Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(80)

He flipped the man onto his belly and twisted his arms behind his back. “Get some zip ties.”

Morgan ran back to retrieve the backpack. Returning to Lance’s side, she handed him a plastic tie, and he used it to secure the man’s hands.

Then he rolled the man to his back, and Morgan shone a flashlight on his face.

Harold Burns.

“You’re trespassing!” Harold spat.

“Then you should have called the police, Harold.” Lance climbed to his feet. “But I bet you didn’t.”

“I did,” Morgan said.

From inside the trailer, a woman cried. “Who’s out there? Please help me.”

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.