Hideaway At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron
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early.
Mila felt the gunman’s eyes piercing her as she watched Rhoda quickly clear the waiting room, then shut down the computer at the nurses’ desk.
“Anything else I can do?” Rhoda called from the front.
“No, thanks for handling that. Have a good night with Trey.”
Rhoda yelled good-night, then left through the front door.
The gunman motioned for her to lock up, and Mila rushed forward, locked the doors and closed all the blinds. Noises sounded from the back, and she walked toward the exam rooms on shaky legs.
“Why me? Why here?” Mila asked.
The gunman jabbed the gun into her back. “We know you helped some of our girls escape.”
A cold chill washed over Mila. Some of their girls?
She had referred a few lost teens at the clinic to the women’s shelter. And then there was Izzy’s mother...
The back door burst open, and four more armed men strode in, their big bodies shielding another man in a suit who she assumed was the boss.
The guards scanned the interior, their posture braced to shoot. As they parted to search the clinic to make sure they were alone, she got her first real look at the man they called their leader.
Thick black hair framed an angular face that might be handsome if not for the scar running down the side of his cheek and the evil in his black eyes.
Eyes that looked familiar.
Pure panic robbed her breath.
She knew who he was. Arman DiSanti—the man who’d bought and used Izzy’s mother as a sex slave.
Did he know that her daughter, Izzy, the little girl they’d taken hostage, was his birth child?
* * *
BRAYDEN TRIED TO keep everyone calm as they waited on Lucas to answer the phone call. When Lucas returned, he looked antsy.
“We have a lead on the ringleader of the Shetland operation. We think he’s undergoing cosmetic surgery to change his identity.” He pulled his keys from his pocket. “I have to go.”
Harrison leaned over to give Honey a kiss. “I’m going with him.”
As sheriff of Tumbleweed, Harrison had no jurisdiction outside their small town, but he’d caught the case when Charlotte had been shot during the abductions of four students from her art studio. Lucas had been called in then. At this point, the entire family and the girls were all invested in making sure the trafficking ring was shut down for good.
“Need backup?” Dexter asked.
Dex’s PI skills had come in handy when they’d been tracking down the missing girls.
Lucas shook his head no. “This is an FBI operation, but thanks.”
Charlotte stood and touched her husband’s arm. “Where are you going?”
“A clinic outside Austin. Some plastic surgeon named Dr. Manchester is giving the bastard a new face.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Dr. Manchester?”
Lucas nodded. “Mila Manchester. For all we know, she’s on Shetland’s payroll. Her volunteer work could be a cover to give her opportunities to do jobs like this.”
Charlotte shook her head. “No, Lucas. Mila can’t be involved.”
Lucas narrowed his eyes at his wife. “You know Dr. Manchester?”
She nodded. “Her mother is the doctor who removed my port-wine birthmark when I was younger. I met Mila when I was at the clinic. And I’ve read about her volunteer work. She’s a good person.”
Lucas glanced at the table, where everyone was watching. Fear darkened the teens’ faces while worry knitted his mother’s brow.
“Maybe you think you know her,” Lucas said. “But, Charlotte, these men could be paying her big money to help them.”
Charlotte shook her head in denial again. “No, not Mila. She’s kind and loving and giving just like her mother was.”
Lucas looked torn but dropped a kiss on Charlotte’s cheek. “I really have to go. We don’t want this guy to get away.”
“Be careful,” Charlotte said, her voice strained. “And promise me you won’t hurt Mila.”
Lucas hugged her tightly. “Everything will be okay.”
Brayden pushed back from the table and followed Lucas and Harrison to the door. Dexter was right behind him.
Lucas stepped outside. “I’ll call you when we have him in custody.”
Brayden nodded. “Just get the bastard.”
Mila typically took weeks to plan a facial reconstruction surgery. She had several consultations with the patient, conducted an analysis of problematic features needing correction, created computer sketches simulating what the finished product would look like and, if needed, arranged counseling with a professional. She’d also run blood work and tests to verify the patient was healthy enough for surgery.
Sometimes skin grafts were necessary. And sometimes multiple surgeries.
She had no time for any of that today.
DiSanti had shoved a photograph into her hands and told her exactly what he’d wanted. The changes would literally make him unrecognizable.
She’d been working for hours now. Her hand trembled as she finished the last of the sutures around his forehead. Perspiration trickled down the side of her face. Exhaustion bled through every cell in her body, adding to the tension thrumming through her. Her feet ached, her head throbbed and her eyes were blurring.
Twice his blood pressure had risen, and she’d thought she might lose him. That would be a blessing.
But the guards had warned her that if she made a mistake or if he died, she’d pay for it.
“How much longer?” the shortest of the guards asked.
“I’m almost finished. But he’s going to need recovery time.” She wanted to tell them they were fools to put him through so many alterations in one day. “I told you that I usually perform these procedures in steps.”
“We don’t have time for that,” the bigger brute barked. “Just finish.”
Images of Izzy and Roberta, terrified for their lives, taunted her with every minute she worked on the man. So far, she’d reshaped his nose, lifted his eyelids and added fillers to his cheeks and lips. His scar was history, as well.
He looked ten years younger and almost handsome.
But nothing could change the monster beneath that face.
The goons guarding the surgical room remained rigid, guns pointing at her.
Her finger slipped, and she bit her tongue as she dropped the instrument. The guard took a step forward, his glare a warning. If she lost DiSanti, she’d be dead in seconds.
She forced a breath to calm her nerves, then completed the row of stitches, dabbing away blood as she went.
Relieved to finally finish, she gestured toward her patient. “He’s going to need rest, ice packs, pain medication. I’ll send you with everything you need to take care of him.”
A snide grin slid onto the brute’s face. “We’re not going to take care of him, Doc. You are.”
Mila’s pulse pounded. “Listen, I did everything you asked. Now let me go home to my little girl.”
He