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CHAPTER 41
D.D.
ONE MOMENT, D.D. SWAM IN a sea of black, disoriented. The next, her eyes snapped open, just in time to see a fire poker smashing down toward her skull for the second time. Instinctively she tried to raise her right arm, but the responding lance of pain took her breath away. She rolled to the side, just as the poker crashed against the stone floor next to her shoulder.
A fierce voice above her: “Die, dammit. Just die!”
Franny, the sheriff’s receptionist, loomed above her. The delicate gold cross still dangled around her neck, but the rest of her was barely recognizable. Her carefully styled ash-blond hair had unraveled into a mad scientist’s cap. Her pale blue sweater set was covered in dirt and soot, and a line of black smudge marred her hip where it appeared something had hit her. Some things remained the same, however. Her broad shoulders, surprisingly tall build, impressive upper body strength.
Fire poker, lifting back up.
Move, Sergeant, move.
Flat on her back, half in the tunnel, half out, and with a right arm that still throbbed angrily, D.D. was out of options. Continue worming frantically into the dark tunnel might give her cover, buy her some time, but...
Bonita.
What had happened to Bonita? She needed to protect Bonita. With a quick twist, D.D. jerked her torso through the passage door, into the stone chamber. Her arm said no, but the rest of her demanded yes, and she rolled beneath the giant oak table, hissing in pain.
Scream of outrage as Franny realized she’d just lost her target.
Don’t think. Don’t feel. Move.
D.D. popped up the other side. Her right arm was clearly injured. She could twist her wrist, wiggle her fingers, so maybe not broken, but currently useless for drawing her weapon. She knew something, however, that Franny didn’t: D.D. had suffered a major injury to her left arm years ago. And as part of her recovery, she’d taught herself to shoot one-handed, versus the required two-handed grip. She’d started with her uninjured right arm; then, out of sheer paranoia, when her left arm had recovered, she’d perfected left-handed shooting as well, so she’d never be at a disadvantage again.
The older woman glared at her now, her grip still tight on her makeshift weapon, but the vast table blocking her from her target. Franny narrowed her gaze shrewdly, obviously, just like D.D. moving on to plan B.
Kimberly had mentioned some things about the woman. She was tougher than she looked, a born survivor who’d had to rebuild her life after losing her newborn child, and highly skilled at overcoming obstacles. Which explained how determined the massive woman looked right now, staring at D.D. across the table, fire poker at the ready.
Shit.
Quickly, D.D. glanced around the room. No sign of Bonita. Hopefully the girl had headed upstairs and tucked herself someplace safe. Now, D.D. made a show of clutching her right arm, wobbling unsteadily on her feet. In a showdown of brawn, no way D.D. was coming out on top. Not against an opponent this large and aggressive. Which left her with... stalling. Buying time for Bonita to escape, for reinforcements to arrive, for D.D.’s field of vision to clear enough so she could successfully get off a shot.
“Why?” she asked. It didn’t require any acting to make her voice rough with pain.
“None of you should be here. We had everything under control!”
“Importing young girls for hired help? Organ donors? Sex slaves?”
“We offer only the best product to the best customers,” Franny answered matter-of-factly. “No shipments of sickly immigrants for us. We take orders, and personally acquire what would best suit our clients’ needs.”
D.D. could read between those lines. Most human-trafficking operations involved importing container loads of girls who were then shuttled out to “massage parlors” and the like. Mass product for mass distribution.
Tucked this far north in the mountains, dozens of foreign girls would stand out. But specific individuals, brought in as housemaids till the right fit could be made... D.D. felt ill.
“But why? After everything you’ve been through... the loss of your own child... why kidnap someone else’s?”
“I didn’t lose him.”
D.D. stared at the woman. Franny smiled—it was not a nice expression on the woman’s face.
“I knew I had to give the baby up once he was born. Back in those days, it was the only option for an unmarried woman like me. Especially in a small town like this. Bunch of close-minded, judgmental asses. Looking down their noses at me because what, I was only a waitress, and a young, stupid, pregnant one at that. I heard their whispers. I took it. I told myself what must be done. But then, I held my baby in my arms. And I... I couldn’t do it.”
“You kept your baby... but told everyone he’d died?”
“I’ve always been smarter than people assumed.”
“You can’t hide an infant,” D.D. said.
