Safe At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

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 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 worked 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.

      Footprints in different sizes that must belong to the girls tracked the paint across the floor, indicating the victims had fought back, and that at least one of them had been dragged.

      A female’s cowboy boot lay in one corner, obviously lost during the struggle. Beads from a bracelet or necklace were scattered by a bin of paint smocks.

      Bloody fingerprints dotted the floor and wall.

      “Here’s what I think happened,” Harrison said. “According to the schedule posted in the teacher’s office, Charlotte was conducting a class. Four students.” Harrison gestured toward the door. “Looks like the kidnappers just walked in. No sign of forced entry. Door was probably unlocked.” He pointed toward the pool of blood on the floor. “Owner of the coffee shop/bookstore next door said Charlotte was giving, kind and dedicated to her students.” Harrison ran a hand through his hair, emotion thickening