Deliver Us from Evil (13 page)

While Lincoln shoved the first-aid supplies back into the pack and pulled out the GPS, Brannon shifted to stand. Roark's grip on her elbow held her steady. She tested her weight on her injured ankle. The pain still made her grit her teeth, but if she used only her toes for balance, she could manage. Heat spread from her elbow up and down her arm. She jerked her arm free from Roark's electrifying touch, glaring as she did.

She'd never experienced such raw attraction before—not even with Wade. Why was it happening now? She stared at the ground while firming her equilibrium. She didn't know if she even liked Roark Holland and couldn't fathom why she'd feel such an intense draw to the puzzling man.

One thing was for sure: She couldn't allow another complication to intrude on the goal of the moment—to get them safely to the station and get the heart to the hospital. There'd be time later to sort out all the conflicting emotions, but not now.

Saturday, 9:41 a.m.

Northwest toward Rainbow Falls

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

ROARK SWUNG BRANNON'S BACKPACK over his shoulder, hoisted the cooler, and followed behind her and Lincoln. He controlled his breathing, determined to ignore the pull to take her into his arms and kiss her breathless. What was it about the woman that drove him insane with her mere presence? She confused him by arousing his senses, intrigued him by such sharp contrasts in her personality, and intoxicated him just by being near.

Touching her had been a mistake. A big mistake. He couldn't get the softness of her skin out of his mind. To be so strong and domineering on the outside, her skin was as smooth as a frozen pond. And that tattoo! What woman had a tattoo of her pilot wings on her ankle? Coast Guard, unless he was mistaken. How'd she go from Coast Guard to park ranger? And she held and fired a gun well. He bit back a chuckle. Brannon Callahan was definitely a woman he wanted to know better—needed to know on a much more personal level.

Another big mistake in the making.

“We'll send someone back for Thomas's body as soon as we get to the station,” Lincoln told Brannon.

“And the shooter's,” Roark added.

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder, his concerned gaze studying Roark for a moment before turning back to Brannon.

The look spoke volumes. He swallowed but remained silent.
Was
there something between the two rangers, something more than just the closeness of partners? Of longtime friends?

Their progress wasn't as quick as Roark would like, but Brannon seemed to hold her own, considering her ankle. Why couldn't she whine and complain like the women he'd been involved with before, who'd be sniveling and demanding at a time like this? Brannon's strength and assertiveness seemed to stir all kinds of conflicting thoughts inside of him.

His own arm ached from toting the cooler. Roark shook his head over the absurdity of it all. The entire trip seemed surreal—escorting a human heart around in a cooler designed for picnics and tailgate parties, the helicopter crashing, being found by the alluring Brannon limping in front of him, being shot at, and killing the shooter. Crazy, that's what it was.

Lincoln looked over at Brannon. “Do you need to stop and rest?”

“We can stop for a few minutes,” Roark interjected.

Her head jerked. “I'm fine. I don't need a break.” Her words were clipped and delivered with the right amount of sharpness to deter any other man.

But not Roark. “I'm just saying I could use a little break myself. We can try to raise someone on my satellite phone and on your radio.”

Lincoln stared at the sky for a moment, then switched his attention to Brannon. “He's right. The storm's lessened. We might have reception now.”

“We'll never get reception down here.” Her eyes lifted to an overhanging area about five hundred yards above them. “We're close to Rainbow Falls. Let's head up toward that cliff.”

“Gonna be hard for you to climb, isn't it?” Roark wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them because of the scathing look Brannon flung at him.

“‘But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint,'” she mumbled.

Letting out a full laugh, Lincoln hugged her. “Very good, girl.”

She returned his chuckle. “Book, chapter, and verse?”

“Uh.” Lincoln stroked his black mustache with his left fore- finger. “Let's see, Isaiah?”

“Chapter and verse?” When she smiled, a single dimple on her left side deepened.

“Chapter 40, verse 31.” Lincoln laughed again as he answered her.

