Deliver Us from Evil (17 page)

Her hands hurt as she pushed the flashlight first, then herself over the jagged stone. Rocks dug into her stomach, but she ignored the pokes. Child trafficking, based out of Tennessee. The idea was ludicrous, preposterous, yet Roark said it was true. And someone was willing to murder numerous people to keep it a secret.

“How're you doing?” Lincoln's voice steadied her, just as it always did.

She used her uninjured leg to shove herself. “About five more feet and I should clear the crawl.” And hopefully find a way out of this cave.
Please, God.

The flashlight fell, landing with a thud. “Oh!” Her hands found nothing but air.

“Brannon, are you okay?”

“Fine, Lincoln. Reached the end of the crawl.” She inched herself to the edge and glanced about.

The flashlight lay on its side, the beam casting eerie shadows on wet stone, but the chamber had plenty of natural light filling the area. The crawl's opening was only about four feet above the floor of the cave. Even with a bum ankle, she could make the drop. “I'm going to enter the other room now,” she yelled over her shoulder.

This was going to be a doozy. There wasn't enough headroom for Brannon to sit and let herself drop legs first. Not even enough space to turn around. How would Roark and Lincoln make it through? She needed to figure something out. And fast.

Lord, I need a little help here.

Maybe she could get ahold of the edge above her. That seemed to be her only option. She rolled over onto her back and looked at the top of the pancake crawl's edge. Was that a rock jutting out? If she could just reach it . . .

She shuffled her back against the space, her shoulders clearing the crawl. She extended her right arm up as far as possible, despite the pain. There, just an inch more. Brannon scooted a little farther. Her hand made contact with the cold rock. She gripped it before using her left hand to brace against the edge.

Ever so slowly, she pulled herself free of the tunnel. She supported her body weight with her right toe as she stood at the mouth of the crawl. Whispering a prayer for a landing that wouldn't hurt her left ankle any more, Brannon let go of the rock and jumped to the ground.

Landing on the ball of her right foot, she bit back a cry as the weight pushed her to the ground. Soft dirt cushioned her fall. She sent up a prayer of thanks, then stood. “I'm in.”

“Can you see a way out?” Lincoln hollered.

“Just a sec.” That this chamber had a dirt floor held promise for a way out. She grabbed the flashlight for better viewing and shone the beam left, then right. Her heartbeat picked up as she spied where light spilled into the room. “I think there's a way out. A walking path.”

Lincoln's woops brought a smile to her face.

“Come on. Who's next?”

“Hang on.”

While she waited for Lincoln and Roark, she hobbled toward the keyhole squeeze. It'd be as tight vertically as the crawl had been horizontally, but she could smell the fresh air through the crevice.

“Uh, Brannon?”

She hurried back to the pancake crawl. “Yeah, Lincoln?”

“Roark's gonna come through first. He'll be coming feet first. Think that's a problem on your end?”

“Actually, that'd probably be the best way. Come on your stomach, Roark.”

“He's getting in the crawl space now.”

“Ready.” She leaned against the wall, listening to her partner guide Roark. Why was Lincoln talking to him like a frightened child? The man was a US marshal—surely he could maneuver his way through twenty-five to thirty feet of a pancake crawl.

“You're doing great. Keep going.”

Lincoln's words drifted to Brannon. She smiled. That was her partner, the encourager. Maybe Roark's broad shoulders made the tunnel too narrow for easy passage.

She pushed off the cave's wall and peered up to the crawl's opening. Little pebbles drifted down on her like the snow had earlier.

“Keep going, Roark. You're almost there.” Lincoln definitely sounded too upbeat for something so easy.

“How would you know?” Roark growled.

Brannon bit back another smile just as a pair of feet came into view. “Whoa, Roark. You're here.”

The feet froze.

“Just lower yourself to your waist and then drop. Go slow.”

Before she could spout off any further directions, Roark stood beside her. His face was red and a bead of sweat lined his upper lip, despite the iciness of the chamber. She grazed his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He brushed off her touch. “I'm fine.” But his words held both a snarl and a quiver.

