Rita Herron - Hostage At Hawk's Landing

She and April Stewart, the director of the shelter, had discussed consulting the local police, but Smith had given them no reason to. If they called the cops on everyone who made them nervous, they might as well shut down.

On the surface, Smith looked rough. He had a long scar on the side of his face, walked with a limp and he was missing the end of the third finger on his left hand. But he’d been polite and respectful to her and April. They’d encouraged him to share his story, but so far he hadn’t opened up.

He didn’t appear to be mentally ill or an addict. Perhaps he’d recently lost a loved one or his family. Deep grief often forced people to retreat into depression to the point of losing their homes.

Two of the men at the card table were squabbling, one of them accusing the other of stealing his King of Hearts. Smith stepped in, calming them both by clarifying that the card was on the floor.

Melissa smiled. Sometimes Jim surprised her by showing a softer side. It made her even more curious about his background and how he’d ended up at Lend-A-Hand.

She cradled her tea mug in her hands as she bypassed the kitchen and made her way to the common room.

The card game ended, and a few of the men headed outside to wherever they wanted to go for the night, while others retreated to the bunk room. The kitchen volunteers waved good-night and hurried out the back door. Smith grabbed a cup of coffee, sat down at the table and started scribbling something in a small notepad, which, she’d noticed, he did a lot. She wondered what he was writing.

She locked the front door, but a noise from the back made her jerk around, and she rushed to make sure one of the volunteers hadn’t returned and needed her. Or it could be Samuel, the night volunteer arriving.

But just as she reached the hallway, the door to the back burst open. Melissa startled and called out Samuel’s name, but a man in dark clothes and a mask grabbed her and shoved a gun to her head.

She opened her mouth to scream, but the man tightened his hold around her throat. “We don’t have money or drugs,” she managed to say in a choked whisper.

“Shut up.” He shoved her forward, and she stumbled and bumped the corner of the wall. He pushed her harder, his voice a growl in her ear. “Where is he?”

Fear clawed at Melissa. “Who?”

“Smith,” the man snapped.

“I’m right here.”

Melissa’s eyes widened as Smith stepped into the doorway, his hands held up in surrender. His dark brown eyes met hers, worry and an apology that she didn’t understand etched in the depths.

Then Smith shot an angry look at the gunman. “Let her go and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Melissa clenched her jaw. She didn’t know why this gunman wanted Jim, but her protective instincts for the drifters at the shelter kicked in. She’d taken self-defense classes, and was tempted to jab her elbow into the man’s stomach, then jerk his arm up so hopefully he’d drop the gun. But common sense warned her that if she made a mistake, she’d end up dead and so might Jim Smith.

She couldn’t live with his death on her conscience.

The brute with the gun tightened his hold, the gun barrel pressing against her temple. “You’d better back off, Smith, or the little lady gets it.”

Tension radiated from Jim’s body as he went ramrod still. “It’s me you want. Let her go and we’ll take this outside.”

The man shook his head and shoved her toward a chair in the corner. “Tie her up, then we talk.”

Melissa bit her lip to keep from crying out as she sank into the metal folding chair. As much as she wanted to fight, she had to consider the other men in the back. The intruder pulled a rope from his pocket and tossed it toward Jim. He snatched it, then shocked her by swinging it like a cowboy and throwing it toward the gunman like a lasso. The movement caught the gunman off guard, and Jim charged the brute.

The man grunted and the two of them slammed against the wall as they wrestled for the gun. Footsteps sounded from the back, and two of the homeless men, Gunther and Dwayne, rushed into the doorway. She shouted for them to stay back.

Jim threw the intruder to the floor and jerked the man’s arm up. The weapon went off, the bullet hitting the ceiling. Jim knocked the gun from the man’s hand, and it skidded across the floor. Melissa ran for the weapon, but the shooter snagged her leg as she passed him. She tripped and went down hard, her knee slamming into the wood floor.

Jim rolled twice, then reached the gun and snatched it. The brute jumped him, and they struggled, but the gun went off again. Melissa covered her mouth to stifle a scream as the gunman collapsed on top of Jim.

Was Jim hurt?

A second later, he shoved his attacker off him. Blood oozed from the gunman’s chest, and he made a choking sound, then gurgled blood.

Jim pushed himself to stand, the gun in his hands, the other man’s blood soaking his shirt. The shooter’s body jerked and spasmed, then he suddenly stilled, eyes wide and blank.

Jim looked over at her, his jaw clenched. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, too stunned to speak. He gestured toward Gunther. “Call 9-1-1.”

Gunther nodded and rushed toward the phone the men were allowed to use on the counter in the corner. Melissa swallowed, and struggled to stand on shaky legs. She had to know why the man wanted Jim.

But he jammed the pistol into the back of his jeans and ran for the side door. “I’m sorry, Melissa,” he murmured, then he unlocked the door and disappeared.

Outside, a siren wailed. The police. Jim had left just in time to avoid them. Why? She would have vouched that he’d acted in self-defense.

And that he’d saved her life.

* * *

DEX CLIMBED IN his SUV and flipped on the radio as he left the homeless shelter near Tumbleweed. Damn. Another drifter had gone missing. That was three in recent months.

The director had reiterated what he’d heard at the two other places he’d visited: the homeless who took refuge at the shelters didn’t stay long. The center had no control over where the men went and rarely was informed of their destinations when they left.

Worse, none of the men wanted to talk to him. They seemed wary, even suspicious of his intentions. He’d tried to assure them that he was concerned that someone might be preying on transients, but the only thing he’d accomplished was planting fear in the men’s eyes.

Grief still made his chest ache. The damn DNA had confirmed that the man found at Briar Creek was his father. He and his family had mourned and buried him beside Chrissy.

But questions over where his father had been and what he’d been doing for eighteen years gnawed at him. What had happened to drive him to alcohol and the streets? Chrissy’s disappearance had been horrible for all of them. But his mother hadn’t walked out on her sons or buried herself in a bottle.

Had his father seen the news about Chrissy’s body being found, and been driven over the edge by grief?

Dammit, there was nothing he could do to bring his father back. But in his search for answers, he’d stumbled on another mystery.

Even if his father’s death wasn’t connected to the other missing men, Dex was determined to make sure a predator wasn’t taking advantage of these homeless men when they were already down. If nothing else, he’d find the truth in honor of his father.

A newscast broke into the country music on the radio as he headed toward the small apartment he rented over his PI office in Austin.

“This late breaking story just in. A man was shot and killed tonight at the Lend-A-Hand Shelter outside Austin. Assistant Director Melissa Gentry stated that a gunman broke into the facility just as the shelter was locking up for the night and held her at gunpoint. According to Ms. Gentry, one of the men at the shelter jumped the gunman to defend her, and the gun went off. The gunman died on-site, then the other man disappeared.”