The Hawks_A Novel

by SD Hendrickson

  The Hawks © 2018 by Stacy Dawn Hendrickson

  SD Hendrickson, LLC holds the world wide publishing rights to The Hawks. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, nor translated into another language and distributed, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All electronic copies are licensed for distribution from authorized retailers only or personally gifted by the publisher. An electronic ebook is for your personal use and may not be resold or given away to other people. Please respect the author and the time invested in the creation of this publication by not distributing illegal electronic copies.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, including Hawk’s Landing Industries as a fictious company. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing: Shayla Raquel, ShaylaRaquel.com

  Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design: SD Hendrickson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Author Notes and Acknowledgments

  Other Books

  “All that glitters is not gold;

  Often have you heard that told.

  Many a man his life hath sold.”

  William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Present Day

  THE BALLROOM DOORS CRASHED OPEN, causing the gold handles to bang against the antique walls. I flinched at the sound as a strange man appeared in front of us—a strange man with a gun. Confusion made the world move in slow motion as fear crawled under my skin.

  I was at the Hawthorn Estate. Not a public place, but literally in someone’s home. Maybe not a normal home, considering the place had its very own extravagant ballroom. But it didn’t matter the size of this room compared to a small house across town. It was all the same when an intruder came inside the door.

  The man stood before us. The element of surprise in his favor. He had no face. A blue mask concealed his identity as he pointed the cold tip of a gun in our direction.

  “Everyone on the floor!” He barked the order through the small mouth hole, framing the cruel snarl of his teeth and pink lips. The man stepped farther into the ballroom followed by a second intruder who wore a black mask with a white cross in the middle of his forehead.

  There’s more of them.

  I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat. Nothing about this moment seemed real. The lowlights of the chandeliers twinkled above us. The music from the party kept tempo in the background. Everything from the fundraiser still in place. Nothing different than ten minutes ago, yet everything felt turned upside down as these men took control.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Millions of pinpricks hit me all at once. My muscles twitched. The antique china cup slipped from my hand, shattering across the floor. Next to me, the waitress in the flapper girl costume let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Shut the hell up! And get down on the floor. Now!” ordered the man in the blue mask. He pointed his gun in my direction before moving to the waitress, flashing an arrogant grin at her obvious terror. “Shut those pretty lips before I shut them for you.”

  This isn’t happening.

  A third man in a camouflage mask escorted the other staff through the door while pointing a large semiautomatic gun at their backs. My heart sank along with any hope. The intruders had all of us captive—every last remaining person in the house. There was no one left to run for help.

  No one left to save us.

  “I said hands up,” he commanded in a clipped voice.

  Elmore, the elderly butler, struggled to get his palms higher than his ears. I watched helplessly as my friends moved with fearful steps across the floor.

  A fourth man slammed the double doors shut. He went straight to one of the poker tables I’d rented for the party. With little effort, his broad shoulders moved the whole blackjack game, blocking our only exit. His face remained hidden behind a plain gray mask as he joined the others.

  I looked frantically from one man to the next, taking in their details. From the neck down, the intruders were dressed in black pants and white oxford shirts with red bowties at the throat—the same as the valet drivers from the party. The drivers from the company I’d personally selected. My hands shook as a sickening jolt hit my stomach.

  Did I hire these people?

  Did I bring them here?

  I’d spent months planning every detail of tonight’s fundraiser. Every donation. Every decoration. I knew every guest who graced the doors of the ballroom. But I didn’t personally know the extras. I had relied on the company who’d sent the drivers and the casino dealers to handle the details. They’d promised background checks and paperwork. But they were just a vendor. I should have known better.

  Please, God, don’t let me have been that careless.

  “Get on the damn floor!” The intruder in the camo mask pointed his gun in the air and fired twice, sending a spray of plaster over our heads. Someone screamed as the room shifted in chaos. The people around me fell to their knees, some taking a little longer from the aching bones of old age. Some blocking their faces from the falling debris.

  But I remained frozen, my legs shaking as I looked up at the ceiling. Bullet holes peppered the beautiful, hand-painted artwork. Delsey Hawthorn loved that mural. Maybe even more than she loved her family.

  But I wasn’t family. I wasn’t anything more than an assistant to the Hawthorns. Yet here I was being taken hostage right along with them. The wealthy and the help—side by side. Ironic, I guess. Money couldn’t stop death. We all screamed the same. We all bled the same in the end.

  Something touched the front of my yellow Vera Wang dress. My breathing remained labored as I turned my attention to the man with the cross on his forehead. The symbol of comfort seemed strange and out of place as he shoved a gun against my breast.

