Her Last Goodbye

The woman!

Morgan grabbed the bolt cutters from the backpack. While Lance secured Harold’s ankles with a second set of zip ties, Morgan cut the padlock, opened the trailer door, and shone her flashlight inside.

The trailer was one open space. The only furnishing was a filthy mattress in the center. A large, dark stain in the center of it turned Morgan’s stomach. A woman huddled on the edge of the mattress. She was chained to a ring bolted into the floor.

The space was warmer than outside, so the trailer must have heat. Morgan felt along the wall by the door for a light switch. Finding one, she flipped it.

A light bulb suspended from the center of the ceiling shone weakly on the woman. She huddled at the end of her chain. Handcuffs bound her wrists. She raised her hands in front of her face, shielding her eyes from the light.

In one sweeping glance, Morgan took in the woman’s shivering, naked body, the blood and bruises and battered face. Shaking off her shock, she lifted her foot to step through the doorway.

“Not so fast,” a man said behind her.

Morgan turned.

Jerry Burns stood fifteen feet away, a pistol in his hands pointed directly at Morgan.

Her stomach flipped.

“Get down here.” Jerry’s head jerked toward Lance, who knelt over Harold’s prone body. “You, cut my brother free or I will put a bullet in this bitch’s pretty face.”

This couldn’t happen. Morgan and Lance had to save this woman and themselves.

Morgan glanced at Lance. Harold was incapacitated. There was no way Lance was going to release him. He and Morgan would never survive against both of the Burns brothers. And neither would the woman chained in the trailer. If they were going to get out of this alive, they needed to act now. Allowing themselves to be taken prisoner by the Burns brothers would get them all killed. She weighed the bolt cutters in her hand. She was too far away to use the tool as a club. Jerry’s gun was pointed at her. She wouldn’t get closer before he reacted. Nor did she have time to drop the bolt cutters and draw the weapon under her jacket.

There was only one option.

Morgan would have to get out of the way and pray that Lance could take Jerry down before he could turn the gun on him.

She was fifteen feet away. Outside of television, handguns weren’t that accurate beyond eight to ten feet.

There were no options.

Her eyes met Lance’s. A silent agreement passed between them. From his position, kneeling on the small of Harold’s back, Lance extended three fingers on his thigh.

Two.

One.

Morgan dove through the doorway and covered her head with her arms. Her flashlight rolled across the floor. The bolt cutters landed with a thud. A gunshot rang out. Jerry’s shot went low, hitting the floor. Wood splintered. The thin walls of the trailer wouldn’t stop a bullet. A second shot boomed. Morgan drew her weapon and belly-crawled toward the open trailer door.

Her heart vibrated inside her chest. Had Lance shot Jerry or vice versa?

No.

Lance just had to be all right. He’d almost died by gunfire last year. He couldn’t—she shut down that thought. Her brain couldn’t go there and still function.

The woman in the trailer needed saving.

Inching forward, heart hammering, Morgan peered around the bottom of the door frame and took in the scene with profound and surreal shock.

Jerry lay on the ground, a bloodstain spreading across his shoulder. Behind him stood Sheriff King and two deputies. The gun in the sheriff’s hand was still pointed at Jerry.

Her gaze found Lance, still kneeling on the ground, his hand on his weapon holster as if prepared to draw his gun. Obviously, the sheriff had beaten him to it.

“Get handcuffs on this scumbag.” The sheriff stepped around Jerry and started toward Morgan.

Relief and surprise rolled through Morgan. There was no way he could have responded to her call that quickly. But she didn’t have time to question the sheriff’s presence. The traumatized woman sobbed in the darkness behind her. Morgan glanced at Lance once more, verified that he was whole and alive, then scrambled to her feet and turned to the victim.

She picked up the bolt cutters.

“I’m going to free you now.” Not wanting to frighten her any further, Morgan approached her slowly.

The woman continued to cry, her words unrecognizable, her voice as rusty as her prison.

Behind her, the trailer creaked as the sheriff stepped inside. “Oh, my God.”

Morgan severed the chain with the bolt cutters. The woman stumbled forward, sobbing, into Morgan’s arms. She slid off her jacket and put it around the woman’s shoulders.

“There’s an ambulance on the way.” The sheriff stood back, his face drawn, as he scanned the interior of the trailer.

“Out.” The woman pushed to her feet, her words desperate. “Get me out. Please. I have to get out of here.”

Who wouldn’t?

Morgan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steadied her balance.

Lance peered through the doorway. “I’ll get a blanket.”

Morgan helped the woman limp toward the door. The sheriff stepped aside, allowing them to pass.

“What’s your name?” Morgan asked.

“Karen. Karen Mitchell,” she said, her voice growing stronger with each step toward freedom.

The missing woman.

They stepped through the opening. The trailer, while not cozy, had been warmer than the air outside. Karen shivered, her body quaking from head to toe. A frigid wind kicked up. Morgan blocked it with her body as best she could.

Lance appeared with an outspread blanket. As he enveloped Karen in it, her legs gave out. Lance caught her and swept her off the ground, and Morgan tucked the blanket around the woman’s bare feet.

Two sheriff’s deputy cars drove through the salvage yard, their headlights illuminating the trailer. The cars parked, and the deputies got out of their vehicles.

“This is Karen Mitchell,” Lance said.

“I’ve got her.” One of the deputies retrieved a first aid kit and another blanket from his trunk. “Put her in the car. It’s warm. The ambulance will be here soon.”

Lance put her in the back seat of the police car “You’re safe now.”

Talking in a calm voice, the deputy squatted in the door opening, covered her with the second blanket, and lifted the lid of his first aid kit.

Morgan’s face felt hot in the cold air. She was simultaneously freezing and sweating as her heart rate dropped back to normal. Nausea rose in throat. She bent over, resting her hands on her thighs. She sucked in some cool night air.

Lance turned back to her. “If you need to puke, move away from the scene.”

“I think I’m OK. It’s an irritating reaction to the rush of adrenaline.”

He walked over and handed her a bottle of water. “You get the job done first. That’s what matters.”

“I guess.” Morgan took an experimental sip. The cold water soothed her stomach.

Lance put a hand between her shoulder blades. “We saved that woman’s life. That’s worth a little puking.”

“Says the guy who doesn’t get sick.”

“It’ll catch up with me,” Lance said.

“Kruger and Dane. Over here. Now.” Sheriff King pointed at Lance and Morgan and jerked his thumb away from the growing crowd of law enforcement. Morgan’s legs felt like rubber bands as she and Lance joined the sheriff.

Sheriff King propped his hands on his hips. “Let’s get this straight. I am pissed as hell at both of you. You were trespassing on private property.” The sheriff stabbed an angry finger at Lance. “I expect you to risk your own life, but endangering a woman?” He pointed at Morgan.