by Robin Caroll
“Good, good.” Warren pressed his lips together, his mind flipping through a mountain of options. “Where is Demott?”
“He’s assembling his team so they can debrief his man and the others in the helicopter as soon as they land.”
“I see. Where?”
“The chief of surgery has offered them his personal office and conference area.”
Warren smoothed his suit jacket, lifted his coat from the back of the plain loveseat, and strode toward the door. He barked orders over his shoulder, not bothering to look at his aide. “Take me there. I need to be present at the debriefing.”
Kevin dogged his heels. “Sir, they say only authorized members of the law enforcement team are allowed.”
Warren jerked to a stop in the hallway, turned, and glared at Kevin. They were definitely trying to hide something. Enough of this runaround nonsense. He intended to find out what was going on. “We’ll see about that. Authorized members, indeed.”
His shoes squeaked on the polished tile floor, his long stride causing his feet to beat out a smooth and steady cadence. As he punched the elevator button and waited, a black cloud settled over him. He had to get into that debriefing. Find out what the marshal in the field knew.
Not waiting for the elevator doors to open all the way, Warren pushed inside and jabbed the button for the fourth floor. He stretched his neck from side to side, then straightened his suit jacket. Only authorized members of law enforcement allowed in the meeting? Who did they think they were? Didn’t these idiots realize it was Congress who voted on their agency budgets? He’d remind them. Rule number eight—always throw out your trump card when necessary.
Good thing he happened to be a master poker player.
He stepped out of the elevator and waited for Kevin to lead the way. Warren followed, his mind already tripping over the demands he’d have to make to get into their little meeting. Yes, get inside he would.
Coming to a halt, Kevin nodded toward a closed door. “They’re in there.” The nervous little man looked as if he’d wring his hands at any moment.
Warren puffed out his chest, winked at his impressionable aide, then barged into the room. He paused for a moment, taking in the people milling about.
Agents from the US Marshals, CIA, and FBI stared as he entered the cramped room, then slammed the door behind him. Demott moved from behind the desk, a grimace on his face. “You can’t be in here, Congressman.”
“And just why not?” Warren wagged his finger through the air, keeping his tone even. “In case you’ve forgotten, Gerald, I sit on the Coalition Against Child Trafficking Committee, consulting with the Justice Department. I’m more than authorized to attend this meeting.”
“It’s not just a meeting, Congressman. It’s a debriefing. I’m sorry, but the US Marshal Services don’t allow nonlaw-enforcement members present during debriefings.” Demott shrugged, wearing a smirk. “Company policy.”
Blood pressure shooting into the red, Warren glared at the man. He hadn’t liked Gerald Demott before this whole incident—he liked him even less now. “I think the guidelines of your procedures can be bent this time. Considering who I am and the extenuating circumstances.”
Demott shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir.” His eyes danced as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Policy and rules still apply, no matter what the circumstances.”
Warren opened his mouth to argue, then noticed the silence thickening the air. Every pair of eyes were glued to him, as if they all wanted to know which man would back down.
Rule number nine—if you can’t win the battle outright, at least leave the impression you can, and will, win the war. “I see. I’ll have to contact the Justice Department as well as the US Attorney’s office in this matter. I’ll see you soon.” He spun, turning on his heel, and strode from the room before Demott could respond.
Outside in the hall Kevin lifted his head. “Well?”
“Shut up, Kevin.” He fisted his hands, tightening the muscles in his arms. The Colonel would be ashamed of Warren. “And get me Justice on the phone.”
Saturday, 5:10 p.m.
Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee
MAI SHOVED THE CAN of diet soda as hard as she could into the hole of the mattress. It hit against tin, refusing to go in any farther—the end of it poked out of the fabric. She pulled the can free and stuck her hand in the hole. With all her might, Mai pushed the existing can farther into the hole, garnering an inch or so of play. She shoved the last can inside, then replaced the tattered sheet before standing.
