by Robin Caroll
Praise for Deliver Us from Evil
The kind of novel “Ripped from the headlines” was meant to describe. Compelling.
—James Scott Bell, best-selling author of
Try Fear and Deceived
To say Deliver Us from Evil was a riveting read is an understatement. Caroll’s new book is the perfect blend of romance and suspense! Highly recommended!
—Colleen Coble, author of The Lightkeeper’s Daughter
With great plot twists, strong characters, and just the right amount of romance, Deliver Us from Evil is a high-octane, must read! Robin Caroll nailed the gritty, tough world of law enforcement and brought to light the tragedy of human trafficking in this powerful novel.
—Mark Mynheir, homicide detective and author of
The Night Watchman
In Deliver Us from Evil, Robin Caroll has done what most novelists fail to do. She has discovered the holy grail of fiction; she has found the truth.
—Brandt Dodson, author of Daniel’s Den
Deliver Us from Evil is packed with plenty of action and adventure to keep the pages turning. But Robin Caroll goes beyond the typical expectations of the genre to bring attention to one of the most devastating crises of our generation. Well done.
—Rene Gutteridge, author of Ghost Writer
Robin Caroll hits it out of the park with this thrilling new novel. Deliver Us from Evil picks you up on page one and takes you on a ride you’ll love page after page. And when all is said and done, you’ll want to read it again just for the pure pleasure of wonderful storytelling. Can’t wait for the next novel from this author. A must read!!
—Wanda Dyson, best-selling author of Shepherd’s Fall
Copyright © 2010 by Robin Caroll
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-0-8054-4980-8
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: RESCUE WORK—FICTION CHILD ABUSE—FICTION GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK (TN)—FICTION
Scripture quotations or paraphrases are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
To Case . . .
You’re my William Wallace and Maximus Decimus Meridius rolled into one amazing man. I thank the Father for you in my life every day.
Love always, RC
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Reader's Guide
Online & Print Sources
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AS MANY AUTHORS DO, I’ve taken great liberties with facts where needed to suit my plot. These instances are intentional and in no way reflect on the information provided by the many who shared knowledge and information with me.
Special thanks to Chuck Justice for his flight detail information and for enduring my endless questions regarding Life Flight policies and procedures. These men and women who work in this field simply amaze me with their dedication and knowledge. May God bless you one and all.
My most heartfelt gratitude to my medical professional sources: my cousin Dr. Shannon Wahl, my neighbor Dr. Skipper Bertrand, and Deborah Gilbert (and the ladies who put me in touch with her—Leslie Pfeil and Crystal Bencken). Thank you so much for sharing your knowledge of the intricacies of the human body and leading me into the research of drugs I still can’t pronounce.
The careers I chose for my characters are noble and full of valor, but I hadn’t a clue as to the enormity of what these people deal with on a daily basis. Their dedication and knowledge awes me. Special thanks to those who provided me with facts, gave the basic layout of the Great Smoky Mountain ranger stations, and shared with me a little about ranger life: Bob Miller, Management Assistant, Great Smoky Mountains National Park; Bill Wright, Chief Ranger, Great Smoky Mountains National Park; and Ranger Roy Appugliese, Abrams Creek Ranger Station/Cades Cove District, Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Thanks to David Turner with the US Marshals Public Affairs Office; Steve Bius, chief, Training Management Division, US Marshals; and the men employed by the Marshal Services at the federal courthouse in Little Rock. Thank you to the US Coast Guard Admissions Office.
Many thanks to the members of ACFW who helped me with details of certain injuries—I so appreciate you sharing your painful experiences with me.
Heartfelt thanks to my awesome first readers who provided me with such detailed feedback: Lisa Burroughs, Krystina Harden, Tracey Justice, Ronie Kendig, Dineen Miller, Cara Putman, and Heather Diane Tipton. I couldn’t do this without you!
Special thanks to agent, Kelly Mortimer, who believed in me from the beginning and always has my best interest at heart!
I wouldn’t have stuck with writing if it weren’t for my mentor and friend, Colleen Coble. Lady, you inspire me.
Camy Tang, Pamela James, Cheryl Wyatt—you ladies rock, and I’m so grateful I have you to share this journey with.
Thanks beyond compare to Karen Ball for believing in this project and letting me grow. Deepest thanks to Julee Schwarzburg, who gave me the exact editing I needed. You ladies are true gems.
Huge thanks to my family, who support and encourage me in ways I can’t even begin to describe: Mom and Papa, BB and Robert, Bek and Krys, Bubba and Lisa, Brandon and Rachel, Willie and Connie, Bob and Linda Casteel, Scotty and Jan Casteel, and Kasi, Laci, and Cody.
