by Robin Caroll
“Shooting!”
“Yes, sir.” Kevin’s eyes were so wide they looked as if they’d split apart his face at any moment. “They managed to save the flight medic and marshal, but the Life Flight pilot died in the crash.”
“And?”
“Air traffic control has been trying to raise her again on the radio, but it’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“The radio, sir.”
“So we don’t know who’s shooting at them, if they’re still alive, or what’s going on?” Warren squared his shoulders and dropped his arms.
“No, sir.” Kevin shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.
“Then I suggest you find out.”
Kevin took a step backward. “Y-y-yes, sir. I’m on it.” He turned and all but ran down the hall, his feet slipping on the tiled floor.
Warren reached for his cell phone, then noticed the sign on the wall banning the use of the gadgets on the ICU floor. With a sigh he tromped to the elevator and slipped inside. He would make his call as soon as he hit the lobby area. Well, as long as no one loitered around who would ask pestering questions. Questions he couldn’t answer.
Ones he’d refuse to answer.
EIGHT
Friday, 10:14 p.m.
Southeast of Mount LeConte
Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee
ROARK LEANED AGAINST THE helicopter and kept his back to the group, listening as they rushed into the forest behind, their steps crunching and crackling in the frozen snow. As sleet battered his face, he focused his attention on the tree line opposite him, studying the landscape for any sign of movement.
Nothing—no limbs cracking as an unseen person moved to put Roark in the sniper’s crosshairs. Aside from the hissing of the wind, silence prevailed. Even the clumsy steps of the group behind him had abated.
Keeping his Beretta drawn and aimed toward the woods, Roark backstepped around the downed helicopter until he moved behind it. He turned and made a hasty retreat into the thicket. Just ahead, in the cover of darkness and swirling snow, he could make out the faint halo of the flashlight beam from the group. He quickened his pace and joined the others, often glancing over his shoulder, expecting to face the barrel of a gun.
He hesitated, then took the cooler from Lincoln’s hand—holstering his weapon to do so. Roark nudged Brannon’s shoulder and tried to take her place in supporting Thomas, but she shoved him back.
“I can do it. This is my job.” The tone of her voice cut him to the quick.
“But it’s my job to protect you,” he whispered in her ear.
She stopped in a heartbeat, almost causing Lincoln to stumble and pull Thomas down with him. By the glow of the flashlight, her eyes blinked cold fire. “Since when? I’m the ranger, the search-and-rescue person. It’s my job to protect you, and you’re injured.”
A snort of laughter slipped out before Roark could stop it. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pinched into a tight line. He pressed his own lips together.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Marshal. I don’t care how big and important you think you are—you will not make it out of these mountains without our guidance. So you can stop with the arrogance and know-it-all, take-charge attitude. We must work together to survive.” Brannon shifted Thomas’s arm higher over her shoulder and took off through the forest, leaving Roark no other option but to follow.
What was her problem anyway? She was a strange type of woman—fire and feisty yet praying aloud. Roark pulled the cooler higher to avoid bumping it against a fallen log. He still couldn’t believe it. Here he was, traipsing around in the dense mountainside in the dead of night, in the middle of a blizzard, and toting a human heart. Shaking his head, Roark hadn’t ever heard of something so ludicrous.
“We need to start rounding back, or we’ll head too deep into the woods to make it to the station in time to save your friend.” Brannon’s words carried over the wind.
Roark paused, his trained gaze taking in the terrain, watching for any type of unusual movement. He detected only the wind pushing the ice and snow. He set down the cooler and touched the handle of his Beretta. Just that slight touch comforted him in the darkness.
Roark and his sidearm went way back—the one relationship he could depend on. Partners for life, unlike the two serious romantic relationships he’d endured that ended in nothing but misery and heartache for him. So what if Dr. Martin reported his affection for his weapon bordered on unhealthy? His Beretta would never cheat on him, would never lie to him.
“If we circle around now, we can stay in this valley, which will make for an easier hike. Rainbow Falls should be about five miles to the west.” Lincoln spoke with quiet authority.
Roark directed his words to Lincoln and him alone, ignoring the stubborn spitfire. “Then let’s start doing that. I don’t know how many are following us, but we know they’re armed.” He ran his hand over his hair, now coated in a blanket of sleet, then lifted the cooler.
“We need to get to a safe location and set up camp.” Lincoln gave a slight tilt of his head toward the flight medic. “We also need to rest a bit before the five-mile hike to Rainbow Falls.”
Roark studied the flight medic’s face. Pasty white, a line of sweat lay on his upper lip, an indication of the cost of his physical exertion. Thomas needed to rest. While Roark had a job to do, people to keep safe, he couldn’t ignore the man’s plight. “Is there any place close that might provide some shelter from the weather and whoever’s hunting us?”
“I don’t know.” Brannon’s words stumbled out amid a cloud. The temperature had dipped lower as the time ticked by. Her bottom lip quivered as the cold seeped around them like icy fingers tightening their grip.
