by Robin Caroll
Zimp fell over into the trunk.
Warren checked the backseat. Sure enough, two large plastic cups littered the floorboard. He grabbed them, then popped the hood. He cut the fuel line, draining gasoline into the cups. When they were filled, Warren set them aside, then laid the fuel line over the engine, letting gasoline flow over.
He took the cups and saturated Zimp’s body and the trunk with gasoline. He took a match from his pocket, struck it, and threw the match into the trunk before closing it. Next, he tossed a lit match under the hood and shut it. Finally, he lit two of the fast-food bags in the backseat.
As the car lit up in flames, Warren smiled. Then sighed. He’d have to walk back home.
Oh, well . . . some things were worth the effort.
Wednesday, 9:35 p.m.
Abrams Creek Ranger Station
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
THE FRONT DOOR CRASHED open.
Brannon stood and took aim at the bulk filling the doorway. He swung, pointing his gun at her. She squeezed the trigger. Again. And again.
The man fell facedown on the wood floor.
Her palm cramped around the butt of her Sig.
“Brannon!”
Suddenly her handgun weighed heavy in her hand. “Roark?” She lowered her weapon to her side.
Roark rushed to the doorway, halting as he spied the man on the floor. He kept his gun ready as he felt the man’s neck. “Somebody hit the lights.” The station washed in light. Roark jerked up his head. “Brannon.” He stepped over the body and hurried to her side. He drew her into his arms, teasing her temple with feather kisses. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Lincoln’s shot.” While his arms made her feel safe and secure, she had to get Lincoln to the hospital. Now. She moved out of his embrace. “I’ll fly Lincoln to the hospital. It’s quickest.”
Roark nodded at the man lying in the doorway. “He’s dead. There’s another shooter getting away on an ATV. I’m going after him.”
Was it smart to run after someone with a gun? He was a marshal, not an FBI agent.
Steve handed Roark a key. “Take the four-wheeler out back. You’ll never catch him on foot. The authorities have already been called.”
“Thanks.” Roark met her gaze. “I’ll get ’em.” Roark placed a hard kiss on her mouth. “I promise.”
Her heart fluttered, despite the circumstances. “Be careful.”
He ran from the station, Beretta in hand. Fear for his safety nearly had her chasing after him. But she had to take care of Lincoln.
She’d never felt so torn before. She’d gone into the professions she had so she could save people. What if something happened to Roark? Brannon didn’t know if she could handle losing him.
Father, please watch over Roark. Keep him safe. Bring him back to me. Please.
Jefferson ran inside. “Everybody okay?”
Brannon rushed to the hallway. “Lincoln’s hit. In the knee. He’s lost a lot of blood. I’m taking him to the hospital.”
“I’ll pilot,” Jefferson said.
“No, I’ll do it.” No way would she not fly her best friend to the hospital.
The two girls were backed against the door to her living quarters, both trembling and crying. “Shh. It’ll be okay.”
“Who are they?” Jefferson asked.
“Fill you in later. Right now, we need to leave.”
Lincoln lay unconscious again but with a pulse. Weaker than before but still detectable.
“Let me get him.” Jefferson moved beside Lincoln and nodded at her ankle. “Despite what you think, you’re still injured.”
“Let’s get him into the helicopter.” Steve helped Jefferson lift Lincoln.
Brannon rushed to the aircraft and did a quick preflight. In minutes Lincoln was secure in the backseat, she in the pilot’s seat, and Jefferson ready in the copilot’s chair. She smiled at Steve. “Take care of the girls until I get back.”
“Will do.”
She maneuvered the controls, and in seconds the helicopter was airborne. She radioed ATC, then patched to the hospital. Once she’d given as many details as she could, she clicked off the comm.
“Want to tell me about those girls back at the station?”
“As soon as Lincoln’s at the hospital, okay?”
Jefferson nodded, then glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, buddy. You’re gonna be fine. We’re taking you to the hospital in Sevierville. Will take us less than ten minutes to get there.” He caught Brannon’s eye. “He’s coming to.”
“Hey, Linc. About five more minutes, and we’ll land.”
“What?” Jefferson undid his harness and slipped into the backseat. “I can’t hear you.” He leaned over Lincoln’s head.
“Uh, okay.” Jefferson slipped back into the copilot’s seat.
“What’d he say?”
“I hope I remember this right. He said to tell you, ‘But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings. And you will go out and leap like calves released from the stall.’”
Brannon smiled and glanced over her shoulder at her partner. “You’ll be fine, Lincoln. You’ll be leaping soon enough.”
Wednesday, 9:37 p.m.
Woods North of Abrams Creek Ranger Station
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
ROARK KILLED THE FOUR-WHEELER’S engine. He trained his ears to pick up the other ATV’s location. Over the cold silence of night, the distant hum came. Up and to the left.
He turned the key, the Polaris hummed to life, then he sped in that direction. He’d catch this other shooter. Get answers as to why they fired on Brannon’s station.
