Deliver Us from Evil (19 page)

“Yeah.” Brannon's mind flipped through her earlier conversation with Roark. “What do you think about his spiritual state?”

“Roark's?”

“Yeah.”

Lincoln grimaced. “Why so interested?”

Heat flashed across her face. “Not so much interested as concerned. I mean, aren't we, as Christians, called to share the gospel?”

“Hmm.” He hauled in a deep breath and exhaled. “Brannon, I love you dearly. But I'm not blind. I've seen the little interplay between you two—I'd have to be stupid to have missed it. So I have to ask you, are you worried about his salvation as a sister in Christ or for a more personal reason?”

Leave it to Lincoln to have the ability to see into her heart, even in a time like this. “Does it matter?”

Stroking his mustache, he tilted his head and studied her. “I think it does.”

“How so?”

“Well, if you're concerned as a sister in Christ, you want to tell him about the gospel so his soul is saved from eternal damnation. You have no personal stake in his salvation at all.”

“Right.”

“But, on the other hand, if you're concerned because you want more of a relationship with him, then it's a selfish motive. You only want his salvation because it will suit your desires.”

He had a point. Then again, he always did. “Still, if the end result is the same, what does it matter, the motivation?”

Lincoln closed his eyes and remained silent for a while. She sat quiet, knowing he was gathering his thoughts to temper his words. When he opened his eyes, they shimmered in the flickering moonlight. “True. Philippians 1:18 says: ‘But what does it matter? The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is preached. And because of this I rejoice.'”

She let the Scripture roll over her. Yet the uneasy feeling still sent pinpricks up the back of her neck. “But?”

“But what?”

“I hear a ‘but' in your voice.” Brannon nudged her shoulder against his arm. “Come on, Lincoln, spit it out.”

“We've been partners and friends for quite a while now, and we know each other pretty well.”

“Just tell me what you're thinking. I respect your opinion and want your input.”

He stroked his mustache. “I've never seen you like this before, with any man. Not even my brother. I can't help but think that Roark's salvation isn't the issue of your heart.”

Stinging from his assessment, which was a little too close to the truth for comfort, Brannon touched his hand. “And?”

“I don't know. If your heart isn't pure, your testimony won't be as powerful.” He laid his other hand atop hers. “My concern here is not only for his salvation but also your walk of faith.”

She swallowed as she mulled over his words. Biting tears threatened to spill. Blinking them back, she hauled in a long breath. “I guess I'll just have to pray about it.”

His hand squeezed hers, filling her with warmth, love, and simple joy. “I'll pray for you, too.”

“Thanks. Now where is Roark? We need to start moving again.” She tossed her scrutiny across the valley, now dark. “I don't want to give whoever's coming after us any advantage in catching up.”

A loud thumping reverberated over the valley.

Brannon turned her gaze toward the sky. The
thwump-thwump-thwump
so familiar to her drew closer. She twisted Lincoln's coat in her grip. “The helicopter's here.” Bursting into action, she lifted the flashlight and handed it to him. “Shine the light up so he can see where we are.” She cupped her hands. “Roark!”

A blast of illumination from the sky scanned over the icy terrain, the helicopter's light searching for them.

She heard the click of the flashlight and Lincoln's steps as he moved free from the covering of the trees. Hobbling as fast as she could manage, Brannon neared the edge of the woods. “Roark!”

Saturday, 4:25 p.m.

Southeast of Rainbow Falls

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

HE WAS GETTING CLOSE, Roark could tell.

Easing his steps into the snow and ice, he continued to track the footprints. Exhaustion clawed at every muscle. Movement flashed in his peripheral vision. He spun behind a clump of foliage and peered between the ice-loaded branches. A large African-American man in full tactical gear held an assault rifle close to his chest as he crept through the woods. Heading right toward Brannon and Lincoln.

Roark tightened his grip on his Beretta and crouched lower. Watching. Waiting.

The man slunk closer to the bushes where Roark hid. His boots crunched in the hardened snow.

