“Or they think the chicken house is so secure they can’t escape,” Connor said. He straightened. “I’m going to take a look.”
He headed toward the back of the chicken house, Anthony on his heels. “Stacy!” He tapped on the wall. “Stacy, it’s Connor. I have Agent Anthony with me.”
The only answer was a muffled noise and a series of dull thumps. Farley growled low, his body rigid.
Anthony leaned closer. “Agent Macrae, are you in there?”
More kicking sounds and muffled grunts.
“They must be tied up and gagged,” Connor said. “We have to get in there.” He hurried to the front of the coop, grabbed hold of the padlock and shook it.
“Quiet!” Anthony said. “Someone will hear you.”
Connor stepped back. “Then get this door open.”
Anthony studied the door, then pulled out his gun. “Stand back,” he said. “And be ready to grab whoever is in there and run for it.”
Connor caught hold of Farley’s harness. “I’m ready.”
The sound of the bullet striking the lock echoed in the night stillness. Even with all the music and voices, someone would have heard that. “Let’s go,” Anthony said, as he pulled off the shattered lock and tossed it aside.
He opened the door, and Connor peered into the darkness. Anthony shone a light around the room.
Bright eyes stared up at them. A man with thinning brown hair and a ruddy complexion lay on the floor, wrists and ankles bound and a gag stuffed in this mouth. He gave a muffled protest as they moved into the room.
“Who is that?” Anthony asked.
Connor crouched beside the man and pulled out the gag. “Where are Stacy and George?” he asked.
“I don’t know any Stacy and George. Untie me, please.”
“What happened to the man and the woman who were being held captive in here?” Connor asked.
“I came to bring them dinner, and they jumped me.”
Connor stood. “Let’s get out of here. We have to find them.”
Chapter Seventeen
Stacy kept one hand on her father’s arm, afraid he was going to fall over. “How badly are you hurt?” she asked as he staggered alongside her in the darkness.
“I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I just bruised a few ribs.” He sucked in his breath. “Maybe broke a couple, but I’ve been through worse. Did I tell you about the time in Arkansas where I walked ten miles down a mountain with a broken ankle?”
“Yes. And you were thirty then. You’re a lot older now.”
“I don’t need you to remind me.” He halted, breathing hard. “I should have anticipated that kick. I expected him to give up as soon as I stabbed him.”
A guard had arrived with dinner and surprised her father trying to saw through the side of the chicken house with the multi-tool. Dad had slashed him with the saw blade, and the man had delivered a hard kick to George’s ribs. Stacy had jumped the man and choked him with her scarf until he went limp. She and her father had tied his hands and feet, gagged him and left him locked in the chicken house.
“Where to now?” Her father looked around. “Everything is lit up like Christmas.” Music blared from speakers in the trees, overlaid by shouts and laughter. “Sounds like they’re having a party.”
“Our phones are bound to be in Shane’s house,” Stacy said. “If I get the phone, I can call for help. And transportation back to town.”
“I have a better idea,” her father said. “Let’s steal one of these cars and drive ourselves.” He gestured to the vehicles lined up along the drive.
“We can’t just drive off in someone’s car,” she said. “They’ll see us and chase after us.”
“I can drive faster than they can run.”
