by Robin Caroll
Bucky chuckled and reached for the door handle. “Me either.” He eased into the front seat, blowing into his cupped, bare hands. “You know who I am. Who are you?”
“The moneyman of the operation.”
Bucky peered into Warren’s face. “What operation?”
Time to pick the guy’s brains. Well, what he had of them. “Come on, man, don’t play with me. Zimp told me he sent you a letter outlining everything.”
Bucky nodded.
“Good thing you didn’t take it to the cops, huh?” Warren forced a laugh. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t get out of here.”
Bucky ducked his head.
Warren reached into his pocket. The idiot had sent the letter. Rage burned through Warren’s gut as he tightened his grip on the gun. “You sent the letter?”
Bucky’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Dude, Zimp told me to deliver it if he didn’t call me before midnight.”
Clenching his jaw, Warren scrambled to think. “Did you mail it?”
“No, Zimp said to deliver it to the cops.”
“Where did you take it?”
Bucky shrugged. “Local sheriff’s office.”
“When?” As dimwitted as the locals were, they might not have had the intelligence to forward the letter.
“’Bout an hour ago.”
And nothing had been on the newscast. Warren mentally thanked the laziness of sheriffs’ offices everywhere. “Did you say anything?”
Bucky cocked his head to the side. “Hey, why’re you asking so many questions?” His stare darted to the airport’s front windows. “And if Zimp’s getting our tickets, how come nobody’s at the counter?”
Warren slipped the gun from his pocket and lifted the butt.
Whack!
The side of the gun made clean contact with the back of Bucky’s head. He slumped forward in the seat.
Warren let out the breath he’d been holding. He finally got to use some of the physical training the Colonel had made him endure.
He glanced at his watch—2:20. He’d have to hurry and find a place to get rid of Bucky, then get back to the airport before four thirty.
Looked like he’d go to Brazil. No extradition treaty to worry about.
Thursday, 2:35 a.m.
US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
Knoxville, Tennessee
“AT THE LEAST HE has a two-hour head start. At the most, a little over four hours.” Roark paced the conference room.
“He could be almost anywhere.” Brannon’s entire body ached for Roark. The urge to embrace him almost had her taking a step forward. But she forced herself to focus instead. To think.
“Marshal Holland?”
Roark turned back to the agent. “Yes?”
“We have a hit on the plate.”
Brannon’s pulse spiked.
Roark stood and moved to the desk in the corner. “And?”
“It’s registered to Buddy Zimp.”
Facing Demott, Roark shook his head. “No way he left with him. Not after the letter.”
“Then he had to have left with the neighbor.” Demott rubbed his hands together. “Which means he only has a two-hour lead.”
“But that still doesn’t tell us where he’s gone.” Brannon picked at her nail again.
Think. Something was there. A clue. But where? She reached for the information teasing her from the edge of her subconscious. It was right there . . . like a smoky wisp.
She snapped her fingers and stared at Roark. “Before the fax, the guy who delivered the letter to the deputy—what did he say about Zimp?”
“What?”
“He told the deputy something about who’d written the letter. What was it?”
The FBI agent stood from his desk. “Oh, that he’d board a plane to Jamaica soon.”
“That’s it. We should check to see if Buddy Zimp and Warren McGovern have reservations to Jamaica. Or if Zimp already left.”
The agent lifted the phone.
“You think McGovern’s going with Zimp?” Roark shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“No, I think the deliverer was right and Zimp’s already gone. I think the congressman’s going to make sure Zimp’s out of the picture.” Her muscles bunched with pure adrenaline.
“I don’t follow,” Demott said.
“Zimp comes to visit McGovern. Maybe they argue, maybe not. Who knows? But Zimp leaves. Most likely straight from McGovern’s to the airport.” Roark’s steps bounced as he paced. “McGovern knows Zimp’s headed to Jamaica. If he wants to keep his hands clean, he needs to make sure Zimp doesn’t talk to us.”
“So he doesn’t get caught,” Brannon added.
“Right. He doesn’t know about the letter.”
“Marshal Holland?”
“Yes?” Roark turned toward the FBI agent.
“Buddy Zimp didn’t fly to Jamaica today, nor does he have any reservations to do so.”
No, they couldn’t be wrong. Brannon knew they were on the right track. “And Congressman McGovern?”
The agent smiled. “Booked on the 5:10 flight to Atlanta out of McGhee Tyson Airport, with continuing service to Brazil.”
Roark grinned at his boss. “Let’s lock and load, rock and roll.”
“Wait a minute.” Demott glanced at his watch. “It’s nearing three now. His flight is at 5:10, which means they’ll board around four thirty. The airport’s a good twenty minutes from here.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll call the airline and hold the boarding.”
Roark nodded. “Good idea.”
“Would it help if you could get to the airport in about five minutes?” Brannon asked.
“You bet it would,” Demott said. “But even Roark can’t drive that fast.”