What was this little game these two played? They quoted Bible stuff back and forth, and it unnerved Roark. Ever since God failed him in his time of need, Roark avoided anything biblical or religious. He couldn't chance being disappointed again.

“Good.” She hobbled toward the rise of the embankment. “Now help hoist me up.”

Lincoln climbed a couple of steps, then turned and grabbed Brannon's hand. She wobbled for a moment, her injured leg hovering out to the side before she grabbed a tree and balanced.

Roark watched them continue in this manner for a few more minutes, his impatience gnawing away at him. After another ten excruciatingly long minutes, he couldn't take it any longer. With sturdy and sure steps, he climbed up the embankment, reached the two rangers, handed Lincoln the cooler, then lifted Brannon into his arms and marched past Lincoln.

“Put. Me. Down.” She ground her words out, as if speaking through clenched teeth.

“We'll get there faster if I carry you.”

“I'm quite capable of making it on my own.”

He hauled in a deep breath—lugging her up the uneven and rocky mountainside was exhausting. “I'm sure you are, but we need to hurry it up.”

Lincoln's low chuckle behind them made her tense under his grip. But she didn't say anything. Unless a growl counted.

When he reached the level area, he eased her down. Her eyes narrowed at him. “Thank you,” she spat out.

“See, that wasn't so hard.” He lowered the backpack to the ground, then rolled his shoulders, wishing the knotted muscles would stop aching.

“What wasn't so hard?” Her stare dared him to offend.

“Thanking me.” He chuckled as her mouth dropped open. She was going to let him have it, of that he was certain. Lincoln stepped beside them, and she didn't have the opportunity.

Crack! Boom!

Roark startled as the earth beneath him shifted. Then, disappeared.

A thunderous roar filled the air.

The three fell as empty space met their weight. Down . . . down . . . falling.

Time was suspended.

Thud!
Roark's side landed on rocks. Hard. His insides jostled.

He couldn't see a thing, couldn't feel anything but cold closing in. He lowered his chin to his chest, fighting to breathe against the stabbing pain.

Trying to inhale was no use—his lungs burned. He opened his eyes, wondering what he would see.

Nothing. Total darkness.

The only sound he could hear was the thudding of his own heartbeat.

ELEVEN

Saturday, 9:45 a.m.

Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

WARREN LEANED AGAINST THE outer wall of the hospital, puffing long tokes off his cigarette. The blizzard's fury had been spent—a carpet of snow and ice encased everything. The winds had died, leaving nothing but bitter cold in their wake.

Warren shifted, lifting the collar of his coat to protect his neck, and took another drag off his cigarette. Being outside in the weather, at this time of day on a weekend . . . Yeah, he needed a smoke.

“Congressman McGovern.” Kevin rushed toward him, pumping his scrawny legs as fast as he could on the slippery ground.

Groaning, Warren tossed his cigarette into the sand-filled ashtray, not bothering to grind it out, and pushed off the wall. His aide would never venture outside and invade Warren's quiet time unless there was news of some sort. By the look on the young man's face, the news wasn't good. Had Wilks taken a turn for the worse?

“Sir,” Kevin reached him, his breathing coming in spurts, “Marshal Demott has received a report that the Air National Guard helicopter landed at the coordinates given by the National Park Service pilot. They found the NPS helicopter and the crash site of the Life Flight helicopter but no sign of the marshal, rangers, or the flight medic.”

“Any particulars reported yet?” Warren picked his steps across the slick sidewalk, heading toward the hospital's entrance.

Kevin's head shook as he tried to match Warren's long stride. “Not yet, sir. The marshals are trying to raise their guy on the satellite phone.”

“Any news on the heart?”

“No, sir. The ranger supervisor has been hailing the rangers on a radio but hasn't gotten a response yet.”

Warren stopped outside the hospital's automatic doors and peered down into Kevin's face. “So we don't know anything of the group's status?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

Lifting his finger to tap his chin, he considered his options and what would benefit him. What would his father, the colonel, do? Warren let out a long sigh and dropped his ungloved hand. “You go back in and find out what you can. I need to think for a moment.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide stepped on the mat in front of the glass doors—they whooshed open.