The door creaked open, causing her to jump and spin around.
Kanya slipped into the room and handed Mai a disposable lighter and a crushed candy bar. “Here.”
Taking the items, she stared into her friend’s face. Tears streaked down Kanya’s made-up face. Did it really matter to the men who visited what they looked like? Mai could not help but think not. All the men cared about was . . . well, she refused to think about that. She touched Kanya’s arm and spoke in Thai. “Are you okay?”
“I hate America.” Kanya sniffed, her eyes puffy and bloodshot from all the crying she had been doing. She had to stop—Madam Nancy would have one of her boys come teach Kanya a lesson if she continued. It had happened to another girl last night.
“Not much longer.” Mai could barely keep the excitement from her voice as she counted their stolen bounty. “We need to tear another hole in the other side of the mattress—this one is full.”
“Knowing we will escape is the only thing that makes life here bearable.”
Kanya’s depressed tone concerned Mai. Deeply. Tossing her friend an understanding look, Mai moved to the opposite side of the mattress. “Keep watch and make sure nobody comes in.”
Mai removed the barrette from her hair, pried it open, and knelt. Using the rough edge of the hairpiece, she gnawed at the soft edge, ripping a hole. Once the opening was made, she stuck her hand inside and yanked out stuffing, hollowing it out as best she could.
“Someone is coming!” Kanya leaned against the door, her ear pressed close to the wood. “Hurry.”
Heart pounding, Mai shoved the lighter and candy into the hole, jerked the sheet tight, and jumped to her feet. She pushed the barrette into her hair and clicked it closed.
Kanya scrambled away from the door just as it swung open, hitting the thin wall. The resounding clatter echoed in the room.
Madam Nancy stood in the threshold, her hands planted on her ample hips. “What are you doing hiding in here?” She grabbed Kanya’s arm, shaking her. “I have customers lined up and waiting. Get yor bottom out there.”
Kanya stumbled as she crossed the doorway. Mai moved forward, only to have Madam Nancy grab her upper arm and jerk her backward. Her pudgy fingers dug into the bony flesh, squeezing until Mai winced. “What were you girls doing in here?”
“W-w-we had to wash up.”
Madam Nancy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you lie to me, or you will regret it.”
“N-no, ma’am. I am not lying. We really were messy and needed to clean up before we came to find you.”
The brawny woman glared down at her for a long moment. Then she huffed and let loose of Mai’s arm, shoving her toward the door. “Then get on out there. Time is money and yor wastin’ mine.”
The knots in Mai’s stomach loosened a bit as she staggered into the hall on what felt like boneless knees. Just a little longer.
Soon she would be in control of her life again.
Saturday, 5:18 p.m.
Knoxville, Tennessee Airspace
ROARK STARED AT BRANNON. She’d remained quiet through the flight, her eyes narrowed as she stared into the dim and cold night. How could the woman look so enticing without even trying? Shaking his head to remove the random thoughts, Roark questioned his mental state. He must’ve inhaled too many fuel
fumes in the crash. His thoughts and emotions wouldn’t behave—they seemed drawn to Brannon at the worst possible times. Like now.
The helicopter shifted with no jerks or abrupt jarring. “There’s the hospital’s landing pad.” The National Guard pilot gave a curt nod toward a rooftop.
Bright lights shot through the darkened sky—some blinking yellow, some steady red. The entire roof glowed with a halo-type effect, casting a surreal feel to the situation.
Roark sucked in a deep breath as the helicopter pitched forward and dropped altitude. He pinched his eyes shut for just a fraction of a second, felt a gentle rocking motion, then heard Brannon’s steady voice over the weakening hum of the engines. “We’re here.”
Lincoln pushed open the door. A team of men in paper surgical gowns stood at attention. Roark jumped from the helicopter, clutching the red cooler. The harsh glare of the spotlights burned his eyes. Brannon slipped from the seat. Roark gripped her elbow and helped her from the aircraft.
“Holland.”
