by Robin Caroll
A boom exploded in Roark’s ears. He jolted forward, his seat belt pinning him to the seat. The windshield shattered, then clattered against metal. A blast of frigid air swooshed into the cabin.
Then all was still. Silence loomed over the helicopter.
Roark struggled to regain his breath, his heartbeat ringing in his head.
Drip . . . drip . . . drip!
The unmistakable odor of fuel filled Roark’s nostrils. He opened his mouth to breathe and struggled to get his fingers around the seat belt release.
A thunderous explosion sounded. No, Roark felt the explosion. Unbearable heat lanced out at his face. He squinted, forcing himself to disengage the belt. Dots surged before his line of vision, just out of focus. He shook his head and fought to keep his eyes opened.
Not again!
Orange and red flames licked up at the pilot’s feet. He screamed, the agony chasing away every other sound.
Friday, 8:25 p.m.
Congressman McGovern’s Office
Knoxville, Tennessee
“CONGRESSMAN, YOU NEED TO see this.” Kevin passed him a single sheet of paper.
Warren scanned the information and ground his teeth.
RCM986 with GSMNPS has picked up an emergency Mayday call from 121MCE.
Warren’s pulse spiked. He glanced at his aide. “Is that Mayday call from the helicopter transporting the heart?”
“Yes, sir.”
Warren continued reading down the page.
121MCE is down. RCM986 GSMNPS search-and-rescue team dispatched.
Warren glanced again at Kevin. “Who’s heading up the search and rescue?”
“From the ATC conversation I’ve been monitoring, a ranger-pilot from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, sir.”
“So they’re going to find the helicopter?”
“As I understand it, this National Park Service pilot has been in communication with the Bell pilot for some time and is already on her way to intercept.”
“Her?”
“The ranger-pilot is a woman.”
Long minutes ticked by, as if peanut butter had crept into Father Time’s clock.
A woman pilot? How absurd. The heart needed to be recovered, and they were entrusting a woman to do the rescuing?
“Anything else, sir?”
“Did you hear when the search-and-rescue unit should arrive at the crash site?”
“The land crew should be there within thirty minutes.”
“And the ranger woman?”
“Should be there any moment, sir, if not already. I’ll continue monitoring.”
“Very good, Kevin. Keep me updated.”
The young man rushed from the room.
Sitting back in his leather chair, Warren peered out the window into the dark void. Swirls of pristine snow danced around, but he paid little attention. His mind tripped over tidbits of information. Shifting in his seat, he reached into his Armani jacket pocket, pulled out his private cell phone, and pressed speed dial number six.
The situation had escalated. Now Warren had to act.
SIX
Friday, 8:26 p.m.
Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee
THE SMALL BUILDING HUMMED with activity—music blaring, girls giggling, and doors slamming. The perfume Madam Nancy doused them in mixed with the stench of body sweat and liquor, hanging in the air like heavy clouds. As Friday night arrived, so did the men willing to brave the foul weather and long distance to make a visit.
Mai had vomited after Milt’s call, enraging Madam Nancy to the point where she had been beaten, but at least she was excused from “entertaining” for several hours. Huddled in the corner of her room, Mai rested her head against the rough wall. She had to find a way out. But how? She was smart but in unfamiliar territory.
The office door slammed, causing the thin wall to rattle and shake. Mai lifted her head, then pressed it back against the chipped paint when she heard voices.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Bucky. Milton says they’re closing down operations for a while,” Madam Nancy’s voice screeched.
“What’s going on with them? They’ve never been behind schedule before.” Mai didn’t recognize the man’s voice.
“I don’t know. He just said there was a glitch in their system and they’re working to straighten it all out.” A cabinet banged, then glasses rattled. “I don’t know what to do. I was ready to ship this current group off to Colorado when the new ones arrived.” Madam Nancy’s words echoed against the wall. “I swear this throws our whole system out of whack.”
Creaks of wooden chairs came from the office. Mai hugged her legs tighter to her chest.
“Sounds to me like something’s seriously wrong, Nancy. If I were you, I’d check it out.” The man’s belch vibrated the wall, making Mai shudder. Just like all the repulsive Americans.
“You think?”
“No telling what’s going on, but if I were you, I’d sure want to know.”
“You have a point, Bucky.” Glasses clinked before clattering against wood. “Have any suggestions on who I could get to look into this for me?” Madam Nancy’s voice sounded smooth and silky now.
“Well, now, I just might.”
The wooden chair creaked again.
“Maybe you and I should go to the hall back there and discuss this a little further.”
Madam Nancy laughed, but it did not sound ugly like normal. “Don’t be crass, Bucky, those are for the girls. I happen to keep a special room for myself and some very special customers. Would you like to see it?”
Mai pinched her eyes closed tight, her firsthand knowledge of what Madam Nancy was about to do with the strange man filling her mind with visuals she did not want. The acid in her stomach churned, and she retched, but nothing came up. She had nothing left to purge.
She would find a way to flee Madam Nancy’s before she was sent to this Colorado place. She had to. Her survival depended on her escape.
Friday, 8:29 p.m.
