Deliver Us from Evil (9 page)

Roark grunted as he pushed to a crouching position. A red splotch seeped through his jacket over his left tricep. “I'll handle this.”

Brannon moved beside Lincoln, grabbed a clean pack of gauze, and offered it to Roark. “You've been shot.”

He glanced at his upper arm and shrugged. “Just a graze. I'm fine.” He ignored the gauze and turned back to the door. “Everybody get as low as you can.”

She opened her mouth to tell him not to do something stupid, but he jerked open the helicopter door, then fired shots. The blast of the handgun's discharge reverberated in the metal Dolphin, drowning out the howling wind.

Brannon hunkered on the floor, her weapon at the ready. Fear like she hadn't felt since she led the Coast Guard rescue mission in Cuban waters swelled inside her. That had been the only time attempts were made to stop her search-and-rescue efforts.

She slipped her finger into the trigger well of the Sig.
God, please help us.

Lincoln rested his hand on her shoulder. Over the
ping-ping
of bullets hitting the helicopter and the roar of Roark's firing, his soft voice whispered against her ear. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

Weak at first, Brannon lifted her voice with Lincoln's. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Thomas coughed, then his voice, wobbly and weak, joined theirs. “Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever.”

Roark jammed the door shut, slumping against the back of the copilot's seat. “They've backed off for now. We need to make a move—we're sitting ducks in this bird.”

“Amen,” Brannon whispered, studying Roark's eyes. She forced her voice to come out steady and solid despite the pounding of her heart. “Why in blue blazes is someone shooting at us?”

His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Obviously someone wants to kill us.”

“You think?” She snorted. “Must be pretty determined to venture out in this weather and know our exact coordinates.” Her gaze raked over him. “Any idea who would be crazy enough?”

“If I had to make a guess, I'd say someone who doesn't want that heart to make it to the recipient.”

As she stared at the cooler, Brannon's mind replayed the newscast she'd watched. “A government witness, right?”

“Look, I'll explain everything later. Right now we need to get out of here.”

“Where would you like us to go?” She cocked her head. “In case you've forgotten, we're smack-dab in the middle of a blizzard. The nearest ranger station is about twenty miles of rough forest away. We'll be safer staying in the helicopter, defending ourselves here. At least air traffic control will have the coordinates where we landed. And the Dolphin will provide us with some cover.”

“Did you raise anyone on the radio?”

“No, but they had my location when we landed.” She ran a hand over her wet hair. “They'll send someone for us.”

“Who? I thought
you
were the rescue team.” Roark added under his breath, “Some rescue.”

The hairs on the back of her neck bristled like a pine in the spring. “How dare you.” She and Lincoln had risked their lives, and her chopper, to come out in this mess to save them.

He raised a hand. “Just save it. The situation has changed. I'm in charge now, and we'll do things the way I say we will. So pack up. We're moving out.”

Brannon stiffened yet her hands trembled. Everything within her very being told her not to leave her helicopter and to ignore the egotistical marshal. She was trained for SAR, especially in the Smokies. “Look, I'm the—”

Lincoln laid a hand on her shoulder. She turned and her gaze locked with his.

“He's a federal marshal, and he has the authority. Let it go. You can give him a piece of your mind later. Help me pack up the emergency supplies.”

His voice pacified the indignation surging through her. She nodded and replaced the spelunking equipment with food and survival supplies into the sturdy backpacks.

Roark inched open the door and peered outside. Didn't stop him from barking orders. “Hurry up, get that stuff loaded. We can carry the two backpacks and the heart—that's it. We'll need our hands free to tote Thomas. Let's go.”

Brannon stuck out her tongue at his back. Childish, yes, but it made her feel a lot better. She slipped her gun into its holster on her belt. After loading the backpacks with all the water bottles, blankets, first-aid supplies, and packages of dried food, she slipped the hand radio into her pack, then slung one over her back and passed the other to Lincoln. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed the black pack from atop the cooler, slipped it into the front compartment of her pack, and zipped it up.

