by Robin Caroll
“Got positive IDs on both the shooters.” Demott scrambled for the reports. “First one is Tom Hurst. No record, no rap sheet, but ballistics show the gun found on his body was the same used at the FBI office shooting at Wilks.”
Roark slumped into a chair. “The heat of the operation?”
“Most likely.” Demott grabbed another sheet. “Second body, the African-American you took down, is Milton Anderson. Rap sheet for petty convictions, couple of drug deals, stuff like that. Last known address is in Wildwood, Tennessee. FBI’s checking that out and looking for known associates.”
“What about the phone I nabbed?”
“Running checks. It’s a disposable phone, though—no contracts, no traceable information. Ran the name Zimp and came up with nothing. FBI’s analyzing the SIM card now.”
“So we got nothing to go on?”
Demott slammed the file shut with a thump against the table and met Roark’s gaze. “The National Security Agency is our best bet at breaking this code.” He scraped the chair back, got up, and paced. “We’d better pray hard. Otherwise, this is all for nothing.”
Two praying comments back-to-back? There definitely was a point being made here. He shoved to his feet. “Boss, are you trying to say you believe God will intervene in this nightmare?”
“I have a good relationship with the Big Guy. He listens when His people cry out.”
Roark’s mouth went dry. “Even though He lets bad things happen to really good people?” His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, feeling as if it’d swollen to twice its size.
“It’s hard to explain, Holland. God is love, but the world is cavorting in sin. More so now than ever before.”
“So all this”—Roark waved toward the file lying on the table—“is God punishing the world?” The back of the chair dug into his hip, but he paid no mind—he needed to hear his boss’s answer, an explanation.
“We all must pay for our sins, Roark. We’re given forgiveness and grace—it’s a gift from God. But there are many unsaved, many who don’t confess their sins and ask for forgiveness.”
“Again, this is about the punishment factor, right?”
Demott shook his head. “Think of it this way. Everyone has free will. They choose how they’ll act. God loves us like a father loves his child. Like a father will reprimand his child when he chooses to do the wrong thing, God will correct us because we’re His children.”
Roark crossed his arms over his chest. “You really believe that?”
“With everything I am.”
“Hmmm.” Roark pressed his lips tight together. “I guess it’s a good thing to have something to cling to in times like these.”
“It’s more than that, Holland. My faith isn’t something I only cling to when times are tough. This is my way of life. It’s a part of who I am.”
“But what about those girls sold into prostitution? What are those children being punished or reprimanded for?” What had Mindy been guilty of?
“I don’t have answers to the reason of why things happen. I’m just saying I know people make their own choices, and I believe God is everywhere, and He knows all the reasons.”
“He has a master plan, is what you’re saying?” Roark shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Yeah, but our minds can’t wrap around the complexities. Mortal minds can’t comprehend—we’re not supposed to.”
Roark’s cell phone vibrated. He jerked it off his waistband, staring down at the caller ID—his fellow marshal called. “Holland.”
“Hey, pardner. Thought I’d give you a heads-up. Rumor has it a certain congressman has a bee in his bonnet and is on his way to see you and Demott.”
“Thanks, Cole. We’ll handle it.” Roark slipped the phone back into its holder, then stared at his boss. “McGovern’s on his way here, and Cole says the man’s looking for trouble.”
Monday, 8:30 a.m.
Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
Knoxville, Tennessee
A PUDGY MAN WITH a badge and gun at the security counter stopped him from entering the courthouse. Warren bit back his disgust. How could a human let himself go in such a way? Had the man never heard the term diet? How dare some rent-a-cop with a marshal’s badge have the nerve to ask him, Warren McGovern, for identification? He dug in his breast pocket for his driver’s license.
The possibility of his world crashing down on him sent Warren’s blood pressure into the danger zone. He’d started his endeavor eight years ago when he needed the money for his campaign. Now he liked the lifestyle his income provided. He couldn’t lose it now.
The Colonel’s mocking laugh haunted his dreams. Oh, how Warren wished his mother had lived, that he’d been raised by her. She was the only good woman he’d ever known. The rest? Well, that woman his father had married sure wasn’t any good.
Warren insisted he be allowed to keep his cell phone. As he explained to the rent-a-cop, he was important. A US congressman. The security officer finally relented.
Cleared through security and directed to the third floor, Warren took clean strides toward the elevator. He would have to countermove every gesture by every government agency. To do that, he needed to know the game plan. This man Demott was his best bet. The FBI had no information.
At least not that they would share.
He mentally went over his speech to the marshals as he rode in the elevator. He would implore them to share information—show his outrage that this legal monstrosity had gone on so long—would plead, if necessary, to be kept in the information loop. Although pleading would be his last resort.
Warren sucked in air as he exited the elevator and entered the US Marshals office. He’d just left the district attorney’s office and wasn’t in the mood to get the runaround. Not anymore. He’d taken as much as he was going to. He’d get answers, and he’d get them now.
