Deliver Us from Evil (32 page)

“It is.”

“Um, how am I supposed to get my money?”

Uncouth, bringing up money. Yes, Warren would do society a favor in eliminating Mr. Buddy Zimp. “Once you get to your destination, we'll set up a wire transfer to your offshore account.”

“How long will that take?” Zimp shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I mean, I don't have any traveling money or funds for a hotel.”

“I'll take care of it.” Warren set his glass in the sink beside the other. “I'll arrange the flight and your reservations and give you several thousand to hold you over until you can open an account.”

Zimp smiled, revealing straight teeth. “That'd be great, Mr. McGovern.”

“Did you bring the phones and your laptop?”

“Yes, sir.” Zimp lifted an attaché case. “Everything's in here.”

“Perfect.” No trail. Warren took the case and placed it in his desk's bottom drawer. “Well, let me call my pilot and get your flight arranged.”

Zimp nodded, looking more relaxed.

Warren lifted the phone and dialed his cell phone number, which he'd already turned off and put upstairs. “Yes, Paul, I need to arrange a flight to Jamaica tonight.” He waited a moment, aware that Zimp hung on his every word. “Certainly. As soon as possible.”

Zimp rocked back on his heels, smiling when he thought Warren wasn't watching. Clueless . . . utterly naive.

“Yes, that's fine. We'll be there directly.” Warren replaced the receiver to its cradle and met Zimp's stare. “You'll fly out in less than an hour. We'd better hurry and get you to the airstrip.”

“Great.”

“Where's your car?”

“Out front.”

Another item to take care of. No matter, Warren thought well on his feet. And suddenly he knew what to do. “Why don't I drive you in your car, then bring it back here and hide it in my guest cottage's garage?”

Zimp shrugged. “Works for me.”

“Then let's go.” Warren pulled the driving gloves from his pockets and slipped them on. “It's getting colder out since the sun went down.”

“Ain't that the truth. Really nasty weather. Worst we've seen here in years.” Zimp's nervous chatter wore on Warren's nerves. Soon it'd all be over.

He slipped behind the wheel of the jalopy Zimp had left in his driveway. Warren would have to make sure there were no oil stains on the red bricks. The car started easily enough. Warren couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the odor in the car. Fast food. His stomach turned. He'd have to send this suit to the cleaners.

Steering the car out of the driveway, Warren headed toward the back roads out of town. He kept his speed at the limit and his gaze peeled for any other vehicles. Wouldn't do him any good to have someone see him driving this piece of garbage.

“Why are we going this way?” Zimp's knee bounced.

“We don't want anyone to follow us.”

Zimp whipped around to look out the rear window. “Do you think someone is?”

“Not right now, but we have to be careful.” Warren swallowed the laugh. Poor Zimp looked positively ashen with paranoia. “We'll keep to the back roads until we get closer to the airstrip.”

“Oh. Good.” But Zimp kept stealing glances behind them in the car's side mirror.

Once they'd gone about half a mile, they came to a gravel road. Warren turned. He drove for a few minutes, then slowed and eased the car to the side of the road.

“What's wrong?”

“I think we have a flat or a low tire. A rock might have punctured it.” Warren killed the engine and opened the driver's door. “Check your side.”

Zimp opened his door and stepped outside.

Warren moved to the back of the car. “It's mine. Do you have a spare tire?”

“I think in the trunk.” Zimp joined him at the trunk and opened it with the press of a button. He leaned over. “I think I have a jack in here somewhere, too.”

Hand over the pearl handle, Warren withdrew his mother's gun from his coat pocket. With steady hands, he raised the .380, leveling it with the base of Zimp's head. Without hesitation he squeezed the trigger.

Zimp fell over into the trunk.

Warren checked the backseat. Sure enough, two large plastic cups littered the floorboard. He grabbed them, then popped the hood. He cut the fuel line, draining gasoline into the cups. When they were filled, Warren set them aside, then laid the fuel line over the engine, letting gasoline flow over.

