Deliver Us from Evil (3 page)

“They were young, Brannon.”

“Please. Any amateur with half a brain should know better than to try to climb Clingmans Dome in winter.” Didn't people realize if something happened to them they'd leave behind devastated family and friends? Loved ones who would mourn them forever? She fought against the familiar pain every time she participated in a search and rescue. All because people hadn't taken necessary precautions.

“They didn't know any better.”

“It takes a special kind of stupid not to have researched your climb.” Most SARs could be avoided if people planned a little more. It ripped her apart that so many parents, grandparents, siblings . . . fiancées . . . survived to deal with such grief. She'd tasted the bitterness of grief—twice—and the aftertaste still lingered.

Steve paused outside the locker rooms and shifted his sparring gear to one hand. “I agree, but most people don't see the dangers we do every day.” He tapped her shoulder. “Hit the showers, champ. You stink.”

She laughed as she headed into the ladies' locker room. Maybe Steve was right and the new pilot just made a lousy first impression. Maybe he'd be easy to train.

Please, God, let it be so.

Friday, 2:15 p.m.

US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

“YOU WANT ME TO escort a
heart?”
Roark struggled to keep his voice calm. He tapped the butt of his Beretta, welcoming it back to its rightful place on his hip.

Senior US Marshal Gerald Demott glared. “Look, I know you think this is a slight, but it's important. And for your first assignment back on the job . . .”

“IA cleared me of all wrongdoing. I'm seeing the shrink and everything.” He gritted his teeth and exhaled. “I've been released to return to active duty.”

“This
is
active. It's a field assignment, and it's important. Here's the case information.” Demott passed him a folder, then glanced at his watch. “You'd better hurry or you'll miss your flight.”

Roark grabbed the file and turned to go.

“Holland.”

He looked back at his boss. “Yeah?”

Demott held out Roark's badge. “You might want to take this with you, too.”

Roark accepted the metal emblem, then clipped it to his belt before marching out of Demott's office. A heart. His job was to escort a human heart from North Carolina to Knoxville. Any rookie could handle that. But no, they still didn't trust him enough to handle a
real
assignment.

He'd done everything they asked—took a medical leave of absence while Internal Affairs went over every painful minute of his failed mission, saw the shrink they demanded he speak to every week since Mindy's death, answered their relentless questions. The shrink reiterated he'd been forgiven for acting on his own.

Maybe one day he'd forgive himself. How many innocent lives would he have to save for his conscience to leave him be?

Roark slipped into the car, then headed to the airport. But to be assigned a heart transport? Not only was it wrong, it was downright insulting. After almost fifteen years as a marshal, he'd earned the benefit of the doubt from his supervisors. Especially Demott. His boss should know him better, know he'd only disregard orders if it was a matter of life and death.

But Mindy Pugsley died. They'd all died.

He pushed the nagging voice from his mind. Even Dr. Martin had advised him not to dwell on the past. On what had gone wrong. On disobeying a direct order.

If only Mindy didn't haunt his dreams.

Roark touched the angry scar that ran along his right cheekbone to his chin. A constant reminder that he'd failed, that he'd made a mistake that took someone's life. He'd have to live with the pain for the rest of his life.

He skidded the car into the airport's short-term parking lot. After securing the car and gathering the case folder, Roark grabbed his coat. Snowflakes pelted downward, swirling on the bursts of wind and settling on the concrete. The purple hues of the setting sun streaked across the mountain peaks beyond the runways, making the January snow grab the last hope of light.

Yes, he'd handle this mundane assignment, then tell Demott he wanted back on
real
active duty. Making a difference would be the best thing for him. Would make him feel whole again.

TWO

Friday, 5:30 p.m.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

THEY WERE FALLING TOO fast.

The tickling vibration against her palm made Brannon loosen her grip. Wind pushed against the HH-65 Dolphin, slamming the helicopter into more turbulence. The vertical speed indicator dropped a notch. She pulled back on the collective, piloting the helicopter steady over Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

She kept her gaze locked on the landscape for any unnatural movement. Far below them the mountain peaks jutted out from the snow-covered red maples like a snaggle-toothed beast baring its teeth. The tree canopy blocked most of the ground from their sight.