Brannon’s chest filled with elation. “Then it’s a good thing I can fly.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Thursday, 3:00 a.m.
Downtown
Knoxville, Tennessee
FUNNY THING, FLYING IN the small helicopter didn’t bother Roark now. His breathing came out in regular rhythm. His heart rate escalated only in anticipation of arresting McGovern. Or maybe because he sat so close to Brannon.
Demott sat in the backseat, checking and rechecking his handgun. Roark understood—he’d checked his Beretta about four times during the short flight.
Roark listened as she spoke with air traffic control over her headset while piloting the helicopter. That didn’t make him nervous—her having ultimate control over the aircraft. Odd how he trusted her implicitly.
Maybe it was more that he trusted God again. And it felt really good.
Brannon completed her conversation with ATC and smiled at him. “We’re really going to get him.”
He grinned. She was as excited as he. A match made in heaven.
Roark stilled and mentally repeated his phrase. A match made in heaven—could it be? Had God orchestrated everything this way? God had used Brannon to bring him back to his faith. Could He intend for Roark and Brannon to end up together?
God, please let it be so.
He couldn’t imagine being in a relationship with Brannon, but he sure looked forward to trying it out.
“Okay, we’re coming in. The tower has cleared me to land in the back so we’re not visible from the lobby.” She dipped the helicopter lower over the airport. “This way the congressman won’t see us.”
“Good. We want to take him by surprise.”
“Amen to that,” Demott mumbled.
Brannon landed the helicopter with little more than a bump. “Here we are.” She flipped controls. Lights on the instrument panel went dim. “I need to do my postflight. Go ahead and get inside. I’ll find you.”
Demott jumped from the seat and g
lanced at Roark. “Let’s head to the security office. The FBI will meet us there.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.” Roark grabbed her hand as Demott ran inside. If something happened to him, he wanted her to know that he cared about her. Deeply. Seriously.
She went motionless, meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Roark leaned over, and as gently as she’d landed the helicopter, he pressed his lips to hers.
At first she went rigid, then relaxed. His heart raced. Roark wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. She melted against him. He reached up, grabbing the silky strands of her hair, and deepened the kiss, letting his emotions come through.
She moaned against his mouth, sending his blood pressure through the roof. Reluctantly he ended the kiss and drew back. He rested his forehead against hers, staring into her eyes.
Those mismatched eyes of hers blinked a range of emotional reaction—shock, surprise . . . and yearning.
His pulse reacted by drowning out all sounds around them. His body nearly followed suit and eased in for another kiss, but his mind halted his actions. Right now he needed to arrest McGovern, put the lowlife behind bars. But afterward . . .
“We’ll talk later,” he breathed.
Brannon’s face flushed, the skin around her mouth rosy from where his stubble had grazed her soft skin. She nodded, then swallowed.
He smiled, pecked the end of her nose, then opened the door and jumped from the helicopter. “Either stay with the helicopter or go straight to the airport security office. I’m not kidding around, Brannon.”
“I’ll, uh, be there. As soon as, uh, I finish. My postflight.”
He grinned and ran into the building. Getting to arrest McGovern . . . hope for a future with an amazing woman he could fluster . . .
Today looked to be a wonderful day indeed.
Thursday, 3:12 a.m.
McGhee Tyson Airport
Alcoa, Tennessee
WHAT A KISS! IT’D made her toes curl. And that was a good thing.
Brannon finished her postflight walkaround, running a finger over her lips every so often. She could almost feel Roark’s lips on hers and had relived it at least a dozen times already.
She shook her head and rushed toward the airport doors. No matter how breathless the kiss made her—how breathless Roark made her—he was here to do a job. Bring Congressman McGovern to justice for all the horrors he’d inflicted on numerous children.
But once that was done . . . oh, she and Roark would definitely talk.
Brannon welcomed the blast of warm air that brushed against her face as she headed into the airport. She could detect few people in the building. A woman strode to the ladies’ room. A man with a white shirt boasting the TSA logo bustled down a corridor. Otherwise the airport sat as still as a tomb. Kind of creepy, in a way. But good. Arresting the congressman without a lot of people about was probably a good thing.
Now where was the security office?
Tweedle. Tweedle.
She jerked her cell phone from her hip and flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Brannon, it’s Jefferson. Everything’s okay.”
Stopping to slump against the wall, she glanced at her watch. “Lincoln’s out of surgery?”
“Not exactly.”
“I thought you said everything was okay.” Her knees felt like oatmeal.
“He’s okay. The nurse just came out and told me he’d be in surgery another thirty minutes.”
“Why?” Oh, God, please take care of Lincoln. Please.
“She said they found more ligament and tendon damage than they’d expected, so they have to repair all that.”
Fatigue pressed down on her, pushing her past exhaustion. She turned to face the back entrance to the airport. “But he’ll be all right?”
“The nurse said he’d be out of surgery and in recovery soon. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Of course.”
“Steve’s here.”