East of Mount LeConte
Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee
“HOLD ON,” BRANNON HISSED as she took the Dolphin into a deep pitch. The pilot-to-pilot comm had remained silent for several minutes, no matter how much she hailed the Bell. Please, God, let them be okay.
Lincoln reached down to the metal box snapped below his legs as Brannon dropped the helicopter lower. He yanked out the night-vision goggles, then shoved them over his eyes. “Tell me when to start looking.”
“Now.” She squinted against the driving sleet and snow before glancing down at her instrument panel. The little voice inside her head screamed that she might be too late for the people in the Bell. She increased the Dolphin’s airspeed as she dropped altitude, increasing her prayer as well.
Peering out into the sheets of precipitation descending, Lincoln tapped his fingers against his knee. In a fluid movement he reached over and gripped Brannon’s shoulder. “About thirty degrees to your left. See it?”
She jerked her gaze to where Lincoln had indicated and squinted. Faint hues of orange danced off in the distance. Flames! Brannon increased the airspeed, pushing the craft into maximum load as she careened over the tall trees. Three more knots clicked off her gauge, and she decreased their altitude again, slipping lower and dodging the pines with their branches covered in snow.
The dense forest whipped past the helicopter as Brannon kept her eyes glued to the fire cutting into the landscape, drawing brighter and closer. She tightened her hold on the controls, careful not to let her hands slip against the sweat coating her palms.
Lincoln pressed a hand against the bubble window, lodging himself against the seat as the helicopter dipped lower and lower. He pushed the goggles tighter on his face and peered out the window.
Desp
ite her training in the Coast Guard, Brannon bit back fear. The searing at the back of her throat burned with familiarity. It scorched her each time she searched for a crash and prayed to find survivors. The pain associated with losing her parents, then Wade, always sat at the forefront of her memory.
Please, Lord, let us find them alive.
As she flew closer, the orange hue flickered against the sullen night like a serpent’s tongue hissing out into the darkness. Despair shot through her as she searched for a landing area close to the crash but not close enough to endanger the Dolphin. A small clearing next to the valley opened, and she aimed for it. The edge of Roaring Fork nature trail. If only the Bell pilot had been able to hold out for a couple hundred more feet, the helicopter could’ve stayed intact.
Wind gusted against the swooping helicopter, causing her landing to bounce and skid. Brannon shut down the engine, unfastened her harness, and jumped from the Dolphin right behind Lincoln. The two raced toward the crashed helicopter, their boots slipping on the icy valley bed.
The Bell, which now blazed in yellow and orange flames, lay on its nose like a crippled bird fallen in flight. A dancing blue flame shot up the middle, stopping Brannon cold. She grabbed Lincoln’s shoulder. “Be careful. The fuel is leaking, and it’s gonna blow.”
He nodded but continued on toward the wounded aircraft. Jerking open the passenger cargo door, he reached inside. Brannon pushed to the pilot’s door and wrenched it open. White heat blew against her face, forcing her to stumble backward. The rank stench of burning flesh assaulted her nostrils. She turned her head and retched before turning back to the cockpit.
The pilot’s head lolled to the side as the flickering blaze ate up his legs. The pilot had passed the point of saving. Brannon pressed her lips together, tears pooling in her eyes.
Lincoln moved into the backseat. “Help me with these two.” He dragged an unconscious man to the icy ground. Beneath his coat, his white shirt was soaked red in a large patch. Lincoln turned toward the helicopter again.
Brannon swallowed hard, then beat her partner to the remaining man. While Lincoln gripped his feet, she reached for his arms. Her gaze settled on the man’s face—handsome and rugged with a fresh scar—the US marshal she’d seen on television. Her mind replayed the news segment as she struggled to help Lincoln pull the man free from the inferno building in the helicopter. The heart!
After letting the man sink to the ground, Brannon rushed once more to the crushed Bell.
“We can’t save the pilot, Brannon. Let it go.” Lincoln hollered as he raced forward with the fire extinguisher from the Dolphin.
“The heart,” she tossed over her shoulder as she pushed into the body of the aircraft. A red cooler with a black pouch on top leaned against the back of the pilot’s seat. The crackle from the engine prickled the flesh on Brannon’s arms. The stench of burning flesh seared her throat. She snatched up the cooler and the pouch.
Lincoln sprayed the cockpit with the extinguisher to no avail. Brannon screamed at him to get out, then turned, took two steps, and dove for the ground.
An explosion rocked the earth as if an earthquake occurred. Heat surrounded the valley area.
Brannon kept herself flat, covering her head with her hands. Bits of debris danced on the wind before falling to litter the snow-covered terrain.
“Are you okay?” Lincoln’s hand on her shoulder brought immediate comfort and relief.
She rolled over and stared into his hooded eyes before accepting the hand he offered. “I’m okay. How’re they?” She nodded toward the two men lying on the ground.
“Unconscious. One’s got a cut on his shoulder, and the other has a gash on his head.”
Brannon retrieved the cooler and black pouch, then followed Lincoln as he picked his way back to the men. Her pulse rocked as she scanned the crash site. Only bits and pieces of the helicopter lay scattered and smoldering in the midst of the forest.
