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“Don’t bury her—that’s not her in the coffin!” a little girl cries out at a Chicago funeral, stopping everything as a shocking truth inside the coffin is revealed

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through open gunfire toward the door.

A bullet tore across his shoulder. He did not stop. He kicked the door once, twice, and on the third blow the lock gave way.

Inside, Caroline Whitaker lay bound to a pipe on a filthy mattress — bruised, dehydrated, but alive.

“Gabe?” she whispered.

Gabriel dropped to his knees beside her.

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