Colt descended the ladder and saw a pregnant Hispanic woman with a twisted leg leaning against a wall. She wasn't wearing a shirt because she'd balled it up and had it pressed against Cal's side. The light blue material was soaked with blood. Cal's head lay in her lap. He looked pale and sweaty.
"Don't worry," said Colt. "You're safe now."
The woman nodded. "I'm okay. Help him, please."
Colt knew she must be in awful pain with a broken leg, but she was steady and strong-willed, saving her panic for the state of her husband. "Where did Roger Pierson go?"
"I don't know," she said. "But Cal shot him." She let out, what Colt could only assume, was a whole slew of Spanish curse words before spitting at the ground. "I hope the cabrón is dead."
***|***|***
November 4, 2019 - 9:42 a.m.
Roger Pierson's House