“How should we carry him?” she whispered to Lincoln with a nod toward the injured medic. He had more EMT training than she did, and she trusted him. “He's regained consciousness.”

“Let's try supporting him between us.”

The man shifted, struggling to pull himself into a sitting position. “The glass cut my supraspinatus tendon.” He ground his teeth together.

“What's that mean?” Brannon chewed her cuticle.

“That's the tendon under my rotator cuff. Until I can get surgery, my right arm is useless.” His big eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. “Whoever supports my right side will have to do it all. I can't even lift my arm.”

Lincoln nodded before staring at Brannon, his brow arched. She sighed and shifted under the flight medic's left arm.

“Ready?” Roark turned to the trio. “Good. When I open the door, run toward the woods to the left of the helicopter. I'll cover you.”

“Why left?” Brannon stilled.

“Because the guys out there, the ones with guns and ammo, moved to the right. We don't want to go in their direction.”

“Well, I'm assuming your master plan is for us to get to the ranger station, correct?”

He nodded.

“Then we need to go to the right. That's the direction of the station.”

Roark paused for a moment. Brannon could almost smell the burn from his brain firing. He crouched closer to the door. “We'll head left for now, then once I'm sure we're safe, we'll double back to the ranger station.” His stare collided with Brannon's.

“Whatever you say, Super Marshal.” The sarcasm zipped off her tongue, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Yeah. That would be me.” He gripped the door handle, his jaw muscles tightening. “On the count of three, you guys head to the left. I'll make sure they've dropped back. Keep as low as you can, but move into the trees as quickly as possible. Got it?”

“Got it, Ace.”

Lincoln threw her a disapproving look. “‘I will watch my ways and keep my tongue from sin; I will put a muzzle on my mouth.'”

Psalm 39:1. Brannon pinched her lips together and dropped her gaze to the floor, knowing she was being difficult but couldn't seem to stop herself. Something about the marshal just set her off, like rubbing a cat's fur backward.

She flipped on the flashlight and lifted her eyes to meet Lincoln's. She whispered as condemnation settled on her heart, “‘But no man can tame the tongue.'”

Friday, 10:00 p.m.

Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

“CONGRESSMAN MCGOVERN, THIS WAY.” Kevin motioned toward the elevator in the hospital.

Warren strode to where his aide waited with eagerness brightening his eyes. “What's the status on the witness's medical condition?” he barked as he slipped into the elevator, fighting the urge to hold his breath.

“The same, from what I've heard.”

“Hmm.” Warren straightened his tie and looked at Kevin. “I'll meet with this surgeon. I want you to get me all the information on the search-and-rescue team.”

Kevin, like an eager lapdog, bobbed his head. Rule number six—use the little kiss-ups to your own benefit, then take all the glory.

The elevator beeped just before the doors yawned open. Warren pushed past the little suit and marched to the nurses' station. The stench of death hung in the corridors, creeping over the forced heated air and settling on unsuspecting patrons. Warren denied the shiver tickling his flesh. The last time he'd been in a hospital was at the age of thirteen, and look how that had turned out for him.

He cleared his throat to get the attention of the three women sitting behind the counter. “I'm Congressman Warren McGovern. I need to speak to the surgeon in charge of Jonathan Wilks.”

A young RN with bright blue eyes blinked up at him, as if in awe. Warren puffed his chest out more. From behind him a hoarse voice spoke. “I'm Dr. Rhoads.”

Warren spun around to face the doctor and fought to keep his face impassive. The doctor appeared much younger than Warren had expected for an expert heart transplant surgeon—dark hair with streaks of gray at the temples, eagle-sharp eyes peering behind thin wire-rimmed glasses, and standing well over six feet tall, towering above the congressman.

Warren handed the necessary paperwork to the doctor and introduced himself. “I need a status update on your patient's condition.”

Dr. Rhoads scanned the paperwork, then waved him to a waiting area across from the nurses' station.

