Hank dragged Kat into the bedroom, her feet pressing against the floor as he pushed her; she had no real hope of obstructing his hideous goal. Once they were in the bedroom, her thrashing became more furtive and urgent.

It was the last stop on the torture train, barreling right toward the end of the line.

Hank threw her onto the bed, making her bounce on the mattress, while she looked up at him in quiet anger. He pulled off his shirt, looking her over with a hungry grin. “I been waitin’ fer this a long time.” He followed it with a long, low chuckle. “I knew first time I saw you that you’d be a hot lay—real strong, a fighter. I like that. Tell you the truth, that’s what turned me on to begin with. When you hit that homeless cuck, I nearly busted a nut!”

Kat tried to roll to the side, but she knew there was nowhere to go and no way to get there. “I can’t lie t’ya,” Hank said, “soon as that bitch Barbara called me, she said you’d mentioned me to that dimwit dummy at the bottom of Lake Melody, my first thought was fucking the wholly shit outta you. I couldn’t believe my luck! At first, ’course, my buddy talked me down. Hey, I’d been drinkin’, what can I tell ya. But when I got that call, I knew it was God Himself talkin’ to me.”

“Can you believe it?” He cackled out another stream of laughter, his hand clumsily groping her thighs. “Two months ago, I was in construction! Now I’ve got this writer’s whole bank account, control of his assets, his cabin…and they dropped it right in my lap!” He laughed some more, patting her legs and giving them a final rub, as if for luck. “Just goes to show you…Trump was right; he really is making America great again!” Another spew of spittle-frothed laughter punctuated his absurd analysis. But Kat wasn’t interested in talking politics. She only wanted to escape, to survive, to kick this murderous rapist animal’s ass. Nothing else mattered.

The front door crashed open in the distance, Hank turning as footsteps echoed in the living room, getting louder fast. Kat looked up from the bed to see Carter rushing into the room, Hank ready to greet him with a flurry of punches.

Carter was burly and strong, but so was Hank, and the second man had a wicked aggression that was going to be hard to match. Luckily for Kat, Carter was fueled by love and vengeance, a powerful combination of its own.

Hank threw a hard right cross, making perfect contact and sending Carter stumbling backward. Hank wrapped his hands around Carter’s neck, the two men grappling, Carter clinging to his arms. They stumbled to the bed and fell. Kat tried to roll out of the way, but it was too late and they fell onto her, their combined weight pressing down on her legs, knees close to breaking. And she was helpless to protect Carter, beneath his adversary, his face red and nearing purple.

With a thrust of strength, Carter threw another hard right to Hank’s cheek and then a second, finally breaking the pitch of Hank’s strength enough to throw the man off him. Carter was quick to jump off the bed and follow Hank, the two men once more trading blows, staggering out into the living room.

Kat’s mind was going a mile a minute. How the hell did Carter get here? How could he have known? But her memory flashed on a conversation she’d had with him, telling Carter about Mitchell and his big, red cabin by Lake Melody. When I wasn’t there for our lunch meeting, he must have figured it out!

But there was no more time to think about it. Carter was fighting for his life and for hers, and she needed to get out there and help if she possibly could. Kat rolled off the bed, shifting her body to put her feet on the floor first. But the cuffs held her limbs, and she found neither balance nor footing, falling instead like a sack of potatoes. It was harder to maneuver than she expected, and she slowly and clumsily inched her way around so that she was facing the bedroom door. From there it was a matter of pushing her way across the floor, the sounds of crashing furniture in the living room telling her that there was no time to waste.

She pushed out to the living room, where Barbara lay dead on the floor, eyes open and staring, her death gaze locked on Kat as she wriggled her way into the living room. Beyond the woman’s corpse, the men were still trading punches near the couch. Hank grabbed a framed photo of Mitchell and smashed it into Carter’s forehead, the glass breaking.

Carter threw a few hard punches to Hank’s gut, finally throwing his adversary. But the man was quick to return, and the two were quickly entangled in a mesh of arms and legs, grasping hands and hard, clenched fists.

Kat strained to follow the action, but from the floor it was hard to see precisely who was punching or kicking or strangling whom. But she did notice the little black stun gun laying on the floor, apparently discarded in the struggle.

The men came into clearer view, both on their feet, Carter delivering a series of hard punches directly at Hank’s battered face. But the man seemed to be laughing with that bloodied mouth, only enraged by the attack and alive with testosterone and adrenaline. He smashed his forehead into Carter’s, Kat’s man’s head snapping back.

Carter managed to spin Hank around, locking his arm around Hank’s neck. He pulled tight, elbow sticking out like some absurd necktie as he pulled Hank back, windpipe no doubt close to being crushed.

She inched her way to the stun gun and worked her way around it so that she could hold it in her hands, still cuffed behind her back. Kat knew the danger, that she’d possibly hold the thing backward, with the electrodes pointing inward and facing her instead of outward, making it a viable weapon. And in the frenzy of the men’s fight, it was hard to concentrate, her fingers frightened as they felt their way around the unfamiliar device.

Hank had a good grip on Carter from behind, Carter reaching back to assault Hank’s face or head, unable to find purchase.

Gotta help, she realized, gotta zap that sick bastard, save Carter, save us both!

She tried to stand up, but with her ankles and wrists cuffed, every effort to stand was fruitless. And each time she fell to the floor, she risked zapping herself with that stun gun, or dropping it.

Ugh, it’s no good; I can’t get up!

But Kat noticed the wall only a few feet away, reasoning that she could push herself up against the wall and then bunnyhop her way toward the grappling men, but whether or not she’d make it in time was still the question.

Hank was close to succumbing to Carter’s sleeper hold, but he stuck his arm out as far as he could extend it, then brought it back in a flash, ramming his elbow into Carter’s gut. It was a good blow but not good enough. Twice more did the trick, and Carter lost his hold on Hank’s neck. Then with a hard lurch forward, Hank managed to flip Carter over his back. The big man came crashing down hard, hitting the coffee table, the sturdy structure crushed beneath him, wood splinters flying. Kat had to clamp her eyes shut and turn away, only a few feet from the men as they grappled on the floor, Hank above and Carter below.

Hank’s hands locked around Carter’s neck again—a rare spot of vulnerability on his massive, muscular frame. Hank was clearly well-practiced in the art of hand-to-hand combat, and it seemed like Carter had met his match.

Kat knew she had to make her move. Confident that the stun gun was facing the right direction, she inched her way toward the two men. With Carter beneath Hank, the danger was that she’d accidentally zap Carter, giving Hank a murderous victory despite her best intentions.

But her world was flipped on its side, nothing was clear and there was no time to think. She pushed her way toward Carter and Hank, cuffs cutting her wrists, legs feeble and useless. Carter was still pinned, his head seeming to quiver under Hank’s strangulating assault. Time was running out and all three of them knew it. It was up to her, the odds were slim, and there were just seconds left.