Rita Herron - Safe At Hawk's Landing

He was a cop?

She slowly released a breath. But questions nagged at her. If he was investigating, why hadn’t he been with Harrison or Lucas?

In spite of her efforts at control, her breath wheezed out, shaky and rattling in the tense silence.

Being in the dark heightened her other senses. If she could see his face, she might be able to tell if he was lying or out to hurt her.

“Ms. Reacher, I know you were injured and underwent surgery, but the men who shot you kidnapped four of your students. Can you describe them?”

Tears burned the backs of her eyelids, desperate to escape. In her mind, she pictured Adrian and Agnes, and Mae Lynn and sweet Evie. What was happening to them?

If the men planned to sell them as sex slaves, hopefully they wouldn’t hurt them, at least not physically. That would mess up their product.

But the girls must be terrified.

Another nudge from the man’s hand. “Ma’am, I need a statement about what happened. Did any of the men call each other by name?”

She searched her memory. Had one of them spoken a name?

“You’re the only one who can help,” the man said again. “Please talk to me. You do want to help find those girls before something bad happens to them, don’t you?”

Anger shot through her, and she opened her eyes. Darkness. Not even a sliver of light.

“So you are awake?” he said with a hint of sarcasm to his tone. “Now, what—”

“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice echoed from across the room, and Charlotte realized the door had opened. The nurse. Finally.

“Sir, you aren’t supposed to be in here,” Haley said.

“If Ms. Reacher can identify the men who kidnapped her students, she needs to speak up.”

Rustling of clothes and footsteps sounded as Haley approached. “Ms. Reacher has cooperated with the sheriff and FBI already. She’s just undergone surgery and needs her rest.”

The man’s hand brushed hers. “Come on, Charlotte,” he said impatiently, “give me something.”

She blinked rapidly, her head throbbing with confusion, and the memory of the gunshots and girls’ cries.

A machine beeped. Her heart monitor? Blood pressure?

This time a softer hand. Haley. “It’s all right, Charlotte, it’s all right.”

“What’s wrong with her?” the man snapped. “She’s going to make it, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but you need to leave.”

“But she hasn’t told me anything,” he protested.

“And she’s not going to,” Haley said. “Now, either leave or I’ll call security.”

The man protested again.

“Now,” Haley ordered.

Emotion bubbled to the surface, threatening to spill over. Charlotte hated being in the dark, and at the mercy of others.

Footsteps again, then the door closed. Her chest heaved as she breathed out.

Then Haley was back. “I’m sorry about that.”

“He said he was a cop,” Charlotte said.

“He was no cop,” Haley said with a grunt of disgust. “That man is a reporter, and not a nice one. He’ll do anything for a story.”

Charlotte closed her eyes, grateful she hadn’t said anything to him. She’d instantly felt uneasy with him.

Not like she had with Lucas. He’d made her feel safe.

The reporter’s name replayed in her head. She vaguely recalled seeing him on the news. Haley was right.

He was ruthless. Had been known to run with a story without verifying the facts or his source. Had interviewed victims of crimes before and implied they were at fault for being victimized.

What kind of garbage would he air about her?

* * *

LUCAS SCANNED THE area as he and Harrison approached the abandoned warehouses. They were only a few miles from the cave at Dead Man’s Bluff where they’d found his sister’s body.

The gruesome image of her bones lying beside two other young girls’ skeletons would haunt him forever. The fact that she’d lain there dead for almost two decades made matters worse. All that time they’d searched for her, and struggled to hold on to hope that somehow she was alive.

But her disappearance turned out to be a tragic accident. A mentally challenged boy named Elden had wanted to make friends with Chrissy, but he hadn’t realized his strength, and he’d smothered her to death. His mother had protected him. Unfortunately, Chrissy wasn’t his only victim.

Harrison’s police SUV bounced over the rugged terrain, gravel and dirt spewing.

A row of three warehouses popped into view as Harrison steered the vehicle over a small hill. A rusted-out black cargo van sat by the building.

Except this van had been burned and only the charred shell remained.

Lucas’s pulse jumped. If the trafficking ring had brought the girls here to house them until they moved them to buyers, they might have left the girls inside.

The area looked desolate, the warehouses weathered, the steel siding dingy. The Texas sun faded to night, casting shadows across the rugged land.

“It looks deserted,” Harrison said.

“We need to check inside the spaces,” Lucas said. “You’d be shocked at some places traffickers hold women and children. Boats, storage containers, old barns, the back of cargo vans and trucks. Damn inhumane.”

Harrison’s mouth tightened as he closed the distance to the warehouses. “Hard to imagine people buying and selling children and women like they’re cattle.”

Except they might treat cattle with more care. Although if selling the girls at auction to the highest bidder was their game, they would try to preserve the girls’ physical appearance.

No visible bruising or injuries.

They’d probably use drugs to keep them under control.

Gears ground, brakes squeaking as Harrison slowed the SUV and swung to a stop. Lucas eased his car door open and slid from the seat, senses honed as he scanned the area between the warehouses.

He and Harrison both pulled their guns, and he braced for trouble as they walked past the charred van then toward the warehouses. Harrison shined a pocket flashlight across the ground.

Lucas did the same, then motioned to Harrison that he spotted tire tracks. He veered right to check the warehouse on the end, while Harrison went left. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he approached, and he paused to listen at the doorway. He expected it to be locked, but the bolt that had held it closed had been cut and sat in a pile of weeds to the side.

He leaned against the door edge and listened, hoping to hear the sound of girls’ voices, something to indicate they were inside.

But he heard nothing.

Frustration knotted his stomach as he eased the door open and aimed the light inside. The space was empty.

Dammit.

Still, he inched inside to search in case there was a room, a box, or a cage hidden in the darkened space.

* * *

CHARLOTTE FADED INTO a restless sleep and dreamed that a reporter was in the room snapping photographs of her. She woke, her pulse hammering.

Inhaling to calm her raging heart, she listened for signs the man had returned.

As a child, she’d been self-conscious of her port-wine birthmark. That image of her remained locked in her head, and reminded her that she had once been debilitated by it. No one had wanted her as their child. People had stared and made cruel remarks. Other children had been afraid that if they touched her, that stain would rub off on them.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She blinked furiously to stem them, searching for some semblance of light in the room, but blackness prevailed. Still, she ran her fingers over her cheek, remembering the pain of looking different and wondering if her face or eyes were scarred or appeared unusual.

If the morning paper or news would show her lying in bed, weak and vulnerable, the details of her sordid childhood exposed for the world to see.