“All okay on that end?” Lincoln asked.

“We're good.” But she ran an inspecting glance over the marshal.

“I'm going to douse the fire and load the crawl with the backpacks and cooler.”

“Holler when you're on your way.” She turned to find Roark sitting against the wall, his breathing more labored than it should be. She sat beside him. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I just don't like small spaces.”

Ah. Claustrophobic. The pancake crawl must've been hard on him. But he'd done it anyway. She masked the respect she knew would reflect on her face. Time to deflect, change the subject. “So why did you become a marshal?”

He chuckled, and Brannon found herself wanting to hear more, learn all she could about this intriguing man.

“After my father died, my mother moved me and my sisters back to her family home. I was raised by my grandfather, and every night we watched
Gunsmoke
together. I always wanted to be Marshal Dillon.” His eyes twinkled. “After graduating from the police academy and walking the beat for a couple of years, I realized I needed more mental stimulation.”

His laughter was contagious, and Brannon found herself smiling at him.

“I knew I'd have to be on the force a long time to make detective, and I'm not exactly big on patience, so I looked for other avenues. The marshal training program was short. I applied and was accepted.” He rubbed his knee with a distracted movement. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

“It's as good a reason as any.”

Roark's face grew pensive. “Funny thing happened, though. I found I really liked helping people, protecting them.” He let out a long sigh, one wrought with regret and sadness. “There's so much evil and ugliness in the world—I like to think I do my part to protect people from it.”

She swallowed hard. “I can understand that.”

He touched her arm. “Does your faith help you deal with the ugliness of the world?”

Brannon weighed her answer before she spoke. “Yes, it does. Because no matter what happens on this earth, I know everything's in God's hands. I may not understand why things happen, at least not on this side of paradise anyway, but I do know there is always a reason.” She hugged her arms around her torso. “And knowing that is what helps me sleep at night.”

Roark shifted. His thigh brushed against her, sending ripples of exhilaration up her leg. She gasped as her pulse escalated. Why did just his touch do such strange things to her? Part of her wanted to scoot closer to him, but the smart, logical side won the mental argument. Brannon maneuvered away from him. Once she freed herself of the contact, her breathing regulated to a normal pattern. “How're you doing, Lincoln?”

“Fire's almost out.”

She rubbed her hands, wondering what could be taking her partner so long. Lincoln was nothing if not efficient.

“Why a helicopter pilot?”

Roark's deep baritone jolted her from the inner musings. She glanced into his eyes—an error on her part, a big one. His dark orbs penetrated her façade as if seeing who she really was on the inside. She lifted her finger and chewed on the cuticle.

“Brannon?”

“Yeah?” She jerked her hand into her lap.

“What made you decide to become a helicopter pilot?”

“Oh.” She hated to answer—it seemed that people wanted to know more why she took a job normally held by a man than her motivation for doing it. “Well, I wanted to help people, save them. I joined the Coast Guard when I was seventeen. After I finished my training and education at the Academy, I found myself pulled to flying.” Visions of the rigorous training and the men who abused and heckled her paraded across her mind. She stared into Roark's eyes again. “So I applied for flight school and was accepted.”

“Why didn't you stay with the Coast Guard?”

“I gave them thirteen years, won the Distinguished Service Medal, and opened the door for women to become pilots in the Guard.” She shrugged. “I guess I felt I'd given all I could. When it came time to re-up, I chose to leave.”

No need to dig up everything about Wade. She still couldn't talk about him without feeling like a part of her had died, even though it'd been more than five years.

Roark scrutinized her. More than ever the scar running along his jawbone appeared more visible. “So you decided to become a park ranger?”

“My degree is in marine biology, and I love working with nature. Lincoln suggested I apply.” She popped her knuckles. “So I prayed hard, and God showed me that this is where He wanted me to be.”

