by Robin Caroll
God, help us.
“Misterrrrr!”
The car shuddered and jerked, stopping as suddenly as it had descended. Roark breathed a heavy sigh and relaxed his grip. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m coming to you.”
Flames erupted, barreling up from the shaft. Engulfing the elevator . . .
“Help! Help!” Mindy’s big blue eyes reflected the bursting blaze. Her blonde hair sparkled beneath the flickering flames drawing closer to her. Closer. Nearer.
Roark dropped to the roof of the car. Heat and fire licked his face.
Mindy’s screams filled the shaft, clawing at his soul. Please, God, save her.
He reached for Mindy, but just then the cable snapped. The car slipped down into the darkened pit.
“Awwwww.” Her cries of pain seared him more than the fire.
Hot metal slapped him across his cheek and jaw. Pain radiated throughout his body. He fell to his knees.
Mindy screamed for him, cried out in pain, yelled. Why hadn’t he waited for backup? Better for the little girl to have died instantly by a bullet than burn to death in this fiery coffin.
White dots danced before his eyes. Darkness overtook him.
ONE
Tuesday, 3:30 p.m.
FBI Field Office
Knoxville, Tennessee
JONATHAN’S THROAT CLOSED AS he stared at the building from the parking lot. He gripped the package tight in his arthritic hands. Could he do this? Turn over evidence that would implicate him?
His heart raced and he froze. Not the best time for his atrial fibrillation to make an appearance. Despite being on the heart transplant list for eight months, it looked like his progressed heart disease would do him in. The most important reason he couldn’t go to prison—he’d never get a heart and would die. While Carmen wanted him to confess his crimes, she wouldn’t want him to die. The memory of saying good-bye to his beloved mere hours ago scorched his soul.
Her eyes fluttered open. Those blue orbs, which had once sparkled even in the absence of light, now blinked flat and lifeless.
He swallowed hard.
“Jonathan,” her voice croaked, “it’s time.”
Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and he rested his hand over her parchmentlike skin. “No, Carmen. Please, let me get the medicine.”
Her eyelids drooped and she gasped. Air wheezed in her lungs. “Sweetheart, the fight’s . . . gone from me.” She let out a hiss, faint and eerie. “The cancer’s . . . won.”
Jonathan laid his lips against her cheek, her skin cold and clammy, as if in preparation for the morgue. How could she continue to refuse the medicine? Even though she didn’t approve of his means of acquisition, the drugs had kept her alive for five years. Five years he cherished every minute of. He’d do anything to keep her alive and the pain at bay—the intense pain that had become her constant companion these last two weeks. It killed him to witness her agony.
She licked her bottom lip, but no moisture soaked into the cracked flesh. “You’ve done . . . your best by me, Jonathan. I know . . . you meant . . . no harm to . . . anyone.” Her eyes lit as they once had. “Oh, how I’ve enjoyed loving you.”
His insides turned to oatmeal. Stubborn woman—she’d allow herself to die, all because she discovered how he’d gotten the money.
“Promise me . . . you’ll . . . tell the . . . truth. Admit what . . . you’ve done.” Her breath rattled. “What you’ve . . . all done.”
Pulling himself from the wretched memory, Jonathan breathed through the heat tightening his chest. He’d secure himself the best deal possible—immunity—or he wouldn’t decipher the papers. And without him no one could make sense of the accounting system he’d created more than five years ago. Officials hadn’t a clue.
With a deep breath he headed to the guardhouse in front of the fenced FBI building. His legs threatened to rebel, stiffening with every step. He forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
At the guardhouse, a man behind bulletproof glass looked up. “May I help you?”
“I need to . . . see someone.”
“About what, sir?”
“I have some information regarding a crime.” He waved the file he held.
“One moment, sir, and someone will be with you.”
Jonathan stared at the cloudy sky. He could still turn back, get away scot-free. His heartbeat sped. The world blurred. No, he couldn’t lose consciousness now, nor could he go back on his promise. He owed it to Carmen. No matter what happened, he’d honor Carmen’s dying wish.
“Sir?” A young man in a suit stood beside the fenced entry, hand resting on the butt of his gun. “May I help you?”
Jonathan lifted the file. “I have some evidence regarding an ongoing crime ring.”
The agent motioned him toward a metal-detector arch. “Come through this way, sir.”
Jonathan’s steps wavered. He dragged his feet toward the archway.
A car door creaked. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder just as two men in full tactical gear stormed toward them. He had a split second to recognize one of the men’s eyes, just before gunfire erupted.
A vise gripped Jonathan’s heart, and he slumped to the dirty tile floor, the squeezing of his heart demanding his paralysis.
Too late. I’m sorry, Carmen.
Two Weeks Later—Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.
Golden Gloves Boxing of Knoxville
OOOF!
Brannon Callahan’s head jerked backward. She swiped her headgear with her glove.
“You aren’t concentrating on your form. You’re just trying to whale on me.” Steve Burroughs, her supervisor and sparring partner, bounced on the balls of his feet.
