Deliver Us from Evil (31 page)

Brannon rocked back on the table. “You mean, with men? Doing things to you?”

Mai could not stop the tears. She dropped her head. Humiliation burned in her chest. She made eye contact with the nice lady. “Yes.”

Brannon reached out and laid her hand over Mai's. Warmth seeped deep into Mai's bones.

Ka-boom!

Glass from the window shattered. Brannon shoved her and Kanya to the floor, lying on top of them. Mai's face pressed against a worn rug.

“Lincoln, Steve—are y'all okay?” Brannon yelled over the loud eruptions.

Mai cried. Her nightmare had come true.

Fred had found them.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Wednesday, 9:01 p.m.

Congressman McGovern's Home

Knoxville, Tennessee

“FRED CALLED IN FIVE minutes ago. He's at the ranger station.” Zimp's voice pitched higher than normal, grating on Warren's last nerve.

Warren gripped the phone tighter. “Call me when everything's taken care of.”

“Sir, um, there's a complication.”

He ground his teeth. More? There had been too many mess ups and complications. He let his silence speak.

“It's Nancy.”

Why wouldn't the moron just spit out the information?

“She's gone.”

“What?” Had she lost her ever-loving mind? “Where did she go?”

“I don't know, sir. She called and said she wouldn't be a scapegoat. When I called her back, one of the girls said Nancy left.” Silence filled the connection. “I think she ran.”

“And left the girls alone?”

“Yes, sir. Both Fred and Betty are at the ranger station. Milt and Tom are dead. There isn't anyone left to watch the girls.”

The idiots—they were going to blow everything if he didn't rein them in. He needed to stay calm. Make sure the morons didn't panic.
Think, McGovern, think. If authorities find that house, if those girls talk . . .

He'd been careful. Nothing connected him to this except the money trail. And with Wilks out of the way and the agencies unable to decipher his notes—Zimp remained the only loose end left.

“Listen carefully, Zimp. Pack up base and come straight to my house. We'll contain the situation.”

“Come there, sir? To your house?” Fear edged Zimp's voice.

Something Warren couldn't allow. He needed the middleman to come.

To be silenced.

“Yes. Come to the house. We'll figure out the safest place to send you. Bring all the phones. And pack. You'll leave on a flight tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” The wimpy man didn't sound so scared now. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Warren hung up the phone and opened his top desk drawer. His mother's pearl-handled .380 handgun glistened in the overhead lights.

Come, Zimp, come.

Wednesday, 9:02 p.m.

Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

WHERE WAS HER GUN?

On the stand by the door.

The firing had ceased. Reloading? Brannon touched the girls' shoulders. “Stay here and stay down.”

The girls nodded, fear on their faces. These poor things were part of the child-trafficking ring. She had to do something. This was her chance to act.

Help me, God.

Brannon pressed her lips together and belly crawled to the stand holding her belt with her gun. Using her toes shot pain into her ankle. She put weight on her knees instead. “Lincoln, are you armed?”

“No, but I'm hit.”

Her gut spasmed. “How bad?” She knocked the stand to the floor. Wood clattered against wood.

“In the knee. Hurts like all get-out.”

Oh no. She grabbed her Sig and looped Lincoln's belt holster over her shoulder. “What about you, Steve?”

“I'm okay.”

“Are you armed?”

“No. Heading to the gun case.”

She bit her bottom lip as she crawled to where Lincoln hunched behind the chair. “Can you get me some extra ammo, Steve?”

“I think so.” Scuffing sounded across the wooden floor. “Got it. Ready? I'll toss it.”

She turned to find Steve but caught sight of Lincoln. He leaned against the back of an overturned chair, tightening his belt around his thigh. Crimson covered his pant leg. Brannon slid his gun across the floor to him. He caught it with ease, but sweat lined his upper lip.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.” He wiped his brow. “Think it's the same guy who shot at us in the mountains?”

“Pretty sure. He's gotta be with the child-trafficking ring.”

Lincoln nodded. “Mai and Kanya—”

“Are some of the children in the case Roark's working on.”

Pop! Pop!