He straightened his jacket and squared his shoulders. He made his steps with careful deliberation, paced, smooth, and fluid. A raven-haired young secretary, clad in a skirt entirely too short for office attire, rushed from around her desk. The Colonel had been right—women were men’s downfall.
“Sir, you can’t go down there without clearance. Sir . . . sir?”
He kept walking down the hall, ignoring the woman’s high-pitched voice ordering him to stop.
A closed door drew his attention. He stopped and pushed open the door—it slammed against the wall with an echoing thud. Demott and that Roark Holland fellow stood in a conference room. Warren crossed the threshold and shut the door on the little sex kitten tailing him. “Gentlemen.” He gave a nod to both men.
“What’re you doing here, Congressman?” Roark struck a defensive pose—legs spread about a foot apart, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked in the armpits. A smart move to automatically go on the defense. He rose a level in Warren’s estimation.
“Yes, Congressman, what are you doing here?” Demott moved to stand in front of his employee.
Warren shoved his hand toward the chief marshal. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, Marshal Demott. I’m here to help with the investigation in any way I can.”
Demott shook his hand but without a tight grip. One could tell a lot about a man in the way he shook hands. Warren detested a weak handshake.
“We aren’t handling the investigation, Congressman. We’re only here to support the FBI in their investigation.” Demott held on to the back of a government-issued metal chair. His knuckles were ghostly against the dark gray. Warren would bet perspiration marks would linger once Demott lifted his hands.
“I’m on my way to visit them next. I understand your guys have done a bang-up job and have been instrumental in the case.” The lie scorched his tongue. By the narrowing of Holland’s eyes, he recognized the falsity as well.
Warren directed his next comment
s to Holland. “I know I said some heated things earlier, but I assure you, I was merely distressed. And disappointed.”
Holland cocked his head, but Demott wore the beginnings of a grin. Success, even if only a slight tilt. “We understand, Congressman. We’re all disappointed.” The chief marshal let out a heavy sigh and lifted a file from the table, tucking it under his arm. “All we know at this point is the accounting papers Mr. Wilks left with the FBI are being scrutinized by the NSA.”
“And when do you expect an answer from them? Any rough estimate?” There was no way he’d get anything from the NSA—those guys didn’t care who asked. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn those geeks didn’t even jump when the president called, much less a congressman.
Demott shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. They don’t report to us. The FBI will let us know.”
“Only if they need us,” Holland interjected.
That marshal really didn’t like him. Warren gave a mental shrug—he didn’t much care for Roark Holland, either. As he stared into the man’s cold eyes, he knew Holland would have to be taken care of . . . soon.
Permanently.
Monday, 6:50 p.m.
Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee
THE TIME HAD COME.
Mai let out a slow breath as the headlights from Madam Nancy’s car pierced the darkness of the room. Her heart skipped a beat. This was it—their captor had left.
No snow fell from the starry sky. A hush hovered over the landscape. Trees cast shadows on the banks of snowdrifts piled along the driveway.
“Can we go now?” Kanya whispered, reverting to Thai.
“No. We have to wait for Fred to check on everyone before he goes back with Oneia.” Mai hoped Fred would stick to his routine the other girls had sworn he had. Their escape depended on it.
Kanya shivered, although Fred had kicked up the thermostat as soon as Madam Nancy shut the door behind her.
Mai squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “It will not be long now. Get the bags loaded.”
They had stolen two pillowcases from the laundry area. The girls would shove the food and supplies inside so they would be easier to carry. For the first time, Mai allowed her hopes to soar. The bags were not heavy. They had stolen clothes so they could dress in layers, and they had even found Madam Nancy’s four pairs of snow boots. They could do this. They would make it. Freedom called.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall.
Mai yanked the bag from Kanya’s hands and shoved it with hers in the darkened corner. Her heart pounded as doors in the hall creaked open, a long moment ensued, then the click of the door shutting. One by one, Fred checked on everyone.
“Quick, lie down and pretend we are asleep,” Mai whispered.
The two girls slid stocking feet across the floor, then dropped to the mattress. It sagged where the now-empty holes had been dug out.
Fred’s footsteps paused outside their door. A creak split the silence, then light filtered into the room from the hallway.
Mai held her breath, not daring to move.
“Y’all okay?” Fred’s deep voice filled the space.
Kanya rolled over and faced him. “Yes.”
Why did she speak to him? The plan was to pretend to be asleep. Mai clenched her hands into balls under the sheet.
“Fine, are ya?”
Just leave. Just go. Mai’s heart tightened. Kanya tensed beside her but remained silent.
“I asked ya a question.” His boots shuffled against the floor as he moved into the room. “Answer me.”
Oh no. Kanya had drawn his interest.
“S-sleep.”
He did not respond. Mai struggled against the pounding of her heart. Surely he could hear it?
“Don’t look like you’re asleep now.” He moved farther into the room.
Stupid! Stupid! Mai raced through ideas. What could she do now?
