Aftermath

After the agonizing hours of subjugation by the cold, cruel angry intelligence of Melnikova, Trish now found herself safe and warm, held gently in Mama Rosie’s powerful arms, bathed in healing energies.

“Where’s Tom?” Trish whispered. “Tom!” she cried, starting up. “Tom!”

“Shush little baby,” Mama Rosie crooned. “It’s all right. We find Tom.” She hugged the semi-conscious Trish to her ample breasts and looked around.

“Over here!” came a shaken voice. Forster stood up from behind the desk where she’d taken cover. “He’s here, but he’s hurt bad.”

Trish lurched up and out of Mama Rosie’s arms and stumbled through overturned chairs to Wilkins, where he lay behind the desk. She glanced uncomprehendingly at the women moving among the other fallen police officers like ministering angels. Lustrous light flowed from their hands, and men grievously wounded, sat up and looked around in puzzlement as the healing hands took the injuries away.