“Is it always like this?” Jefferson Montgomery, new pilot in the National Park Service, asked over the headset.

“Sometimes, but we still have to do flyovers. It's our job.”

“I know it's our job. Was just trying to get a feel for what I'll face every day.”

For the millionth time in the hour flight, Brannon resisted putting Jefferson in his place. “We'll head back now.”

“Want me to fly us in?” He rubbed his hands together.

As if she'd let this newbie fly her baby. “No, just pay attention to the horizon and treetops. Weather like this makes you fly by gauges and instinct.” She pushed the foot pedal to turn the helicopter and moved the cyclic.

He sighed over the comm. Disappointment? She didn't have time to care. The wind shoved the Dolphin at least eight degrees off course. She made the adjustment and piloted toward the heliport at the ranger station.

“Do you know when my bird will be ready?” His ambition and competitiveness would make him a liability, not an asset.

“Nope. When they deliver it, I suppose.” She pulled the helicopter into a level altitude, then used the collective to cushion the landing. She'd served thirteen years with the Coast Guard flying this model. But still, the weather could make even the best pilot get sloppy.

Using the pedals to align the landing gear with the ground track, she settled with little more than a bump. After shutting down the engines, radioing to Control, and marking her logbook, she yanked off her headset and hung it on the clip above her head.

Jefferson didn't bother completing his checklist before jumping from the Dolphin. Brannon let out a long breath, did her own walk-around, then rushed into the Abrams Creek ranger station, snow crunching under her feet.

The bell tinkled over the door as she pushed inside, a blast of wind and snowflakes sweeping in with her. The fragrant aroma of simmering coffee filled Brannon's senses. A fire crackled in the rock-front fireplace, the pops and hisses a welcome greeting from the frigid temperatures outside. She stood in front of the fire, holding her hands as close to the orange flames as possible. Tingles shimmied into her fingers as the warmth seeped through them.

“Temperature's dropping fast.” Her partner and best friend, Lincoln Vailes, stomped inside the back door and hung his issued coat on the hook beside his rig.

She grinned. “Couldn't ride your bike in today?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't dream of getting my Harley out in this mess.”

“Supposed to have a blizzard heading this way.” Steve slurped a sip of coffee before he set the mug back down. “Everything clear out there?”

Brannon hung up her belt beside Lincoln's and shrugged out of her coat. “All clear. No sign of anybody.” She tossed her jacket over a chair and backed up to the fire. She pulled the scrunchie from her hair, ran her fingers through the damp strands, then secured it again into a ponytail at the base of her neck. Little beads of snow fell, melting before they landed on the scuffed wooden floor.

“Let's hope the free-skiers have enough common sense to stay off the terrain.” Lincoln plopped down on the threadbare couch and propped his boots on the coffee table. “I don't want to get a call to go out anytime soon if the storm hits.”

“That'd be nice, for a change.” Steve took another noisy swallow of his java. “Maybe we'll have a slow weekend.” He nodded at the newcomer. “How'd you do?”

“I'm ready to go.” Jefferson dropped onto the chair closest to the fireplace.

“Easy there, Ace. You still have a lot to learn about the park.” Brannon moved to the coffee station in the corner. She lifted the carafe and stared at the thick mire in the bottom of the glass pot. With a mental shrug she pulled out a mug. No matter how much it resembled sludge, bad coffee was still better than no coffee.

Temptation for a cup of fresh java almost made her cross the mudroom and enter her living space. Exhaustion stopped her. If she went anywhere near her bedroom, she'd curl up and sleep, and she still had two hours left on her shift.

Lincoln laid his head back. The ends of his dark hair curled up at the tips. “Once the weather slacks, I'll take you around on ground.”

“For what? I'm a pilot.”

“You'll still need good knowledge of the area.” She dumped several spoons of sugar into the cup, then stirred. It still looked like something you'd have to slog through in a swamp.

“Whatever.” Jefferson snorted.