His feet stopped beside the mattress. “Looks like you’re awake to me.”
He was not going to leave. What to do? Mai rolled over, jerking her arm over her eyes. She filled her voice with a sleepy tone. “W-what?”
Fred laughed, full and throaty. “Nothing. You just sleep. I’m gonna visit with your friend here for a little while.”
Before Mai could register his movements, he grabbed Kanya by the arm and jerked her to her feet. She sobbed.
“Come on. Stop it.” He dragged her toward the door.
Mai dared not sit up or move to help her friend. She knew the consequences.
Kanya looked back at Mai, tears streaming down her face. Her body struggled against Fred.
Smack!
Fred’s hand made contact with the side of Kanya’s face. She cried out.
“Now, come on. I’m not playing with you, girl.”
Mai had no choice but to watch them leave. The door slammed shut.
Her stomach ached. Fred would be occupied with Kanya for at least a good hour, which would give Mai plenty of time to sneak out. But she couldn’t leave Kanya.
Sitting up, she stared out the window. Freedom, so close. All the planning, all the stealing . . . for what?
She could not leave Kanya.
But it had been her plan. She had the idea. She plotted how they could do it. She could still do it alone.
She could not leave Kanya.
She could not stay here. Death was more appealing than staying here.
Everything was lost. Or was it? She could make it. She could escape and send help back for Kanya and the others. Yes, she needed to go. Needed to get help for everyone.
A screaming sob pierced the darkness. Mai’s heart dropped to her toes.
She would not leave Kanya.
TWENTY-ONE
Tuesday, 8:12 a.m.
Abrams Creek Ranger Station
Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee
HEALING PROCESSES CREPT TOO slowly for Brannon’s liking.
She hobbled from her living space into the ranger station and plopped on the couch in front of the television.
“Want a cup of coffee? Just made a fresh pot.” Steve lifted the pot off the coffee station in the corner.
“Sure. Thanks.” She flipped through channels until she landed on a news broadcast. “Where’s Lincoln?”
“Out in the Jeep, showing Jefferson around.”
“Hmm.” She swallowed her distaste. “Heard how long my Dolphin will be in the shop?”
“At least a couple of weeks.” Steve took a loud slurp from his mug. “The district’s waiting to see how much it’ll cost to have it repaired.”
Her fault. All her fault. “And?”
He shrugged. “If it’s too expensive and insurance doesn’t cover the expenses, District can’t afford to buy another one.”
“What’ll happen?”
A cloud of emotions covered Steve’s face. “Let’s wait and see if insurance covers everything before we jump to conclusions.”
Her heart pounded. “No, tell me. What will happen?”
“I don’t know, Brannon.” Steve set his cup on the table and put a hand on her arm. “But District said they’d have to analyze your last mission, see if you made any mistakes that could have prevented the damage.”
“Like I could have prevented being shot at? What’d they want me to do? Go out and shield the Dolphin with my body?”
Steve squeezed her forearm. “Don’t go getting all upset. They’re gonna review the reports, look at everything.”
Upset? She wasn’t upset—she was mad. “Being shot at wasn’t exactly on my list of things to do.”
“People lost their lives after you rescued them, Brannon. District would be irresponsible if they didn’t call for a full review.”
The hesitation in
his voice told her what he didn’t say. She took a sip of coffee, hoping to squelch the disappointment and pain searing her throat. It didn’t.
“Don’t take this personally. It’s standard policy.”
Policy? Since when? They’d lost hikers and campers over the years, and she’d never known them to be under review.
The door opened, blowing in Lincoln and Jefferson who laughed like old friends. Brannon’s heart nose-dived. Her partner was buddying up to the enemy?
Lincoln hung up his coat and ruffled her hair. “Morning, sleepyhead. How’re you feeling?”
Sleepyhead? Was that a slur that she’d reported for work late? “Fine.” She couldn’t keep the edge from her tone.
Lincoln cocked his head and studied her. “Really? You don’t sound fine.” He shifted to sit on the couch beside her. “Is the pain not getting better?” He moved to inspect her ankle.
She jerked her leg away. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” But she wasn’t. Not even when Wade had . . . when she’d lost Wade. At least then she’d had Lincoln to pull her up. But with him cozying up to Jefferson . . . Well, she felt alone.
She wasn’t fooling her friend. He nudged closer to her. “Hon, what’s up with you?”
“Just watching the local news.”
Jefferson grabbed a cup of coffee, then sat on the other side of Lincoln. The hairs on the back of Brannon’s neck stood at alert.
“‘A man of many companions may come close to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.’”
How did he always seem to read her mind? It was like the Holy Spirit spoke to her through her partner. She smiled. “Proverbs.”
Lincoln winked. “Chapter and verse?”
“Um . . .”
“Come on, hon. You know this one.”
She laughed, an honest feeling that banished her fears and uncertainty. “Chapter 19, verse 24.”
Lincoln shook his head. “Close, but it’s chapter 18.”
“I’m being silly,” she whispered.