“Kevin.”

He stopped and turned to stare up at Warren. “Yes, sir?”

“Keep your ears open, son. They might not share all the information they receive with you. Understand what I'm saying to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Warren waited until Kevin had crossed the foyer before pacing toward the end of the building. Avoiding the icy sidewalk, he moved to the area normally covered in grass. His dress shoes crunched in the snow, soaking his feet. He glanced down, irritated he'd ruined his new Kenneth Cole suede loafers—he'd just broken them in.

Rounding the side of the building, Warren yanked out his pack of Camels, shook a cigarette free, and lit it with his engraved lighter. The smoke filled his lungs, sending calming sensations through his body. He exhaled, flicking the lighter's lid open and closed as he considered his next move.

Click-click. Click-click.

He shoved the lighter into his pant's pocket, then pulled the cell phone free from his breast pocket. Warren never could understand why the general population had a fetish with belt clips and holsters for cell phones. Didn't they realize it looked tacky, messed up the natural line of a suit? His father had been a stickler about appearances. Warren had never been allowed to wear baggy jeans and shirts in his teens. No, sir. Not the son of Colonel McGovern.

His fingers, stiff from the frigid air, punched in the number. The call connected, and he pressed the phone to his ear. After four rings the computerized voice came over the line, inquiring if he wanted to leave a voice mail or enter a numeric page. Warren flipped the phone closed and shoved it back into his pocket.

Where was Tom Hurst?

Saturday, 9:48 a.m.

Underground

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

BRANNON COULDN'T BREATHE. SHE fought to take short, shallow breaths, reminding herself not to hyperventilate.

Helpless. Complete and utter helplessness. A feeling she detested—ever since losing Mom and Dad in a boating accident.

Her heart thumped so hard that her chest bounced with the beat. Snow and ice settled on her eyelashes, distorting her vision.

She sat on frozen ground with her ankle throbbing and a new burning in her shoulder, but she discarded the pain and discomfort. She had more important things to worry about, like how the others fared.

Brannon tensed her muscles, then glanced around in the darkness. She couldn't make out any sounds or movement. Alone, all alone. Darkness wrapped around her, cloaking her in its icy grip.

God, please don't let us die like this. Not like Mom and Dad and Wade. Please, God, help us. Do something.

Droplets of beaded ice showered over her shoulder. She froze. Had she done that?

More movement behind and above her. Crunching registered in her mind.

“Lincoln? Roark? Are y'all okay?” Pushing past the pain, Brannon waited for a response.

Nothing.

Air whooshed from her lungs. Panic catapulted her into action. She felt around in the darkness, her palms grazing the hard, slick rocks. She couldn't tell if she was inching away from the other two or not.

She called out again, this time her voice weaker and shakier to her own ears. Her voice echoed in the dark coffin around her.

Saturday, 9:57 a.m.

Underground

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

ROARK SHIFTED, TESTING HIS limbs. A groan came from the left. Unless his orientation had been distorted during the fall, the sound came from where Lincoln had been standing. Which meant the ranger was alive. But . . . what about Brannon?

Lincoln had grabbed Roark when the ground vanished under them. Brannon had been sitting on the ledge. If his calculations were correct, she should be near his right leg.
Should
being the operative word.

Bits of ice fell from the break in the ground above him, but he refused to acknowledge the icy frigidness. He needed to find Brannon. Not that he could explain why, but he just needed to find her and make sure she was okay.

He reached out again. This time, instead of grabbing air, his fingers grazed against something. Something that moved against him. Something warm. Brannon!

The darkness fought against him. His breathing came in spurts. No, he wouldn't think about how small the area had to be. He had to concentrate on reaching her. “Brannon!”

“Roark?” But it wasn't her angelic voice responding. Lincoln shifted against him. “Have you heard Brannon yet?”