  I’d always been confident when it came to standing up to others. But after the events from recent weeks, my mind had changed to someone more cautious, more careful of my words and actions. A cold sweat broke out on my skin as my chest grew tight, followed by a sharp pain.

  I was having a heart attack.

  I was having a panic attack.

  I stared at my captor. The cutout holes in his ski cap revealed only a set of thin lips and a pair of hollow bro
wn eyes. A shiver of fear went under my skin. A killer lived behind that gaze—one devout of mercy.

  I think there’s a darkness inside all of us. The hole is deeper in some than others. My granddaddy had always called it good old-fashioned sin. We were all born with it. But he said we had a choice: walk away from the darkness or let it consume your soul.

  And that’s what existed in that man’s eyes—a soul completely consumed in evil darkness.

  “Bitch! Get on the ground.” Hollow Eyes kicked the back of my legs with his boot. I fell hard on my elbows and knees. Grabbing the back of my head, he shoved my face against the floor. An excruciating pain shot up my nose and into my cheekbones.

  I had no choice. Lying on my stomach, I gave into his demand as Frank Sinatra belted My Way over the sound system in the ballroom.

  And ten feet away, I watched the man in the blue mask force Delsey Hawthorn down to her knees. He pushed the tip of the gun right under her haughty chin. “If anyone else tries to move, I’ll blow her fuckin’ head off. And if she’s not alive? There’s no reason for the rest of you to be, either.”

  Early Summer

  EVERY STORY HAS A BEGINNING and this one started the day I first met the Hawthorns. It was a humid morning; the air soaked in a sultry heat, making my dress suit stick to my skin. I could barely breathe from the layers of clothes. But it was all necessary if I wanted to impress her.

  The her being Delsey Hawthorn.

  Parking my old Volkswagen Beetle about fifty yards down the street from the large gate, I surveyed the entrance to the multi-acre estate. The house appeared almost hidden beneath the tall trees and thick greenery, which served as a natural shield from the rest of society.

  Some people were born with privilege, wrapping around their heads with the glow of a giant halo. A lavish existence, big and grand, filled with fancy houses they left behind to travel on extravagant vacations with flashy jewelry, coating their skin while drinking bottles of wine worth thousands of dollars—all granted to them by the blood that had flowed in their veins for generations.

  I wasn’t blessed with such a gift. No, mine was more humble. My existence came from those who provided labor for the people with privilege.

  In this city, there were many wealthy families made rich by the early oil boom days. The Hawthorns being one of them. But some say their true luck started much earlier, dating back to the Oklahoma Land Run when Eli “Hawk” Hawthorn staked a claim. A few decades later, that same land became the foundation for Hawk’s Landing Industries—named in his honor.

  As the Hawthorns became wealthy, they evolved into a large pillar in the city and into the communities. They knew nothing of me or my family for that matter. But I knew of them. We all did. The Hawthorn name was etched on buildings, hospital wings, charities, parks—and on the paycheck my father had received from working on a rig operated by their company. The same check my grandfather had received for thirty-two years before him.

  Now it was my turn.

  I pulled the sun visor down and took a look in the mirror. Smiling at my reflection, I did one last inspection of my bright blonde hair. Silky, smooth, and perfect despite the humidity. I may not have been born with the golden halo, but a nice box of bleach had given me a platinum one.

  Fake it until you make it.

  I wanted to succeed in this world. Not just any world. Their world. I wanted to live on the other side of the gates. I wanted to wear the clothes and drink the champagne. I wanted my nose to be filled with the scent of expensive perfume. I wanted lavish island trips and beautiful cars. Plain and simple. I wanted it all and I didn’t believe it was a sin to want more in life.

  I’d worked hard over the last few years toward my goal. All of those long hours at the hotel had led up to this moment today. I’d paid the dues for these dreams. But this job with the Hawthorns wasn’t just for me. I could finally help my family. Maybe my brother Tyson could go to school. Maybe Granddaddy could work less at the refinery. And Grams wouldn’t have to stand all day at the grocery store on her feet. Maybe I could make things better for all of us while getting one step closer into their world.

  I wish everyone understood my ambitions. I wish he just understood why I needed this. My past suddenly muddled my future. Why did Jeremiah Cole have to invade my thoughts right now? That bastard said I was arrogant and selfish to want more. That I didn’t need some fancy job with the Hawthorns to have a good life. My fingers clenched on the steering wheel. I needed to keep my eye on the prize. My head in the game. That asshole wasn’t going to ruin today.

  “You’ve got this,” I told myself with confidence beaming in my voice. “You deserve this.”