“Then why am I the one getting hit?” She threw a right jab that missed his jaw.
He brushed her off with his glove. “Don’t try to street fight me. Box.”
She clamped down on her mouthpiece and threw an uppercut with her left fist. It made contact, sending vibrations up her arm.
He wobbled backward, then got his balance. “Nice shot.”
It felt good to hit something. Hard. Sparring with Steve was the best form of venting. The energy had to be spent somehow—why not get a workout at the same time? She ducked a right cross, then followed through with a left-right combination. Both shots made full contact.
Steve spit out his mouthpiece and leaned against the ropes. “I think that’s enough for today, girl. I’m an old man, remember?”
She couldn’t fight the grin. Although only in his late forties, the chief ranger looked two decades older. With gray hair, hawk nose, and skin like tanned leather, Steve had already lived a lifetime.
She removed her mouthpiece, gloves, and headgear before sitting on the canvas. “Old? You’re still kickin’ me in the ring.”
He tossed her a towel and sat beside her. “So you wanna tell me what’s got you all hot and bothered this afternoon?”
She shrugged.
“Come on, spit it out. I know something’s gnawing at you, just like you were picking a fight with me in the ring. What’s up?”
How could she explain? “I’m not exactly keen that the district feels there’s a need for another pilot in the park.” She tightened the scrunchie keeping her hair out of her face.
“That’s a compliment—having you on staff has been so successful they want to expand.”
“But I have to train him. Did you notice his arrogance?” She ripped at the tape bound around her knuckles. “He’s nothing more than a young upstart with an ego bigger than the helicopter.” While only thirty-six, she often felt older than Steve looked.
“You’re so good, you can come across a bit intimidating at first, girl.” Steve grabbed the ropes and pulled to standing, then offered her a hand. “Give him a chance.
”
She let Steve tug her up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even if he had maturity, I still have to train him. With all the rescues we’ve been called out on of late . . . well, I really don’t have the time.” She exited the ring. “Like those kids yesterday.” She shook her head as she waited for Steve to join her on the gym floor. “Their stupidity almost cost them their lives.”
“They were young, Brannon.”
“Please. Any amateur with half a brain should know better than to try to climb Clingmans Dome in winter.” Didn’t people realize if something happened to them they’d leave behind devastated family and friends? Loved ones who would mourn them forever? She fought against the familiar pain every time she participated in a search and rescue. All because people hadn’t taken necessary precautions.
“They didn’t know any better.”
“It takes a special kind of stupid not to have researched your climb.” Most SARs could be avoided if people planned a little more. It ripped her apart that so many parents, grandparents, siblings . . . fiancées . . . survived to deal with such grief. She’d tasted the bitterness of grief—twice—and the aftertaste still lingered.
Steve paused outside the locker rooms and shifted his sparring gear to one hand. “I agree, but most people don’t see the dangers we do every day.” He tapped her shoulder. “Hit the showers, champ. You stink.”
She laughed as she headed into the ladies’ locker room. Maybe Steve was right and the new pilot just made a lousy first impression. Maybe he’d be easy to train.
Please, God, let it be so.
Friday, 2:15 p.m.
US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
Knoxville, Tennessee
“YOU WANT ME TO escort a heart?” Roark struggled to keep his voice calm. He tapped the butt of his Beretta, welcoming it back to its rightful place on his hip.
Senior US Marshal Gerald Demott glared. “Look, I know you think this is a slight, but it’s important. And for your first assignment back on the job . . .”
“IA cleared me of all wrongdoing. I’m seeing the shrink and everything.” He gritted his teeth and exhaled. “I’ve been released to return to active duty.”
“This is active. It’s a field assignment, and it’s important. Here’s the case information.” Demott passed him a folder, then glanced at his watch. “You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your flight.”
Roark grabbed the file and turned to go.
“Holland.”
He looked back at his boss. “Yeah?”
Demott held out Roark’s badge. “You might want to take this with you, too.”
Roark accepted the metal emblem, then clipped it to his belt before marching out of Demott’s office. A heart. His job was to escort a human heart from North Carolina to Knoxville. Any rookie could handle that. But no, they still didn’t trust him enough to handle a real assignment.
He’d done everything they asked—took a medical leave of absence while Internal Affairs went over every painful minute of his failed mission, saw the shrink they demanded he speak to every week since Mindy’s death, answered their relentless questions. The shrink reiterated he’d been forgiven for acting on his own.
Maybe one day he’d forgive himself. How many innocent lives would he have to save for his conscience to leave him be?
Roark slipped into the car, then headed to the airport. But to be assigned a heart transport? Not only was it wrong, it was downright insulting. After almost fifteen years as a marshal, he’d earned the benefit of the doubt from his supervisors. Especially Demott. His boss should know him better, know he’d only disregard orders if it was a matter of life and death.
But Mindy Pugsley died. They’d all died.
He pushed the nagging voice from his mind. Even Dr. Martin had advised him not to dwell on the past. On what had gone wrong. On disobeying a direct order.