Beretta at the ready, Roark controlled his breathing. Slow and steady, shallow and silent.

The air seemed crisper than before and still—no breeze moved a single needle on a tree. Cold penetrated the woods. Silence hung in the air as heavy as the ice coating the ground. Roark tensed his leg muscles, itching to pounce.

The man drew nearer. Closer. Roark could smell the man's scent on the wind. He shifted his weight. A twig snapped. The man stopped. He lifted his assault rifle, peering through the scope.

No time to wait. Roark leapt, catching the man across the back of the shoulders. The weapon thudded into the snow.

The man shrugged Roark to the ground. He landed on a rock that dug into the small of his back. Roark flinched. The Beretta fell from his grip and skidded across an icy patch to the woods. He jumped to his feet.

Roark couldn't make it to his gun before the bigger man would cream him. He needed something to get an edge. Fatigue latched onto his limbs.

They faced off, rotating in a circle around each other. Gauging. Analyzing. Sizing each other up.

“Who are you?” Roark took another step left, staying out of striking distance.

The man mirrored Roark's movements. “Don't matter.” Then he lunged. The back of his gloved fist slammed against Roark's jaw.

His head snapped back . . . his knees wobbled. The next blow hit his abdomen. Air whooshed from his lungs.

The man threw his massive fist again, but Roark ducked. The blow just grazed him. Roark executed a dodging spin, using the man's wide shoulders for support. The man blew by him and teetered on the ice.

Again they faced each other. Roark's breath came in pants and gasps. His jaw ached, and the bitter, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

The man's breathing came out erratic as well. Both cross-stepped, kept moving in a tight circle.

“Roark.” Brannon's yell broke the silence.

Would she come to find him? Considering her profession, she probably would. Roark's heart pounded. He couldn't take that chance. Closing the space between the man and him, he executed a full crescent kick, landing the heel of his right foot solid inside the man's left thigh. The man grunted and bent.

Now was his chance. Roark's leg flew out again, catching the man's right temple with the side of his foot.

Ooof!
The man dropped to his knees.

Now to finish him off. Roark charged, his right knee landing in the middle of the man's gut. He slammed the side of his forearm across the man's shoulder, sending the man backward into the snow.

With a quick exhale, he hit the man's nose with a perfectly placed heel-palm strike, forcing the bone up through the sinus cavity.

“Roark!” Brannon's voice sounded nearer.

He retrieved his Beretta and crept toward the fallen man. He kept his eyes locked on the still figure as he approached slowly, cautiously. With the tip of his boot, he nudged the man. No response. Bright red blood dripped from his nose into a puddle on the pristine snow.

Roark holstered his gun, then hunched down beside the hulk. Lifeless eyes peered back at him. He checked the pockets. No wallet, no identification, nothing but a cell phone.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, stood, then stepped over the dead man and sprinted back to Brannon and Lincoln. He spit out the blood, wondering how bad he looked. He didn't want to alarm her.

A thumping sounded as he approached. As he rushed into the clearing, Roark spied the National Guard helicopter landing in a whirlwind. The side door slid open and an armed National Guardsman jumped to the ground.

“Let's go,” Brannon hollered over the drone of the engine. Her long hair whipped in the wind, blocking her face.

He limped forward, following her and Lincoln into the cargo bay of the helicopter. He reached for the cooler sitting on the floor.

The helicopter's engine revved as the pilot nodded to his partner. The other guardsman hopped into the aircraft and shut the door with a resounding slam.

Roark held tight to the cooler's handle. He'd done it. Accomplished his mission. No other innocents would die.

Saturday, 4:36 p.m.

Southeast of Rainbow Falls

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

BRANNON STARED AT ROARK, taking in the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Did you find anything?”

He held up a cell phone. “Just this.”

She didn't respond, just considered what that meant. He'd found whoever had left the footprints. Fought with him. Dare she ask if the man was alive or dead? She pressed her feet against the helicopter floor as it rose into the sky. Searing agony shot up her leg. Brannon gritted her teeth. Twisted ankle or not, she would not cry out.

