by Robin Caroll
“He’s in the cardiac ICU, in a coma, under guard of the marshals. I don’t think anyone would take the chance of trying to get to him there.” He shrugged. “Besides, the man’s going to die without the heart transplant. They probably figured if they can stop or delay the surgery long enough, they’d be home free anyway.”
“Will they?” Her pulse pounded inside her skull, making her head ache.
“More than likely, yeah.”
“But you said you had documented proof . . .”
“Proof we can’t decipher.” He raised a hand before she could interrupt. “We’ve had the best of the alphabet-soupers working on decoding it for two weeks now. Hasn’t been broken yet.”
“Alphabet-soupers?”
Roark gave a wry smile. “CIA, FBI, NSA—all the government initial organizations.”
Despite the situation, she chuckled. “That’s good. Never heard them called that before.”
“Insider joke.” He nodded toward Lincoln and Thomas, who dozed in the warm glow of the fire. “We need to rest, get Thomas’s wound cleaned again, and then head out.”
She gestured to his arm. “Yours as well.”
“Nothing but a graze. I’m fine.” His gaze shot toward the sky. “We’d better get some rest while we can. Dawn will be here before too much longer, and then we’re visible targets.”
NINE
Saturday, 3:00 a.m.
Parkwest Medical Center
Knoxville, Tennessee
WARREN LOITERED OUTSIDE the hospital’s main entrance, hovering over the ashtray as he puffed away at his cigarette. The stinging wind bit against his exposed neck and face, but he refused to acknowledge his discomfort. He needed the nicotine fix more than he needed warmth.
“Congressman McGovern.”
He turned toward the doors, squinting in the bright overhead lights as he tried to discern the voice calling out to him.
“Congressman McGovern.” Kevin marched with prissy strides toward him.
After crushing out his cigarette, Warren straightened and strode to meet the effeminate man now rushing to greet him. Couldn’t a man get a little privacy around here? “Yes?”
“Dr. Rhoads has called a meeting with the marshals. We thought you’d want to be included.”
As if anyone would consider excluding him? He’d been kept out of the loop quite enough, thank you very much. He squared his shoulders and moved to the doors, losing his footing only once on the sheet of ice on the sidewalk. “Has something happened?”
“I don’t know, sir. They’re meeting in the waiting room up on the ICU floor.”
Warren sighed as he strode into the elevator and jabbed the button. He’d have to endure the fingers of death tickling his spine again. Shaking off the shudder, he gritted his teeth. Ever since his mother had died in a hospital when she’d been admitted for a minor treatment, he’d known hospitals weren’t a place of healing. They were halls of loss. Human error and a lawsuit later, he still swallowed the bitterness when he thought of the sloppy doctor who had murdered his beloved mother. Leaving him on the brink of manhood to be raised by his father with strict rules and a militant lifestyle. His father married his Asian mistress not even a week after burying Warren’s mother. Unfair. But Warren had made a name for himself—had gotten into the political game to help people, which helped his own career. But that was beside the point.
The elevator dinged as the doors slid open at an excruciatingly slow pace. Warren’s heartbeat sped in contrast, like the hare waiting for the tortoise to catch up in the race.
He moved into the corridor, then spun on his heel, and stalked down the hall to the waiting room. Maybe this meeting would mean his luck had finally changed. His career needed a kick-start.
Dr. Rhoads leaned against the wall of the waiting room, crowded by a semicircle of US marshals. Gerald Demott, chief of the marshals, stood front and center. This was serious business.
“What’s going on?” His voice boomed in the otherwise silent room.
Looking up, Dr. Rhoads nodded. “Now that we’re all here, let me fill you in on the patient’s condition.” He ran a hand over the errant hair brushing the tops of his ears. “Mr. Wilks has taken a turn for the worse. His blood pressure is dropping.” He held up a finger to hush the spattering of gasps and beginning of questions. “He is currently in stable condition, but that’s not expected to hold out much longer. If it takes much longer for the heart to get here, he may not survive the surgery.”
