Deliver Us from Evil (11 page)

Roark nodded and followed her. He pressed buttons and held the phone toward the sky, moving it around like a beacon in the dark.

Flipping on the radio, she tried to raise Steve. Twice she radioed her location and situation—twice she received no response. She twisted the dial and changed frequency, then repeated her SOS message. Once more, nothing squalled from the radio. Maybe someone heard her call for help, but she couldn't receive the reply.
God, let that be true. Please.

Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Roark met her questioning gaze and shook his head. She sighed. Things weren't looking so good. “Who do you think tracked us?”

“Honestly? I don't know. But I would imagine someone involved in the ring.”

“Do they know you have this witness in custody?”

He gave a snort, his face crinkling into an expression of distaste. “We tried to keep it quiet, but the blasted press hounded us. Someone talked and before we could act, it was all over the news so the entire world knew where we were headed and how.”

Brannon rubbed her finger along her bottom lip. “But it has to be someone familiar with this area. Trust me, it's hard to hike this terrain, and in this weather they'd have to be really experienced.” She hugged herself with her arms folded over her chest. “No other aircraft was in the area, so they had to be within driving distance.”

She closed her eyes, letting the analytical portion of her brain take over. “A Hummer or a Jeep. Something rugged. To have gotten to the crash site from the time the news aired, that only gave them limited driving time, which means they had to be close to begin with.” Her eyes shot open. “Did anyone know about the witness and his condition prior to the media hype?”

“Yeah. We've had the witness in custody for a couple of weeks, so lots of people knew. People we'd assumed could be trusted, but we see how that turned out.” Roark shifted his weight. “Why?”

“Well . . . let's just say someone knew you had him and were waiting for an opportunity to get him. Why not go after the witness himself?”

“He's in the cardiac ICU, in a coma, under guard of the marshals. I don't think anyone would take the chance of trying to get to him there.” He shrugged. “Besides, the man's going to die without the heart transplant. They probably figured if they can stop or delay the surgery long enough, they'd be home free anyway.”

“Will they?” Her pulse pounded inside her skull, making her head ache.

“More than likely, yeah.”

“But you said you had documented proof . . .”

“Proof we can't decipher.” He raised a hand before she could interrupt. “We've had the best of the alphabet-soupers working on decoding it for two weeks now. Hasn't been broken yet.”

“Alphabet-soupers?”

Roark gave a wry smile. “CIA, FBI, NSA—all the government initial organizations.”

Despite the situation, she chuckled. “That's good. Never heard them called that before.”

“Insider joke.” He nodded toward Lincoln and Thomas, who dozed in the warm glow of the fire. “We need to rest, get Thomas's wound cleaned again, and then head out.”

She gestured to his arm. “Yours as well.”

“Nothing but a graze. I'm fine.” His gaze shot toward the sky. “We'd better get some rest while we can. Dawn will be here before too much longer, and then we're visible targets.”

NINE

Saturday, 3:00 a.m.

Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

WARREN LOITERED OUTSIDE the hospital's main entrance, hovering over the ashtray as he puffed away at his cigarette. The stinging wind bit against his exposed neck and face, but he refused to acknowledge his discomfort. He needed the nicotine fix more than he needed warmth.

“Congressman McGovern.”

He turned toward the doors, squinting in the bright overhead lights as he tried to discern the voice calling out to him.

“Congressman McGovern.” Kevin marched with prissy strides toward him.

After crushing out his cigarette, Warren straightened and strode to meet the effeminate man now rushing to greet him. Couldn't a man get a little privacy around here? “Yes?”

“Dr. Rhoads has called a meeting with the marshals. We thought you'd want to be included.”

As if anyone would consider excluding him? He'd been kept out of the loop quite enough, thank you very much. He squared his shoulders and moved to the doors, losing his footing only once on the sheet of ice on the sidewalk. “Has something happened?”

“I don't know, sir. They're meeting in the waiting room up on the ICU floor.”