If only Mindy didn’t haunt his dreams.
Roark touched the angry scar that ran along his right cheekbone to his chin. A constant reminder that he’d failed, that he’d made a mistake that took someone’s life. He’d have to live with the pain for the rest of his life.
He skidded the car into the airport’s short-term parking lot. After securing the car and gathering the case folder, Roark grabbed his coat. Snowflakes pelted downward, swirling on the bursts of wind and settling on the concrete. The purple hues of the setting sun streaked across the mountain peaks beyond the runways, making the January snow grab the last hope of light.
Yes, he’d handle this mundane assignment, then tell Demott he wanted back on real active duty. Making a difference would be the best thing for him. Would make him feel whole again.
TWO
Friday, 5:30 p.m.
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
THEY WERE FALLING TOO fast.
The tickling vibration against her palm made Brannon loosen her grip. Wind pushed against the HH-65 Dolphin, slamming the helicopter into more turbulence. The vertical speed indicator dropped a notch. She pulled back on the collective, piloting the helicopter steady over Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
She kept her gaze locked on the landscape for any unnatural movement. Far below them the mountain peaks jutted out from the snow-covered red maples like a snaggle-toothed beast baring its teeth. The tree canopy blocked most of the ground from their sight.
“Is it always like this?” Jefferson Montgomery, new pilot in the National Park Service, asked over the headset.
“Sometimes, but we still have to do flyovers. It’s our job.”
“I know it’s our job. Was just trying to get a feel for what I’ll face every day.”
For the millionth time in the hour flight, Brannon resisted putting Jefferson in his place. “We’ll head back now.”
“Want me to fly us in?” He rubbed his hands together.
As if she’d let this newbie fly her baby. “No, just pay attention to the horizon and treetops. Weather like this makes you fly by gauges and instinct.” She pushed the foot pedal to turn the helicopter and moved the cyclic.
He sighed over the comm. Disappointment? She didn’t have time to care. The wind shoved the Dolphin at least eight degrees off course. She made the adjustment and piloted toward the heliport at the ranger station.
“Do you know when my bird will be ready?” His ambition and competitiveness would make him a liability, not an asset.
“Nope. When they deliver it, I suppose.” She pulled the helicopter into a level altitude, then used the collective to cushion the landing. She’d served thirteen years with the Coast Guard flying this model. But still, the weather could make even the best pilot get sloppy.
Using the pedals to align the landing gear with the ground track, she settled with little more than a bump. After shutting down the engines, radioing to Control, and marking her logbook, she yanked off her headset and hung it on the clip above her head.
Jefferson didn’t bother completing his checklist before jumping from the Dolphin. Brannon let out a long breath, did her own walk-around, then rushed into the Abrams Creek ranger station, snow crunching under her feet.
The bell tinkled over the door as she pushed inside, a blast of wind and snowflakes sweeping in with her. The fragrant aroma of simmering coffee filled Brannon’s senses. A fire crackled in the rock-front fireplace, the pops and hisses a welcome greeting from the frigid temperatures outside. She stood in front of the fire, holding her hands as close to the orange flames as possible. Tingles shimmied into her fingers as the warmth seeped through them.
“Temperature’s dropping fast.” Her partner and best friend, Lincoln Vailes, stomped inside the back door and hung his issued coat on the hook beside his rig.
She grinned. “Couldn’t ride your bike in today?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t dream of getting my Ha
rley out in this mess.”
“Supposed to have a blizzard heading this way.” Steve slurped a sip of coffee before he set the mug back down. “Everything clear out there?”
Brannon hung up her belt beside Lincoln’s and shrugged out of her coat. “All clear. No sign of anybody.” She tossed her jacket over a chair and backed up to the fire. She pulled the scrunchie from her hair, ran her fingers through the damp strands, then secured it again into a ponytail at the base of her neck. Little beads of snow fell, melting before they landed on the scuffed wooden floor.
“Let’s hope the free-skiers have enough common sense to stay off the terrain.” Lincoln plopped down on the threadbare couch and propped his boots on the coffee table. “I don’t want to get a call to go out anytime soon if the storm hits.”
“That’d be nice, for a change.” Steve took another noisy swallow of his java. “Maybe we’ll have a slow weekend.” He nodded at the newcomer. “How’d you do?”
“I’m ready to go.” Jefferson dropped onto the chair closest to the fireplace.
“Easy there, Ace. You still have a lot to learn about the park.” Brannon moved to the coffee station in the corner. She lifted the carafe and stared at the thick mire in the bottom of the glass pot. With a mental shrug she pulled out a mug. No matter how much it resembled sludge, bad coffee was still better than no coffee.
Temptation for a cup of fresh java almost made her cross the mudroom and enter her living space. Exhaustion stopped her. If she went anywhere near her bedroom, she’d curl up and sleep, and she still had two hours left on her shift.
Lincoln laid his head back. The ends of his dark hair curled up at the tips. “Once the weather slacks, I’ll take you around on ground.”
“For what? I’m a pilot.”