“You don’t know? You’re a park ranger. How can you not know?” And he was accused of not being competent to do his job? The US Marshal Service should take a look at these two.
“We’re based out of Abrams Creek, well west of here. This is a huge park. No single ranger knows every inch of it. In case you missed it, the park is so big it spans two states.”
“But out-shacks are located throughout the park. If we head toward Rainbow Falls, we’ll find something soon.” Lincoln’s gaze probed Roark’s, as if looking for permission.
“Lead the way.” Roark kept his head down as the rangers supported Thomas and resumed hiking. Cold cloaked his entire body. His corduroy coat wasn’t enough protection against the raging blizzard.
As he walked, Roark pulled out his phone to see if he could get a signal—no such luck, just like always. Why should he expect anything different now? He grunted as his thoughts tumbled, causing a backward glance from Brannon.
No matter how much the woman annoyed him, yet attracted him at the same time, he wouldn’t let himself get distracted. No sir, not now. Too much was riding on this particular assignment.
He’d waited long weeks to prove he was back to 100 percent—Internal Affairs inquiry, weekly visits to the shrink, the snide comments from some of the other marshals. Yes, he’d been reprimanded for not following orders, for trying to take control of a situation, but IA had cleared him back to active duty. Then what? They’d given him this menial assignment. Why? To prove that he was capable of handling the job again? If he failed in this task . . . well, Demott would never trust him with a real assignment, if he didn’t fire Roark on the spot.
He wouldn’t fail. Couldn’t.
Roark shook his head and plodded onward. The exhausting trek went slow. Several times a member of the group would slip on the sleet freezing on the ground. Hiking five miles in this crazy weather with an injured man was a journey. Roark’s own arm burned where the bullet had grazed him, but he refused to ask for so much as an aspirin from Brannon.
So deep in his thoughts, Roark didn’t see the trio stop in front of him, and he ran righ
t into Brannon’s back. She spun around, daggers of fire blazing from her eyes. “Looks like we’ve found one of the out-shacks.”
“Let me check it out first.” He set down the cooler and grasped his Beretta, the leather creaked as the handgun moved free of the holster. It felt good, right, to have his partner back in his hand.
“For what, pray tell?” Brannon eased Thomas down to a rock outside the mouth of the lean-to and popped her hands on her hips. “It’s a shack, for pity’s sake, and a man’s hurt.” She brushed past him into the shanty, jerking the flashlight’s beam around the small area.
The woman was insufferable—attractive with her quiet strength and mismatched eyes, yet ornery. Roark forced himself into the small confining space behind her. His breathing hitched, causing him to suck in air through his nostrils. This would be worse than being stuck in an elevator for hours on end.
And he hated small places. With a passion. Even though he’d tried to convince Dr. Martin otherwise.
The building leaned against the mountain. The room was maybe ten feet by ten feet of weathered-wood walls. A fire pit sat in the corner, a makeshift chimney climbing the rickety wall. The building itself rounded out at the top, making it appear domelike. Dark. Damp. Close—very close. Roark concentrated on keeping his breathing regular, not inhaling too deep or too shallow.
Brannon flung her backpack to the floor and pulled out a wool blanket. “We’ll make a pallet for your flight medic.”
“Thomas.”
She glanced up at him. “What?”
“Thomas. His name is Thomas.”
“Oh.” Her hands smoothed the blanket flat on the dirt floor besieged with pine needles and twigs.
“Will someone know to check here for us?” Roark studied the small crevices etched into the walls.
“Not usually. This isn’t on the tourist maps or anything. It’s not on the beaten path, so to speak, and in this weather? I doubt it seriously.” She finished straightening the pallet and pushed to her feet. “Let me help Lincoln get Thomas in here and build a fire. Then I want you to tell me what’s so important about that heart that people would weather the storm to come after it.”
Saturday, 12:30 a.m.
Near Mount LeConte
Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee
BRANNON SMILED AS LINCOLN tried to coax Thomas into eating some of the beef jerky. His words were smooth, comforting. If anyone could get the injured man to eat, it would be Lincoln. He’d saved her from drowning in a pit of grief and depression, using faith and Scripture to pull her back from the edge. She pulled another package of the jerky from her backpack and left the warmth of the fire, approaching the marshal.
Sitting on a jagged rock just outside the door, Roark reloaded the Beretta’s clip. The flashlight sat beside him, splintering the darkness around the shanty. He glanced up as she neared and jammed the magazine into the handgun with a resounding click, caressed the barrel, then holstered the weapon. He’d dressed the flesh wound on his arm. Now the chill settled over them like a bad suit jacket.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.” She straightened her shoulders and made her way to him. She’d be the bigger person, the one to extend the olive branch.
“Hey.” Maybe the adrenaline from being targets had caused them both to snap a little too much. Still, she wasn’t keen on his must-have-control attitude.
“Hey.” He nodded at her handgun. “How much ammo do you have?”
“Twelve rounds. Why?”
“Just getting a count in case we need it.”
“Oh.” She held out the package of jerky. “Here. You need to eat, keep your strength up and all that.” She flashed him a tentative smile.
