rose from his chair. “Amos?” he asked, shocked.

It was. It was Amos. Mercy ran across the kitchen, wanting to throw her arms around him, but the little girl was in the way, staring up at her with wide eyes. So Mercy took his face in her hands.

She was trembling. So was he. “It’s you,” she whispered. “It’s really you. How are you here?”

Amos closed his eyes, tears seeping down his cheeks and into his beard. His hands covered hers and he turned to kiss her palm. “You’re all right. I . . . Oh.” He sobbed out the single syllable. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t be all right. I thought you were dead. All this time. They told me you were dead.” He opened his eyes to look at Gideon, who now stood a few feet away, the picture of indecision. “You too. They told me you were both dead.”