Page 103 of Chalk Outline
“Why are you here?” I whisper.
“They won’t let my brother go unless I handle this problem.”
“What problem?”
“They ordered me to kill a woman for my brother’s life.” She pulls a photo from her rear pocket and shows it to me.
Fuck!
The car’s vibrations intensify as we accelerate. Rick sits in the passenger seat, grabbing a cigarette from the console. Koda follows us in a different SUV.
“Mitch escaped,” Braxton’s urgent tone in my ear nearly gives me a heart attack. Fuck. I forgot about that thing. “We will be with you until they find the earpiece. Your vest camerais broken, but you have a tracker in your thigh bag. Drop it anywhere you can if they do.”
I clear my throat as a signal to let them know that I heard.
“I heard what Mira said. If she is after your wife, we can address the situation.”
I let out a subtle groan and say, “What if I can help you and save your brother instead?”
Disbelief is evident on her face as her brows draw together in question. She has witnessed so much that trusting me, a stranger who just killed a bunch of people without a second thought, seems absurd.
I don’t want to hurt innocent people who have nothing to do with these offenders, and the thought of killing or harming women is something I can’t comprehend. It doesn’t sit well with me. It never has.
But if she leaves me with no choice, I will always choose Winona.
Chapter eighteen
Winona Bishop
Mourn — Sentenced
Several computer screens light up my station at the emergency center. “911, what’s your emergency?” I answer the beep on the call screen.
Loud, quick breaths echo from the other side. Legs shuffling… maybe trying to escape?
“Hello, is anyone there?” I try again. My voice is soft yet resonant. With each call that comes in, we have forty-five seconds to gather enough information and send help accordingly. “What’s the location of the emergency?”
Another long pause follows.
A door clicks in the background, and the sharp sound of crushed cans echoes from downstairs—a throaty roar of an engine passing by fades after a few seconds.
They must be outside.
I try to trace the call through cell towers in the area while focusing on the noise and gathering bits of information that suggest any sign of distress.
“I l-live in 12 C-Coven Street.” The breathy voice of a little girl trembles and breaks with fear as she sniffs almost soundlessly. “I’m s-scared. These men are looking for me.”
My fingers quickly move across the keyboard, recording everything she tells me. “Help is on the way. I’m here with you. I’m Winona. What is your name?” I signal my supervisor to tune in.
A small gasp escapes before she says, “Mattie.”
“Mattie, are you injured? Did they harm you?” My heart hammers in my chest, but I remain calm and collected.
“No, I’m outside,” she whispers, gulping hard. “I’m hiding in the backyard.”
There have been a dozen reports of home invasions, including the abduction of two six-year-olds in that area recently, which the police don’t seem to investigate enough.
“Mattie, what’s your hair color and what are you wearing?”
