by Robin Caroll
Saturday, 7:45 a.m.
Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee
A DOOR SLAMMED, MAKING the walls vibrate and rattle. Mai arose from her restless sleep, still huddled against two of her roommates. The bedroom door swung open and crashed against the wall. Mai pushed herself off the mattress and scooted into the far corner, staring at Madam Nancy looming in the doorway.
“Your three other roommates have been transferred.” She reached behind her tubby frame and pushed a young Thai girl into the room. “This is your new roomie for now.”
The girl, eleven at most, stumbled into the room, tripped over the edge of the mattress, and fell face-first onto it. A soft whimper escaped from the cracked lips of her tear-streaked face.
Madam Nancy’s face wrinkled into a frown. “You girls teach this one the rules around here. I don’t want to hear no more sobbing from her.” She wagged a sausagelike finger. “If she keeps crying all the time, I’m holding you three responsible.” With that, she stomped from the room.
Tears flowing, the new girl curled into a ball on the mattress. Mai’s two roommates, Sunee and Prasert, headed toward the washroom. They were older, sixteen and seventeen, and had been with Madam Nancy for a couple of years. Their experiences had hardened their eyes. Neither one had shown Mai any compassion when she had arrived, and it did not appear they would with this new girl.
Moving beside the girl, Mai wrapped her arm around the girl’s bony frame. She whispered shushing sounds and stroked her long hair. “Bpen khoon gaw di?”
The girl looked up. “Am I okay?” she repeated in broken English. Her eyes as black as night spilled more tears. “I am Kanya.”
“I am Mai.” She smiled at the younger girl and reverted to her native tongue. “How old are you?”
“Sip saam.”
“Thirteen? Really?” Mai let her arm drop from Kanya’s hair. “I thought you were younger.”
Kanya smiled, revealing a row of white, straight teeth. “I am small for my age, khaa?”
“Yes.” Mai chuckled, then remembered where she was. “I am fourteen.” She pressed her lips together and leaned next to Kanya’s ear. “When did you get to the States?”
“Last night.” Fresh tears streamed from Kanya’s eyes. “Gra maawm glap baan.”
Mai’s eyes overflowed with tears. “I want to go home, too.”
Saturday, 8:46 a.m.
Northwest toward Rainbow Falls
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
BRANNON IGNORED THE FIERY pain in her left ankle, concentrating on the fallen man beside her. Her hands trembled as she holstered her weapon, pushed back his bangs, and straightened the glasses on his face. His breathing grew fainter, until it was nothing more than a gravelly whisper. Gurgling came from him, liquid filling his lungs.
God, no. Please, not someone else. Another life lost due to these criminals. To consider it ripped at Brannon’s soul.
“Give me something else to cover the wound,” Lincoln snapped as he shoved wads of gauze into Thomas’s gut. Blood soaked through the white clump.
Bile seared the back of her throat. While it had been a while since she went through more than just a basic first-aid course, she could recognize a dying man when one lay in front of her. She stroked Thomas’s brow once more.
“I need—” Lincoln’s gaze locked with hers, and understanding passed between them. He pushed against the bundle of saturated gauze stuck to Thomas’s abdomen.
Thomas took a wheezing breath, shuddered, then his muscles went slack.
Shoulders slumping, Lincoln reached up and closed the flight medic’s eyes. Brannon’s breathing hiccupped.
“He’s gone.” Lincoln laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “There’s nothing more we can do for him.”
Brannon closed her eyes. Fierce tears burned down her cheeks. As if the heavens heard her sobs, the winds died down, and snowflakes drifted instead of plowing over them. Why, God, why?
Thrashing of snow-burdened branches from the incline behind caused her to jerk her attention over her shoulder. In a smooth movement she withdrew her firearm.
Roark slipped and stumbled toward them, his face etched in concern. “Are you guys okay?”
Brannon holstered her Sig and shook her head. “Did you get the guy who shot at us?”