“Where’s the heart, Gerald?” Warren glared at the chief, as if the delay were his personal fault.
Demott cleared his throat. “Our last report is that the heart survived the crash in the Great Smoky Mountains. We know our marshal got it out safely, and a National Park Service helicopter landed.” He hauled in a deep breath. “Unfortunately, we received a report of an unknown assailant firing upon the rescue team and disabling the helicopter. It appears the occupants of the helicopter are now stranded.”
“So the heart and your marshal are stuck out in the mountains somewhere?” Warren folded his arms across his chest and stared down his nose at Demott. Rule number seven—learn how to intimidate by your size, and use it when necessary.
“Yes. We know the rescue rangers are with our marshal, as well as the flight medic. Air traffic control has their coordinates, and the Air National Guard helicopter is en route to that location now.”
“When will it reach them?” Dr. Rhoads interjected.
Demott shrugged. “We assume it’ll take approximately an hour and a half to get to the crash site from their current location, considering the weather.” He glanced at his watch.
“Can the heart survive that long?” Warren waited for the doctor’s answer.
“Normally, no. But the harvesting surgeon prepared a pack of new drugs to go with the heart. Upon each injection the viability of the heart is extended for twelve hours. Four injections were sent.”
Warren ran a finger alongside his nose. “So that heart has about thirty-something hours left?”
“As long as the injections are given within the twelve-hour window.” Dr. Rhoads tapped his pen against the metal chart he held.
“Will our witness last?” The chief marshal swallowed hard.
“That’s in God’s hands, Mr. Demott. We’ll do our best to help him hang on.” Dr. Rhoads slipped the pen into the jacket of his white coat. “That’s the update on his condition.” His gaze settled on Gerald Demott’s face. “Let me know if you hear anything more about the location and condition of the heart.”
Demott nodded. Dr. Rhoads strode from the room, heading toward the steel double doors. To check on his patient, no doubt. Warren turned his attention to Demott. “Have you heard from your marshal yet?”
“We’ve tried to raise him on the satellite phone, but the blizzard’s blocking reception.”
“I see.” The creepy feeling of death’s proximity breathed down Warren’s back like the Grim Reaper hovering over his shoulder. “Let me see what I can find out. Maybe I can get more information.”
“Good luck.”
Warren pressed the button for the elevator, stiffening his legs to stop their quivering. Such a small time window, considering everything—the weather, the distance, and the fact that someone stalked the heart. Warren tightened his lips as he pressed into the elevator and descended.
If Wilks didn’t make it, could Warren blame the FBI’s incompetence and gain further support of his constituents by his outrage?
Saturday, 7:15 a.m.
Outbuilding
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
BRANNON PACKED THEIR MEAGER supplies while Lincoln cleaned and rebandaged Thomas’s injury. The man had lost a lot of blood, but the flow seemed to be diminishing now, although his ragged breathing echoed in the small cavern.
/> Heavy snow clouds enveloped the sky, blocking the sun’s first rays. Winds shifted, pushing the falling snow in every direction. The temperature continued to drop, throwing the group into a frosty wonderland.
Brannon lifted the collar of her coat and shivered. How could Roark stand the elements much longer? He refused to come inside the shelter to warm by the fire. Did he need to prove he was Superman? Their tentative truce could be shattered with his control-freak attitude.
After checking and rechecking his gun, Roark pushed the cooler toward the front of the shack. Thomas struggled to speak. “We need to give the heart another injection.” His eyes widened. “Black pack? It was . . . on the cooler.” His voice raised an octave, each word choked out. “Where is it?”
“I put it in my backpack.” She retrieved the case and held it up. “For safekeeping.”
“Have to do . . . injection . . . heart won’t be . . . viable.”
