Deliver Us from Evil (8 page)

Wind gusted against the swooping helicopter, causing her landing to bounce and skid. Brannon shut down the engine, unfastened her harness, and jumped from the Dolphin right behind Lincoln. The two raced toward the crashed helicopter, their boots slipping on the icy valley bed.

The Bell, which now blazed in yellow and orange flames, lay on its nose like a crippled bird fallen in flight. A dancing blue flame shot up the middle, stopping Brannon cold. She grabbed Lincoln's shoulder. “Be careful. The fuel is leaking, and it's gonna blow.”

He nodded but continued on toward the wounded aircraft. Jerking open the passenger cargo door, he reached inside. Brannon pushed to the pilot's door and wrenched it open. White heat blew against her face, forcing her to stumble backward. The rank stench of burning flesh assaulted her nostrils. She turned her head and retched before turning back to the cockpit.

The pilot's head lolled to the side as the flickering blaze ate up his legs. The pilot had passed the point of saving. Brannon pressed her lips together, tears pooling in her eyes.

Lincoln moved into the backseat. “Help me with these two.” He dragged an unconscious man to the icy ground. Beneath his coat, his white shirt was soaked red in a large patch. Lincoln turned toward the helicopter again.

Brannon swallowed hard, then beat her partner to the remaining man. While Lincoln gripped his feet, she reached for his arms. Her gaze settled on the man's face—handsome and rugged with a fresh scar—the US marshal she'd seen on television. Her mind replayed the news segment as she struggled to help Lincoln pull the man free from the inferno building in the helicopter. The heart!

After letting the man sink to the ground, Brannon rushed once more to the crushed Bell.

“We can't save the pilot, Brannon. Let it go.” Lincoln hollered as he raced forward with the fire extinguisher from the Dolphin.

“The heart,” she tossed over her shoulder as she pushed into the body of the aircraft. A red cooler with a black pouch on top leaned against the back of the pilot's seat. The crackle from the engine prickled the flesh on Brannon's arms. The stench of burning flesh seared her throat. She snatched up the cooler and the pouch.

Lincoln sprayed the cockpit with the extinguisher to no avail. Brannon screamed at him to get out, then turned, took two steps, and dove for the ground.

An explosion rocked the earth as if an earthquake occurred. Heat surrounded the valley area.

Brannon kept herself flat, covering her head with her hands. Bits of debris danced on the wind before falling to litter the snow-covered terrain.

“Are you okay?” Lincoln's hand on her shoulder brought immediate comfort and relief.

She rolled over and stared into his hooded eyes before accepting the hand he offered. “I'm okay. How're they?” She nodded toward the two men lying on the ground.

“Unconscious. One's got a cut on his shoulder, and the other has a gash on his head.”

Brannon retrieved the cooler and black pouch, then followed Lincoln as he picked his way back to the men. Her pulse rocked as she scanned the crash site. Only bits and pieces of the helicopter lay scattered and smoldering in the midst of the forest.

That had been close, too close.
Thank You, God, that no one else was killed.
But her heart ached for the pilot.
Why couldn't we have gotten here in time?

No reply came in the stillness of the explosion aftermath.

Lincoln dropped to a knee beside the man whose shirt stuck to his chest with the spreading red stain. He snapped open the emergency medical kit from the Dolphin, clicked on the flashlight, and pressed clean gauze to the man's injury.

Lowering herself beside the marshal, Brannon pushed her bangs, dripping with melted snow and sleet, aside. She laid her fingers on his forehead to inspect the cut, then glanced at the man's handsome face. She sucked in cold air, then rocked back on her heels.

Eyes like liquid black stared up at her.

Friday, 8:40 p.m.

Crash site

Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

ROARK'S FOREHEAD BURNED WHERE the nymph touched him. The outline around her was fuzzy, distorted. He blinked. Did he die? Was this a dream? Flecks of snow and sleet assaulted his face. No, he was alive and awake, and the woman gazing down at him with wide eyes was no nymph or angel. He dug his elbows into the cold, wet ground and struggled to sit. He tapped the butt of his gun, and his heartbeat steadied.