That suspicious, guarded look crossed his face. “Do you really believe God takes an active part in your everyday life?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Brannon fingered the area of her injured arm. “I can't imagine not going to God for direction in my life.”

“Even when the world is horrible?”

“Especially then.” If He hadn't sent Lincoln to befriend her after Wade had died, well, she didn't know how she would've made it.

Roark ran his hand over his head. “So you believe there's a master plan and everything happens for a reason?”

“I have to believe that.” She stared at the crawl opening. “Otherwise I'd go insane.” What was taking Lincoln so long?

Roark didn't reply, and she didn't press him. Over the years, being exposed to macho types in the Guard had taught her many things, but mainly that they needed space and time to grasp a bigger picture than their minds were accustomed to seeing. Brannon continued to stare at the passage, not letting on to Roark that she was sending up prayers on his behalf right this very moment.

After a long pause he spoke. “I guess I never considered it that way before. It's something I'll have to think about.”

“Good.” She couldn't hide her smile. “So tell me about your sisters.”

He chuckled. “They're all older than me. Two are married with kids. Rosalyn is only a year older than I am, and she's quite the career woman.” His expression softened. “Quite a handful.”

“What's her profession?”

“A high school principal.”

“Wow.” Brannon couldn't imagine the responsibility of all those kids.

Roark's face softened even more. “Yeah, she's pretty special.”

“Heads up!” Lincoln's yell echoed off the walls. “I'm coming feet first, too, and will be kicking the packs and cooler ahead of me.”

Finally. “Waiting on you, bud.” She stood and peered at the opening.

Roark stood as well. Brannon tilted her head and eyed his jaw. “So, how'd you get that scar?”

He ran a finger along the angry scar. “Let's just say my reflexes were slow that day.”

“Oh.” Heat fanned her cheeks.

Pain crawled over his face—fresh, raw pain. Her heart ached for him.

Lord, call him back to You so You can ease the burdens he carries.

FIFTEEN

Saturday, 3:10 p.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

MAI SNUCK INTO HER room, hiding the two diet soda cans under her robe. She shut the door behind her and glanced around. This was resting time, per Madam Nancy's orders. But Mai had other things to do.

Kanya sat in the corner, her knees drawn to her chest and her eyes filled with tears. The two older girls snored. Mai moved to the mattress, lifted the threadbare sheet, and sought out the small slit she and Kanya had ripped earlier. She shoved the two cans into the mattress, replaced the sheet, then moved to kneel beside her new friend.

“I hate it here.” Kanya's native tongue whispers tore into Mai's heart.

She, too, was sick of being used and discarded. Mai laid a hand on Kanya's arm. “But this is only for a little while longer. We have a plan, and we are going to get out of here.”

“But when?”

“Soon.” She patted Kanya's arm, then withdrew her hand. “I stole two drinks from the cooler. What did you get?”

Kanya lifted a shoulder. “I took a package of beef jerky off the last guy.”

Butterflies swarmed in Mai's stomach. “You are not supposed to take anything from the men. They might notice and tell Madam Nancy.” She wrapped her arms around her midsection. “That can get us caught.”

“He did not notice.” Tears fell down Kanya's cheeks. “He did not even know how to open the door to leave.”

Mai glanced over her shoulder toward the hall, then swiped the tears from her friend's face. “You cannot let them see you crying. They will hurt you.” She stood, fisting her hands on her hips. “We have to stick to the plan if we are going to get out of here.” Softening her tone and her expression, she squared her shoulders. “Come on, Kanya, you can do this. We have no other choice.”

Even more tears spilled from Kanya's eyes. “That is just it. I had a choice to come and I did.” She threw her hands in the air, waving them about. “And look how it turned out.”

A reflection of that same dismay shot through Mai. She knelt again beside her friend. “Did Uncle Fred and Aunt Betty bring you over?”

Kanya's dark hair bobbed around her face.

“Me too.” Mai ran a hand over her own long hair. “We were lied to, misled. We did not know any better.” Or did her father know?

“Only a
ngang
allows themselves to be so deceived.”