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The dog was a blur. In two bounds, he launched himself into the air and clamped his jaws onto Kovich’s trigger arm. The shotgun clattered to the asphalt as the man was driven into the gravel. Seconds later, Miller had Kovich cuffed and secured in the back of the cruiser, but the real work was only just beginning.
Miller attacked the first bale with the crowbar, his heart hammering against his chest. The panel popped open to reveal a young woman curled up in the fetal position. The compartment was a coffin—a wooden box no wider than three feet. Her lips were blue, her hair matted with sweat and grime. Miller lifted her out, marveling at how light she was, and moved to the next bale.
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