“Sleep well, Harry,” the man said softly. “Sorry about this, really.”

Amateur, Ephraim thought with contempt, then braced himself when he heard the jangle of . . . It didn’t matter. Springing from the sofa headfirst, he stayed below the line of fire to head-butt the doctor’s gut. Burkett dropped like a rock with a cry of shock, discharging the gun as his back hit the floor. The bullet hit the ceiling harmlessly, sending plaster dust falling like rain.

Ephraim kicked the gun away, then shoved a knee into Burkett’s chest. Grabbing his head, he snapped the doctor’s neck. “Sleep well, Doctor,” he mocked, breathing hard. “Sorry about this. Not really.”

He glanced to one side, realizing that the jangle had come from the handcuffs that Burkett had dropped to the carpet. He shoved them into his pocket, then, threat eliminated, fell back onto the sofa. He needed to think. There was still a chance that Mercy still had the safe-deposit box key, that she hadn’t turned it over to the cops. At least not yet. They wouldn’t have even gotten back to Sacramento until well after six. If she didn’t know what she had, she might be waiting until morning to hand it over.

And you might be wishing for a miracle that’s not coming.

Regardless, he needed to empty the contents of that safe-deposit box before the cops got a warrant. He had a key of his own, but he couldn’t just waltz into a bank and ask to open his safe-deposit box. Because thanks to Rafe Sokolov and that damn airport video, his face was all over the news.

I could go back to Eden and not worry about it. He’d be safe in Eden. Ironically enough, Eden was the only place he could be safe right now.

Unless Mercy gave the key to the cops and they opened the damn safe-deposit box.

The Feds would raid the compound faster than they could move to a new location. And all those beautiful millions under Pastor’s control would be confiscated by the motherfucking government.

Unless he got the bank codes first.

Or . . . I could just chuck it all and go to Mexico. There were ways to slip over the border undetected. He could figure it out. He’d be free. But poor.

Dammit. It was simply too much money to leave behind. With all that cash, he’d never have to work again. He could retire someplace warm where he had no responsibilities. And hopefully he’d be surrounded by beautiful girls who were exactly to his liking. I want that money. I earned that money.

So once again, it came back to Mercy. He needed her. Needed to haul her ass back to Eden. And preferably before she handed that damn key over to the cops. Once the Feds opened the safe-deposit box, it was all over.

He rubbed his temples, trying to think of what to do next. First on the list was to trade the old vehicle he’d stolen that afternoon for Burkett’s ride, which would be less noticeable around Rafe Sokolov’s Victorian. He searched the dead doctor’s jacket pockets, staring in surprise when he pulled out four prepared syringes and a bottle.