He took the cups and saturated Zimp's body and the trunk with gasoline. He took a match from his pocket, struck it, and threw the match into the trunk before closing it. Next, he tossed a lit match under the hood and shut it. Finally, he lit two of the fast-food bags in the backseat.

As the car lit up in flames, Warren smiled. Then sighed. He'd have to walk back home.

Oh, well . . . some things were worth the effort.

Wednesday, 9:35 p.m.

Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

THE FRONT DOOR CRASHED open.

Brannon stood and took aim at the bulk filling the doorway. He swung, pointing his gun at her. She squeezed the trigger. Again. And again.

The man fell facedown on the wood floor.

Her palm cramped around the butt of her Sig.

“Brannon!”

Suddenly her handgun weighed heavy in her hand. “Roark?” She lowered her weapon to her side.

Roark rushed to the doorway, halting as he spied the man on the floor. He kept his gun ready as he felt the man's neck. “Somebody hit the lights.” The station washed in light. Roark jerked up his head. “Brannon.” He stepped over the body and hurried to her side. He drew her into his arms, teasing her temple with feather kisses. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Lincoln's shot.” While his arms made her feel safe and secure, she had to get Lincoln to the hospital. Now. She moved out of his embrace. “I'll fly Lincoln to the hospital. It's quickest.”

Roark nodded at the man lying in the doorway. “He's dead. There's another shooter getting away on an ATV. I'm going after him.”

Was it smart to run after someone with a gun? He was a marshal, not an FBI agent.

Steve handed Roark a key. “Take the four-wheeler out back. You'll never catch him on foot. The authorities have already been called.”

“Thanks.” Roark met her gaze. “I'll get 'em.” Roark placed a hard kiss on her mouth. “I promise.”

Her heart fluttered, despite the circumstances. “Be careful.”

He ran from the station, Beretta in hand. Fear for his safety nearly had her chasing after him. But she had to take care of Lincoln.

She'd never felt so torn before. She'd gone into the professions she had so she could save people. What if something happened to Roark? Brannon didn't know if she could handle losing him.

Father, please watch over Roark. Keep him safe. Bring him back to me. Please.

Jefferson ran inside. “Everybody okay?”

Brannon rushed to the hallway. “Lincoln's hit. In the knee. He's lost a lot of blood. I'm taking him to the hospital.”

“I'll pilot,” Jefferson said.

“No, I'll do it.” No way would she
not
fly her best friend to the hospital.

The two girls were backed against the door to her living quarters, both trembling and crying. “Shh. It'll be okay.”

“Who are they?” Jefferson asked.

“Fill you in later. Right now, we need to leave.”

Lincoln lay unconscious again but with a pulse. Weaker than before but still detectable.

“Let me get him.” Jefferson moved beside Lincoln and nodded at her ankle. “Despite what you think, you're still injured.”

“Let's get him into the helicopter.” Steve helped Jefferson lift Lincoln.

Brannon rushed to the aircraft and did a quick preflight. In minutes Lincoln was secure in the backseat, she in the pilot's seat, and Jefferson ready in the copilot's chair. She smiled at Steve. “Take care of the girls until I get back.”

“Will do.”

She maneuvered the controls, and in seconds the helicopter was airborne. She radioed ATC, then patched to the hospital. Once she'd given as many details as she could, she clicked off the comm.

“Want to tell me about those girls back at the station?”

“As soon as Lincoln's at the hospital, okay?”

Jefferson nodded, then glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, buddy. You're gonna be fine. We're taking you to the hospital in Sevierville. Will take us less than ten minutes to get there.” He caught Brannon's eye. “He's coming to.”

“Hey, Linc. About five more minutes, and we'll land.”

“What?” Jefferson undid his harness and slipped into the backseat. “I can't hear you.” He leaned over Lincoln's head.

“Uh, okay.” Jefferson slipped back into the copilot's seat.

“What'd he say?”

“I hope I remember this right. He said to tell you, ‘But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings. And you will go out and leap like calves released from the stall.'”

Brannon smiled and glanced over her shoulder at her partner. “You'll be fine, Lincoln. You'll be leaping soon enough.”