The pilot's voice filled the air as he keyed up the radio. “ATC this is National Guard in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Over.”

The pilot rattled off their coordinates, informed the tower of their rescue, and notified that they were en route to Parkwest Medical Center.

Tears of helplessness and disappointment clouded Brannon's eyes. She swiped them away, but not before Roark touched her shoulder. She cut her eyes to him and found his expression one of empathy as he glanced at her ankle.

How could he sense her feelings so accurately? Brannon was accustomed to Lincoln's reading her thoughts, but that was because they'd been partners, a team, for several years. She'd only known Roark for days.

God, help me to understand.

Recalling the way Roark made her feel when he looked at her a certain way, or how her knees had turned to mush when he'd touched her tattoo, she prayed her emotions weren't so obvious. Now that they were about to return to civilization, would the attraction they'd begun to experience disappear? Reality always did have a way of crashing into her fantasies.

She studied his movements as he inspected his gun clips, then shoved them back into his coat pockets. Where Roark Holland was concerned, it seemed her heart was lost in a deep fantasy. Would she be able to walk away cold once they landed? She choked at the thought.

Roark turned his gaze to her, his eyes confused.

She shook her head and smiled before staring out the window. No matter what, Brannon wouldn't let her heart become any more involved with Roark. Yeah. Right. And she had some lovely beachfront property right here in Tennessee, too.

SEVENTEEN

Saturday, 5:00 p.m.

Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

“CONGRESSMAN?” KEVIN STUCK HIS head in the waiting room.

Warren tore his gaze from the newspaper he'd been scanning. The article posed the possibility of the child-trafficking ring. It went further to question if these children were Asian, as implied. Warren still didn't grasp the outrage. He'd endured his Asian stepmother's tirades for four years before he could leave home. Hers and her demanding daughters' while Warren ached for his mother. To be forced to live under the same roof as his father's mistress . . . that foreigner who took over his home . . .

“Congressman?” Kevin crossed the empty room and stood before him.

“Yes?” He set the newspaper on the table and rose. “What is it, Kevin?” The news had better be important. Warren had finally found a little peace and quiet, a place where he didn't feel the Grim Reaper breathing icy blasts down his neck.

“Marshal Demott has received word via air traffic control that the helicopter is about twenty minutes out.”

Warren raised his brows, a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Is the surgeon in place?”

“Yes, sir. They're prepping the patient for surgery now, and Dr. Rhoads is heading to the landing pad.”

“Good, good.” Warren pressed his lips together, his mind flipping through a mountain of options. “Where is Demott?”

“He's assembling his team so they can debrief his man and the others in the helicopter as soon as they land.”

“I see. Where?”

“The chief of surgery has offered them his personal office and conference area.”

Warren smoothed his suit jacket, lifted his coat from the back of the plain loveseat, and strode toward the door. He barked orders over his shoulder, not bothering to look at his aide. “Take me there. I need to be present at the debriefing.”

Kevin dogged his heels. “Sir, they say only authorized members of the law enforcement team are allowed.”

Warren jerked to a stop in the hallway, turned, and glared at Kevin. They were definitely trying to hide something. Enough of this runaround nonsense. He intended to find out what was going on. “We'll see about that. Authorized members, indeed.”

His shoes squeaked on the polished tile floor, his long stride causing his feet to beat out a smooth and steady cadence. As he punched the elevator button and waited, a black cloud settled over him. He
had
to get into that debriefing. Find out what the marshal in the field knew.

Not waiting for the elevator doors to open all the way, Warren pushed inside and jabbed the button for the fourth floor. He stretched his neck from side to side, then straightened his suit jacket. Only authorized members of law enforcement allowed in the meeting? Who did they think they were? Didn't these idiots realize it was Congress who voted on their agency budgets? He'd remind them. Rule number eight—always throw out your trump card when necessary.