Born on the 4th of July

made sense because . . . she was in the earth. She could feel it, that she was below the ground. She was stretched out on a . . . slab.
She carefully moved her fingers, testing the feel of where she lay, certain she couldn’t be seen in the darkness.
If there was anyone there to see her.
Had she been buried alive? She was in . . .
A cemetery. She was certain she was still in the cemetery.
But she could breathe easily and the light-headedness was slowly leaving her. She blinked and tried hard to figure where she might be without giving herself away.
If someone was there.
If someone was coming.
Her fingers moved over something cold and solid. She felt the shape of it and for a minute, a queasy unease filled her and a natural state of panic almost set in.
Bone.
She was lying in a mausoleum. No . . . she didn’t think so. The smell of the earth was just too rich, but she had just touched human bone. And where she lay . . .
Felt like an old crypt shelf, or . . .
Catacombs.
Once upon a time, deep in the earth here, they had buried people in catacombs. Why? Had they been undesirables? Had they . . .
She didn’t know. She did know she was sharing space with human remains. She wanted nothing more than to leap up and run away.
The baby kicked in her womb and it struck her then that not only was she in grave danger—no pun intended, she assured herself—but so was her unborn babe! Her little girl. Victoria. They had picked out the name already. Not for any reason. They both just liked it.
A few seconds of icy fear filled her, but she managed to replace it with fury and a dead-set determination to get out.
Yes, she had to get out. And . . .
She’d been on the hunt for another woman. Another pregnant woman. And if she was alive, then most likely, Annie Green was alive, too.
Of course, the realization of what these people wanted was as terrifying as it was obvious.
Their infants. For . . .
Illegal adoptions.
At least, she prayed it was illegal adoptions. Because otherwise . . .
They needed newborns for . . . sacrifices in a sick and twisted cult?
She needed to stop thinking about what they intended—and start thinking about making sure it never happened. First, they couldn’t have known they were kidnapping an FBI agent. They couldn’t know Adam would pull in every favor ever owed to him—and Jackson would pull the entire place down, brick by brick, to save them.
She thought she heard a movement near her. A soft moan.
Then, a whisper. “Stay down; he’s here.”
She heeded the warning.
Then she heard a voice. Someone on a cell phone.
“They’re both still out and no signs of labor from the trauma. We’ve just got to hold tight. Just give them what they want. They’ll go in the mausoleum. They still won’t find the entrance.”
The speaker was male. He let out a soft, throaty laugh.
“It’s best to just cooperate—give them anything they want.”
It was the man who had accosted her at the door when she’d started out of the cemetery’s office, Angela thought.
And it was all too clear. The owners or managers of the cemetery were complicit in an illegal adoption ring. They kidnapped the mothers until the infants were born and then . . .
Rid themselves of the liability.
The speaker walked away and still she waited.
Then she heard the whisper again.
“It’s all right.”
She opened her eyes. It was pitch dark, but she could just make out the form of a woman who knelt by the slab where she lay, barely a form, she could see through. She was dressed in period clothing, and her hair had been dark, her skin a silken ebony. She looked at Angela with anxiety and concern and added quickly, “I—you’re all right. You know I’m here and you’re—you’re not going to faint?”
Angela shook her head and whispered, “Where am I?”
“The tunnels. They were once part of the Underground Railroad. They lead to an old farmhouse the devil people own now.” She grimaced. “The tunnels became catacombs as well,” she said softly. “Many escaped and ex-slaves were interred down here together as families, and we were able to mourn our loved ones.”
“Oh,” Angela murmured. She tried moving her fingers and her limbs. She could move. She had a feeling Merissa Hatfield wasn’t as good at soaking a rag with knock-out chemicals as her accomplice seemed to be.
“Annie Green?” she asked.
“The other woman they took today?” her new friend asked.
Angela nodded and said, “I’m sorry. I’m Angela. And you’re--?”
“Jennie. Jennie Wilder. And your friend is right over there. She was dosed pretty heavily, but I’ve tried to assure myself she’s all right.”
Angela excused herself and crawled carefully off the slab where she had lain. It was so dark; a bit of light seemed to seep from two entrances, one far along to her right and another far along to the left.
She kept her hands in front of her, carefully moving toward a slab across the tunnel. She felt a body and knew it had to be Annie Green.
She found the woman’s wrist and checked for a pulse.
Thankfully, it was strong and steady.
“Annie, can you hear me? Can you hear me?” she asked anxiously.
There was no reply.
“Do you know how we can get out of here?” Angela asked, turning to seek out Jennie Wilder again.
“I do, but he’ll be coming back soon. He’ll have to make sure you’re still knocked out,” Jennie said.
“Thank you and thank you so much for your help. These people—”
“Yes. I know what they do. But I’ve been . . . no one could hear me before,” Jennie said.
Angela’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “How . . . many?”
“Over the last years? Two before you, and never two in a day. The tunnels twist and turn; there’s an entrance through one of the above ground tombs, too, and one at the