He nodded. His gaze stopped on Thomas, lying still in the snow. Roark plopped to his knees. “Is he . . . ?”
Lincoln cleared his throat. “He got shot in the gut. He bled out.”
“Where’s the cooler?” Roark stared over the area.
“The cooler?” Brannon pushed his shoulder. He swayed as he gave way to lack of balance and slumped to the side. She didn’t care. “A man just died—shot to death—and all you can think about is the heart? What kind of unemotional deviant are you?” Red flashed before her eyes.
“Look, I’m sorry Thomas died, but there’s nothing we can do about it.” His voice sure sounded steady, even if he was out of breath.
“You could at least mourn him for a moment.” It was a human life—gone forever from this earth. She shoved her palms into the frozen ground and pushed to her feet. She put weight on her left leg, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up from her ankle, and crumbled back to the ground with a groan.
Roark knelt and reached for her leg at the same moment Lincoln touched her shoulder. “What is it?” her partner asked.
She spoke from between clenched teeth. “My ankle. I think I twisted it.” Pain throbbed, ripping away her grief.
With nimble fingers Roark unlaced her hiking boots. A flash of heated attraction swelled inside the pit of her stomach, making her light-headed. Then a fresh shot of pain rushed through her leg. “Ouch!” She tried to jerk her leg free of his hands. “What’re you doing?”
“We need to check your ankle. I’m taking off your boot.” He pulled the boot free and set it on the ground, then gingerly felt along her ankle area.
She opened her mouth to argue, but Lincoln squeezed her shoulder again. “He’s right.”
“Then you check it out for me.”
Lincoln took Roark’s place without another word. His hands were just as gentle, maybe even more so, but his touch didn’t cause a burst of heat to swim through her veins. Brannon fidgeted on the cold ground, not sure if she felt disappointed or relieved.
“Definitely twisted.” Lincoln eased her foot on the ground before reaching into his backpack. “I need to get it wrapped.”
“We need to get moving.” She spit the words out, attraction and common sense battling within her and making her more irritated than injured.
Now, God? Seriously?
“I’ll wrap your ankle, slip your boot on loosely, then we can get out of here.” Lincoln pulled the Coban wrap from the backpack and began unrolling. “I need your sock off so I can wrap your bare ankle, then we’ll put the sock on over it.”
Before she could lift her leg to comply, Roark lifted her foot and tugged off her sock. His fingers burned into her bare flesh as his thumb stroked her tattoo. “What’s this?”
“My pilot wings.” She tried to wrench her foot free, but he held firm and pulled it closer to him.
He leaned over her foot, inspecting the gold wings and anchor tattoo. His thumb brushed over the inked spot again, sending spirals of exhilaration coursing through her. Without a conscious thought, she sighed.
“Very cool.” His voice came out as a whisper, raspy.
She glanced at his face—it flushed a tinge of crimson, right up to the tips of his ears. The lines around his eyes carved deeper while his dark orbs appeared intense. She dropped her gaze to her ankle, which seemed to be swelling already, but that felt like the least of her worries at the moment. Was he feeling the bite of physical attraction as well? She wet her lips, then felt his stare burn into her. The passion fl
ickering in his gaze nearly undid her self-control.
Lord, what am I doing?
Lincoln cleared his throat. His questioning glance went from her face to Roark’s, then back to hers again. “I need to wrap your ankle now.”
Roark released his hold on her foot, and it headed for the ground. At the last moment she tightened her leg and hovered her foot about six inches above the icy terrain. Her stomach muscles quivered.
With deft movements Lincoln wound the wrap around her ankle, secured it, then slipped her sock and boot back on. The tightness of her boot around her swollen ankle felt like pinpricks of needles against her flesh. She gritted her teeth, vowing to keep the pain to herself.
“We need to mark the coordinates here.” Her voice felt thick in her throat. “So we can send a team out for the . . . others.”