Roark turned at the sound of his boss’s voice. He released Brannon and moved to shake Demott’s hand. His supervisor gripped his palm, then took the cooler from his other. “This needs to go to Dr. Rhoads now.”
The man in full surgical garb addressed him. “Can you remember when the last injection was given?”
Standing beside Brannon, just to the side of the helicopter, Lincoln answered. “Right about 7:15 a.m.”
Dr. Rhoads glanced at his watch, nodded, then handed the cooler to a woman decked out in scrubs. “Let’s go.” The medical team rushed into the staircase.
Roark stared at the cooler disappearing behind the door. Suddenly exhaustion overtook him and weariness zapped his energy. Mission accomplished. He let out a long sigh. No more innocent girls would be lost. No, he couldn’t bring Mindy back, but maybe this would ease the scars on his soul.
“Come on, Holland.” Demott clapped Roark’s shoulder, nearly knocking him to his knees. “We need to get you debriefed.”
“Yes, sir.” Roark faced Brannon and Lincoln. “You both need to come as well. We’ll need your statements.”
“Brannon needs to have her ankle and shoulder looked at first.” Lincoln’s stare met Roark’s, sending obvious warnings with his eyes.
Roark moved toward her, but Lincoln intercepted and wrapped his arm around her waist. “I’ll take her to Emergency. We know you have things to do.”
As if he’d been sucker punched, Roark took a step backward. Why the attitude from Lincoln? He took note of Brannon’s demeanor. Her face reflected pain not only in her expression but also in her eyes.
He glanced down at her ankle—the swelling had increased quite a bit, her skin puffed over her unlaced boot, a yellowish brown hue colored her flesh. A sinking sensation tightened in his gut, and he took another step toward her. “Brannon . . .”
Lincoln touched his shoulder. “You go. I’ll get her to Emergency.” The words were the same as before, but the ranger’s tone had softened.
Darting his attention from Lincoln to Brannon, Roark stood still, as if his feet had grown roots. Gerald gripped his arm. “We have to go, Holland.”
Roark hoped Brannon knew he’d rather make sure she was okay. “I’ll meet you in Emergency as soon as I’m done.”
She nodded. Her lips pressed so tight together they appeared white. Roark’s stomach plummeted to his toes. With a final nod he followed his boss into the staircase.
Yet everything inside him seemed to leave him and stay with Brannon.
Saturday, 5:25 p.m.
Parkwest Medical Center
Knoxville, Tennessee
BRANNON ALLOWED LINCOLN TO take most of her weight as she hobbled down the walkway of the landing pad. Boots clattering on the metal stairs echoed in the cement enclosure, grating through her eardrums. She gritted her teeth against the sound and the agony of her ankle.
“Here we go,” Lincoln said as the elevator opened to the floor marked EMERGENCY.
A line of sweat formed on her upper lip. She shot a puff of breath upward while Lincoln helped her through the steel door. A blast of warm air brushed across her face, drying out her eyes. She blinked against the heat as well as the bright lights from the bottom floor of the hospital. As they made their way to the emergency triage nurses’ station, the sour odor of sickness masked by disinfectant permeated the corridor.
Children wailed with hurt and discomfort. Brannon eased onto the nearest chair and gripped the knee of her injured leg. How had the pain intensified so quickly? Lincoln went to speak to the triage nurse on duty while she got her bearings.
Blood dripped from a long gash across a young man’s cheek. Angry welts decorated his face, yet he dared Brannon with his eyes to comment. She jerked her gaze to the next row of people in the waiting room. A little girl with blonde curls sticking to her face leaned against her mother’s chest. The child’s Caribbean-blue eyes drooped and her face was flushed. How long had this feverish child been waiting? Brannon glanced to the mother’s face, taking in the etched lines of worry and concern.
Twisting in her chair to see Lincoln ambling toward her, Brannon nodded toward the mother and child. “That child needs help now, Lincoln. She’s burning up with fever,” she whispered as he hunched down beside her.
