*Copyright: This material is protected by copyright owned by Meg Farrell, Farrell Writes LLC. 2016
Kent goes back out to the patio for the gun. I lay frozen on the floor, terrified to move. I’m waiting for him to come back and finish the job he started once before when lights fill the trailer. I can barely hear the purr of engines when Kent walks back through. He’s talking under his breath, then looks at me and says, “If you don’t want anyone else hurt, keep your stupid mouth shut.” He tucks the gun in the waistband of his pants, right at his lower back.
The voice I hear when Kent answers the door is Justin’s. Hope renews inside me, and I try to get back on my feet. When I fall over, Justin must hear the thump because then there’s a commotion at the door. I finally use the back of the couch to pull myself up onto my feet. My arm feels broken, and I hold it across my body.
As I’m standing there, Justin and Kent rolling on the floor, fighting for control of the gun. When I’m about to jump in and help Justin, another man rushes through the front door.
“Police! Freeze! Stop now, or I’ll shoot the both of you!”
He’s an older man, dressed in a police uniform. He’s got his own gun drawn on the guys. They stop fighting and sit up gasping for breath, glaring at each other. The police officer looks around the room when they surrender. His eyes land on me. “Ma’am, are you Alana Thomas?”
I swallow before answering. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Stay there for now. Let me get these two hooked.” He reaches for the little speaker thing on his shoulder and says some code stuff I don’t understand. Then he points the gun at Justin, “If you move, I will shoot you.”
Justin puts his hands up and slides away from Kent. “Okay, Paul. Just do what you gotta do.”
Paul? Who is Paul?