Deliver Us from Evil

by Robin Caroll

  Sure, she may have saved him from getting whacked by the limb, but what right did she have to come across so . . . so . . . what? Roark struggled to his feet, lifted the case, pack, and cooler, then stomped behind them. In control? He was supposed to be the one in charge.

  When Roark jumped into the helicopter, Thomas lay across the backseat, buckled in tight. The shelter the aircraft provided from the blasting wind welcomed him aboard. Unlike the other helicopter, this one provided ample lighting to see. He shoved the case and cooler with medicine pack across the floor and wiped the snow from his brow.

  Roark reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his satellite phone, and stared at the LCD screen. No signal. What good was a satellite phone if the blizzard could block reception?

  “Lincoln will stay with him in flight. You can sit in the copilot’s seat.” She rubbed her gloveless hands together and blew on them.

  Do what? “Isn’t he the pilot?”

  Her chuckle was low and throaty. “Nope. That would be me.” She patted the seat beside her. “Come on up. Lincoln needs all the room he can get back there.”

  Roark settled in the other chair in the cockpit and glanced over at her. Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, drawing his gaze to her piercing eyes. He swallowed against the heat rising in his chest. This was a job and nothing more.

  “What’s your name again?” His voice sounded demanding to his own ears.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Brannon Callahan. And the man back there is Lincoln Vailes.”

  “Again, I’m Roark Holland, US marshal.”

  “Do you always use your job title in introductions?”

  He opened his mouth to reproach her snappy comment, but he needn’t have bothered. She’d already slipped on her headset and flipped switches on the control panel. The helicopter vibrated as the engines hummed to life. “GSMNPS rangers, cancel call out to crash coordinates. I have the survivors and will deliver them to Parkwest Medical. Over.”

  From the backseat Thomas moaned. Roark turned. Blood soaked the front of his shirt. His face contorted into a grimace, and he emitted another groan.

  Lincoln pulled a wad of dripping gauze from Thomas’s chest. Fresh blood, bright red, oozed from a large gash near his right shoulder. Lincoln grabbed a fresh pack of gauze from the case, ripped it open with his teeth, then pressed it against the cut. Thomas cringed and forced out a breath.

  “Copy that, base. Will notify Knoxville ATC as soon as I’m in the air. Over.” Brannon slipped her headset down to rest around her neck and hollered over the roar of the rotors thumping. “Ready?”

  Lincoln made a circular motion with his finger. “We’re good.”

  She nodded and pressed a series of buttons and gauges on the panel. The aircraft vibrated in response.

  Ping! Ping! Ping!

  Roark’s breathing froze. No mistaking that sound—the telling echo of bullets hitting metal. He released his Beretta from its holster in one fluid motion.

  The rotor engine coughed, then smoke filled the air.

  Brannon flipped switches, her eyes wide. “We’ve lost the engine.” Her gaze jerked over the instrument panel, and she ducked her head. “And the rotors are out.” She slapped the side of her fist against the instrument panel and glared at Roark. “Who’s shooting at us?”

  As if he knew.

  SEVEN

  Friday, 9:42 p.m.

  Crash Site Near Mount LeConte

  Great Smoky Mountains, Tennessee

  BRANNON CLICKED THE TRIGGER, activating her radio frequency. “RCM986 to Knoxville ATC, come in. Mayday. HH-65 Dolphin down. Shots fired. I repeat, RCM986 is disabled on the ground.”

  No warming hum of static echoed against her ear.

  Roark steadied his Beretta. “Get down!” His gaze locked with Brannon’s for a moment as he slunk to the floor and eased around the copilot’s seat.

  No kidding, get down. This wasn’t her first rodeo at being fired upon. Brannon tried again to raise a contact on the radio—no response. She yanked her headset from her neck and tossed it.

  Slipping from the pilot’s seat, Brannon moved to the floor and opened the box. She withdrew her Sig handgun and crawled behind Roark. She grabbed the hand radio, turned it on, and sent out one more distress call. Still nothing.

  The metal pinging smacked against the crippled helicopter, hammering out any coherent thought Brannon could muster from the recesses of her mind. Why would someone shoot at them, especially in this weather? And in this area? Who knew where to look for them?

  Roark opened the door to the helicopter a fraction of an inch. A bullet whizzed at the opening. He fell back into the cabin and slammed the door shut.

  The flight medic, barely conscious, groaned. Placing another stack of gauze against the wounded man’s shoulder, Lincoln hissed over the noise, “What’s going on?” He kept his head low, level with the seat bottom.

  Roark grunted as he pushed to a crouching position. A red splotch seeped through his jacket over his left tricep. “I’ll handle this.”

  Brannon moved beside Lincoln, grabbed a clean pack of gauze, and offered it to Roark. “You’ve been shot.”

  He glanced at his upper arm and shrugged. “Just a graze. I’m fine.” He ignored the gauze and turned back to the door. “Everybody get as low as you can.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him not to do something stupid, but he jerked open the helicopter door, then fired shots. The blast of the handgun’s discharge reverberated in the metal Dolphin, drowning out the howling wind.

