Deliver Us from Evil (2 page)

Nothing. Only the dead man in the center of the hall.

Roark spanned right, then left. No sign of either man.

Then he noticed the open door to the Pugsley apartment.

Pop! Pop!

Adrenaline surging into his legs, Roark pushed through the doorway, his firearm extended. Mrs. Pugsley lay dead at his feet. A fatal shot into the neck. Roark felt for a pulse, just to be sure. No thrumming under his fingers.

He stood and cross-stepped around the living room. Timmy, the Pugsleys' nine-year-old son, was draped over the back of a couch, a crumpled bag of Cheetos still in his hand.

Bile scorched the back of Roark's throat. He swallowed and kept moving down the hallway, two members of the Pugsley family still unaccounted for—Mr. Pugsley and his six-year-old daughter, Mindy.

Muffled voices reached him. Angry, hard voices. And a masculine response, whiny. Begging. Pleading.

Roark crept along the corridor, pressing his back against the wall and holding his gun at the ready. He paused at a doorway and listened. The voices were too muffled to be coming from this room. He spun across the threshold. Maybe a connecting closet would allow him to sneak up on the men.

White lace curtains fluttered beside a froufrou canopy bed. Mindy's room. Roark checked out the window that faced the street. No sign of an unmarked car. Why hadn't backup arrived on-scene? He peered into the open closet. No sign of the child. Could she be with her father? Were the men using her to torture Pugsley? He had to be sure.

Roark crouched and lifted the bed skirt. He met the stare of a tear-filled, wide-eyed little girl with blonde hair.

He lowered the gun and reached for her. Thank goodness he'd met the child on previous occasions so she recognized him. He pulled her from under the bed and stood, holding her in his arms. Her little body shook as she sobbed in silence against his neck. Roark's throat tightened.

He'd get Mindy to safety, then return to take care of the shooters. And maybe, just maybe, have time enough to save Mr. Pugsley.

Poking his head into the hallway, he ensured all was clear, then made fast tracks to the front door. He stood in the corridor, clutching little Mindy. Where could he put her? Someplace safe but close.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Mindy turned her head free of his neck. “Daddddddy!” Her sob bounced off the hallway walls, reverberating.

Running steps thudded from inside the apartment. No time to hide. No time to think.

Ding!

Roark plunged into the elevator just as the men cleared the apartment. He lowered Mindy to the ground and fired as the men appeared. The doors closed. He slunk to the ground, his breathing coming in bursts.

They would take the stairs and wait for them. Roark couldn't let them hurt this little girl any more. They'd already stolen her family.

He jabbed the emergency stop button between floors two and three. Think. He needed to figure something out. Checking his coat pocket, he calculated how much ammo he had left. Enough to take care of those two, that was for sure, but not with Mindy as a target. He turned on his radio. “Demott, Pugsley family all taken out except for the little girl. I have her. Is backup here?”

No response except static. He tried again, still no response. He pocketed the useless radio. Had to think. Had to find a way out.

Mindy hunched over and cried harder.

He stroked her tear-stained face. “Shh, honey. It'll be okay. I'm not gonna let them hurt you.”

She continued sobbing, huddling in the corner. His heart ripped in two.

Had his backup arrived yet? Why didn't he hear gunshots exploding around them? He had no doubt the shooters waited on them. They wouldn't leave . . . not with Mindy as a witness.

He stood, closing his eyes.
God, help me out of here.

His eyes popped open, and he stared at the emergency hatch at the top of the elevator. Maybe . . . maybe he could get back onto the third floor that way, and the shooters wouldn't know where they were. Sure, they'd eventually figure it out, but by then backup would be on-site.

Dare I risk it without a team in place?

Mindy's breathing hiccupped. Roark didn't have a choice. He had to move now.

He lifted the end of his Beretta, then jumped and pushed open the hatch. He holstered his weapon, then reached for Mindy. “Come on, sweetie. We're going out.”

She clung to Roark but didn't speak. Shock. He lifted her into the open space of the shaft. “That's right. Just climb up there and sit down. I'll help you.”

Her feet disappeared. The elevator shook. Mindy cried out. Were they trying to bypass the emergency stop?

