Deliver Us from Evil (12 page)

“We're ready.” Brannon's words were hot in his ear. He turned his head. The woman had grit, as his sister would say, and it made her very attractive. Too attractive. Hadn't he sworn off women after his last romantic fiasco? Being lied to and cheated on still stung, even after more than a year. And Brannon was too similar in personality to Dr. Martin. Roark would bet the good doctor had advised Demott to give him simple assignments for a while. To continue his therapy. He didn't need therapy. He needed to work.

Roark straightened. No time for rehashing past failed relationships or his current situation. Right now he had to concentrate on the job and complete it. He pulled out his trusty Beretta and studied the rangers. “Stay as close to me as you can. The storm's right on top of us.”

Brannon and Lincoln propped Thomas between them. Roark lifted the cooler and stepped free of the shanty's protection.

Pecks of sleet slipped under his collar, slithering down his back like an icy snake. He clenched his jaw, ignoring his discomfort, and glanced over his shoulder at the trio behind him. He had an assignment to succeed at and people to protect. Those innocent girls trafficked in . . . Their fate sat in his hands. He couldn't let more young girls die. Not on his watch.

Thomas seemed barely conscious, his head lolling to rest on one shoulder, then the other. Brannon's face was lined with determination. Roark's muscles tensed as he fought the desire to carry her burden. He couldn't—he knew that—he had to be ready to react to any trouble. That was his job.

The group descended a rocky trail, losing traction as fresh ice joined the slick layer covering the ground. Wind nipped at their exposed flesh, chafing it raw. In less than an hour, Roark's face burned, and he had to keep regripping his gun as feeling fled from his fingers. Squinting, he made out the valley before them, level and even. He increased his pace, pushing one foot in front of the other faster, harder.

Crack!

Roark released the cooler, spun, and crouched, in one fluid movement, with his Beretta aimed in the direction of where the gun had been fired. “Get down!” Adrenaline coursed through his veins, thawing his extremities.

As one, Brannon and Lincoln dropped to a squat, pulling Thomas down with them. Brannon withdrew her Sig, Lincoln only a second behind her.

“Get behind me,” Roark barked as he maneuvered around them. His attention shifted over the rocky terrain, studying each shadow of trees as he hunted for movement, human movement.

Pop-pop-pop!

The rapid gunfire erupted over the valley. Thomas yelled out, pain twisting his voice, making his words incoherent.

Roark raced into action. His feet sought steady ground while he ran where the gunshots originated. Brannon's gasp and murmurs reached his ears as he continued toward the tree line above and to the left of them.

A flash of light flickered in his peripheral vision to the right.

Crack!

He squeezed the Beretta's trigger just as Brannon yelped. He glanced back toward the group—they'd hunkered down behind two fallen trees. He spun to where he'd seen the gun flash, then fired four more shots in quick succession.

The lingering echoes of the gunshots rippled over the valley. The shooter's, his, Brannon's, and Lincoln's—all meshed together into a chorus of explosion.

Keeping his eyes locked on the gunman's location, Roark crept in that direction. He crossed the valley and pulled himself up the embankment. Losing his footing on the ice and snow, he slipped back to the valley bed.

Pop! Pop!

Lifting his Beretta, he returned rapid fire.

A soft thump sounded, followed by a groan. Twigs snapped, then a thud.

Roark climbed up the steep incline, pulling on trees with his left hand. In his right he gripped his handgun. Once he reached the top, he stood still with his head tilted a fraction.

Another groan. Labored breathing.

Roark spotted the fallen gunman by his breath puffing in the cold. He brushed aside limbs and underbrush as he approached the form lying at the base of a tree, never letting the gun waver.

The shooter lay still except for the labored rise and fall of his chest. Roark towered over him, studying his face. He didn't recognize the man decked out in full tactical gear. Not even a remote resemblance to any mug shot he'd seen in the perp books. Squatting, he shoved the barrel of the Beretta against the man's temple. “Who are you, and why were you trying to kill us?”

The man's eyes blinked. A croak escaped his lips. Blood oozed through the left side of his coat. Roark took in the location of the wound—a heart shot. The shooter had mere seconds to live. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

Once more he groaned and blinked twice. His chest lay still, not rising any longer.

