Rita Herron - Safe At Hawk's Landing

A chill of foreboding washed over Charlotte. She was lucky to have survived.

They’d probably thought she was dead.

“Can you describe any of the men?”

Charlotte swallowed back bile. The pain was making her nauseous.

He continued in a gruff voice. “Were they tall? Short? Big? Small?”

She struggled to see the men in her mind’s eye. “One was a big guy, tall, heavy, he seemed to be the leader. It happened so fast—we were painting, then the men rushed in. The leader ordered us not to move, then I realized they all had guns. I offered them money—”

“They didn’t want money,” Lucas said bluntly.

She shook her head. “The big one slammed his gun against my head. I fell and was dizzy, then the others started snatching the girls. They’re young, but they’ve been through hell and they’re tough.” Maybe that toughness would help them survive. “They screamed and fought, and tried to escape. I tried to stop them but...” Her voice trailed off, her throat clogging with tears.

“But they shot you,” Lucas said.

She nodded, swiping angrily at the tears that fell. “Then the leader hit me in the head again, and the others dragged the girls out the door. I crawled after them, but I was too late.”

* * *

THE IMAGE OF Charlotte’s bloody handprints on the floor taunted Lucas. She was a petite woman, but she’d made it to the door. Anger shot through him. He wanted to hurt these guys bad.

“You said you crawled to the door,” Lucas said. “Did you see what kind of vehicle they were driving?”

Charlotte inhaled a deep breath as if struggling to piece her memory together.

“Was it a car? An SUV? A van?”

“A van,” she whispered. “Black. Tinted windows.”

Lucas’s pulse jumped. The teacher in Waco had also mentioned a black van. “A minivan or full-size?”

“Cargo,” Charlotte said in a pained voice.

“That’s good, Charlotte. How about a license plate?”

Her brows furrowed together, the bandage on her forehead stark against her ivory skin. “I didn’t see a tag.”

“Was there any writing or a logo on the side?”

“I don’t think so.” Her face crumpled. “It happened so fast...”

“You did good, Charlotte.” Hopefully she’d remember more as time passed. “Think about the men now. Did any of them have any distinguishing marks? A mustache or goatee? Scar? Tattoo?”

This time she pressed both hands over her face and rubbed her eyes. “The big one, the leader, had a tattoo on his hand. A snake.” She paused. “His face was covered with a mask, but I think there was some kind of tattoo on his neck, too. It looked like a bolt of lightning.”

“Good work, Charlotte. These details could be helpful.”

He quickly texted the analyst at the Bureau the information. Keenan Hart was thirty, smart, and obsessive about details.

She quickly responded with a return text.

Black van reported in the Waco kidnapping. Authorities already on the look for it. Researching tattoos now.

When he looked up, Charlotte’s eyes were closing. Sensing she was about to fade again, he hurried to ask his last question. “One more thing, Charlotte.”

She moaned softly. “Hmm?”

“Did all of the men speak English or did one of them speak another language?”

She twisted her head toward him as if she could see him, but the blankness glazed her eyes again. “The leader was really the only one who talked. He spoke English.”

“Did he have an accent?”

She frowned. “I don’t think so. Why? Do you think they’re foreign?”

His gut tightened. He’d suspected Columbian or Eastern European. But without witnesses to the other kidnappings, that was a guess.

His phone beeped with a text. Harrison.

Black cargo van spotted outside Tumbleweed at an abandoned warehouse. Meet me downstairs and we’ll check it out.

Hope made Lucas’s adrenaline spike, and he placed his hand over Charlotte’s. Her hand was small and delicate, and her skin felt soft, feminine.

Thankfully, she was tougher than she looked.

“Charlotte, I may have a lead on that van. Harrison and I are going to check it out. Get some rest.”

She nodded weakly although she was already drifting asleep.

He smiled at her, then sadly realized that even if she was awake, she couldn’t see him. The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

All the more reason he’d track down these sons of bitches and put them away.

Determination kicking in, he hurried to the elevator, rode to the lobby and rushed outside to meet his brother.

Harrison was talking to Honey on the phone. When he hung up, emotions clouded his face. “I broke the news to Honey. She’s going to pick up some flowers, then visit Charlotte in a little while.”

They hurried to his brother’s SUV, and Harrison sped from the hospital parking lot. “Any more word on Charlotte’s condition?”

“No. She’s trying to be strong, but she’s hurting and scared.” Lucas tensed. “Doc says the blindness might be temporary. They have to wait on the swelling to go down. That might take a while. Days. Maybe weeks.”

Harrison’s expression turned grim, and they fell into silence as his brother maneuvered through town then veered onto the road leading to Dead Man’s Bluff.

This place held bad memories for them both.

“Those warehouses have been abandoned for so long I’d forgotten about them,” Harrison said.

Lucas nodded agreement.

But they would be the perfect place to hold the girls until they could move them to the buyers.

* * *

CHARLOTTE’S SHOULDER THROBBED, the pain intensifying as images of the kidnappers flashed through her mind. They had stolen the girls she was in charge of, girls she loved. Girls she was supposed to help.

The door squeaked. Her eyes flew open, but the black nothingness filled her vision.

Then a footstep. And another. So soft that she had to lie perfectly still to hear it.

“Lucas?”

A hushed sound. Breathing. Deep breathing. But no voice.

Terror seized her. “Agent Hawk? Harrison?”

No answer.

She reached for the call button, fumbling along the bed to find it.

The acrid odor of cigarettes wafted toward her.

Dear God, the leader of the kidnappers had smelled like cigarettes.

Had he come back to kill her?

Chapter Four

Cold fear pressed against Charlotte’s chest. Lucas said that the men who’d taken her students had struck before and had never left a witness behind.

Had one of them come here to finish the job he’d begun?

She was stone-still and held her breath, hoping whoever was in the room would think she was unconscious and leave. If not for the scent of cigarette smoke and the fact that he hadn’t said anything, she might think it was a doctor.

But doctors identified themselves.

Footsteps padded softly. Every cell in her body tensed with anticipation. Her left arm was hooked to an IV. All he had to do was inject her with a drug that would seep into her system and she’d drift into oblivion. No one would ever be the wiser.

She did not want to die.

Another footstep. The tray table made a noise as he pushed it away from her.

His breath punctuated the silence. The bed jarred as he bumped it.

She finally found the call button and pressed it, praying the nurse or a staff member would come quickly.

Her lungs ached for air. She slowly released her breath, straining not to make a sound or rustle the covers.

“Ms. Reacher,” a deep voice murmured. “Are you awake?”

She lay perfectly still, careful not to flinch or even bat an eye.

“I hate to disturb you, but my name is Gerald Ingram, I’m with the police. I need to ask you some questions about what happened at your art studio.”