Roark took a deep breath and leapt, gripping the edge of the hatch tight. Using his upper-body strength, he pulled himself into the shaft.

Metal scraping sounded from above, but Roark couldn't make out anything in the darkness.

“Mister, I'm scared.” Little Mindy sat huddled against the cables.

He closed the hatch door and grabbed her to him, taking in his surroundings. The ladder. Had to be one around somewhere—all shafts had one. “We'll be fine. We just have to find a way out.”

The car shuddered, then groaned.

She sobbed harder, pressing her wet face against his. “I don't like it here. It's dark and scary.”

“I know, honey. I know.” He needed to figure something out, and quick. His gaze bounced off the walls. There, near the right corner . . . the metal rungs. He lowered her to the cold metal.

More scraping echoed in the shaft. Mindy's sobs intensified. The car jerked. He lost his balance, then grabbed the cables to steady himself.

“Hang on, Mindy. I think I've found our way out.” He picked his steps as he moved away from her to the built-in ladder.

He reached the rung, grabbed it, and yanked. It held. Yes! He turned back to Mindy. “We're gonna be—”

The elevator hummed. The car jerked again, harder. Then, with a snap, it began to descend. Fast. Free-falling. Roark's grip tightened on the rung.

God, help us.

“Misterrrrr!”

The car shuddered and jerked, stopping as suddenly as it had descended. Roark breathed a heavy sigh and relaxed his grip. “It's gonna be okay. I'm coming to you.”

Flames erupted, barreling up from the shaft. Engulfing the elevator . . .

“Help! Help!” Mindy's big blue eyes reflected the bursting blaze. Her blonde hair sparkled beneath the flickering flames drawing closer to her. Closer. Nearer.

Roark dropped to the roof of the car. Heat and fire licked his face.

Mindy's screams filled the shaft, clawing at his soul.
Please, God, save her.

He reached for Mindy, but just then the cable snapped. The car slipped down into the darkened pit.

“Awwwww.” Her cries of pain seared him more than the fire.

Hot metal slapped him across his cheek and jaw. Pain radiated throughout his body. He fell to his knees.

Mindy screamed for him, cried out in pain, yelled. Why hadn't he waited for backup? Better for the little girl to have died instantly by a bullet than burn to death in this fiery coffin.

White dots danced before his eyes. Darkness overtook him.

ONE

Tuesday, 3:30 p.m.

FBI Field Office

Knoxville, Tennessee

JONATHAN'S THROAT CLOSED AS he stared at the building from the parking lot. He gripped the package tight in his arthritic hands. Could he do this? Turn over evidence that would implicate him?

His heart raced and he froze. Not the best time for his atrial fibrillation to make an appearance. Despite being on the heart transplant list for eight months, it looked like his progressed heart disease would do him in. The most important reason he couldn't go to prison—he'd never get a heart and would die. While Carmen wanted him to confess his crimes, she wouldn't want him to die. The memory of saying good-bye to his beloved mere hours ago scorched his soul.

Her eyes fluttered open. Those blue orbs, which had once sparkled even in the absence of light, now blinked flat and lifeless.

He swallowed hard.

“Jonathan,” her voice croaked, “it's time.”

Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and he rested his hand over her parchmentlike skin. “No, Carmen. Please, let me get the medicine.”

Her eyelids drooped and she gasped. Air wheezed in her lungs. “Sweetheart, the fight's . . . gone from me.” She let out a hiss, faint and eerie. “The cancer's . . . won.”

Jonathan laid his lips against her cheek, her skin cold and clammy, as if in preparation for the morgue. How could she continue to refuse the medicine? Even though she didn't approve of his means of acquisition, the drugs had kept her alive for five years. Five years he cherished every minute of. He'd do anything to keep her alive and the pain at bay—the intense pain that had become her constant companion these last two weeks. It killed him to witness her agony.

She licked her bottom lip, but no moisture soaked into the cracked flesh. “You've done . . . your best by me, Jonathan. I know . . . you meant . . . no harm to . . . anyone.” Her eyes lit as they once had. “Oh, how I've enjoyed loving you.”