While Lincoln shoved the first-aid supplies back into the pack and pulled out the GPS, Brannon shifted to stand. Roark’s grip on her elbow held her steady. She tested her weight on her injured ankle. The pain still made her grit her teeth, but if she used only her toes for balance, she could manage. Heat spread from her elbow up and down her arm. She jerked her arm free from Roark’s electrifying touch, glaring as she did.
She’d never experienced such raw attraction before—not even with Wade. Why was it happening now? She stared at the ground while firming her equilibrium. She didn’t know if she even liked Roark Holland and couldn’t fathom why she’d feel such an intense draw to the puzzling man.
One thing was for sure: She couldn’t allow another complication to intrude on the goal of the moment—to get them safely to the station and get the heart to the hospital. There’d be time later to sort out all the conflicting emotions, but not now.
Saturday, 9:41 a.m.
Northwest toward Rainbow Falls
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
ROARK SWUNG BRANNON’S BACKPACK over his shoulder, hoisted the cooler, and followed behind her and Lincoln. He controlled his breathing, determined to ignore the pull to take her into his arms and kiss her breathless. What was it about the woman that drove him insane with her mere presence? She confused him by arousing his senses, intrigued him by such sharp contrasts in her personality, and intoxicated him just by being near.
Touching her had been a mistake. A big mistake. He couldn’t get the softness of her skin out of his mind. To be so strong and domineering on the outside, her skin was as smooth as a frozen pond. And that tattoo! What woman had a tattoo of her pilot wings on her ankle? Coast Guard, unless he was mistaken. How’d she go from Coast Guard to park ranger? And she held and fired a gun well. He bit back a chuckle. Brannon Callahan was definitely a woman he wanted to know better—needed to know on a much more personal level.
Another big mistake in the making.
“We’ll send someone back for Thomas’s body as soon as we get to the station,” Lincoln told Brannon.
“And the shooter’s,” Roark added.
Lincoln glanced over his shoulder, his concerned gaze studying Roark for a moment before turning back to Brannon.
The look spoke volumes. He swallowed but remained silent. Was there something between the two rangers, something more than just the closeness of partners? Of longtime friends?
Their progress wasn’t as quick as Roark would like, but Brannon seemed to hold her own, considering her ankle. Why couldn’t she whine and complain like the women he’d been involved with before, who’d be sniveling and demanding at a time like this? Brannon’s strength and assertiveness seemed to stir all kinds of conflicting thoughts inside of him.
His own arm ached from toting the cooler. Roark shook his head over the absurdity of it all. The entire trip seemed surreal—escorting a human heart around in a cooler designed for picnics and tailgate parties, the helicopter crashing, being found by the alluring Brannon limping in front of him, being shot at, and killing the shooter. Crazy, that’s what it was.
Lincoln looked over at Brannon. “Do you need to stop and rest?”
“We can stop for a few minutes,” Roark interjected.
Her head jerked. “I’m fine. I don’t need a break.” Her words were clipped and delivered with the right amount of sharpness to deter any other man.
But not Roark. “I’m just saying I could use a little break myself. We can try to raise someone on my satellite phone and on your radio.”
Lincoln stared at the sky for a moment, then switched his attention to Brannon. “He’s right. The storm’s lessened. We might have reception now.”
“We’ll never get reception down here.” Her eyes lifted to an overhanging area about five hundred yards above them. “We’re close to Rainbow Falls. Let’s head up toward that cliff.”
“Gonna be hard for you to climb, isn’t it?” Roark wanted to take the words back as soon as he said them because of the scathing look Brannon flung at him.
“‘But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint,’” she mumbled.
Letting out a full laugh, Lincoln hugged her. “Very good, girl.”
She returned his chuckle. “Book, chapter, and verse?”
“Uh.” Lincoln stroked his black mustache with his left fore- finger. “Let’s see, Isaiah?”
“Chapter and verse?” When she smiled, a single dimple on her left side deepened.
