They were moving quickly, their sirens off but their speeds dangerous.

They turned onto the access road leading to the private aviation terminals.

“There she is,” I said, pointing.

Margaret’s black sedan was visible near the security gates of the private runway.

The driver had stopped the car, but Margaret was already out.

She was struggling against the heavy metal gate, her designer boots slipping in the wet grass.

“She’s trying to reach the hangar,” Richard said, pulling his SUV to a stop behind the police cruisers.

The officers jumped out of their vehicles, their boots splashing in the puddles.

“State police! Freeze!” one of them shouted, his voice amplified by a megaphone.

Margaret didn’t stop. She climbed onto the lower rungs of the chain-link fence, her fingers hooking into the wire.

The officers rushed forward, grabbing her by the waist.

She shrieked, a high-pitched, desperate sound that echoed off the metal hangars.

They pulled her down to the wet ground.

Her fur coat was instantly covered in thick, dark mud.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, thrashing wildly. “You have no right! I am a Whitmore!”