Deliver Us from Evil (33 page)

She couldn't leave Lincoln here, could she? But what about the girls? Steve? Roark?

“Look, I'll call your cell if anything happens.” Jefferson held up the Boy Scout fingers. “I promise.”

Lincoln would demand answers when he came out of surgery. The surgery that might cost him his career. Brannon chewed at the thick skin beside her nail. Just being on crutches for a couple of days had driven her up the wall. A long regimen of physical therapy . . . She couldn't imagine.

“Brannon, go. You can't do anything here. You'll be back before he comes out of surgery.”

“Okay. You call me if there's
any
news. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

She ran her hands over her jeans. “I'll be back as soon as I check on everything.”

Her steps were like sludge as she made her way to the helipad. How could she leave her partner? Lincoln had never left her side when Wade died. Even when she tried to force him to leave, he dug in his heels and stayed. Pulled her out of the pit of depression. Gave her hope and restored her faith.

She hesitated before climbing into the helicopter. Could she leave Lincoln in surgery, not knowing if he'd be okay?

“And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up. . . . The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.”

Brannon smiled. James 5:15–16—very powerful Scriptures Lincoln had encouraged her to memorize when she'd lost Wade. The power of God's Word washed over her, and she bowed her head and prayed for the man she loved like a brother.

Heart not as heavy, she lifted the bird in the air and turned toward the ranger station. Home. Her mind drifted to Roark. Was he okay? What if he'd been shot and left for dead?

Twelve minutes later Brannon touched the skids to the helipad at Abrams Creek. Flashing lights atop cars lit up the night. She completed her postflight duties, then rushed to the door. She paused at the threshold.

A tape outline of the man she'd shot stopped her cold.

She'd killed a man. A human. A child of God.

Tears swam in her eyes, blurring her vision. She'd never killed someone before.
Oh, Father, forgive me.
She knew He did—she'd had no choice as the man would've killed them all—but remorse shook her hands.

“Brannon.”

She glanced at the officers and agents swarming the station. Men and women filled the room to capacity. Steve sat on the couch with Mai and Kanya, their eyes wide as they took in all the commotion. Brannon crossed the room and knelt before them. “Hi, girls. How are you?”

“Okay,” Mai said.

Brannon smiled. They were okay because she'd protected them. The fact did little to ease her conscience.

“How's Lincoln?” Steve asked.

She sobered. “In surgery. His knee needs reconstruction and replacement.”

Steve grimaced, rubbing his knee. “Doesn't sound good.”

“No.” Brannon swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. “Have you heard from Roark?”

Steve nodded. “He brought the four-wheeler back. Arrested the other shooter and took her in for questioning. Left with two FBI agents.”

“Her?”

“Yeah. Shocker, huh?”

What in tarnation? She ignored the voices and sounds of the people around them, focusing on her supervisor. “Did Roark see Mai and Kanya?”

“No. He didn't even come inside. Told me to wait here and one of the agents would take my statement.”

So he didn't know. She stood and squared her shoulders, running her gaze over the room. “Who's in charge?”

No one answered. No one even stopped and looked at her.

She tried again, this time raising her voice. “Who's in charge?”

One of the men in an FBI coat moved to her. “I am. Special Agent Greg Daly. And you are?”

“Remember me, Ranger Brannon Callahan?”

“Right.” He shouted out for two of his men to take some more photographs, disinterested in the conversation with her. “We'll need your statement as well. Give us a few minutes, and we'll take you in.”

“No.”

He stopped and glared at her. “Excuse me?”

“No, I won't wait a few minutes. I have crucial witnesses in an ongoing investigation. I need to speak to US Marshal Roark Holland.”

“Lady, he's at the courthouse with a suspect. You'll have to wait.” Mr. Special Agent in Charge spun and barked orders to those milling about.

Wait? Not hardly. She gestured to Steve. “Get them some coats.”

“But he said to wa—” Steve must have seen something in her expression because he shoved to his feet.

“He's wrong. Roark needs to talk with Mai and Kanya now.”

