Chapter Two

      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, crime-scene photos, information on the victims so I can compare.” Not that he thought the victims or their families had anything to do with this. This read like a professional hit. The ring targeted random groups that were vulnerable, easily accessible and fit a certain type and age range.

      Otherwise, they would have also taken Charlotte Reacher.

      Instead, they’d left her for dead.

      * * *

      THE GIRLS WERE SCREAMING. They needed her. She had to help them. Stop the bad men...

      Charlotte blinked and tried to open her eyes, but she was so sleepy she couldn’t force them open. A few minutes ago, she’d heard someone talking. The nurse, she said her name was Haley. They were moving her to a room.

      She’d been shot. Had a head injury. Had undergone surgery.

      She was lucky, Haley said. She was alive.

      But what about Evie, Adrian and Agnes, and Mae Lynn?

      Tears seeped from her aching eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

      A warm hand touched hers. Slid over it and squeezed.

      She