“They’re really backed up right now and having to screen everyone coming in.”
“Why?”
“Because of all the media hype about the heart. Before they move patients into Admitting, hospital officials need to make sure each case is genuine.”
“That child is sick. Look at her—a child can’t fake that pitiful look.”
He stood. “Let me talk to the triage nurse and see what I can do, okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes locked on the mother’s blank stare, then traveled down to the child’s. The little girl stuck her pointer finger in her mouth, her little rosy lips puckering as she soothed herself.
“They’re going to take her back next.” Lincoln laid a hand on her shoulder. “The pediatrician on call is en route.”
Brannon smiled.
“But they’re ready for you now. Come on.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and hoisted her to her feet.
Bursts of pain shot up her leg. White dots danced before her eyes. She swayed as the room shifted around her. Lincoln gripped her arm, steadying her. She pressed her lips together until her equilibrium returned, then nodded to him. With all the speed of a snail, they made their way back to the examining rooms.
Her shoulder was treated against infection and bandaged, then Brannon endured having her ankle x-rayed. Before long, she sat back in her examining room, the doctor tsking as he reviewed her films.
“Your ankle is sprained, and you’ve done additional harm by putting pressure on it after the injury.” His young eyes flickered with annoyance. “What were you thinking?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe that I needed to get out of there and deliver the heart?” She blew out the words in a huffed breath, then inhaled.
His shaggy brows crumpled into a unibrow as he bent down to finish wrapping her ankle. Brannon gnashed her teeth, another sarcastic remark burning her tongue. She lifted her finger and chewed at the cuticle.
“About done in here?” Lincoln moved from the doorway into the small examining room, leaning his hip against the counter.
She plucked her leg free from the doctor’s touch, then hopped down from the table. She wobbled a bit, grabbing on to Lincoln’s arm.
The doctor’s eyes widened as he pushed off the stool and stood. “Actually, you’ll need a pair of crutches.”
“I’m fine.”
A nurse sashayed into the room, carrying a set of aluminum crutches. “Here ya go, honey.”
Brannon jerked the offensive sticks from the too-perky nurse, jabbed the rubber-coated
tops under her armpits, and glared over at the doctor. Why couldn’t people understand she hated feeling defenseless?
The doctor raised his brows and shrugged. “The nurse will get you your discharge papers.” He took her chart and strode from the room.
Biting down on her lip, remorse filled Brannon. Maybe she’d been a little too snippy with the doctor, but couldn’t he see how helpless her injury had made her?
The nurse smiled. “Let me go get those discharge papers.”
Footsteps clattered in the hall outside the examining room. Pinpricks of awareness tickled the back of Brannon’s neck, sensing Roark’s presence before he marched into the room with the man he’d addressed as his boss.
Roark’s broad shoulders overshadowed the small space. And although seriousness etched his face, his dark eyes glimmered as he stared at her. “What’s the verdict on your ankle?”
“Fine.” She shifted, using the crutches to move an inch or so forward.
“Good.” His gaze caressed her face, sending spirals of heat across her cheeks.
The other man cleared his throat. “We really need to debrief you both.” His nod included both Brannon and Lincoln. “We have the use of a couple conference rooms—will you join us?”
Brannon maneuvered the crutches to follow the red-haired man. “As if we had a choice,” she mumbled under her breath. Lincoln touched her shoulder. She refused to meet his gaze, knowing she’d see a silent warning. Instead, she pressed her lips together and hobbled after Roark’s boss.
The hallway floor, recently polished, provided little traction for the rubber tips of the crutches. She gripped the handles tighter, increasing her pace to keep up with the man in front of her. The crutch shifted. Brannon swayed, stepping down on her injured leg for balance, and a jolt of pain shot up her leg. She let go of the crutches. A strong arm wrapped around her waist.
Lifting her eyes, she stared into Roark’s concerned face. She licked her lips. “Th-thanks.”