Warren strode into the room with its cheap carpeting and vinyl chairs, careful not to brush his suit against the backs of the sofas. “So, what's his status?”

“He's stable.”

“Is he still in a coma?”

“Yes, the medication is keeping him under. His blood pressure is steady within normal limits.”

“That's good?” Warren clenched his teeth together, moving his mouth into a weak smile. He hated when doctors and lawyers talked their specialized language, coming across as superior to regular laymen. He didn't like it at all.

“It's very good.”

“May I see him?”

Dr. Rhoads studied Warren from behind his designer spectacles. “He's guarded by the Marshal Services.”

“I know that. I want to see him—see for myself that he's holding on.”

The doctor hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I can take you in for a minute. Follow me.”

Warren matched Dr. Rhoads's wide stride as they turned down the hall into the cardiac unit. Here the presence of the Grim Reaper hovered heavier—thicker, denser, more determined to zap the life out of bodies. He balled his hands into fists, his palms coated with a sheen of sweat.

“Right this way.” The doctor pushed through yet another set of steel double doors. The air whooshed as the doors pressed closed behind them, trapping them in the hall of demise. Beeps and chirps battered them from all sides, electronic monitoring equipment gone mad. Warren's head began to ache. The pain started at the base of his skull and worked upward until it throbbed in his temples.

Dr. Rhoads stopped in front of the room at the end of the corridor. A US marshal hunkered in a chair to the left of the door. The overweight man wrestled to his feet when he caught sight of Warren. “Congressman.”

“Marshal.” Warren nodded but didn't meet the man's eyes.

Dr. Rhoads pushed open the door and entered the room before Warren. “We haven't seen much change in his condition.”

Warren moved to the foot of the bed, studying the man lying with tubes and wires hooked over his chest and face. He didn't look like someone involved with a child-trafficking ring. Narrowing his eyes, Warren peered into Jonathan Wilks's face, searching for any sign of consciousness. Nothing.

“We need to leave now,” the doctor whispered.

He followed Dr. Rhoads. His feet itched to run free of this horrible place. Instead he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, marching like a good soldier until he broke through the double steel doors. Then, and only then, did he suck in air.

“Congressman!” Kevin rushed toward him.

Nodding good-bye to the doctor, Warren intercepted his young aide. “What is it?”

“I've news about the helicopter.”

“And?” Warren folded his arms across his chest. Must this little whippersnapper try his hand at drama right now? He just needed information.

“Air traffic control reports receiving a message from that woman pilot—the rescue one.”

“And?” He could barely contain his impatience.

“She found the crash site but has since reported her rescue helicopter is down and someone is shooting at them.”

“Shooting!”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin's eyes were so wide they looked as if they'd split apart his face at any moment. “They managed to save the flight medic and marshal, but the Life Flight pilot died in the crash.”

“And?”

“Air traffic control has been trying to raise her again on the radio, but it's dead.”

“Who's dead?”

“The radio, sir.”

“So we don't know who's shooting at them, if they're still alive, or what's going on?” Warren squared his shoulders and dropped his arms.

“No, sir.” Kevin shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

“Then I suggest you find out.”

Kevin took a step backward. “Y-y-yes, sir. I'm on it.” He turned and all but ran down the hall, his feet slipping on the tiled floor.

Warren reached for his cell phone, then noticed the sign on the wall banning the use of the gadgets on the ICU floor. With a sigh he tromped to the elevator and slipped inside. He would make his call as soon as he hit the lobby area. Well, as long as no one loitered around who would ask pestering questions. Questions he couldn't answer.

Ones he'd refuse to answer.

EIGHT

Friday, 10:14 p.m.

Southeast of Mount LeConte

Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

ROARK LEANED AGAINST THE helicopter and kept his back to the group, listening as they rushed into the forest behind, their steps crunching and crackling in the frozen snow. As sleet battered his face, he focused his attention on the tree line opposite him, studying the landscape for any sign of movement.