The woman's hands moved to his shoulders and eased him back. “Don't try to sit. You're okay, but I need to treat the cut on your head. I'm Brannon Callahan with the Great Smoky Mountains National Park Rangers. We're here to help.” Gauze appeared in her hand, and she dabbed at his forehead.

No, he didn't need anyone to take care of him—he was always in control. He waved the ranger's hands away and pushed into a sitting position. The wind carried a sharp burning odor on its gusts. “What happened?”

“Your helicopter crashed.” Her voice caressed his ears, smooth and gilded.

Roark scanned the area, catching sight of hunks of metal scattering the ground, wisps of smoke rising from their mounds. He glanced back at the woman hovering over him. Her auburn hair hung over her shoulder in a loose ponytail. “What about the other—”

“We got the other passenger out.” She gave a jerk of her head. “My partner, Lincoln, is attending to his injury.”

“And the pilot?” He had to focus. Keep to the task at hand.

Her big eyes blinked with moisture, then bore into him, pinning him to the spot. How unusual—one green eye and one blue, yet both shimmering almost iridescently by the glow of the flashlight. She shook her head. “He was already dead when we got here.”

Panic shot into his bloodstream. Had he failed his mission? “There was a cooler. It held a—”

“We got the heart out.” She smiled as she interrupted, laying her hand on his shoulder again.

Frowning, he stared up at her. His fingers sought the butt of his Beretta. “How did you know about the heart?”

“I watched the news. You're the marshal, right?”

“Roark Holland.” He dug his palms into the ground, the ice stinging his flesh, then pushed into a standing position.

She rose as well, a good eight or nine inches shorter than his six-foot-two height. She had a good, athletic build, not like the skinny figure his youngest sister had.

He brushed past Brannon and towered over the man tending to Thomas. “How is he?”

“He's lost a lot of blood. I think a main artery may have been severed by metal shards.” The dark-haired man in a ranger coat glanced up at him, then gazed over to the woman. “We need to get him to a hospital ASAP.”

“Let's get to the helicopter. You can work on him in the air.” Brannon moved to Thomas's feet.

Roark walked around her, then leaned over to help the man with Thomas.

She laid a hand on his shoulder, jerking his attention back to her determined face. “You just get in. You're in no shape to help carry him. That head gash is pretty nasty.” She flashed him a gentle smile.

Roark stomped out of the way, lamenting her logic under his breath. He. Had. To. Stay. In. Control. He lifted the cooler with the black pouch, then squared his shoulders. “We have to get this heart to the hospital in Knoxville immediately.” The sharpness of his tone cut through the howling of the wind.

Brannon jutted out her chin. “Of course. And he”—she tilted her head toward Thomas—“needs the hospital as well.”

Roark clenched his jaw. She kept staring at him, trying to read his expression.

“Fine. Let's get to that helicopter of yours.” Still gripping the cooler and medicine pack in his right hand, he scooped up the medical case from beside her partner with his left, then hitched a brow as he stared back at the woman.

She sighed and broke eye contact, then bent and grabbed Thomas by the legs while her partner hoisted Thomas's shoulders. Together, the two lifted the flight medic and swayed as their boots slipped on the icy ground.

The wind whistled through the trees as the odd group rushed toward the aircraft a mere five hundred yards away.

Roark passed them, heading toward the waiting helicopter. While bigger, it didn't matter. In this weather, it was still an airborne coffin. He could only hope the woman's partner was a better pilot than the previous one.

Crack!

Roark groaned as something slammed into his back and tackled him to the ground. He twisted to see what it was, his hands pulling into thick, soft auburn hair.

The woman ranger straddled him.

He moved to shove her aside when a limb crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, covering his footprints in the snow where he had stood minutes ago. Flecks of ice splattered him and the woman, sending shivers over his body.

Brannon gave him a casual shrug, then pushed to her feet and dusted the snow from her shoulders. “You're welcome.” Her stare lingered a moment longer, then she shook her head and went to assist her partner as he dragged Thomas across the white ground.

Sure, she may have saved him from getting whacked by the limb, but what right did she have to come across so . . . so . . . what? Roark struggled to his feet, lifted the case, pack, and cooler, then stomped behind them. In control? He was supposed to be the one in charge.