Warren sighed as he strode into the elevator and jabbed the button. He'd have to endure the fingers of death tickling his spine again. Shaking off the shudder, he gritted his teeth. Ever since his mother had died in a hospital when she'd been admitted for a minor treatment, he'd known hospitals weren't a place of healing. They were halls of loss. Human error and a lawsuit later, he still swallowed the bitterness when he thought of the sloppy doctor who had murdered his beloved mother. Leaving him on the brink of manhood to be raised by his father with strict rules and a militant lifestyle. His father married his Asian mistress not even a week after burying Warren's mother. Unfair. But Warren had made a name for himself—had gotten into the political game to help people, which helped his own career. But that was beside the point.

The elevator dinged as the doors slid open at an excruciatingly slow pace. Warren's heartbeat sped in contrast, like the hare waiting for the tortoise to catch up in the race.

He moved into the corridor, then spun on his heel, and stalked down the hall to the waiting room. Maybe this meeting would mean his luck had finally changed. His career needed a kick-start.

Dr. Rhoads leaned against the wall of the waiting room, crowded by a semicircle of US marshals. Gerald Demott, chief of the marshals, stood front and center. This was serious business.

“What's going on?” His voice boomed in the otherwise silent room.

Looking up, Dr. Rhoads nodded. “Now that we're all here, let me fill you in on the patient's condition.” He ran a hand over the errant hair brushing the tops of his ears. “Mr. Wilks has taken a turn for the worse. His blood pressure is dropping.” He held up a finger to hush the spattering of gasps and beginning of questions. “He is currently in stable condition, but that's not expected to hold out much longer. If it takes much longer for the heart to get here, he may not survive the surgery.”

“Where's the heart, Gerald?” Warren glared at the chief, as if the delay were his personal fault.

Demott cleared his throat. “Our last report is that the heart survived the crash in the Great Smoky Mountains. We know our marshal got it out safely, and a National Park Service helicopter landed.” He hauled in a deep breath. “Unfortunately, we received a report of an unknown assailant firing upon the rescue team and disabling the helicopter. It appears the occupants of the helicopter are now stranded.”

“So the heart and your marshal are stuck out in the mountains somewhere?” Warren folded his arms across his chest and stared down his nose at Demott. Rule number seven—learn how to intimidate by your size, and use it when necessary.

“Yes. We know the rescue rangers are with our marshal, as well as the flight medic. Air traffic control has their coordinates, and the Air National Guard helicopter is en route to that location now.”

“When will it reach them?” Dr. Rhoads interjected.

Demott shrugged. “We assume it'll take approximately an hour and a half to get to the crash site from their current location, considering the weather.” He glanced at his watch.

“Can the heart survive that long?” Warren waited for the doctor's answer.

“Normally, no. But the harvesting surgeon prepared a pack of new drugs to go with the heart. Upon each injection the viability of the heart is extended for twelve hours. Four injections were sent.”

Warren ran a finger alongside his nose. “So that heart has about thirty-something hours left?”

“As long as the injections are given within the twelve-hour window.” Dr. Rhoads tapped his pen against the metal chart he held.

“Will our witness last?” The chief marshal swallowed hard.

“That's in God's hands, Mr. Demott. We'll do our best to help him hang on.” Dr. Rhoads slipped the pen into the jacket of his white coat. “That's the update on his condition.” His gaze settled on Gerald Demott's face. “Let me know if you hear anything more about the location and condition of the heart.”

Demott nodded. Dr. Rhoads strode from the room, heading toward the steel double doors. To check on his patient, no doubt. Warren turned his attention to Demott. “Have you heard from your marshal yet?”

“We've tried to raise him on the satellite phone, but the blizzard's blocking reception.”

“I see.” The creepy feeling of death's proximity breathed down Warren's back like the Grim Reaper hovering over his shoulder. “Let me see what I can find out. Maybe I can get more information.”

“Good luck.”

Warren pressed the button for the elevator, stiffening his legs to stop their quivering. Such a small time window, considering everything—the weather, the distance, and the fact that someone stalked the heart. Warren tightened his lips as he pressed into the elevator and descended.

If Wilks didn't make it, could Warren blame the FBI's incompetence and gain further support of his constituents by his outrage?

Saturday, 7:15 a.m.