Roark felt the man's neck—no pulse. He let out a sigh, then reached into the man's coat pockets. His fingers wrapped around cold metal. He yanked his hand out, pulling a SAT phone free. No wallet, no driver's license, no form of identification. Nothing but the phone and bullets.

“Roark!” Brannon's cry filled him with dread.

Without a backward glance, Roark rushed to the embankment and scrambled down to the valley bed.

TEN

Saturday, 7:45 a.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

A DOOR SLAMMED, MAKING the walls vibrate and rattle. Mai arose from her restless sleep, still huddled against two of her roommates. The bedroom door swung open and crashed against the wall. Mai pushed herself off the mattress and scooted into the far corner, staring at Madam Nancy looming in the doorway.

“Your three other roommates have been transferred.” She reached behind her tubby frame and pushed a young Thai girl into the room. “This is your new roomie for now.”

The girl, eleven at most, stumbled into the room, tripped over the edge of the mattress, and fell face-first onto it. A soft whimper escaped from the cracked lips of her tear-streaked face.

Madam Nancy's face wrinkled into a frown. “You girls teach this one the rules around here. I don't want to hear no more sobbing from her.” She wagged a sausagelike finger. “If she keeps crying all the time, I'm holding you three responsible.” With that, she stomped from the room.

Tears flowing, the new girl curled into a ball on the mattress. Mai's two roommates, Sunee and Prasert, headed toward the washroom. They were older, sixteen and seventeen, and had been with Madam Nancy for a couple of years. Their experiences had hardened their eyes. Neither one had shown Mai any compassion when she had arrived, and it did not appear they would with this new girl.

Moving beside the girl, Mai wrapped her arm around the girl's bony frame. She whispered shushing sounds and stroked her long hair.
“Bpen khoon gaw di?”

The girl looked up. “Am I okay?” she repeated in broken English. Her eyes as black as night spilled more tears. “I am Kanya.”

“I am Mai.” She smiled at the younger girl and reverted to her native tongue. “How old are you?”

“Sip saam.”

“Thirteen? Really?” Mai let her arm drop from Kanya's hair. “I thought you were younger.”

Kanya smiled, revealing a row of white, straight teeth. “I am small for my age,
khaa?
”

“Yes.” Mai chuckled, then remembered where she was. “I am fourteen.” She pressed her lips together and leaned next to Kanya's ear. “When did you get to the States?”

“Last night.” Fresh tears streamed from Kanya's eyes.
“Gra maawm glap baan.”

Mai's eyes overflowed with tears. “I want to go home, too.”

Saturday, 8:46 a.m.

Northwest toward Rainbow Falls

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

BRANNON IGNORED THE FIERY pain in her left ankle, concentrating on the fallen man beside her. Her hands trembled as she holstered her weapon, pushed back his bangs, and straightened the glasses on his face. His breathing grew fainter, until it was nothing more than a gravelly whisper. Gurgling came from him, liquid filling his lungs.

God, no. Please, not someone else.
Another life lost due to these criminals. To consider it ripped at Brannon's soul.

“Give me something else to cover the wound,” Lincoln snapped as he shoved wads of gauze into Thomas's gut. Blood soaked through the white clump.

Bile seared the back of her throat. While it had been a while since she went through more than just a basic first-aid course, she could recognize a dying man when one lay in front of her. She stroked Thomas's brow once more.

“I need—” Lincoln's gaze locked with hers, and understanding passed between them. He pushed against the bundle of saturated gauze stuck to Thomas's abdomen.

Thomas took a wheezing breath, shuddered, then his muscles went slack.

Shoulders slumping, Lincoln reached up and closed the flight medic's eyes. Brannon's breathing hiccupped.

“He's gone.” Lincoln laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “There's nothing more we can do for him.”

Brannon closed her eyes. Fierce tears burned down her cheeks. As if the heavens heard her sobs, the winds died down, and snowflakes drifted instead of plowing over them.
Why, God, why?

