Safe At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

the sound, working to be quiet. “But you can call me Lucas.”

      Call him Lucas? She didn’t even know him. Although she’d seen pictures of all the Hawk men, and Lucas was the most virile, handsome one of the bunch. He was also the most intimidating.

      But his gruff voice was soothing, caring...almost sensual.

      She thumbed her hand through her hair, self-conscious when what her fingers connected with was sticky, matted. Blood from her head wound must have soaked the strands. She probably looked a mess.

      Not that she should care. But she had the sudden urge to see herself in a mirror, to know just how deep the injury was. To know if she’d have a bad scar.

      A dark chuckle bubbled in her chest as she realized she might never be able to look in a mirror again.

      Footsteps again, then the scent of the agent’s masculine aftershave wafted toward her. A musky odor that was pleasant, sensual, like his voice.

      “You told the nurse that you wanted to see me? That it was important.” He paused. “What is it, Charlotte?”

      “I’m sorry about earlier,” she whispered.

      His hand gently brushed her shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal today. I hate to bother you, but the longer we wait, the more time it gives these bastards to escape.”

      “I know,” Charlotte said, battling tears. “They could be out of the country. We can’t let that happen.”

      “No, we can’t,” Lucas said. “Can you tell me the names of the girls they abducted?”

      Charlotte twisted the sheets in her hands. “Evie, she’s thirteen. Mae Lynn is fifteen. Agnes and Adrian are sisters. Agnes is sixteen and Adrian fourteen.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

      “All right,” he said quietly. “Just take your time and describe what happened. What you saw and heard.”

      Charlotte sniffed. “We were in the middle of class. I should have had the door locked.” Guilt sucker punched her. “But it was midafternoon so I thought we were safe.”

      “Don’t beat yourself up. This was not your fault. Tumbleweed is a small town. Most businesses don’t lock their doors during work hours,” Lucas said.

      Charlotte latched on to his words. “But if I had—”

      “Stop,” the agent said more firmly. “Again, it wasn’t your fault. Playing the what-if game won’t help. Let’s just focus on what the men looked like, anything they said. There were four of them?”

      She stiffened. “How did you know that?”

      “Because we believe they’re the same group who struck in Abilene and Waco. Could be different hired men, but connected.”

      The implications he suggested sank in. “It’s an organized group?”

      “Yes, they’re professionals,” Lucas said. “Four armed and masked men strike, and kidnap teenage girls. So far they haven’t left any witnesses behind.”

      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,