“Okay, okay. Calm down. I’ll get the heart for you.” She grabbed the red cooler and pulled it beside Thomas, then opened the cover.
The organ rested in a mushy solution of clear liquid and melting ice. She pushed the cooler against Thomas’s leg.
“Can’t do . . . it.”
“What?” Brannon’s heart thumped in her throat. “Why not?”
“Can’t use . . . right arm.” The flight medic shook his head. “You will have . . . to do it.”
She rocked back on her heels, almost falling backward. She’d experienced a lot in the Coast Guard but never sticking a needle into an exposed human heart. Now wasn’t the time to start, either. She stared at her partner, who had received extensive emergency first-aid training. “Lincoln, you’re the best qualified.”
His eyes widened and one brow shot up. “I don’t think my first-aid training is preparation for this kind of thing.”
His ability to appear to read her mind bothered her more times than not. This was one of those times. She moved farther away from them, closer to the opening of the shack. “At least you’re confident holding a syringe.” Brannon sat cross-legged on the floor, holding out her hand to show the shakiness.
“Someone . . . do now . . . while I can talk . . . you through it. I’m getting . . . sleepy.” Thomas’s head rolled against the wall of the cave.
“Okay.” Lincoln moved closer to Thomas.
She smiled as she stared into her partner’s eyes. “‘The man of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.’”
Shaking his head, Lincoln muttered, “Simple. Second Timothy 3:17.” He leaned closer to Thomas. “Tell me what to do.”
The flight medic tossed Lincoln a look that appeared to be a combination of relief and pain. “Pack.”
While Lincoln did as Thomas instructed, Brannon glanced at Roark. He sat opposite her, his gaze avoiding the two men’s movements but flickering over the shack and finally landing on her.
Heat crept up her neck, spreading to her ears and cheeks. She dropped her stare and focused on the ground. What was it about the man’s scrutiny that made her feel stripped to the soul, her spirit lying bare in front of him? She lifted her finger to her mouth and bit at the hardened cuticle.
“Why do you do that?” Roark’s voice shattered her thoughts.
“Huh? What?”
He nodded at her fingers. “Why do you bite your nails?”
She dropped her hand into her lap. “I don’t bite my nails.”
“Then what are you doing?”
She opened her mouth to give an answer, but Thomas let out a groan and an “oh no.”
Both she and Roark shot to their feet and hovered over Thomas and Lincoln, who stared up at her. “One of the vials is broken.”
“What exactly does that mean?” She laced her fingers in front of her body, squeezing them together.
“Means,” Thomas began with his forced words, “heart just lost . . . twelve hours.”
Saturday, 7:28 a.m.
Northwest toward Rainbow Falls
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
ROARK STOOD IN THE opening of the out-shack, studying the landscape. He rubbed his arms against the frigid temperature. Snow and ice battled in the air, fluttering like thick drapes in the wind. He couldn’t make out more than ten feet in front of him, a dangerous disadvantage when he needed to get the group moving. With the broken syringe they would have to push farther, faster, to get the heart to the hospital in time. Twelve hours was all they had until they’d have to inject again. And they only had one vial left.
“We’re ready.” Brannon’s words were hot in his ear. He turned his head. The woman had grit, as his sister would say, and it made her very attractive. Too attractive. Hadn’t he sworn off women after his last romantic fiasco? Being lied to and cheated on still stung, even after more than a year. And Brannon was too similar in personality to Dr. Martin. Roark would bet the good doctor had advised Demott to give him simple assignments for a while. To continue his therapy. He didn’t need therapy. He needed to work.
Roark straightened. No time for rehashing past failed relationships or his current situation. Right now he had to concentrate on the job and complete it. He pulled out his trusty Beretta and studied the rangers. “Stay as close to me as you can. The storm’s right on top of us.”
Brannon and Lincoln propped Thomas between them. Roark lifted the cooler and stepped free of the shanty’s protection.
