by Diana Palmer
Miles McGregor was one of the biggest, toughest-looking men she’d ever met. He was not only a cowboy, but Brody had told her he was a cop who chased down the dregs of society.
Miles was also hurting inside and felt powerless to help his son. That made them kindred spirits.
“Tell me what happened,” Jordan said gently.
He slanted her a condescending look. “I thought you said Brody filled you in.”
Jordan simply folded her arms. “Yes, but I want to hear it from you. Everything from the day Timmy’s mother died to how and where you found Timmy to what the doctors said.”
A muscle jumped in his chiseled jaw. “You can read the police report.” He yanked an envelope from inside his denim jacket pocket. The movement revealed the weapon he had holstered to his side. “Here’s the doctor’s report, too.”
Jordan forced a calm into her voice. “I will read it, but it’s important I hear what you have to say.”
“Why? All I need for you to do is to get Timmy to look at this picture.” He yanked another envelope from his jacket, pulled out a photograph and slapped it on the table. “If he can identify this man as his mother’s killer, then I can put him back in jail where he belongs.”
Jordan gritted her teeth. “So Timmy witnessed the murder?”
Miles gave a clipped nod, the pain so intense in his eyes that it nearly robbed her breath. “I believe so, but he hasn’t spoken since that day. That’s why I need you to get him to talk.”
Jordan glanced through the window at Timmy, her heart aching for the boy. “I understand your impatience,” she said. “But Timmy has undergone a terrible shock. It may take him time to open up.”
Miles glared at her. “I don’t have time.”
Jordan’s anger rose. “Then you’d better damn well find it, because the important thing here is that your son heal.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes flaring with rage. “The important thing is keeping Timmy safe. This man Robert Dugan is a cold-blooded killer. He threatened me in court, he slit Timmy’s mother’s throat, and if he knows Timmy is a witness, he’ll probably come back to kill him.”
* * *
TIMMY ROCKED HIMSELF back and forth in the chair. He thought the lady said something to him. Something about horses. But he couldn’t make out her words. It was too noisy in his head. Voices…things crashing…the screaming.
And he couldn’t see any horses.
All he saw was the red.
Red blotches…black blotches…more red…more black…
Someone else was in the room with him, too. His daddy…at least he thought it was his daddy…
No, he was mad at him. He hadn’t come home…
His eyes blurred and then it was dark. So dark everything went black.
Like night all the time. Scary night.
Scary night when the monsters came…
He buried his head in his arms and rocked harder. Pushed at his ears to make the noises be quiet.
He didn’t want to see the monsters. They were bad. They were going to get him.
He had to run….
But he couldn’t run…he couldn’t move. Couldn’t do nothing to stop the noises and the dark from coming…
Or the red from splattering the walls…
Or his mommy’s cries…
ISBN: 9781460303986
Copyright © 2013 by Rita B. Herron
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SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM
After masked men storm her classroom, kidnap her students and leave her unconscious and blind, a terrified teacher turns to an FBI agent for help and 24/7 protection.
Read on for a sneak preview of
SAFE AT HAWK’S LANDING by Rita Herron,
The second book in her miniseries
Badge of Justice
available now from Harlequin Intrigue
CHAPTER ONE
Charlotte Reacher knew what it was like to be alone. Without a home or family.
Unwanted. Unloved.
That loneliness had inspired her to start her art program for teenage girls in Tumbleweed, Texas. This particular group of four were all foster kids and needed reassurance and love.
She strolled through the studio smiling at the girls perched behind canvases that had once been blank slates, but now were being transformed. When they’d first organized the group six weeks ago, most of them had painted drab colorless pictures, all grays and blacks, depicting the despair in their lives.
Not every girl had a bikini body, liked makeup and glamour magazines or cheerleading.
And not every girl had parents with the money to fix her flaws.
The confident ones knew how to socialize, make friends and express themselves, while others wilted on the inside, withdrew and suffered from low self-esteem. Cruel classmates complicated the situation with teasing and bullying and caused the girls to die a little with every mean word said.
It had been the same for her, growing up in the system. Her port-wine birthmark had drawn cruel remarks and stares, killing her own confidence.
She brushed her fingers over her cheek. Thanks to a gifted and generous plastic surgeon, who’d offered her services to needy kids when Charlotte was eleven, the skin was smooth now, the birthmark gone.
Still, the internal scars remained. These girls had scars, too. Both physical and emotional.
But here, in her studio, Expressions, everyone was free to paint or draw whatever they wanted with no judgment.
She just hoped the small town of Tumbleweed embraced the teens. So far, the locals had been nice to her. She’d made friends with Honey Granger Hawk, the developer who’d built the small house she lived in. Honey appreciated her cause and had thrown in the studio renovation for next to nothing.