More glass shattered. The girls cried out.

“Stay down!” Brannon turned and took a crouched firing position. She held her Sig at the ready, took aim at the window the last shots had entered through, and pulled the trigger.

Once. Twice. A third time.

Return fire overflowed in the station, drowning out the girls' heart-wrenching sobs. Sounded like a nine millimeter to Brannon.

She slumped lower behind the edge of the couch, resting her weapon-yielding hand on the top and squeezing the trigger two more times.

Smoke filled the room. The acrid stench of gunpowder assaulted her senses.

A loud explosion sounded behind her—a shotgun firing at the window. “Catch, Brannon,” Steve hollered above the noise.

She turned and caught the magazine he threw her, discharged her empty clip, and shoved the new one in the Sig. “Kill the lights.” Harder for them to see inside, easier for her to detect the muzzle flashes.

Silence echoed in the haze. A click sounded, then darkness covered the station. The girls sobbed.

Brannon crawled back to Lincoln. He lay still, his Sig tight in his hand.

Oh, God, no. Please, no.

She pressed her fingers against his neck. “Lincoln.” His pulse popped against her fingers, steady. He must've passed out from the pain.

Bam! Ba-bam! Bam!

Shots came through the other window. Brannon grabbed Lincoln and pushed him into the hallway, safe from all angles of the windows.

The shotgun exploded.

She raised her gun and fired ten times. She pulled the trigger an eleventh time, but only a click sounded.

Time to reload.

“I'm out.” Brannon released the empty magazine, flipped onto her stomach, and crawled toward the gun cabinet.

“I'll cover you.” Steve fired again. The boom resonated, vibrating the wooden planks.

She scrambled across the floor and reached the cabinet. Jerking open the drawer, she felt around for magazines. She pulled out two clips, shoved them into her pocket, then inserted a third into the Sig with a resounding click. “Armed and ready.”

Steve fired once more. “I'm heading to the radio to call for backup.”

“I've got your back.” Taking a deep breath, she leapt to her feet and rapid-fired toward the window. She emptied the magazine, crouched, dropped the clip, and popped a new one in, taking only seconds.

“Made it.”

Brannon crawled to the girls. Both cried uncontrollably. “Listen, I need you to get to the hallway where Lincoln is. It's the safest place. Follow me, but keep down, okay?”

Neither girl responded.

More bullets entered the cabin, littering the floor and lodging into the wood.

She didn't have time to placate the children. Brannon shook Mai's shoulder. “I need you to stay down and follow me. Now.”

Mai nodded.

Brannon shoved her gun above the back of the couch and fired off several more shots. When no return fire sounded, she nudged Mai. “Now.”

Keeping to a belly crawl, Brannon led them to the hallway. Once there, she leaned against the wall, catching her breath. She glanced over at Lincoln. He was backlit by the lights in her living quarters. His eyes fluttered open. “You're going to be okay, Linc. Hold on. Watch the girls while I check on Steve.”

He gave a weak nod. She hated leaving him, but she had to stop whoever shot at them. Maintaining a crouch, she crawled to the desk.

Steve held the shotgun at the ready. “Phones are down, but I got the call out over the radio. Backup should arrive soon.”

“We have to hold them off.”

In the silence of cease-fire, the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel ground out.

Brannon turned around, staring out the broken window. Headlights pierced the darkness. Her heart caught. Help couldn't have gotten here so fast. She gripped her Sig tighter.

The bad guys' backup had arrived.

Wednesday, 9:15 p.m.

Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

LIGHTS BLAZED FROM THE back of the building but not from the station area. Roark's nerves bunched—he'd get to see Brannon again. Funny how that made his heart race.

“Guess they're not waiting up for me,” Jefferson joked as he reached for the car's door handle.

Crack!

The windshield shattered. Roark grabbed Jefferson's arm and ducked, pulling the ranger facedown into the seat.

“What in the—?”

“Shh.” Roark eased his Beretta from its holster. No further gunshots echoed in the area. He eased open the driver's door. “Stay put,” he ordered Jefferson.

He lowered his feet to the ground. No shots fired. He slipped from the car, crouching behind the door.