He hesitated, staring into her eyes with his dark, piercing ones. Then he took the offered food. “Thanks.” With big hands he ripped the package open and bit off a hunk.
Brannon sat on an opposite rock and concentrated on eating. Why did the man’s forearms seem to interest her so much? Sure they were corded with muscles, but what was the big deal?
They reminded her of Wade.
Heat crept up the back of her neck, and she shivered. She needed to ignore the foolish impulses of her betraying body and concentrate on the task at hand. She swallowed. “It’s really cold out. Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and warm up next to the fire?”
His face lost expression. “No. I prefer to be out here.”
She sighed. So much for trying to help him. “So what’s the story about the witness?”
Roark blinked twice, then his gaze settled on her face. The heat reached her ears, causing her to look down at the jerky in her hands.
“The witness can give details on a large child-trafficking ring. We have the documented proof, but we need this guy to tell us who is involved, how to connect the proof to the guilty parties.”
Snow drifted, swirling around the air, some settling on Roark’s hair, making it appear to glisten. She tilted her head as she tried to concentrate on the details. “Where’s this ring acting out of?”
“Knoxville.”
“Here in Tennessee?” Her hands curled around the jerky, squeezing it into a tight wad. “How can that be?”
“Happens all the time actually. The more remote the location, the better for these scumbags.” Roark bit off another bite and shook his head as he chewed. “Occurs right under our noses,” he said around the jerky, then swallowed. “But this time . . . this time we have a chance to catch the ringleaders and put them behind bars for a long, long time. Cut-off-a-snake’s-head-and-the-body-will-die type of thing.”
“How does the ring work?”
“We don’t know all the details, can’t until our witness comes out of a coma, which we’re told will be after he has the transplant surgery.” Roark wadded the package from the jerky into a ball, then slipped it into his pocket. “From what we can garner, girls between the ages of ten and fourteen are coaxed into coming into the States from Thailand under the pretense of adoption, English education, and such. Or their parents are selling them off.” His eyes slipped a shade darker than ebony. “Once they get here, they realize they’ve been had, but it’s too late.”
“What happens to them?” She forced to keep her voice from wavering, the jerky she’d just eaten turning to cement.
“They’re sold into prostitution rings.”
Brannon gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Her mind whipped as unrelenting as the wind. Girls, children really, sold into prostitution? A hollow pit opened in her heart, growing as she considered the plight of these children. Tears stung her eyes. “H-how many of them?”
“From the records we’ve procured, hundreds into thousands.”
Nausea erupted from her stomach, blazing the length of her throat. She pinched her eyes closed, pushing down the pain searing her soul. Those poor children.
A cold hand covered hers. She opened her eyes and stared into Roark’s face. He knelt in front of her, his hands over hers, his gaze soft and compassionate. “We’ll be able to put everyone involved behind bars with this witness. That’s why it’s so vital we get the heart to the hospital in time.”
Brannon nodded, reining in her despair and anger. “Then we need to get a move on. I brought the hand radio so I can try to raise my supervisor or the ATC again.”
“I’ll try my phone again, too.” Roark squeezed her hands for the briefest of seconds, then stood and pulled out a satellite phone from his pocket.
She smiled at him, feeling the common ground strengthen between them. “This weather is blocking reception.” She headed to her backpack, retrieved her radio, then moved back to the door. “We’ll have a better chance of reception free of the mountain.”
Roark nodded and followed her. He pressed buttons and held the phone toward the sky, moving it around like a be
acon in the dark.
Flipping on the radio, she tried to raise Steve. Twice she radioed her location and situation—twice she received no response. She twisted the dial and changed frequency, then repeated her SOS message. Once more, nothing squalled from the radio. Maybe someone heard her call for help, but she couldn’t receive the reply. God, let that be true. Please.
Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Roark met her questioning gaze and shook his head. She sighed. Things weren’t looking so good. “Who do you think tracked us?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. But I would imagine someone involved in the ring.”
“Do they know you have this witness in custody?”
He gave a snort, his face crinkling into an expression of distaste. “We tried to keep it quiet, but the blasted press hounded us. Someone talked and before we could act, it was all over the news so the entire world knew where we were headed and how.”
Brannon rubbed her finger along her bottom lip. “But it has to be someone familiar with this area. Trust me, it’s hard to hike this terrain, and in this weather they’d have to be really experienced.” She hugged herself with her arms folded over her chest. “No other aircraft was in the area, so they had to be within driving distance.”
She closed her eyes, letting the analytical portion of her brain take over. “A Hummer or a Jeep. Something rugged. To have gotten to the crash site from the time the news aired, that only gave them limited driving time, which means they had to be close to begin with.” Her eyes shot open. “Did anyone know about the witness and his condition prior to the media hype?”
“Yeah. We’ve had the witness in custody for a couple of weeks, so lots of people knew. People we’d assumed could be trusted, but we see how that turned out.” Roark shifted his weight. “Why?”
“Well . . . let’s just say someone knew you had him and were waiting for an opportunity to get him. Why not go after the witness himself?”