Now Charlotte had a home, a friend and a business. And hopefully a family in this town and her students…
She adjusted the volume of the music playing in the background. Early on, she’d discovered that music relaxed her and the students. Now she allowed the girls to select the CDs they wanted to listen to during their sessions. Today Evie had chosen an upbeat country song.
“Ms. Charlotte, what do you think?” Fifteen-year-old Mae Lynn looked up at her with a mixture of apprehension and hope. She was shy and the most fragile of all of them, but she’d begun to warm up.
“I like the way you’ve used the colors,” Charlotte said. It was obvious the sea of blues and grays represented her changing mood swings. Who could blame her, though? The poor kid had been in and out of more than ten homes in five years.
Two girls who were horse lovers, sixteen-year-old Agnes and her fourteen-year-old sister, Adrian, chatted softly about their portra
yals of a big ranch, where they hoped to live one day, while thirteen-year-old Evie splashed pinks and blues and purples in a whimsical pattern. Despite the fact that she’d ended up in a group home, Evie had a perpetually positive attitude.
Hopefully her attitude would rub off on the others.
Suddenly the front door to the studio opened, and Charlotte glanced up, hoping to see Sally, another foster child she’d invited to the class, but instead four tall masked men dressed in black stormed in, guns raised and aimed at the girls.
Charlotte froze, mentally assessing the situation. She had to protect her students no matter what. Pulse hammering, she stepped forward, placing herself between the men and girls.
The biggest man turned the gun on her. “Don’t move.”
She stared at the snake tattoo, then noticed a bolt of lightning tattooed on his neck.
Behind her, the girls screamed. Charlotte raised her hands in a submissive gesture. “Please don’t hurt them,” she said in a choked voice. “I don’t keep much money here, but you can take it all.”
“We don’t want your money,” the shortest guy shouted. “Get on the ground.”
A sob echoed behind her, then another scream.
“I said get down!” the one who seemed to be in charge barked.
Charlotte dropped to the floor, her gaze scanning the room for something to use as a weapon, but her art supplies and brushes wouldn’t do any good against these guns. Semiautomatics. They weren’t playing around.
Her phone was inside her purse in her office, too. She didn’t have a weapon or an alarm.
Boots clicked on the wood floor as the heaviest man strode to her. With one quick grunt, he slammed the butt of the gun against her head. Stars swam in front of her eyes as the world spun. More screams rent the air, shrill and piercing.
Panic shot through Charlotte. She had to do something. If the men didn’t want money, what did they want?
“Leave us alone!” Adrian cried.
“Don’t shoot!” Agnes said shakily.
A bullet pinged off the ceiling, silencing them all.
Evie ducked behind an easel while the sisters hunched together beneath a table. Mae Lynn pushed her easel over, paint splattering, and ran for the door, but one of the men grabbed her as if she weighed nothing.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Mae Lynn cried.
Charlotte pushed to her hands and knees, desperate. “Let her go. Take me if you want, but leave these kids alone.”
A bark of sarcastic laughter, sickening in its sound, filled the air as the brute slammed the gun against her head again, then jerked her arm and flung her against the wall. Pain ricocheted through her head and shoulder, and for a second, she thought she might pass out.
Then everything happened at once.
The men charged the girls. Agnes and Adrian kicked and fought. Mae Lynn was sobbing, trying to wrestle free, while Evie scrambled toward the back room to escape, throwing chairs and paintbrushes, whatever she could grasp hold of.
The man chasing Evie tossed the table aside, then snatched her up, laughing as she flailed and fought.
One of them muttered something, but she couldn’t understand the words.
Then the men dragged the girls toward the door to the outside. Charlotte couldn’t let them get away.
Ignoring the pain in her skull, she grabbed the wall and pulled herself up, then staggered forward.
A second later, a gunshot erupted, then pain seared her shoulder where the bullet had struck. Another bullet zinged by her head and skimmed her temple, and her legs gave way.
She collapsed on the floor, blood gushing from her shoulder. “Let them go!” She crawled after them, but another bullet pinged the floor in front of her, then the intruders dragged the girls through the door.
The biggest brute stood guard, his gun releasing more ammunition across the room to keep her at bay. Bullets pierced the walls and ripped at the canvases, sending paint tubes and containers spilling to the floor.
Her blood mingled with the paint, and the two blended together, the vibrant colors fading to a dull brown. The huge man strode to her and slammed the gun against her head one more time.
A sharp pain splintered her skull, then the world turned black as he disappeared out the door.
* * *
SPECIAL AGENT LUCAS HAWK studied the photographs of the missing girls from Waco and Abilene on the white board in the task-force meeting room.
Two kidnappings, two different cities in Texas. Both struck by a group of masked men who’d abducted teenagers. Female teenagers.