Pop! Pop!

Holding his gun, Roark peeked around the door's frame, then opened fire into the darkness. He stopped after shooting six rounds.

No return shots came.

What in the world? Shivers snaked up his spine. Brannon! Was she okay? Or hit—lying in the station hurt?

God, please take care of her. I know, I know . . . only calling on You when I need Your help. But please don't let anything happen to Brannon. Please, God. I promise I'll give my life back to You if You'll just protect her.

Roark knew he couldn't bargain with God, but he hadn't been able to stop the words from crossing his mind and entering his prayer. If something happened to Brannon . . .

“What's going on?” Jefferson whispered.

“I don't know.”

Shots fired into the station. Roark studied the muzzle flashes before lifting his gun and discharging. Two shooters. A succession of answering shots came from inside the station. If he wasn't mistaken, and Roark normally wasn't about ammo and weapons, a Sig and a shotgun were used. That meant at least two people were inside and capable of shooting.

Please, God, let one of them be Brannon.

“Stay here, Jefferson. You're unarmed.” Roark rushed to the nearest clump of trees, keeping low.

More shots rang out directed at the station. Again, return fire sounded.

Roark raced toward where he'd caught the muzzle flash. He pulled off six rounds, then ran closer to the station, using trees as cover.

The exchange of gunfire continued. He'd shoot, move forward. Wait and watch. Pull the trigger, move forward. Wait and listen.

The shots into the station seemed to lessen. Out of ammo? Reloading? Roark waited. Still, the second shooter wasn't engaging. Had they hit him?

He crept closer, keeping his cover in the trees and firing, waiting and watching. And listening.

Off in the distance, from behind the station, the rumble of an ATV sounded. Louder . . . louder.

Roark faced that direction, his weapon ready to fire when the vehicle came close enough.

But the sound of the ATV grew fainter. It'd changed directions and headed away from the station.

In his peripheral vision, Roark caught the movement of a figure silhouetted by the moonlight. The figure moved to the front door, paused for a split second.

Roark raised his gun and ran closer.

The figure kicked in the door and opened fire.

Roark ran forward at top speed.

Brannon!

TWENTY-NINE

Wednesday, 9:30 p.m.

Congressman McGovern's Home

Knoxville, Tennessee

WARREN HEADED TO THE foyer to answer the front door. Zimp arrived, a few minutes late, but here nonetheless. Now to follow through with the plan. Too bad Tom had gotten himself killed. Shot by that roguish marshal. Holland would be a problem dealt with later. For now . . .

Warren opened the door, a plastic smile in place. “Hello, Zimp. Come in.” He waved the acne-scarred young man into his home.

Zimp's muddy work boots scuffed across the marble floor. Great, Warren would have to have it buffed and polished. He gritted his teeth and motioned toward the study. “Would you like a drink?” Warren stood at the wet bar, studying the middleman. He'd never met him in person before.

“Uh, yeah. That'd be nice, Mr. McGovern.”

That would be
Congressman
McGovern. One day, Mr. President. But Warren had to contain the situation. Now. “Whiskey? Scotch? Brandy?”

“Uh, brandy, I guess.”

Of course—a lady's drink. Warren opened the snifter and poured Zimp half a glass before pouring himself two fingers of Scotch. Not the cheap stuff, either. Johnnie Walker Blue Label, King George V edition. The best five hundred dollars he'd ever spent.

“Thanks.” Zimp took the glass and guzzled it. He made a slight grimace. Probably used to bottled beer, and not the imported kind. Warren would do the world a favor by getting rid of this lowlife. He'd served his purpose but now was only a liability.

Warren sipped his Scotch, enjoying the smooth warmth traveling down his throat. “Have you thought about a place you'd like to go to ride out this situation?”

Zimp set the glass on the coffee table. Warren struggled not to smack the boy. Didn't he know about water rings? No, he probably used milk crates for end tables. Warren carried the glass back to the wet bar and set it in the sink.

“I was thinking about Jamaica. I hear it's nice.”

More than likely, with visions of girls clad in string bikinis.