She should be there as well. Waiting and praying for Lincoln. Conflicting responsibilities ripped her heart in two.
“What’s happening there? We caught the newscast about the FBI finding the girls.”
Brannon didn’t have the energy to rehash everything. The long hours and little sleep caught up with her in a draining sensation that left her limp. “I’ll fill you in when I get there.”
“Don’t rush back, Brannon. Lincoln’s fine, and he won’t be awake for an hour or so at the earliest. Take care of things on your end.”
An update that sent her packing for a guilt trip. How could she not be at Lincoln’s side?
“We’ll stay with Lincoln and catch up when you get here.” He disconnected the call before she could argue.
Brannon closed her eyes and rested the back of her head against the wall. God, please keep Lincoln safe. Let him be o—
A clammy hand over her mouth and cold steel pressing into her side yanked her from her prayer.
Thursday, 3:39 a.m.
McGhee Tyson Airport
Alcoa, Tennessee
WARREN JABBED THE GUN deeper into Brannon Callahan’s side.
Her eyes shot open, panic filling them when she recognized him. Good. She deserved to be scared.
“Don’t say a word. Understand?”
She nodded.
“I’m removing my hand, but if you so much as breathe too loudly, I’ll shoot you. Got it?”
Again she nodded.
He pulled his hand away, leaning closer to her. “Well, well, well, Ms. Callahan. We must stop running into each other like this.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “What will people say about us?”
She swallowed hard. Fear shot into her face faster than the bullet had lodged into Bucky’s skull.
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?”
The terror seemed to have paralyzed her. He dug the gun barrel harder into her side. “I said, let’s take a walk outside.”
She stumbled for a moment, then allowed him to lead her across the building and out the front doors.
Wind gusted around them, swirling and stealing their breath. Fitting, Warren supposed with a smile. He’d steal Ms. Callahan’s life as soon as he learned what had happened. Who had come for him.
How fortuitous to have spied her as soon as he’d entered the airport. Her presence could mean only one thing—they’d received the letter and figured out he would leave town. An ambush awaited him, of that Warren could be certain. But by finding Brannon, he’d thwarted their plans.
The thought of shooting down the arrogance of the FBI put a smile on Warren’s face and determination in his grip on the gun. He shoved her toward the long-term parking lot where he’d left his neighbor’s car.
She tripped over loose rocks, then steadied herself. “You won’t get away with this, Congressman.”
Ah, her spunk and fire had returned. Good. He’d grown weary of besting wimpy victims. He’d enjoy robbing this one of her life. “You think not?”
“No.”
He laughed as they reached the car. He pushed her against the hood, meeting her steely gaze. “So tell me, where’s good ol’ Marshal Holland, huh? Where’s he hiding out, waiting for me to show?” He pointed the gun straight at Brannon’s head. “And don’t insult my intelligence by pretending he’s not here.”
She swallowed so hard he could hear the gulp. “He’s in the security office.”
Oh, he enjoyed this more than he had anything in a long time. “So far from the action?”
Her eyes went cold, and she shot him a glare that could freeze an ice cube. Anger . . . hatred . . . he liked it.
“What about those pesky FBI agents? Waiting at the terminal? Hiding on the plane already?”
“No,
they aren’t here.” She lifted her chin, staring at him with those different-colored eyes.
Little spiders of unease skittered up his spine and spread across his shoulders. Goose bumps pimpled his arms.
No, he wouldn’t let this woman bluff him, toy with him, and make him second-guess himself. The Colonel would come after him from the grave if Warren allowed a woman to get the best of him.
“I suppose I’ll just have to alter my plans somewhat.” He gestured her toward the driver’s door. “Feel up to a little trip, Ms. Callahan?”
“Look, why don’t you run? Get away before they arrest you. Leave me here.”
“Right.” He snorted. What kind of idiot did she take him for? How insulting for this woman to believe she could play him? “Get in the car.”
She hesitated.
He leveled the gun barrel at her temple. “I said, get in. Don’t make me tell you again. You’ve tried my patience long enough.”
She reached for the handle.
“McGovern!” Marshal Holland’s voice exploded behind him.
Warren glanced over his shoulder.
The car door rammed into his side. Oof!
He spun and his face met with Brannon’s fist. Searing pain shot through his right cheekbone. His head jerked left.
He raised the gun, leveling the barrel at her. She moved fast—her blow smacked against the top of his shoulder.
Stinging advanced down his arm. His hand became incapable of a grip. The gun clattered to the concrete.
Brannon whipped around the door and shoved him to the ground. His hip landed on loose rocks, digging into his sensitive flesh. He moaned as he rolled to his hands and knees. He had to get to his feet. Grab the gun.
“Don’t you move, Congressman.” She stood above him, his mother’s gun in her hand . . . pointing at his chest.
THIRTY-FIVE
Thursday, 4:45 a.m.
Fort Sanders Sevier Medical Center
Sevierville, Tennessee