“You'll never get the Jeep out of here. Did you see all the cars and lights?” He reached for coats anyway.

“I have no intention of driving out of here. I'm going to fly them out.”

“Brannon, I don—”

She grabbed the coats from him and eased them onto the girls. “Trust me, Roark needs to talk to them. It's critical to their investigation.”

“But—”

“It's okay, Steve. I'll call Roark on his cell now. Will that make you happy?”

“Yes.”

She pulled out her cell and dialed Roark's number. It rang once. Twice.

“Brannon, are you okay? How's Lincoln?”

“I'm fine. Lincoln's in surgery. Listen, I need you to meet me at the landing site by the courthouse in fifteen minutes.”

“I'm kind of in the middle of an interrogation right now.”

“Trust me, you'll understand. I'm bringing you two witnesses.” She glanced at Mai and Kanya, not wanting to alarm them more than necessary.

“Witnesses?”

“Two
young
witnesses.”

“Are you saying—?”

“Yes. Will you meet us at the roof in fifteen minutes?”

“I'll be there.”

Wednesday, 11:10 p.m.

Downtown Area

Knoxville, Tennessee

BRANNON HAD FOUND SOME of the trafficked kids. Roark dared to hope for more. Had she isolated the location?

He lifted his collar as the helicopter approached. Brannon Callahan was one unique lady. And almost losing her had made him realize how much he cared about her. He forced his thoughts to the case. The kids. The job.

As graceful as a machine could be, the helicopter touched down on concrete. The deafening roar of the rotors dulled, then faded away. The pilot's door opened, and Brannon filled his vision. His heart caught and wouldn't let go.

She ran to the other side of the aircraft and opened the door. In the lights on the roof, he couldn't quite make out who she helped from the passenger side. He waited as she approached. Her silhouette moved beside two smaller ones. Young girls.

His gut knotted as they drew close enough for him to estimate their age. Barely in their teens.

Children. Asian.

The two girls clung to Brannon as if she were their lifeline. She flashed him a shaky smile. “Roark, these are my new friends, Mai and Kanya.” She wrapped her arms around each of the girls' shoulders. “Girls, this is my good friend, Roark. He's been looking for you.”

The girl she'd gestured as Mai looked up at her. “For us?”

Brannon nodded. “To help you and the other girls.”

The wind gusted, whipping around the roof. Roark motioned toward the roof access door. “Let's get out of the wind.”

Brannon and the girls followed him. Silence hung heavy as they made their way into the car and steered toward the courthouse.

“Heard anything more on Lincoln?”

He didn't miss the slight tremble of her chin. “He's still in surgery. Total knee replacement.”

And he understood all too well what that implied. He reached over the console and grabbed her hand. “I'll be praying for him to make a full recovery.”

Her hand inside his shook. He'd shocked her. Smiling to himself, he patted her hand, then returned his to the steering wheel.

In minutes he'd parked in the courthouse lot and ushered Brannon and the girls inside, past security, and into the marshals' office. Demott met him in the main room. “Where have you been?”

“Had to pick up some important witnesses, sir.” He gestured to the two girls cowering behind Brannon.

Demott froze, his stare locked on the two young faces. “Are those—?”

“I haven't had time to get any details. I brought them here.”

“Good.” Demott straightened and met Brannon's concerned look. “Why don't you take them into this room, Ms. Callahan?” He gestured to the larger interrogation room.

“Come on, girls. Let's get out of these heavy coats.” She led them into the room, then eased the door shut behind them. Her soothing voice calmed even Roark's excitement.

“What . . . where . . . how?”

Roark held up his hands, knowing how his boss felt. It was all coming together at once. The feelings rushed over him, overwhelming him. “All I know is Brannon brought them in. I don't know anything else.”

“The FBI should be part of the interview. These girls could lead us to an operations site for this ring.”

“Sir, those kids are terrified. Of men. Did you notice the way they clung to Brannon?”

“What do you suggest, Holland?”

“I'd recommend the FBI bring in a female agent for the questioning. And let Brannon stay. They seem to trust her.”