Wednesday, 9:37 p.m.

Woods North of Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

ROARK KILLED THE FOUR-WHEELER'S engine. He trained his ears to pick up the other ATV's location. Over the cold silence of night, the distant hum came. Up and to the left.

He turned the key, the Polaris hummed to life, then he sped in that direction. He'd catch this other shooter. Get answers as to why they fired on Brannon's station.

She'd shot and killed that man. Not that he wasn't glad—he was ecstatic she was safe—but he'd never pictured her killing someone.

Yet she was trained to do so.

He raced over rocks and bumps, pushing the four-wheeler as fast as it would go. His mind kept going back to Brannon.

Never in his life had his heart ached as much as when he'd seen the man bust open the door and fire, knowing Brannon was inside. What did that mean?

She'd stolen his heart.

And she was safe.

Okay, God. I'm a man of my word. You kept her safe. Forgive me for being so angry with You. I want to follow Christ. Change me, God, to be the man You want me to be. Amen.

Ahead, he could make out the outline of the ATV. The rider didn't seem to realize he was being followed. Roark pulled his Beretta out, targeting the vehicle's back tires. He accelerated to get closer, steadied his aim, and pulled the trigger.

The vehicle fishtailed, then flipped.

Roark jerked to a stop and hopped off the four-wheeler. Keeping his gun ready, he approached the person lodged under the overturned ATV. The shooter was a woman. A nine millimeter lay on the ground beside her and the ATV. “Don't move.”

Her sobs brought him up short.

“Help me. I can't breathe.”

He dared not holster his Beretta, in case she had another handgun. But he couldn't leave her trapped. He needed to take her in. Find out what her story was.

Passing his gun to his left hand, Roark rocked the ATV back right side up. He pointed the gun at the woman. “Get up.”

She coughed, rolling over onto her hands and knees.

“Get up slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

She stood, still coughing. “Who are you?”

“US Marshals and you're under arrest for attempted murder.”

THIRTY

Wednesday, 10:45 p.m.

Fort Sanders Sevier Medical Center

Sevierville, Tennessee

“SURGERY?” BRANNON COULDN'T BELIEVE Lincoln needed surgery. Her heart clenched, and she glanced at Jefferson.

Dr. Miller nodded. “Both the femoral component and the patella are shattered, as well as the damage sustained to the femur. We'll have to perform a total knee reconstruction and replacement. It'll take about three to four hours.”

“Three hours?” Her nerves bunched.

“Three to four, yes, ma'am.”

“He's a park ranger. Will he be able to walk?”

“Walk, most probably. Climbing like rangers do?—depends. I make no promises or guarantees.” Dr. Miller adjusted her watch. “He'll have months of physical therapy after the surgery, but he should graduate to walking without a cane.”

Lincoln, with a cane? Tears burned Brannon's eyes.

The surgeon gazed about the waiting room. “Why don't you get something to eat, call somebody or something? There's nothing you can do. You can go up to the surgical waiting room around the time he gets out of surgery. I'll talk to you after the surgery.”

“Th-thank you.” Brannon released Jefferson's hand and pawed at the tears as the doctor strode down the hall. “I'm going to check in with Steve.” Her voice was thick with the words she wouldn't voice. She withdrew her cell and dialed the station's number. It rang six times before she closed her phone.

Jefferson gave her a questioning look.

“Phone's still down.” And she hadn't heard from Roark, either. Had he returned the four-wheeler? Did he get the other shooter? Was he okay?

“Why don't I head back to the station? Check on Steve and those girls. Find out what's happened.”

But the girls . . . “Mai and Kanya don't know you. They're scared of men. I'm worried how they're faring with Steve as it is. You'd terrify them.” She smiled. “No offense.”

He grinned back. “None taken. How's your ankle?”

“Fine.” She rotated it as an example. Only a little twinge burned.

“So you go and I'll stay here.”

“I can't leave Lincoln. He's my partner. He's like family.” What about his career?

Jefferson rested his hand on her shoulder. “You heard the doctor—this'll take about four hours. It's a short flight to the station.”