Special acknowledgment to my grandmother, Una Abi Brannon Shannon, for instilling in me such a deep and great love for the written word and letting me borrow her maiden name for my spunky character.
My deepest gratitude to my children—Emily, Remington, and Isabella—I love you girls more than life itself, and I’m so blessed to have you in my life.
Finally, all glory to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
But what does it say? “The word is near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart,” that is, the word of faith we are proclaiming: That if you confess with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
—ROMANS 10:8–9
/> PROLOGUE
WHERE WAS BACKUP?
Roark Holland squinted past the harsh streetlight glare to the vehicle that had arrived only minutes ago. A van parked in a darkened part of the street. At the curb of the old building housing the Pugsley family in Witness Protection. The family that Roark needed to move to another safe house.
The Pugsleys’ cover had been blown. With their whereabouts known, their enemy would seek the total annihilation of anyone who could identify them, namely Mr. Pugsley.
Roark glanced in his rearview mirror. Still no team.
A light flipped on inside the van, just for a fraction of a second. But in that heartbeat Roark took in the black jackets. The guns.
Grabbing his Beretta 98 in one hand, he pressed the transmit button on his radio with his other. “Demott, we have movement on the street. Where’s my backup?” He wasn’t prepared to go in alone—no tactical equipment, no comm, no extra ammo.
“Stay put, Holland. Team’s ETA, less than five minutes.”
The van door slid open.
“No time to wait. I’m going in.” Roark’s grip tightened on the Beretta.
Three men, decked out in black, stepped onto the road.
“Wait, Holland. Don’t go in without backup. That’s an order.”
But he could control the situation. “There’s three of them. No time.” Roark turned off the radio and slipped it into his coat pocket, eased open the door, and stepped onto the pavement.
The men circled toward the back of the brownstone building.
Roark ignored the pounding of his heart as he crept to the front door. He used the key he’d been given and pushed inside. He knew the layout—had studied it for just such a scenario—and headed to the staircase.
He moved lightly but fast, his steps tapping against the metal stairs. He passed the second-floor landing and kept climbing.
A steady hum echoed off the concrete walls of the enclosed staircase. The elevator? Roark picked up speed as he moved up from the third-floor entry. The thud of his footsteps rose.
Ding!
He froze at the door to the fourth-floor hall and inched it open. The elevator doors parted with the speed of a snail. Through the crack he counted all three men emerging from the elevator car. The center man pointed toward one end of the hall, then the opposite. The other two nodded and moved toward their respective ends.
Good. They didn’t know which apartment was the Pugsley unit.
He turned on his radio. “Demott, where in tarnation is my backup? If I don’t move, Pugsley’s dead.”
“Wait. Marshals are en route. Don’t move in.”
Roark shook his head and turned off the radio. Don’t move in? Five more minutes and the family would be taken out. He couldn’t wait. Wouldn’t. He steadied the barrel of the Beretta through the crack. Roark put the leader in his sights, drew a deep breath, then squeezed the trigger.
The man fell into a heap on the ground, a hand against the widening red spot on his chest. Guns at the ready, the other men ran toward their fallen comrade. Roark shut the door and took slow, steady breaths. He’d have to take them out in quick succession. He tensed, then relaxed his arm and leg muscles, turned toward the door, and gripped the knob in his left hand.
Pop, pop-pop-pop!
Roark flattened himself against the wall as the barrage of bullets slammed into the door.
Silence echoed in the aftermath. Where was his backup?
Roark held his breath. One . . . two . . . three—he opened the door and stepped through, his gun out and finger in the trigger well.
Nothing. Only the dead man in the center of the hall.
Roark spanned right, then left. No sign of either man.
Then he noticed the open door to the Pugsley apartment.
Pop! Pop!
Adrenaline surging into his legs, Roark pushed through the doorway, his firearm extended. Mrs. Pugsley lay dead at his feet. A fatal shot into the neck. Roark felt for a pulse, just to be sure. No thrumming under his fingers.
He stood and cross-stepped around the living room. Timmy, the Pugsleys’ nine-year-old son, was draped over the back of a couch, a crumpled bag of Cheetos still in his hand.
Bile scorched the back of Roark’s throat. He swallowed and kept moving down the hallway, two members of the Pugsley family still unaccounted for—Mr. Pugsley and his six-year-old daughter, Mindy.
Muffled voices reached him. Angry, hard voices. And a masculine response, whiny. Begging. Pleading.
