Page 38 of Huck Frasier

Frasier and Axel were supposed to hit the front any second now.

Boom.

Right on cue, a muffled thud shook the floor.

“Showtime,” Lark muttered.

Reina pointed to a steel door. “Storage. That’s where they’re kept until pickup.”

I reached for the handle.

It was locked.

Lark handed me a keycard Reina had swiped from her old contact.

One swipe. Green light.

I pushed the door open—and nearly fell to my knees.

Eight kids. Huddled in the far corner. Blankets. Water bottles. Fear.

I stepped in slowly, hands raised.

“It’s okay,” I said in Spanish. “We’re here to help.”

One little girl bolted into my arms like she’d been waiting her whole life to be saved.

I swallowed a sob and scooped her up.

Lark moved fast, guiding the others out. Reina whispered reassurances, clutching two toddlers by the hand.

We were almost clear when a voice shouted behind us.

“¡Alto!”

Gun cocked. Boots stomping.

I turned.

A man in a black vest stood at the end of the hallway. Gun raised. Eyes cold.

I stepped forward. Shielding the kids. Pain lanced through my ribs, but I didn’t care.

“You don’t want to do this,” I said in Spanish.

His mouth twisted. “You’re too late.”

Before he could raise the gun—CRACK—a single shot rang out.

He dropped.

Frasier emerged from the shadows, rifle raised, jaw tight.

“You okay?” he barked.

“I’ve been better,” I rasped.

He crossed the hallway in three strides and cupped my face, eyes scanning for blood.