Safe At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron
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Paint tubes, bottles and containers had spilled, the paint running together, converging on the light wood floors in an ugly brown smear.
Footprints in different sizes that must belong to the girls tracked the paint across the floor, indicating the victims had fought back, and that at least one of them had been dragged.
A female’s cowboy boot lay in one corner, obviously lost during the struggle. Beads from a bracelet or necklace were scattered by a bin of paint smocks.
Bloody fingerprints dotted the floor and wall.
“Here’s what I think happened,” Harrison said. “According to the schedule posted in the teacher’s office, Charlotte was conducting a class. Four students.” Harrison gestured toward the door. “Looks like the kidnappers just walked in. No sign of forced entry. Door was probably unlocked.” He pointed toward the pool of blood on the floor. “Owner of the coffee shop/bookstore next door said Charlotte was giving, kind and dedicated to her students.” Harrison ran a hand through his hair, emotion thickening his voice. “Honey would agree to that. She liked what Charlotte was doing here so much that she renovated this space for her at cost.”
Lucas clenched his hands into fists. “Have you told Honey yet?”
Harrison shook his head. “No. I’m not looking forward to it, either.”
Lucas patted his brother’s arm. “She’s strong. Tough. She can handle it.”
“I know, but I...want to protect that woman from everything bad.”
The love in Harrison’s voice twisted Lucas’s insides. The Hawk brothers had all been loners. He’d never expected Harrison to marry. Then Honey came back to town...
Harrison gestured around the room. “Charlotte obviously tried to stop the men, but judging from the number of bullet holes, they were heavily armed and opened fire. While she was down, the men snatched the teenagers and kept firing to prevent Charlotte from following. She passed out on the floor in that pool of blood. My guess is they thought she was hit in the chest and would bleed to death.”
Lucas’s stomach squeezed at the sight of the bloody fingerprints where the woman had crawled to the door. Even injured, she’d tried to save the girls.
“Any specifics on the hostages?” Lucas asked.
“Not yet. We’re working on compiling that information.”
“What about Charlotte? Any family?”
“No. She was alone. That’s what drew her to Honey and these adolescents.”
Damn. Lucas didn’t know the woman, but he already admired her.
He just hoped she survived and could help them. Otherwise, the four teenagers might be lost forever.
Pain throbbed through Charlotte’s head and body. She tried to open her eyes, but a black void swirled around her and a heavy nothingness dragged her into its abyss.
Machines beeped. Low voices murmured. Metal clanged.
Where was she? What had happened?
“Got the bullet,” a man said. “Need to stop the bleeding.”
Charlotte searched her mind—she must be in surgery...but why?
A burning sensation seeped through her, followed by more darkness and quiet. Then a loud popping sound. Screams. Footsteps pounding. Her paints and canvases crashing.
Her studio, she was back there...the girls were painting, the music flowing, the door opened...
Terror seized her. Strange men stormed in. Men wearing masks. They were dressed in black.
And they had guns...
More screams. She had to save the girls...
The popping sound again. The bullet pierced her. Her head throbbed, colors bleeding together, fading.
Quiet again. Blissful quiet. Except for the voices. Someone touching her. A gentle hand.
“You’re going to make it, Ms. Reacher,” a woman said. “Just rest now.”
Rest? The world twirled, nausea flooded her, then that slow burn again. She tried to move, but her limbs were heavy. Weighted. Something was attached to her arm. An IV.
“The police want to talk to you, but they’ll have to wait. Sleep now.”
Sleep? Rest? How could she? There was something she had to do. Something important.
The screams echoed in her head again. Her students...they needed her.
Terror and despair flooded her. Adrian, Agnes, Mae Lynn...sweet Evie...they were crying, sobbing, begging for help.
* * *
LUCAS PACED THE waiting room, anxious to talk to Charlotte Reacher.
Meanwhile, he phoned Tradd Hoover.
“The art teacher is still in surgery,” he told Tradd. “The studio where the attack happened looked like a war zone. Bullet holes everywhere. My brother, Sheriff Harrison Hawk, is supervising the crime-scene unit.”
“All four girls were foster kids?”
“That’s right.”
“That sucks,” Tradd said. “As if their lives haven’t already been hard enough.” Tradd made a clicking sound with his teeth. “In the other two instances, the kidnappers didn’t leave a witness behind. First abduction took place at a dance camp. Shot the teacher in the back before she even saw what was coming. More bullets were lodged in the floor near the ballet bar where the girls stretched. Five girls were taken, ages twelve to fourteen.”
Good God. Twelve years old? She was just a baby. Innocent. A girl with no idea what the men had in store for her.
“Second attack was outside a Waco high school. Men snuck up on the cheerleading squad as they were walking to their cars after practice. This time they lay in waiting, snatched them one by one. No casualties. Science teacher was leaving about that time and saw the last of the six girls tossed into the back of a black van. Tinted windows. No tag. Driver raced away just as another girl ran around the corner. She was in the bathroom changing or she would have been taken, too.”
“Did she see any of the men well enough to make an ID?”
“Afraid not. She was pretty shook up. Said all she saw was a man’s back and the gun he was holding to her friend’s head.”
“You think we’re dealing with the same men or factions of a larger trafficking ring?”
“Hard to say at this point. Unfortunately there weren’t any surveillance cameras at the dance camp. There were two in the high-school parking lot, but the assailants shot them out.”
Of course they did. “None at the art studio, either,” Lucas said. Although he’d advise Ms. Reacher to install a security system if she reopened the studio. “How are the families holding up?”
“About like you’d expect,” Tradd said. “They’ve seen enough TV and news stories to speculate on what’s happening. None of it’s pretty.”
No, it wasn’t. Most likely they were being drugged and held somewhere until they could ship them out of the country or to perspective buyers. They probably had clients waiting.
His stomach knotted. Too many depraved people in the world, and men who’d pay for sex.
The girls who didn’t go to a buyer would suffer an equally harsh or worse fate. They’d be put in brothels, forced to work as prostitutes. Treated inhumanely. Beaten. Raped. Sometimes drugged, chained in a room so they couldn’t escape.
“Email me the files,