Roark crept along the corridor, pressing his back against the wall and holding his gun at the ready. He paused at a doorway and listened. The voices were too muffled to be coming from this room. He spun across the threshold. Maybe a connecting closet would allow him to sneak up on the men.
White lace curtains fluttered beside a froufrou canopy bed. Mindy’s room. Roark checked out the window that faced the street. No sign of an unmarked car. Why hadn’t backup arrived on-scene? He peered into the open closet. No sign of the child. Could she be with her father? Were the men using her to torture Pugsley? He had to be sure.
Roark crouched and lifted the bed skirt. He met the stare of a tear-filled, wide-eyed little girl with blonde hair.
He lowered the gun and reached for her. Thank goodness he’d met the child on previous occasions so she recognized him. He pulled her from under the bed and stood, holding her in his arms. Her little body shook as she sobbed in silence against his neck. Roark’s throat tightened.
He’d get Mindy to safety, then return to take care of the shooters. And maybe, just maybe, have time enough to save Mr. Pugsley.
Poking his head into the hallway, he ensured all was clear, then made fast tracks to the front door. He stood in the corridor, clutching little Mindy. Where could he put her? Someplace safe but close.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Mindy turned her head free of his neck. “Daddddddy!” Her sob bounced off the hallway walls, reverberating.
Running steps thudded from inside the apartment. No time to hide. No time to think.
Ding!
Roark plunged into the elevator just as the men cleared the apartment. He lowered Mindy to the ground and fired as the men appeared. The doors closed. He slunk to the ground, his breathing coming in bursts.
They would take the stairs and wait for them. Roark couldn’t let them hurt this little girl any more. They’d already stolen her family.
He jabbed the emergency stop button between floors two and three. Think. He needed to figure something out. Checking his coat pocket, he calculated how much ammo he had left. Enough to take care of those two, that was for sure, but not with Mindy as a target. He turned on his radio. “Demott, Pugsley family all taken out except for the little girl. I have her. Is backup here?”
No response except static. He tried again, still no response. He pocketed the useless radio. Had to think. Had to find a way out.
Mindy hunched over and cried harder.
He stroked her tear-stained face. “Shh, honey. It’ll be okay. I’m not gonna let them hurt you.”
She continued sobbing, huddling in the corner. His heart ripped in two.
Had his backup arrived yet? Why didn’t he hear gunshots exploding around them? He had no doubt the shooters waited on them. They wouldn’t leave . . . not with Mindy as a witness.
He stood, closing his eyes. God, help me out of here.
His eyes popped open, and he stared at the emergency hatch at the top of the elevator. Maybe . . . maybe he could get back onto the third floor that way, and the shooters wouldn’t know where they were. Sure, they’d eventually figure it out, but by then backup would be on-site.
Dare I risk it without a team in place?
Mindy’s breathing hiccupped. Roark didn’t have a choice. He had to move now.
> He lifted the end of his Beretta, then jumped and pushed open the hatch. He holstered his weapon, then reached for Mindy. “Come on, sweetie. We’re going out.”
She clung to Roark but didn’t speak. Shock. He lifted her into the open space of the shaft. “That’s right. Just climb up there and sit down. I’ll help you.”
Her feet disappeared. The elevator shook. Mindy cried out. Were they trying to bypass the emergency stop?
Roark took a deep breath and leapt, gripping the edge of the hatch tight. Using his upper-body strength, he pulled himself into the shaft.
Metal scraping sounded from above, but Roark couldn’t make out anything in the darkness.
“Mister, I’m scared.” Little Mindy sat huddled against the cables.
He closed the hatch door and grabbed her to him, taking in his surroundings. The ladder. Had to be one around somewhere—all shafts had one. “We’ll be fine. We just have to find a way out.”
The car shuddered, then groaned.
She sobbed harder, pressing her wet face against his. “I don’t like it here. It’s dark and scary.”
“I know, honey. I know.” He needed to figure something out, and quick. His gaze bounced off the walls. There, near the right corner . . . the metal rungs. He lowered her to the cold metal.
More scraping echoed in the shaft. Mindy’s sobs intensified. The car jerked. He lost his balance, then grabbed the cables to steady himself.
“Hang on, Mindy. I think I’ve found our way out.” He picked his steps as he moved away from her to the built-in ladder.
He reached the rung, grabbed it, and yanked. It held. Yes! He turned back to Mindy. “We’re gonna be—”
The elevator hummed. The car jerked again, harder. Then, with a snap, it began to descend. Fast. Free-falling. Roark’s grip tightened on the rung.