  Brannon hunkered on the floor, her weapon at the ready. Fear like she hadn’t felt since she led the Coast Guard rescue mission in Cuban waters swelled inside her. That had been the only time attempts were made to stop her search-and-rescue efforts.

  She slipped her finger into the trigger well of the Sig. God, please help us.

  Lincoln rested his hand on her shoulder. Over the ping-ping of bullets hitting the helicopter and the roar of Roark’s firing, his soft voice whispered against her ear. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

  Weak at first, Brannon lifted her voice with Lincoln’s. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

  Thomas coughed, then his voice, wobbly and weak, joined theirs. “Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever.”

  Roark jammed the door shut, slumping against the back of the copilot’s seat. “They’ve backed off for now. We need to make a move—we’re sitting ducks in this bird.”

  “Amen,” Brannon whispered, studying Roark’s eyes. She forced her voice to come out steady and solid despite the pounding of her heart. “Why in blue blazes is someone shooting at us?”

  His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Obviously someone wants to kill us.”

  “You think?” She snorted. “Must be pretty determined to venture out in this weather and know our exact coordinates.” Her gaze raked over him. “Any idea who would be crazy enough?”

  “If I had to make a guess, I’d say someone who doesn’t want that heart to make it to the recipient.”

  As she stared at the cooler, Brannon’s mind replayed the newscast she’d watched. “A government witness, right?”

  “Look, I’ll explain everything later. Right now we need to get out of here.”

  “Where would you like us to go?” She cocked her head. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re smack-dab in the middle of a blizzard. The nearest ranger station is about twenty miles of rough forest away. We’ll be safer staying in the helicopter, defending ourselves here. At least air traffic control will have the coordinates where we landed. And the Dolphin will provide us with some cover.”

  “Did
you raise anyone on the radio?”

  “No, but they had my location when we landed.” She ran a hand over her wet hair. “They’ll send someone for us.”

  “Who? I thought you were the rescue team.” Roark added under his breath, “Some rescue.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck bristled like a pine in the spring. “How dare you.” She and Lincoln had risked their lives, and her chopper, to come out in this mess to save them.

  He raised a hand. “Just save it. The situation has changed. I’m in charge now, and we’ll do things the way I say we will. So pack up. We’re moving out.”

  Brannon stiffened yet her hands trembled. Everything within her very being told her not to leave her helicopter and to ignore the egotistical marshal. She was trained for SAR, especially in the Smokies. “Look, I’m the—”

  Lincoln laid a hand on her shoulder. She turned and her gaze locked with his.

  “He’s a federal marshal, and he has the authority. Let it go. You can give him a piece of your mind later. Help me pack up the emergency supplies.”

  His voice pacified the indignation surging through her. She nodded and replaced the spelunking equipment with food and survival supplies into the sturdy backpacks.

  Roark inched open the door and peered outside. Didn’t stop him from barking orders. “Hurry up, get that stuff loaded. We can carry the two backpacks and the heart—that’s it. We’ll need our hands free to tote Thomas. Let’s go.”

  Brannon stuck out her tongue at his back. Childish, yes, but it made her feel a lot better. She slipped her gun into its holster on her belt. After loading the backpacks with all the water bottles, blankets, first-aid supplies, and packages of dried food, she slipped the hand radio into her pack, then slung one over her back and passed the other to Lincoln. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed the black pack from atop the cooler, slipped it into the front compartment of her pack, and zipped it up.

  “How should we carry him?” she whispered to Lincoln with a nod toward the injured medic. He had more EMT training than she did, and she trusted him. “He’s regained consciousness.”

  “Let’s try supporting him between us.”

  The man shifted, struggling to pull himself into a sitting position. “The glass cut my supraspinatus tendon.” He ground his teeth together.

  “What’s that mean?” Brannon chewed her cuticle.

  “That’s the tendon under my rotator cuff. Until I can get surgery, my right arm is useless.” His big eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. “Whoever supports my right side will have to do it all. I can’t even lift my arm.”

  Lincoln nodded before staring at Brannon, his brow arched. She sighed and shifted under the flight medic’s left arm.

  “Ready?” Roark turned to the trio. “Good. When I open the door, run toward the woods to the left of the helicopter. I’ll cover you.”

  “Why left?” Brannon stilled.

  “Because the guys out there, the ones with guns and ammo, moved to the right. We don’t want to go in their direction.”

  “Well, I’m assuming your master plan is for us to get to the ranger station, correct?”

  He nodded.

  “Then we need to go to the right. That’s the direction of the station.”

  Roark paused for a moment. Brannon could almost smell the burn from his brain firing. He crouched closer to the door. “We’ll head left for now, then once I’m sure we’re safe, we’ll double back to the ranger station.” His stare collided with Brannon’s.

  “Whatever you say, Super Marshal.” The sarcasm zipped off her tongue, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Yeah. That would be me.” He gripped the door handle, his jaw muscles tightening. “On the count of three, you guys head to the left. I’ll make sure they’ve dropped back. Keep as low as you can, but move into the trees as quickly as possible. Got it?”

  “Got it, Ace.”