Outbuilding

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

BRANNON PACKED THEIR MEAGER supplies while Lincoln cleaned and rebandaged Thomas's injury. The man had lost a lot of blood, but the flow seemed to be diminishing now, although his ragged breathing echoed in the small cavern.

Heavy snow clouds enveloped the sky, blocking the sun's first rays. Winds shifted, pushing the falling snow in every direction. The temperature continued to drop, throwing the group into a frosty wonderland.

Brannon lifted the collar of her coat and shivered. How could Roark stand the elements much longer? He refused to come inside the shelter to warm by the fire. Did he need to prove he was Superman? Their tentative truce could be shattered with his control-freak attitude.

After checking and rechecking his gun, Roark pushed the cooler toward the front of the shack. Thomas struggled to speak. “We need to give the heart another injection.” His eyes widened. “Black pack? It was . . . on the cooler.” His voice raised an octave, each word choked out. “Where is it?”

“I put it in my backpack.” She retrieved the case and held it up. “For safekeeping.”

“Have to do . . . injection . . . heart won't be . . . viable.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down. I'll get the heart for you.” She grabbed the red cooler and pulled it beside Thomas, then opened the cover.

The organ rested in a mushy solution of clear liquid and melting ice. She pushed the cooler against Thomas's leg.

“Can't do . . . it.”

“What?” Brannon's heart thumped in her throat. “Why not?”

“Can't use . . . right arm.” The flight medic shook his head. “You will have . . . to do it.”

She rocked back on her heels, almost falling backward. She'd experienced a lot in the Coast Guard but never sticking a needle into an exposed human heart. Now wasn't the time to start, either. She stared at her partner, who had received extensive emergency first-aid training. “Lincoln, you're the best qualified.”

His eyes widened and one brow shot up. “I don't think my first-aid training is preparation for this kind of thing.”

His ability to appear to read her mind bothered her more times than not. This was one of those times. She moved farther away from them, closer to the opening of the shack. “At least you're confident holding a syringe.” Brannon sat cross-legged on the floor, holding out her hand to show the shakiness.

“Someone . . . do now . . . while I can talk . . . you through it. I'm getting . . . sleepy.” Thomas's head rolled against the wall of the cave.

“Okay.” Lincoln moved closer to Thomas.

She smiled as she stared into her partner's eyes. “‘The man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.'”

Shaking his head, Lincoln muttered, “Simple. Second Timothy 3:17.” He leaned closer to Thomas. “Tell me what to do.”

The flight medic tossed Lincoln a look that appeared to be a combination of relief and pain. “Pack.”

While Lincoln did as Thomas instructed, Brannon glanced at Roark. He sat opposite her, his gaze avoiding the two men's movements but flickering over the shack and finally landing on her.

Heat crept up her neck, spreading to her ears and cheeks. She dropped her stare and focused on the ground. What was it about the man's scrutiny that made her feel stripped to the soul, her spirit lying bare in front of him? She lifted her finger to her mouth and bit at the hardened cuticle.

“Why do you do that?” Roark's voice shattered her thoughts.

“Huh? What?”

He nodded at her fingers. “Why do you bite your nails?”

She dropped her hand into her lap. “I don't bite my nails.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She opened her mouth to give an answer, but Thomas let out a groan and an “oh no.”

Both she and Roark shot to their feet and hovered over Thomas and Lincoln, who stared up at her. “One of the vials is broken.”

“What exactly does that mean?” She laced her fingers in front of her body, squeezing them together.

“Means,” Thomas began with his forced words, “heart just lost . . . twelve hours.”

Saturday, 7:28 a.m.

Northwest toward Rainbow Falls

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

ROARK STOOD IN THE opening of the out-shack, studying the landscape. He rubbed his arms against the frigid temperature. Snow and ice battled in the air, fluttering like thick drapes in the wind. He couldn't make out more than ten feet in front of him, a dangerous disadvantage when he needed to get the group moving. With the broken syringe they would have to push farther, faster, to get the heart to the hospital in time. Twelve hours was all they had until they'd have to inject again. And they only had one vial left.