Thrashing of snow-burdened branches from the incline behind caused her to jerk her attention over her shoulder. In a smooth movement she withdrew her firearm.

Roark slipped and stumbled toward them, his face etched in concern. “Are you guys okay?”

Brannon holstered her Sig and shook her head. “Did you get the guy who shot at us?”

He nodded. His gaze stopped on Thomas, lying still in the snow. Roark plopped to his knees. “Is he . . . ?”

Lincoln cleared his throat. “He got shot in the gut. He bled out.”

“Where's the cooler?” Roark stared over the area.

“The cooler?” Brannon pushed his shoulder. He swayed as he gave way to lack of balance and slumped to the side. She didn't care. “A man just died—shot to death—and all you can think about is
the heart?
What kind of unemotional deviant are you?” Red flashed before her eyes.

“Look, I'm sorry Thomas died, but there's nothing we can do about it.” His voice sure sounded steady, even if he was out of breath.

“You could at least mourn him for a moment.” It was a human life—gone forever from this earth. She shoved her palms into the frozen ground and pushed to her feet. She put weight on her left leg, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up from her ankle, and crumbled back to the ground with a groan.

Roark knelt and reached for her leg at the same moment Lincoln touched her shoulder. “What is it?” her partner asked.

She spoke from between clenched teeth. “My ankle. I think I twisted it.” Pain throbbed, ripping away her grief.

With nimble fingers Roark unlaced her hiking boots. A flash of heated attraction swelled inside the pit of her stomach, making her light-headed. Then a fresh shot of pain rushed through her leg. “Ouch!” She tried to jerk her leg free of his hands. “What're you doing?”

“We need to check your ankle. I'm taking off your boot.” He pulled the boot free and set it on the ground, then gingerly felt along her ankle area.

She opened her mouth to argue, but Lincoln squeezed her shoulder again. “He's right.”

“Then
you
check it out for me.”

Lincoln took Roark's place without another word. His hands were just as gentle, maybe even more so, but his touch didn't cause a burst of heat to swim through her veins. Brannon fidgeted on the cold ground, not sure if she felt disappointed or relieved.

“Definitely twisted.” Lincoln eased her foot on the ground before reaching into his backpack. “I need to get it wrapped.”

“We need to get moving.” She spit the words out, attraction and common sense battling within her and making her more irritated than injured.

Now, God? Seriously?

“I'll wrap your ankle, slip your boot on loosely, then we can get out of here.” Lincoln pulled the Coban wrap from the backpack and began unrolling. “I need your sock off so I can wrap your bare ankle, then we'll put the sock on over it.”

Before she could lift her leg to comply, Roark lifted her foot and tugged off her sock. His fingers burned into her bare flesh as his thumb stroked her tattoo. “What's this?”

“My pilot wings.” She tried to wrench her foot free, but he held firm and pulled it closer to him.

He leaned over her foot, inspecting the gold wings and anchor tattoo. His thumb brushed over the inked spot again, sending spirals of exhilaration coursing through her. Without a conscious thought, she sighed.

“Very cool.” His voice came out as a whisper, raspy.

She glanced at his face—it flushed a tinge of crimson, right up to the tips of his ears. The lines around his eyes carved deeper while his dark orbs appeared intense. She dropped her gaze to her ankle, which seemed to be swelling already, but that felt like the least of her worries at the moment. Was he feeling the bite of physical attraction as well? She wet her lips, then felt his stare burn into her. The passion flickering in his gaze nearly undid her self-control.

Lord, what am I doing?

Lincoln cleared his throat. His questioning glance went from her face to Roark's, then back to hers again. “I need to wrap your ankle now.”

Roark released his hold on her foot, and it headed for the ground. At the last moment she tightened her leg and hovered her foot about six inches above the icy terrain. Her stomach muscles quivered.

With deft movements Lincoln wound the wrap around her ankle, secured it, then slipped her sock and boot back on. The tightness of her boot around her swollen ankle felt like pinpricks of needles against her flesh. She gritted her teeth, vowing to keep the pain to herself.

“We need to mark the coordinates here.” Her voice felt thick in her throat. “So we can send a team out for the . . . others.”