  Picking up my black dress pumps from the passenger’s seat, I ran a manicured finger over the three-inch heels, inspecting the bright red color I’d carefully painted over the bottom. I removed my scuffed-up flats and slipped my feet into the perfect new knockoffs.

  Dress for the job you want, not the one you have.

  Sometimes that proved to be harder than it appeared. I didn’t buy anything full price. And I didn’t always buy everything new. And sometimes, like with my shoes, I had to get a little creative to finish the illusion. But if I got this job, maybe I could get real Louboutins. Just one pair. In plain black, but I wouldn’t wear the shoes every day. Just special occasions.

  I maneuvered the sticky clutch and shifted the car into gear. Pulling up to the entrance, I pushed the button on the intercom. A man coughed twice before speaking with his deep voice. “May I help you?”

  “I have an interview with Mrs. Hawthorn.”

  “Your name?” His voice cracked a bit, like he was holding back another attack.

  “Sarina Atwood.”

  “Yes, Ms. Atwood. Turn to the . . .” Another ragged sound came from his throat. “Turn to the right once you are inside and don’t park on the grass.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  The antique gate made a creaking sound as it slowly rolled open. Just inside the entrance, a large bronze hawk statue sat perched on a cement column. Initially, I thought its majestic beauty served to welcome the guests, but the bird’s ominous eyes appeared to be critiquing every person as they entered the grand estate—looking deep into their soul, determining if each visitor was worthy of passage.

  I felt a trickle of perspiration run down my back. I prayed the sweat marks didn’t show on the gray fabric of my jacket. I should have worn black. But I didn’t have a black suit. I only had this one.

  Following the road through the trees, I turned right at the fork in the path, which led to the grand circular driveway paved in bricks. The other side of the gate. A world of elegant extravagance accented by an entire front yard full of beautiful flowers.

  A middle-aged man with hedge trimmers shaped the vibrant green bushes that lined the front of the entryway. He worked diligently, his back drenched in sweat—much like mine right now. A younger gardener worked on the pink rose bushes, making precise cuts on the stems. He paused for a moment to laugh at something the older man said to him.

  As my car came to a stop, they both turned in my direction. I killed the engine and activated the parking brake. The men watched as I climbed out of the driver’s seat. Their voices drifted over in my direction, but I didn’t speak Spanish so I had no idea if the gardeners were actually discussing my arrival or their secret hatred for cutting the bushes.

  Reaching back in the car, I grabbed my notebook and résumé before shutting the door. I walked toward the front steps, smiling as my heels clicked on the brick driveway. Chin up. Back straight. This was it. My opportunity.

  “She doesn’t like to see cars in the driveway.” A deep voice came from behind me. The words flowed beautifully, wrapped in the warmth of his accent.

  I turned around by the steps, seeing the younger of the two men. He was attractive up close with soft lips and a strong jawline, covered with a dusting of dark morning scruff. His long-sleeve, fitted T-shirt seemed a little out of place in the summer he
at. Perhaps the fabric protected his arms from the rose thorns. But he must not be worried about the rest of his body. The guy wore athletic shorts, exposing his toned, muscular legs.

  I gave him a friendly smile. “Thank you for the help, but I was told not to park on the grass.”

  “Sí.”

  “And now you’re saying that I can’t park in the circle driveway, either?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I looked back at my blue Volkswagen before meeting his gaze again. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No. That doesn’t make sense.”

  I was talking in circles about circles with the sexy gardener. Or maybe this was a test. Like a puzzle. Solve the parking equation and get the job. “Okay . . . so where do you suggest I park? Outside the gate and walk back in?”

  Sweat glistened on his forehead as he grinned. “I doubt your fancy shoes would make it back up the driveway.”

  This was getting worse. “Okay. Fine. Where do you park? I’ll just take my car there.”

  “Where do I park?” His eyebrows went up and he tried to stop the smirk from taking over his lips, but it didn’t work. This guy was playing games and laughing at me. Not out loud. But on the inside. I saw it dancing in his brown eyes. This man was mocking me.

  A flash of irritation shot through my chest. I gripped my notebook a little tighter. “Look. I have an interview with your boss this morning. An important interview. One that’s going to change my entire life. I need to get inside that house and impress the shit out of her. So please. Just tell me where to move my car so I can go change my life.”

  He laughed out loud this time, flashing his white teeth with the boisterous sound.

  This guy was really getting under my skin. Sexy gardener was now annoying gardner. “Do you think this is funny?”

  “No. Not in the least.” He slipped off his dirty work gloves and tossed them onto the steps. His smile softened as he held out a hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll take care of your car.”

  “I can—”

  “You want this job? Let me help. You need to get inside quickly. My boss doesn’t like people who are late.”