She’d shot and killed that man. Not that he wasn’t glad—he was ecstatic she was safe—but he’d never pictured her killing someone.
Yet she was trained to do so.
He raced over rocks and bumps, pushing the four-wheeler as fast as it would go. His mind kept going back to Brannon.
Never in his life had his heart ached as much as when he’d seen the man bust open the door and fire, knowing Brannon was inside. What did that mean?
She’d stolen his heart.
And she was safe.
Okay, God. I’m a man of my word. You kept her safe. Forgive me for being so angry with You. I want to follow Christ. Change me, God, to be the man You want me to be. Amen.
Ahead, he could make out the outline of the ATV. The rider didn’t seem to realize he was being followed. Roark pulled his Beretta out, targeting the vehicle’s back tires. He accelerated to get closer, steadied his aim, and pulled the trigger.
The vehicle fishtailed, then flipped.
Roark jerked to a stop and hopped off the four-wheeler. Keeping his gun ready, he approached the person lodged under the overturned ATV. The shooter was a woman. A nine millimeter lay on the ground beside her and the ATV. “Don’t move.”
Her sobs brought him up short.
“Help me. I can’t breathe.”
He dared not holster his Beretta, in case she had another handgun. But he couldn’t leave her trapped. He needed to take her in. Find out what her story was.
Passing his gun to his left hand, Roark rocked the ATV back right side up. He pointed the gun at the woman. “Get up.”
She coughed, rolling over onto her hands and knees.
“Get up slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
She stood, still coughing. “Who are you?”
“US Marshals and you’re under arrest for attempted murder.”
THIRTY
Wednesday, 10:45 p.m.
Fort Sanders Sevier Medical Center
Sevierville, Tennessee
“SURGERY?” BRANNON COULDN’T BELIEVE Lincoln needed surger
y. Her heart clenched, and she glanced at Jefferson.
Dr. Miller nodded. “Both the femoral component and the patella are shattered, as well as the damage sustained to the femur. We’ll have to perform a total knee reconstruction and replacement. It’ll take about three to four hours.”
“Three hours?” Her nerves bunched.
“Three to four, yes, ma’am.”
“He’s a park ranger. Will he be able to walk?”
“Walk, most probably. Climbing like rangers do?—depends. I make no promises or guarantees.” Dr. Miller adjusted her watch. “He’ll have months of physical therapy after the surgery, but he should graduate to walking without a cane.”
Lincoln, with a cane? Tears burned Brannon’s eyes.
The surgeon gazed about the waiting room. “Why don’t you get something to eat, call somebody or something? There’s nothing you can do. You can go up to the surgical waiting room around the time he gets out of surgery. I’ll talk to you after the surgery.”
“Th-thank you.” Brannon released Jefferson’s hand and pawed at the tears as the doctor strode down the hall. “I’m going to check in with Steve.” Her voice was thick with the words she wouldn’t voice. She withdrew her cell and dialed the station’s number. It rang six times before she closed her phone.
Jefferson gave her a questioning look.
“Phone’s still down.” And she hadn’t heard from Roark, either. Had he returned the four-wheeler? Did he get the other shooter? Was he okay?
“Why don’t I head back to the station? Check on Steve and those girls. Find out what’s happened.”
But the girls . . . “Mai and Kanya don’t know you. They’re scared of men. I’m worried how they’re faring with Steve as it is. You’d terrify them.” She smiled. “No offense.”
He grinned back. “None taken. How’s your ankle?”
“Fine.” She rotated it as an example. Only a little twinge burned.
“So you go and I’ll stay here.”
“I can’t leave Lincoln. He’s my partner. He’s like family.” What about his career?
Jefferson rested his hand on her shoulder. “You heard the doctor—this’ll take about four hours. It’s a short flight to the station.”
She couldn’t leave Lincoln here, could she? But what about the girls? Steve? Roark?
“Look, I’ll call your cell if anything happens.” Jefferson held up the Boy Scout fingers. “I promise.”
Lincoln would demand answers when he came out of surgery. The surgery that might cost him his career. Brannon chewed at the thick skin beside her nail. Just being on crutches for a couple of days had driven her up the wall. A long regimen of physical therapy . . . She couldn’t imagine.
“Brannon, go. You can’t do anything here. You’ll be back before he comes out of surgery.”
“Okay. You call me if there’s any news. Anything at all.”
“I will.”
She ran her hands over her jeans. “I’ll be back as soon as I check on everything.”
Her steps were like sludge as she made her way to the helipad. How could she leave her partner? Lincoln had never left her side when Wade died. Even when she tried to force him to leave, he dug in his heels and stayed. Pulled her out of the pit of depression. Gave her hope and restored her faith.
She hesitated before climbing into the helicopter. Could she leave Lincoln in surgery, not knowing if he’d be okay?
“And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up. . . . The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.”
Brannon smiled. James 5:15–16—very powerful Scriptures Lincoln had encouraged her to memorize when she’d lost Wade. The power of God’s Word washed over her, and she bowed her head and prayed for the man she loved like a brother.
