Page 28 of Slack Tide Kill

On the seat beside her rested the silver bat and the canister of Farb-gel. To take either meant intent. The bat would be useless against four strong men and three dogs. If she got into a close-quarters fight, it was over. But the Farb-gel?

It might buy her a few seconds.

Her heart stampeded. This was foolhardy. She shoved the can in her jacket pocket and stepped back into the storm. Her calves stung in their bandages, her thighs ached and rain lashed her scalp. The soil sank and oozed underfoot. Water seeped into her bandages.

She reached the fence and climbed into the RSPB preserve. Maybe 10 minutes to the Rook's farm by foot.

She set off at a splashing, lumbering jog.

Flocks of small black birds took flight before her. Claggy marsh mud sucked at her sneakers. She worked the map of the Rooks' farm in her head. Heavily buttressed with gates from the road. Three dogs, four brothers.

But from the preserve side?

Just the scrap-metal junk wall. If they had half a brain between them, after that warrant threat, they'd be moving anything incriminating on site, possibly including the girl.

Sally sped up, worn muscles driven by anger, until the farm lay ahead; a wall of battered chassis beds, hollowed-out kitchen appliances and rusted industrial equipment. Seagulls swooped and cawed above.

She shoved through a thicket of holly and ash to peer through a gap.

13 YOU WANT TO KNOW?

Umberside Lodge pulsed with urgent movement. A white panel van, battered and filthy, stood in the central yard with its rear doors open. The brothers were herding a stream of girls inside. Sally's eyes widened. All young. Girl after girl, not dressed for the weather; wearing skimpy tops, frills and lace.

Roarke Rook stood by the gate shouting into his cell phone. The dogs ran wild around the girls, snapping in close, teeth flashing, driving them faster. One lunged too far and had to be dragged back by a shouted command from the weasel brother.

Cold fury welled in Sally's belly. She brought up her phone and called Liam.

"Sally?"

"Liam, grab every officer you can and get to the Rooks' farm right now. Umberside Lodge on Dungeness Road. I'm looking at a white panel van stuffed with underage girls, some kind of trafficking operation."

A second ticked by. "Shit," O'Connell breathed. "You're sure?"

"They're loading the van right now, Liam." She read out the registration. "I'm thinking they'll turn left, toward you, up through Lydd. You need to intercept."

"All right. We're moving now."

"Good."

She hung up.

The van's rear doors slammed closed. The weaselly brother embraced Roarke Rook then climbed behind the wheel and fired up the engine.

Too soon. Too fast. They could slip right past Liam and be gone.

Sally's heart crashed and she ran without thinking. To the right along the wall, racing to keep pace with the van. Brambles tore at her legs and slashed her cheeks. She reached a rusted truck chassis butted up to the main gate, clambered onto its low bed and weaved through the sharp arms of a holly tree to the farm track.

The van was already passing through the gate. Sally burst through the slashing holly branches and leaped into the road ahead of it.

The van jerked to a halt. The Rook brother behind the wheel stared.

Sally pulled out the Farb-gel, stripped the cap and fired it at his windshield. The can disgorged its contents in a hard red stream, coating the glass like fresh graffiti. The brother shouted, then hit the gas.

Sally dived to the side as the van ripped by, mud spraying, windshield wipers smearing the red gunk wider. She pushed herself up as Roarke Rook sprinted up the track toward her, an iron bar in his right hand, dogs either side.

Sally turned the can's fire upon him, aiming for his face and eyes. He held up a hand to block the flow but stumbled.

His XL Bullies didn't stumble. They bolted directly toward Sally.