The men’s motive hadn’t been confirmed, but Lucas suspected what they were doing, and it made him sick to his stomach.
He’d lost his own sister when she was just a kid and he’d been fifteen, and understood the agony these families must be suffering.
“There are eleven victims in Texas so far,” Special Agent Tradd Hoover stated.
So far? Implying he believed there would be more.
“At this point, none of the victims have been found. We have no real lead as to where the men are holding the girls, either.” Agent Hoover paused, his expression grim. “Or for how long.”
The sheriff from Waco raised his hand. “You don’t think they’re killing them?”
Agent Hoover shook his head. “If they were, we would have found bodies. We believe this is a highly organized human-trafficking ring. They’re bold, aggressive, and the fact that they’re abducting groups of teens implies they have orders to fill.”
“Any witnesses?” Lucas asked.
“None that have survived,” Agent Hoover said. “The kidnappers come armed and dangerous, and have taken out anyone in their path.”
The door opened, and Deputy Director Henry Fredericks stepped into the room, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “Just got a call. Another group kidnapping. Four victims.” He flicked his pointer finger toward Lucas. “Your hometown, Hawk. Your brother called it in. He wants us there. Yesterday.”
A coldness swept over Lucas. The trafficking ring had struck Tumbleweed.
For God’s sake, they’d just finally closed the book on his sister’s disappearance and death.
With four teenagers from Tumbleweed missing, the town would be in an uproar.
“You hear me, Special Agent Hawk?” the deputy director said.
Lucas jerked himself to attention and stood. “Yes, sir, I’m on my way.”
The deputy director cleared his throat. “There’s something else. This time there’s a witness. She’s been shot and needs surgery. But if she makes it, we may have caught a break and she can tell us more about these sons of bitches.”
Lucas nodded. If she knew anything, he’d find out. Then hopefully they could stop this crew before they got too far away with the teens.
The wind whistled as he stepped outside. He jogged to his car and sped from the parking lot. The deputy director had said if the witness survived. He couldn’t waste time.
He pressed Harrison’s number as he drove, tension knotting his shoulders. His brother answered on the third ring.
“I’m on my way, Harrison. The deputy director said you have a witness.”
“Hopefully,” Harrison said. “She’s unconscious now. The medics are transporting her to the hospital.”
“How seriously is she hurt?”
“Took a bullet to the shoulder, lost a lot of blood. Looks like one of the jerks beat her in the head with the butt of a semi. Could be serious.” Harrison’s voice sounded gruff. “Her name’s Charlotte Reacher, Lucas. She’s a friend of Honey’s.”
Damn. “Where did it happen?”
“In town. Charlotte’s art studio, Expressions. She does art therapy with troubled kids and adolescents.”
The injustice of the situation made his blood boil. She sounded like a good woman. She sure as hell hadn’t deserved this.
“All four of the teens were foster kids.”
Lucas’s gut clenched. Most crews slipped in quietly and wor
ked under the radar. These bastards were practically shoving their crimes in the faces of the residents and the law.
They probably thought a small-town sheriff couldn’t handle the challenge.
Big mistake. They didn’t know his brother.
“We have to find them, Lucas,” Harrison said. “This town is having a hard time with the recent arrest of one of our own. A violent attack like this is gonna hit hard.”
His brother was right. Lucas tightened his hands around the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator.
Every second the girls were missing gave the kidnappers more time to get away.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Lucas parked in front of Expressions. Crime-scene tape had already been erected in front of the building and along the sidewalk outside, looking ominous against the soothing pale blue of the studio’s exterior.
Harrison’s deputy, Mitchell Bronson, was working to keep the growing crowd from crossing the line, but hushed whispers and worried, shocked looks floated through the group.
“I’m going to canvass the neighboring businesses and locals,” Deputy Bronson said. “Sheriff said for you to go on in.”
Lucas visually swept the street signs and posts. “Surveillance cameras?”
“Afraid not.”
Damn, that would have helped. “Be sure to ask if anyone saw the getaway vehicle,” Lucas said.
The deputy nodded and addressed the onlookers, holding his hands up to calm the crowd.
Lucas paused in the doorway to analyze the scene. The room was decorated with color palettes and paintings most likely done by students. A brightly lit sign showcasing the name sparkled in deep purple and yellow letters, at odds with the violence that had happened here today.
Worse, the room had been turned upside down in a scene that could only be described as chaotic. Tables, chairs, canvases and paint supplies were scattered across the room. Bullet holes marred the walls and canvases, as if more than one shooter had fired randomly across the space, hitting everything in sight.
Paint tubes, bottles and containers had spilled, the paint running together, converging on the light wood floors in an ugly brown smear.
