Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(79)

All he could see was darkness.

He lifted the binoculars from his chest and used them to scan the interior. The space was full of vehicles and engines. A few long workbenches were stacked with car parts. There were no rooms inside in which Burns could have kept a woman captive.

Lance jumped down from the barrel and retreated to the fence. Morgan crouched where he’d left her. He scaled the fence in a few swift motions and landed softly next to her.

“Anything?” she asked in a low voice.

He shook his head.

They resumed their search. Lance’s pulse thudded in a steady, highly tuned beat as they crept around piles of junked vehicles. Near the back center of the scrap yard, they came upon a single trailer set on cinder blocks. The rectangular structure was rusted and dented. Instead of steps, a single cinder block stood just below the narrow door, which was secured by a heavy-duty padlock. A dim yellow bulb glowed next to the door.

The hair on the back of Lance’s neck quivered. “I wonder what they’re keeping in there.”

“That’s an awfully big padlock,” Morgan said. “Is that a camera above the door?”

Lance nodded. “I see a motion detector too.”

“So how do we get a look inside?”

Lance scanned the structure. “The windows are covered.”

They circled around to view the trailer from the other side. Boards were nailed over both windows on this side as well.

“This doesn’t look anything like Chelsea’s description of where she was held,” Morgan said. “Do you see a hole in the roof?”

“Not from here.” But the trailer was setting off all Lance’s alarms. The trailer was more secure than the office and auto shop. “I’m going to get closer. Wait here.”

“I don’t want to wait here.”

“Someone needs to call the police if I get caught,” Lance argued. “Harold Burns is a violent man. If I’ve found his next victim, he’s not going to call the police on me. He’s going to bury me in a shallow grave in the state park.”

Morgan blew a hard breath out through her nose. “All right.”

Lance handed her the binoculars. “Watch my back?”

“Always.”

Lance jogged across the dirt. When he reached the trailer, he checked the padlock. It could be picked, but not quickly, and he’d rather not stand out in the open for any length of time. He’d look for an easier way in first. Then he went from window to window looking for a weakness but found none. The boards were nailed or screwed from the inside. He dropped to the ground and slid under the trailer but found no easy points of entry.

He was going to have to do this the hard way.

His options were to pick the lock or cut it off with the bolt cutters. Did he want to leave evidence of entry? Not really. He slid along the ground to get out from under the trailer. Bits of gravel rolled under his back, making more noise than he intended.

A scratching sound came from inside the trailer. He froze, straining his hearing.

There it was again. Scratching. Tapping. Crying?

And holy shit. Was that a sob?

“Is someone in there?” he called out.

“Yes,” a woman’s voice cried out. “Please help me.”

There was someone in the trailer, and they weren’t happy about it.

Lance scooted out from under the trailer. He’d get the bolt cutters from Morgan and be inside in a few seconds. He climbed to his feet. A long shadow fell over him. As he turned to confront the dark figure, a board swung toward his head.





Chapter Thirty-Seven


A scream sounded from the trailer. Morgan dialed 911 and gave the salvage yard address. She shoved the phone into her pocket and searched the clearing for Lance.

A man swung a board at Lance. He spun and ducked to evade it. The board struck him across the back of the shoulders. He fell to the ground, stunned, and lay still. His attacker dropped the board and jumped on top of him.

No!

Morgan pulled her gun from its holster and ran forward.

The attacker straddled Lance’s chest and threw a punch at his face. Lance wrapped his arm around his head to block the incoming fist.

Morgan stopped ten feet away and aimed the gun at the fighting men. “Freeze!”

The attacker ignored her and punched Lance in the ribs; Lance recoiled from the blow.

The man reached for the gun in Lance’s holster. Lance clamped both hands over his opponent’s, keeping the gun secure. They struggled for control of the weapon. Lance bucked and rolled.

And Morgan had no clear shot.

She changed her angle but still couldn’t shoot.

Damn it!

She had to do something. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Lance get hurt. Heart hammering, she scanned the ground, looking for a weapon.

The two-by-four!

Holstering her weapon, she raced forward and snatched it off the ground. The fighting men came to a stop, the attacker on top. Morgan rushed forward, desperation lending her strength. Two-handing it, she swung it like a baseball bat and hit him across the back.

He collapsed. Lance bucked hard and bridged over one shoulder, rolling his attacker onto his back and reversing their positions.

Morgan dropped the board. With Lance in control, relief surged through her, the rush of adrenaline making her light-headed.