That had been close, too close. Thank You, God, that no one else was killed. But her heart ached for the pilot. Why couldn’t we have gotten here in time?
No reply came in the stillness of the explosion aftermath.
Lincoln dropped to a knee beside the man whose shirt stuck to his chest with the spreading red stain. He snapped open the emergency medical kit from the Dolphin, clicked on the flashlight, and pressed clean gauze to the man’s injury.
Lowering herself beside the marshal, Brannon pushed her bangs, dripping with melted snow and sleet, aside. She laid her fingers on his forehead to inspect the cut, then glanced at the man’s handsome face. She sucked in cold air, then rocked back on her heels.
Eyes like liquid black stared up at her.
Friday, 8:40 p.m.
Crash site
Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee
ROARK’S FOREHEAD BURNED WHERE the nymph touched him. The outline around her was fuzzy, distorted. He blinked. Did he die? Was this a dream? Flecks of snow and sleet assaulted his face. No, he was alive and awake, and the woman gazing down at him with wide eyes was no nymph or angel. He dug his elbows into the cold, wet ground and struggled to sit. He tapped the butt of his gun, and his heartbeat steadied.
The woman’s hands moved to his shoulders and eased him back. “Don’t try to sit. You’re okay, but I need to treat the cut on your head. I’m Brannon Callahan with the Great Smoky Mountains National Park Rangers. We’re here to help.” Gauze appeared in her hand, and she dabbed at his forehead.
No, he didn’t need anyone to take care of him—he was always in control. He waved the ranger’s hands away and pushed into a sitting position. The wind carried a sharp burning odor on its gusts. “What happened?”
“Your helicopter crashed.” Her voice caressed his ears, smooth and gilded.
Roark scanned the area, catching sight of hunks of metal scattering the ground, wisps of smoke rising from their mounds. He glanced back at the woman hovering over him. Her auburn hair hung over her shoulder in a loose ponytail. “What about the other—”
“We got the other passenger out.” She gave a jerk of her head. “My partner, Lincoln, is attending to his injury.”
“And the pilot?” He had to focus. Keep to the task at hand.
Her big eyes blinked with moisture, then bore into him, pinning him to the spot. How unusual—one green eye and one blue, yet both shimmering almost iridescently by the glow of the flashlight. She shook her head. “He was already dead when we got here.”
Panic shot into his bloodstream. Had he failed his mission? “There was a cooler. It held a—”
“We got the heart out.” She smiled as she interrupted, laying her hand on his shoulder again.
Frowning, he stared up at her. His fingers sought the butt of his Beretta. “How did you know about the heart?”
“I watched the news. You’re the marshal, right?”
“Roark Holland.” He dug his palms into the ground, the ice stinging his flesh, then pushed into a standing position.
She rose as well, a good eight or nine inches shorter than his six-foot-two height. She had a good, athletic build, not like the skinny figure his youngest sister had.
He brushed past Brannon and towered over the man tending to Thomas. “How is he?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood. I think a main artery may have been severed by metal shards.” The dark-haired man in a ranger coat glanced up at him, then gazed over to the woman. “We need to get him to a hospital ASAP.”
“Let’s get to the helicopter. You can work on him in the air.” Brannon moved to Thomas’s feet.
Roark walked around her, then leaned over to help the man with Thomas.
She laid a hand on his shoulder, jerking his attention back to her determined face. “You just get in. You’re in no shape to help carry him. That head gash is pretty nasty.” She flashed him a gentle smile.
/> Roark stomped out of the way, lamenting her logic under his breath. He. Had. To. Stay. In. Control. He lifted the cooler with the black pouch, then squared his shoulders. “We have to get this heart to the hospital in Knoxville immediately.” The sharpness of his tone cut through the howling of the wind.
Brannon jutted out her chin. “Of course. And he”—she tilted her head toward Thomas—“needs the hospital as well.”
Roark clenched his jaw. She kept staring at him, trying to read his expression.
“Fine. Let’s get to that helicopter of yours.” Still gripping the cooler and medicine pack in his right hand, he scooped up the medical case from beside her partner with his left, then hitched a brow as he stared back at the woman.
She sighed and broke eye contact, then bent and grabbed Thomas by the legs while her partner hoisted Thomas’s shoulders. Together, the two lifted the flight medic and swayed as their boots slipped on the icy ground.
The wind whistled through the trees as the odd group rushed toward the aircraft a mere five hundred yards away.
Roark passed them, heading toward the waiting helicopter. While bigger, it didn’t matter. In this weather, it was still an airborne coffin. He could only hope the woman’s partner was a better pilot than the previous one.
Crack!
Roark groaned as something slammed into his back and tackled him to the ground. He twisted to see what it was, his hands pulling into thick, soft auburn hair.
The woman ranger straddled him.
He moved to shove her aside when a limb crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, covering his footprints in the snow where he had stood minutes ago. Flecks of ice splattered him and the woman, sending shivers over his body.
Brannon gave him a casual shrug, then pushed to her feet and dusted the snow from her shoulders. “You’re welcome.” Her stare lingered a moment longer, then she shook her head and went to assist her partner as he dragged Thomas across the white ground.