Pecks of sleet slipped under his collar, slithering down his back like an icy snake. He clenched his jaw, ignoring his discomfort, and glanced over his shoulder at the trio behind him. He had an assignment to succeed at and people to protect. Those innocent girls trafficked in . . . Their fate sat in his hands. He couldn’t let more young girls die. Not on his watch.
Thomas seemed barely conscious, his head lolling to rest on one shoulder, then the other. Brannon’s face was lined with determination. Roark’s muscles tensed as he fought the desire to carry her burden. He couldn’t—he knew that—he had to be ready to react to any trouble. That was his job.
The group descended a rocky trail, losing traction as fresh ice joined the slick layer covering the ground. Wind nipped at their exposed flesh, chafing it raw. In less than an hour, Roark’s face burned, and he had to keep regripping his gun as feeling fled from his fingers. Squinting, he made out the valley before them, level and even. He increased his pace, pushing one foot in front of the other faster, harder.
Crack!
Roark released the cooler, spun, and crouched, in one fluid movement, with his Beretta aimed in the direction of where the gun had been fired. “Get down!” Adrenaline coursed through his veins, thawing his extremities.
As one, Brannon and Lincoln dropped to a squat, pulling Thomas down with them. Brannon withdrew her Sig, Lincoln only a second behind her.
“Get behind me,” Roark barked as he maneuvered around them. His attention shifted over the rocky terrain, studying each shadow of trees as he hunted for movement, human movement.
Pop-pop-pop!
The rapid gunfire erupted over the valley. Thomas yelled out, pain twisting his voice, making his words incoherent.
Roark raced into action. His feet sought steady ground while he ran where the gunshots originated. Brannon’s gasp and murmurs reached his ears as he continued toward the tree line above and to the left of them.
A flash of light flickered in his peripheral vision to the right.
Crack!
He squeezed the Beretta’s trigger just as Brannon yelped. He glanced back toward the group—they’d hunkered down behind two fallen trees. He spun to where he’d seen the gun flash, then fired four more shots in quick succession.
The lingering echoes of the gunshots rippled over the valley. The shooter’s, his, Brannon’s, and Lincoln’s—all meshed together into a chorus of explosion.
&nb
sp; Keeping his eyes locked on the gunman’s location, Roark crept in that direction. He crossed the valley and pulled himself up the embankment. Losing his footing on the ice and snow, he slipped back to the valley bed.
Pop! Pop!
Lifting his Beretta, he returned rapid fire.
A soft thump sounded, followed by a groan. Twigs snapped, then a thud.
Roark climbed up the steep incline, pulling on trees with his left hand. In his right he gripped his handgun. Once he reached the top, he stood still with his head tilted a fraction.
Another groan. Labored breathing.
Roark spotted the fallen gunman by his breath puffing in the cold. He brushed aside limbs and underbrush as he approached the form lying at the base of a tree, never letting the gun waver.
The shooter lay still except for the labored rise and fall of his chest. Roark towered over him, studying his face. He didn’t recognize the man decked out in full tactical gear. Not even a remote resemblance to any mug shot he’d seen in the perp books. Squatting, he shoved the barrel of the Beretta against the man’s temple. “Who are you, and why were you trying to kill us?”
The man’s eyes blinked. A croak escaped his lips. Blood oozed through the left side of his coat. Roark took in the location of the wound—a heart shot. The shooter had mere seconds to live. “Who are you? Who sent you?”
Once more he groaned and blinked twice. His chest lay still, not rising any longer.
Roark felt the man’s neck—no pulse. He let out a sigh, then reached into the man’s coat pockets. His fingers wrapped around cold metal. He yanked his hand out, pulling a SAT phone free. No wallet, no driver’s license, no form of identification. Nothing but the phone and bullets.
“Roark!” Brannon’s cry filled him with dread.
Without a backward glance, Roark rushed to the embankment and scrambled down to the valley bed.
TEN