His insides turned to oatmeal. Stubborn woman—she'd allow herself to die, all because she discovered how he'd gotten the money.

“Promise me . . . you'll . . . tell the . . . truth. Admit what . . . you've done.” Her breath rattled. “What you've . . . all done.”

Pulling himself from the wretched memory, Jonathan breathed through the heat tightening his chest. He'd secure himself the best deal possible—immunity—or he wouldn't decipher the papers. And without him no one could make sense of the accounting system he'd created more than five years ago. Officials hadn't a clue.

With a deep breath he headed to the guardhouse in front of the fenced FBI building. His legs threatened to rebel, stiffening with every step. He forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

At the guardhouse, a man behind bulletproof glass looked up. “May I help you?”

“I need to . . . see someone.”

“About what, sir?”

“I have some information regarding a crime.” He waved the file he held.

“One moment, sir, and someone will be with you.”

Jonathan stared at the cloudy sky. He could still turn back, get away scot-free. His heartbeat sped. The world blurred. No, he couldn't lose consciousness now, nor could he go back on his promise. He owed it to Carmen. No matter what happened, he'd honor Carmen's dying wish.

“Sir?” A young man in a suit stood beside the fenced entry, hand resting on the butt of his gun. “May I help you?”

Jonathan lifted the file. “I have some evidence regarding an ongoing crime ring.”

The agent motioned him toward a metal-detector arch. “Come through this way, sir.”

Jonathan's steps wavered. He dragged his feet toward the archway.

A car door creaked. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder just as two men in full tactical gear stormed toward them. He had a split second to recognize one of the men's eyes, just before gunfire erupted.

A vise gripped Jonathan's heart, and he slumped to the dirty tile floor, the squeezing of his heart demanding his paralysis.

Too late.
I'm sorry, Carmen.

Two Weeks Later—Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.

Golden Gloves Boxing of Knoxville

OOOF!

Brannon Callahan's head jerked backward. She swiped her headgear with her glove.

“You aren't concentrating on your form. You're just trying to whale on me.” Steve Burroughs, her supervisor and sparring partner, bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Then why am I the one getting hit?” She threw a right jab that missed his jaw.

He brushed her off with his glove. “Don't try to street fight me. Box.”

She clamped down on her mouthpiece and threw an uppercut with her left fist. It made contact, sending vibrations up her arm.

He wobbled backward, then got his balance. “Nice shot.”

It felt good to hit something. Hard. Sparring with Steve was the best form of venting. The energy had to be spent somehow—why not get a workout at the same time? She ducked a right cross, then followed through with a left-right combination. Both shots made full contact.

Steve spit out his mouthpiece and leaned against the ropes. “I think that's enough for today, girl. I'm an old man, remember?”

She couldn't fight the grin. Although only in his late forties, the chief ranger looked two decades older. With gray hair, hawk nose, and skin like tanned leather, Steve had already lived a lifetime.

She removed her mouthpiece, gloves, and headgear before sitting on the canvas. “Old? You're still kickin' me in the ring.”

He tossed her a towel and sat beside her. “So you wanna tell me what's got you all hot and bothered this afternoon?”

She shrugged.

“Come on, spit it out. I know something's gnawing at you, just like you were picking a fight with me in the ring. What's up?”

How could she explain? “I'm not exactly keen that the district feels there's a need for another pilot in the park.” She tightened the scrunchie keeping her hair out of her face.

“That's a compliment—having you on staff has been so successful they want to expand.”

“But I have to train him. Did you notice his arrogance?” She ripped at the tape bound around her knuckles. “He's nothing more than a young upstart with an ego bigger than the helicopter.” While only thirty-six, she often felt older than Steve looked.

“You're so good, you can come across a bit intimidating at first, girl.” Steve grabbed the ropes and pulled to standing, then offered her a hand. “Give him a chance.”

She let Steve tug her up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even if he had maturity, I still have to train him. With all the rescues we've been called out on of late . . . well, I really don't have the time.” She exited the ring. “Like those kids yesterday.” She shook her head as she waited for Steve to join her on the gym floor. “Their stupidity almost cost them their lives.”