Heart not as heavy, she lifted the bird in the air and turned toward the ranger station. Home. Her mind drifted to Roark. Was he okay? What if he’d been shot and left for dead?
Twelve minutes later Brannon touched the skids to the helipad at Abrams Creek. Flashing lights atop cars lit up the night. She completed her postflight duties, then rushed to the door. She paused at the threshold.
A tape outline of the man she’d shot stopped her cold.
She’d killed a man. A human. A child of God.
Tears swam in her eyes, blurring her vision. She’d never killed someone before. Oh, Father, forgive me. She knew He did—she’d had no choice as the man would’ve killed them all—but remorse shook her hands.
“Brannon.”
She glanced at the officers and agents swarming the station. Men and women filled the room to capacity. Steve sat on the couch with Mai and Kanya, their eyes wide as they took in all the commotion. Brannon crossed the room and knelt before them. “Hi, girls. How are you?”
“Okay,” Mai said.
Brannon smiled. They were okay because she’d protected them. The fact did little to ease her conscience.
“How’s Lincoln?” Steve asked.
She sobered. “In surgery. His knee needs reconstruction and replacement.”
Steve grimaced, rubbing his knee. “Doesn’t sound good.”
“No.” Brannon swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. “Have you heard from Roark?”
Steve nodded. “He brought the four-wheeler back. Arrested the other shooter and took her in for questioning. Left with two FBI agents.”
“Her?”
“Yeah. Shocker, huh?”
What in tarnation? She ignored the voices and sounds of the people around them, focusing on her supervisor. “Did Roark see Mai and Kanya?”
“No. He didn’t even come inside. Told me to wait here and one of the agents would take my statement.”
So he didn’t know. She stood and squared her shoulders, running her gaze over the room. “Who’s in charge?”
No one answered. No one even stopped and looked at her.
She tried again, this time raising her voice. “Who’s in charge?”
One of the men in an FBI coat moved to her. “I am. Special Agent Greg Daly. And you are?”
“Remember me, Ranger Brannon Callahan?”
“Right.” He shouted out for two of his men to take some more photographs, disinterested in the conversation with her. “We’ll need your statement as well. Give us a few minutes, and we’ll take you in.”
“No.”
He stopped and glared at her. “Excuse me?”
“No, I won’t wait a few minutes. I have crucial witnesses in an ongoing investigation. I need to speak to US Marshal Roark Holland.”
“Lady, he’s at the courthouse with a suspect. You’ll have to wait.” Mr. Special Agent in Charge spun and barked orders to those milling about.
Wait? Not hardly. She gestured to Steve. “Get them some coats.”
“But he said to wa—” Steve must have seen something in her expression because he shoved to his feet.
“He’s wrong. Roark needs to talk with Mai and Kanya now.”
“You’ll never get the Jeep out of here. Did you see all the cars and lights?” He reached for coats anyway.
“I have no intention of driving out of here. I’m going to fly them out.”
“Brannon, I don—”
She grabbed the coats from him and eased them onto the girls. “Trust me, Roark needs to talk to them. It’s critical to their investigation.”
“But—”
“It’s okay, Steve. I’ll call Roark on his cell now. Will that make you happy?”
“Yes.”
She pulled out her cell and dialed Roark’s number. It rang once. Twice.
“Brannon, are you okay? How’s Lincoln?”
“I’m fine. Lincoln’s in surgery. Listen, I need you to meet me at
the landing site by the courthouse in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m kind of in the middle of an interrogation right now.”
“Trust me, you’ll understand. I’m bringing you two witnesses.” She glanced at Mai and Kanya, not wanting to alarm them more than necessary.
“Witnesses?”
“Two young witnesses.”
“Are you saying—?”
“Yes. Will you meet us at the roof in fifteen minutes?”
“I’ll be there.”
Wednesday, 11:10 p.m.
Downtown Area
Knoxville, Tennessee
BRANNON HAD FOUND SOME of the trafficked kids. Roark dared to hope for more. Had she isolated the location?
He lifted his collar as the helicopter approached. Brannon Callahan was one unique lady. And almost losing her had made him realize how much he cared about her. He forced his thoughts to the case. The kids. The job.
As graceful as a machine could be, the helicopter touched down on concrete. The deafening roar of the rotors dulled, then faded away. The pilot’s door opened, and Brannon filled his vision. His heart caught and wouldn’t let go.
She ran to the other side of the aircraft and opened the door. In the lights on the roof, he couldn’t quite make out who she helped from the passenger side. He waited as she approached. Her silhouette moved beside two smaller ones. Young girls.
His gut knotted as they drew close enough for him to estimate their age. Barely in their teens.
Children. Asian.
The two girls clung to Brannon as if she were their lifeline. She flashed him a shaky smile. “Roark, these are my new friends, Mai and Kanya.” She wrapped her arms around each of the girls’ shoulders. “Girls, this is my good friend, Roark. He’s been looking for you.”
The girl she’d gestured as Mai looked up at her. “For us?”
Brannon nodded. “To help you and the other girls.”