Brannon chose to ignore him and moved to the television, flipped on the local news station, and hovered in front of the screen. “Let's see what's happening in the outside world.” Her hand paused over the remote as a newsbreak flashed across the screen. She backstepped to her seat, eyes glued to the image of two men rushing out of a hospital.

“In a joint endeavor between the FBI and the US Marshals, a donor heart is being rushed to a recipient at Parkwest Medical Center in Knoxville, Tennessee. Unidentified sources reveal the heart is intended for a government witness who has information on the largest child-trafficking ring in American history, being run out of Tennessee. We're live from the New Hanover Regional Medical Center in Wilmington.”

The screen focused on the reporter shoving a microphone in a man's face. A very handsome face framed by a blondish silver crew cut. His eyes were as dark as the depths of the Snake River, but she couldn't tell if that was a play of the lighting. A long, fresh scar on the right side of his jaw marred the smooth tan of his face. Decked out in a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt—with gun and badge displayed—the man pushed the microphone from his face and let out a gruff, “No comment.”

A man shorter and blonder than the marshal, wearing hospital scrubs beneath a coat, carried a small cooler. Round glasses magnified eyes in his young face as he pressed close to the marshal. Cameramen and reporters crowded them.

Lincoln rested his elbows on his knees and let his hands dangle between his legs. “They're heading our way.”

Brannon held up a finger and stared at the screen as the two men rushed into the helicopter. While the rotors whipped, the cameraman got close enough to capture the marshal buckling his seat belt and scowling at the mass of media. The aircraft shook as it warbled, then rose into the sky.

Brannon switched the station to the local weather and narrowed her eyes.

“What?” Lincoln leaned forward.

“I can't believe it.” She pointed at the radar map on the tele- vision. “They're flying after dark into an oncoming blizzard.”

Steve shook his head. “Weather says it's just a winter storm.”

She rubbed her arms. “I know better. We've seen these so-called winter storms that intensify into full-blown blizzards.”

“How bad do you think it could be?” Steve stood and rubbed a hand over his face.

“I think this storm will grow into a blizzard like we haven't seen in years. And if I'm right and that Bell flies over the Smokies and hits an air wave, that helicopter's going down. It wasn't designed to fly in such conditions.”

Friday, 6:00 p.m.

Airspace over North Carolina

ROARK SHIFTED HIS FEET. The aircraft's constant vibration caused a headache to pound against his temples. The instrument panel in the cockpit illuminated the dark helicopter in an eerie green glow. Why did the helicopter have to feel so cramped? So close? He gritted his teeth.

He glanced at the flight medic beside him. Thomas fiddled with the little pack sitting atop the cooler.

The cooler holding a human heart.

The idea bothered Roark almost as much as being given this babysitting assignment. Almost as much as being in such a confined space. “So, that gonna be okay sitting on the floor?” He raised his voice over the hum of the engines and cocked his head toward the cooler.

Thomas followed his gaze. “Sure. No problem. The heart'll be good for four hours.”

“Kinda cutting it close, isn't it? This is over a three-hour flight.”

“I have several doses of pyruvate and perfluoroperhydrophenanthrene-egg yolk phospholipids ready to inject.”

“What does all that mean?”

“Oh.” Thomas chuckled, his high-pitched voice squeaking in the confined aircraft. “It's a new compound mixture that will extend the organ's viability for up to forty-eight hours.” His fingers grazed the small zippered pack. “Cutting edge stuff.”

“Yeah.” Roark turned to stare out the window. Snow blew haphazardly. No moon lit the night sky. No stars twinkled against the black backdrop. He still didn't understand all the medical mumbo jumbo, but he no longer cared. Getting the heart to the hospital in time to save the witness was his only concern. End of discussion. He'd read the file on his flight to North Carolina. Demott had been right—this was an important case.

Snow crashed against the helicopter in silent assault, whirling around on steady gusts of wind. The helicopter pitched and bounced. Thomas picked up the cooler and gripped it in his lap. Roark released his seat belt, then inched toward the cockpit. An ozone-burning stench infiltrated his nostrils as he glanced around the instrument panel. The pilot's lips formed a white straight line.