When Roark jumped into the helicopter, Thomas lay across the backseat, buckled in tight. The shelter the aircraft provided from the blasting wind welcomed him aboard. Unlike the other helicopter, this one provided ample lighting to see. He shoved the case and cooler with medicine pack across the floor and wiped the snow from his brow.

Roark reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his satellite phone, and stared at the LCD screen. No signal. What good was a satellite phone if the blizzard could block reception?

“Lincoln will stay with him in flight. You can sit in the copilot's seat.” She rubbed her gloveless hands together and blew on them.

Do what? “Isn't he the pilot?”

Her chuckle was low and throaty. “Nope. That would be me.” She patted the seat beside her. “Come on up. Lincoln needs all the room he can get back there.”

Roark settled in the other chair in the cockpit and glanced over at her. Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, drawing his gaze to her piercing eyes. He swallowed against the heat rising in his chest. This was a job and nothing more.

“What's your name again?” His voice sounded demanding to his own ears.

She raised an eyebrow. “Brannon Callahan. And the man back there is Lincoln Vailes.”

“Again, I'm Roark Holland, US marshal.”

“Do you always use your job title in introductions?”

He opened his mouth to reproach her snappy comment, but he needn't have bothered. She'd already slipped on her headset and flipped switches on the control panel. The helicopter vibrated as the engines hummed to life. “GSMNPS rangers, cancel call out to crash coordinates. I have the survivors and will deliver them to Parkwest Medical. Over.”

From the backseat Thomas moaned. Roark turned. Blood soaked the front of his shirt. His face contorted into a grimace, and he emitted another groan.

Lincoln pulled a wad of dripping gauze from Thomas's chest. Fresh blood, bright red, oozed from a large gash near his right shoulder. Lincoln grabbed a fresh pack of gauze from the case, ripped it open with his teeth, then pressed it against the cut. Thomas cringed and forced out a breath.

“Copy that, base. Will notify Knoxville ATC as soon as I'm in the air. Over.” Brannon slipped her headset down to rest around her neck and hollered over the roar of the rotors thumping. “Ready?”

Lincoln made a circular motion with his finger. “We're good.”

She nodded and pressed a series of buttons and gauges on the panel. The aircraft vibrated in response.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Roark's breathing froze. No mistaking that sound—the telling echo of bullets hitting metal. He released his Beretta from its holster in one fluid motion.

The rotor engine coughed, then smoke filled the air.

Brannon flipped switches, her eyes wide. “We've lost the engine.” Her gaze jerked over the instrument panel, and she ducked her head. “And the rotors are out.” She slapped the side of her fist against the instrument panel and glared at Roark. “Who's shooting at us?”

As if he knew.

SEVEN

Friday, 9:42 p.m.

Crash Site Near Mount LeConte

Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

BRANNON CLICKED THE TRIGGER, activating her radio frequency. “RCM986 to Knoxville ATC, come in. Mayday. HH-65 Dolphin down. Shots fired. I repeat, RCM986 is disabled on the ground.”

No warming hum of static echoed against her ear.

Roark steadied his Beretta. “Get down!” His gaze locked with Brannon's for a moment as he slunk to the floor and eased around the copilot's seat.

No kidding,
get down.
This wasn't her first rodeo at being fired upon. Brannon tried again to raise a contact on the radio—no response. She yanked her headset from her neck and tossed it.

Slipping from the pilot's seat, Brannon moved to the floor and opened the box. She withdrew her Sig handgun and crawled behind Roark. She grabbed the hand radio, turned it on, and sent out one more distress call. Still nothing.

The metal
pinging
smacked against the crippled helicopter, hammering out any coherent thought Brannon could muster from the recesses of her mind. Why would someone shoot at them, especially in this weather? And in this area? Who knew where to look for them?

Roark opened the door to the helicopter a fraction of an inch. A bullet whizzed at the opening. He fell back into the cabin and slammed the door shut.

The flight medic, barely conscious, groaned. Placing another stack of gauze against the wounded man's shoulder, Lincoln hissed over the noise, “What's going on?” He kept his head low, level with the seat bottom.