  Lincoln threw her a disapproving look. “‘I will watch my ways and keep my tongue from sin; I will put a muzzle on my mouth.’”

  Psalm 39:1. Brannon pinched her lips together and dropped her gaze to the floor, knowing she was being difficult but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Something about the marshal just set her off, like rubbing a cat’s fur backward.

  She flipped on the flashlight and lifted her eyes to meet Lincoln’s. She whispered as condemnation settled on her heart, “‘But no man can tame the tongue.’”

  Friday, 10:00 p.m.

  Parkwest Medical Center

  Knoxville, Tennessee

  “CONGRESSMAN MCGOVERN, THIS WAY.” Kevin motioned toward the elevator in the hospital.

  Warren strode to where his aide waited with eagerness brightening his eyes. “What’s the status on the witness’s medical condition?” he barked as he slipped into the elevator, fighting the urge to hold his breath.

  “The same, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Hmm.” Warren straightened his tie and looked at Kevin. “I’ll meet with this surgeon. I want you to get me all the information on the search-and-rescue team.”

  Kevin, like an eager lapdog, bobbed his head. Rule number six—use the little kiss-ups to your own benefit, then take all the glory.

  The elevator beeped just before the doors yawned open. Warren pushed past the little suit and marched to the nurses’ station. The stench of death hung in the corridors, creeping over the forced heated air and settling on unsuspecting patrons. Warren denied the shiver tickling his flesh. The last time he’d been in a hospital was at the age of thirteen, and look how that had turned out for him.

  He cleared his throat to get the attention of the three women sitting behind the counter. “I’m Congressman Warren McGovern. I need to speak to the surgeon in charge of Jonathan Wilks.”

  A young RN with bright blue eyes blinked up at him, as if in awe. Warren puffed his chest out more. From behind him a hoarse voice spoke. “I’m Dr. Rhoads.”

  Warren spun around to face the doctor and fought to keep his face impassive. The doctor appeared much younger than Warren had expected for an expert heart transplant surgeon—dark hair with streaks of gray at the temples, eagle-sharp eyes peering behind thin wire-rimmed glasses, and standing well over six feet tall, towering above the congressman.

  Warren handed the necessary paperwork to the doctor and introduced himself. “I need a status update on your patient’s condition.”

  Dr. Rhoads scanned the paperwork, then waved him to a waiting area across from the nurses’ station.

  Warren strode into the room with its cheap carpeting and vinyl chairs, careful not to brush his suit against the backs of the sofas. “So, what’s his status?”

  “He’s stable.”

  “Is he still in a coma?”

  “Yes, the medication is keeping him under. His blood pressure is steady within normal limits.”

  “That’s good?” Warren clenched his teeth together, moving his mouth into a weak smile. He hated when doctors and lawyers talked their specialized language, coming across as superior to regular laymen. He didn’t like it at all.

  “It’s very good.”

  “May I see him?”

  Dr. Rhoads studied Warren from behind his designer spectacles. “He’s guarded by the Marshal Services.”

  “I know that. I want to see him—see for myself that he’s holding on.”

  The doctor hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I can take you in for a minute. Follow me.”

  Warren matched Dr. Rhoads’s wide stride as they turned down the hall into the cardiac unit. Here the presence of the Grim Reaper hovered heavier—thicker, denser, more determined to zap the life out of bodies. He balled his hands into fists, his palms coated with a sheen of sweat.

  “Right this way.” The doctor pushed through yet another set of steel double doors. The air
whooshed as the doors pressed closed behind them, trapping them in the hall of demise. Beeps and chirps battered them from all sides, electronic monitoring equipment gone mad. Warren’s head began to ache. The pain started at the base of his skull and worked upward until it throbbed in his temples.

  Dr. Rhoads stopped in front of the room at the end of the corridor. A US marshal hunkered in a chair to the left of the door. The overweight man wrestled to his feet when he caught sight of Warren. “Congressman.”

  “Marshal.” Warren nodded but didn’t meet the man’s eyes.

  Dr. Rhoads pushed open the door and entered the room before Warren. “We haven’t seen much change in his condition.”

  Warren moved to the foot of the bed, studying the man lying with tubes and wires hooked over his chest and face. He didn’t look like someone involved with a child-trafficking ring. Narrowing his eyes, Warren peered into Jonathan Wilks’s face, searching for any sign of consciousness. Nothing.

  “We need to leave now,” the doctor whispered.

  He followed Dr. Rhoads. His feet itched to run free of this horrible place. Instead he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, marching like a good soldier until he broke through the double steel doors. Then, and only then, did he suck in air.

  “Congressman!” Kevin rushed toward him.

  Nodding good-bye to the doctor, Warren intercepted his young aide. “What is it?”

  “I’ve news about the helicopter.”

  “And?” Warren folded his arms across his chest. Must this little whippersnapper try his hand at drama right now? He just needed information.

  “Air traffic control reports receiving a message from that woman pilot—the rescue one.”

  “And?” He could barely contain his impatience.

  “She found the crash site but has since reported her rescue helicopter is down and someone is shooting at them.”