Demott nodded. “Makes sense. If she rescued them, they view her as a savior.”

And in many ways Brannon had helped Roark back to his Savior. His throat tightened. “Right.”

“I'll talk to the FBI. See how fast they can get a woman agent here.” Demott shifted toward the opposite end of the hall. “We'll need to get Ms. Callahan's statement while she's here as well. Agents on-site will take the chief ranger's statement.” He paused. “And her partner—how's he?”

“Still in surgery on his knee.” Roark grabbed his boss's arm. “Did you get anything more out of Betty?”

“She's still not giving up details. The man Callahan killed has been identified as Frederick Noslen.”

“Her husband?”

“Yes. When we told her, hoping it'd get her to open up, she almost passed out.” Demott shook his head and stabbed his fingers through his hair. “We're pulling records now. The FBI believes the Noslens brought the girls over from Thailand. Agents are searching their residence.”

Roark raked a hand over his face. “What's the status with the books?”

“NSA finally broke the code. All the funds flip around multiple times before landing in seven different offshore accounts. The FBI's securing warrants to obtain the names belonging to the numbered accounts. There's a lot of money. This ring's been operating for some time.” Demott flexed his hands, then shook his head. “To think it happened right here, under all of our noses.”

“How could one couple have brought over so many girls? The numbers seem staggering.”

Demott grimaced. “Fake adoption service.”

Sickening. Roark couldn't comprehend people who possessed such malicious intent. And toward children. “Government involvement?”

“Almost has to be. Adoption services overseas require a government permit.”

“Could it have been forged?”

“Not likely. Not with TSA and Customs cracking down on regulations.”

One man's image flashed before Roark's eyes. Congressman McGovern. “Have we heard from the agents following McGovern?”

“Last I heard they reported he had a visitor who left shortly after arriving at the congressman's house. Since then, no activity.”

McGovern was wrapped up in this mess—Roark just knew it. Now to find the evidence to prove it.

THIRTY-ONE

Wednesday, 11:30 p.m.

Congressman McGovern's Home

Knoxville, Tennessee

HAD ZIMP GIVEN HIM the wrong number for Fred? Warren had called the number from his trash cell at least ten times since returning to the house. It went straight to voice mail. Wouldn't that be just like Zimp to give him the wrong number? The kid always felt he was indispensable. Bet he didn't think so now.

Warren swallowed the grin and moved to Zimp's attaché case. More than likely, the laptop contained everyone's phone numbers. Might as well see what the boy wonder saved.

He withdrew the laptop, set it on his desk, and opened the top. As he waited for the system to boot up, Warren stared into the darkness. Had he covered himself well enough? Those fools at NSA, CIA, and FBI hadn't been able to break the code Wilks set up for the books. Would they? Even if they did, could they link the names to the accounts? Wilks had sworn there would be no paper trail. Had he been wrong?

The laptop hummed to life. Warren accessed the Documents folder, then scrolled through the file names. Zimp wasn't overly intelligent so finding the phone numbers shouldn't be too hard. Seriously, some of the file names were laughably naive—My Checking, My Savings, Passwords.

Letter to FBI.

Warren's heart hiccupped. He double-clicked on the file and waited for the word processing program to open. It had to be a joke of some sort, although Zimp hadn't seemed particularly witty.

The document opened. The more Warren read, the tighter his gut knotted. Zimp had outlined their operation in great detail. Listing names. Dates. Details. If he hadn't already killed Zimp, he would now.

Warren studied the letter again. No date. When had Zimp written this? Had he already sent a copy to the FBI? He closed the file and hovered the mouse over the file name. Date of last save, this morning.

What had the moron done?

Warren scrolled through the rest of the documents and found nothing interesting. What had Zimp planned to do with the letter? Safety net? Maybe. But he'd been nervous when he'd arrived. If he intended to use the letter as insurance . . .

Warren accessed the e-mail program and scrolled through the Sent folder. Mostly benign e-mails, but one stuck out at Warren—Urgent. He checked the creation date. This morning. He clicked on the e-mail and waited for it to open.