“Chapter 40, verse 31.” Lincoln laughed again as he answered her.
What was this little game these two played? They quoted Bible stuff back and forth, and it unnerved Roark. Ever since God failed him in his time of need, Roark avoided anything biblical or religious. He couldn’t chance being disappointed again.
“Good.” She hobbled toward the rise of the embankment. “Now help hoist me up.”
Lincoln climbed a couple of steps, then turned and grabbed Brannon’s hand. She wobbled for a moment, her injured leg hovering out to the side before she grabbed a tree and balanced.
Roark watched them continue in this manner for a few more minutes, his impatience gnawing away at him. After another ten excruciatingly long minutes, he couldn’t take it any longer. With sturdy and sure steps, he climbed up the embankment, reached the two rangers, handed Lincoln the cooler, then lifted Brannon into his arms and marched past Lincoln.
“Put. Me. Down.” She ground her words out, as if speaking through clenched teeth.
“We’ll get there faster if I carry you.”
“I’m quite capable of making it on my own.”
He hauled in a deep breath—lugging her up the uneven and rocky mountainside was exhausting. “I’m sure you are, but we need to hurry it up.”
Lincoln’s low chuckle behind them made her tense under his grip. But she didn’t say anything. Unless a growl counted.
When he reached the level area, he eased her down. Her eyes narrowed at him. “Thank you,” she spat out.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He lowered the backpack to the ground, then rolled his shoulders, wishing the knotted muscles would stop aching.
“What wasn’t so hard?” Her stare dared him to offend.
“Thanking me.” He chuckled as her mouth dropped open. She was going to let him have it, of that he was certain. Lincoln stepped beside them, and she didn’t have the opportunity.
Crack! Boom!
Roark startled as the earth beneath him shifted. Then, disappeared.
A thunderous roar filled the air.
The three fell as empty space met their weight. Down . . . down . . . falling.
Time was suspended.
Thud! Roark’s side landed on rocks. Hard. His insides jostled.
He couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t feel anything but cold closing in. He lowered his chin to his chest, fighting to breathe against the st
abbing pain.
Trying to inhale was no use—his lungs burned. He opened his eyes, wondering what he would see.
Nothing. Total darkness.
The only sound he could hear was the thudding of his own heartbeat.
ELEVEN
Saturday, 9:45 a.m.
Parkwest Medical Center
Knoxville, Tennessee
WARREN LEANED AGAINST THE outer wall of the hospital, puffing long tokes off his cigarette. The blizzard’s fury had been spent—a carpet of snow and ice encased everything. The winds had died, leaving nothing but bitter cold in their wake.
Warren shifted, lifting the collar of his coat to protect his neck, and took another drag off his cigarette. Being outside in the weather, at this time of day on a weekend . . . Yeah, he needed a smoke.
“Congressman McGovern.” Kevin rushed toward him, pumping his scrawny legs as fast as he could on the slippery ground.
Groaning, Warren tossed his cigarette into the sand-filled ashtray, not bothering to grind it out, and pushed off the wall. His aide would never venture outside and invade Warren’s quiet time unless there was news of some sort. By the look on the young man’s face, the news wasn’t good. Had Wilks taken a turn for the worse?
“Sir,” Kevin reached him, his breathing coming in spurts, “Marshal Demott has received a report that the Air National Guard helicopter landed at the coordinates given by the National Park Service pilot. They found the NPS helicopter and the crash site of the Life Flight helicopter but no sign of the marshal, rangers, or the flight medic.”
“Any particulars reported yet?” Warren picked his steps across the slick sidewalk, heading toward the hospital’s entrance.
Kevin’s head shook as he tried to match Warren’s long stride. “Not yet, sir. The marshals are trying to raise their guy on the satellite phone.”
“Any news on the heart?”
“No, sir. The ranger supervisor has been hailing the rangers on a radio but hasn’t gotten a response yet.”