Deliver Us from Evil (21 page)

Brannon jerked the offensive sticks from the too-perky nurse, jabbed the rubber-coated tops under her armpits, and glared over at the doctor. Why couldn't people understand she hated feeling defenseless?

The doctor raised his brows and shrugged. “The nurse will get you your discharge papers.” He took her chart and strode from the room.

Biting down on her lip, remorse filled Brannon. Maybe she'd been a little too snippy with the doctor, but couldn't he see how helpless her injury had made her?

The nurse smiled. “Let me go get those discharge papers.”

Footsteps clattered in the hall outside the examining room. Pinpricks of awareness tickled the back of Brannon's neck, sensing Roark's presence before he marched into the room with the man he'd addressed as his boss.

Roark's broad shoulders overshadowed the small space. And although seriousness etched his face, his dark eyes glimmered as he stared at her. “What's the verdict on your ankle?”

“Fine.” She shifted, using the crutches to move an inch or so forward.

“Good.” His gaze caressed her face, sending spirals of heat across her cheeks.

The other man cleared his throat. “We really need to debrief you both.” His nod included both Brannon and Lincoln. “We have the use of a couple conference rooms—will you join us?”

Brannon maneuvered the crutches to follow the red-haired man. “As if we had a choice,” she mumbled under her breath. Lincoln touched her shoulder. She refused to meet his gaze, knowing she'd see a silent warning. Instead, she pressed her lips together and hobbled after Roark's boss.

The hallway floor, recently polished, provided little traction for the rubber tips of the crutches. She gripped the handles tighter, increasing her pace to keep up with the man in front of her. The crutch shifted. Brannon swayed, stepping down on her injured leg for balance, and a jolt of pain shot up her leg. She let go of the crutches. A strong arm wrapped around her waist.

Lifting her eyes, she stared into Roark's concerned face. She licked her lips. “Th-thanks.”

“Why don't you let me help you? Lincoln can carry your crutches for you.”

No matter how much she wanted to walk on her own, she knew she couldn't without help. Nor did she want to move out of his embrace. She leaned against him.

All too soon for her liking, they reached the conference area, and Roark released her. His boss motioned for her and Lincoln to sit across the long table from him, Roark, and two men in suits.

She grasped the edge of the wooden table, a strange sensation swarming in the pit of her stomach. Putting her hand under the table, she grabbed Lincoln's. Why was she so nervous? She'd endured many debriefs with the Coast Guard. Why was this one different?

Because Roark was there, watching and listening? Something about him made her nervous, but it had nothing to do with the rescue and everything to do with attraction.

The red-haired man pushed a button on a recorder, then shoved it in front of her. “I'm Chief Marshal Gerald Demott. This is the debriefing interview with Brannon Callahan and Lincoln Vailes.”

She licked her lips again and squeezed Lincoln's hand tighter.

“First, Ms. Callahan and Mr. Vailes, we need to inspect your service weapons and bullets.”

Brannon and Lincoln laid their guns on the table. A marshal took them both and left. Mr. Demott continued. “He'll bring them back to you before we're done. Now we need you to tell us what happened in regard to this search-and-rescue mission. From the beginning until you landed here tonight.”

“Well, I saw the news report of the harvested heart on the local station. Being aware of the approaching blizzard, I tracked the course the helicopter would make, realized it would never make it, and decided to go up in my Dolphin to check things out.”

Demott held up his hand. “What made you think they'd never make it?”

“Well, the wind currents over the Great Smoky Mountains can be quite dangerous in normal weather, and a Bell can't withstand all the updrafts from the blizzard.” She shrugged. “I just figured if that bird did go down and I was already in the air, the rescue would be faster.”

The debriefing continued until both statements were completed and the marshal returned their handguns to them. Brannon felt as if it'd taken a lifetime, yet she enjoyed staying in close proximity to Roark.

The conference room door swung open, hitting the wall behind it. A tall, wiry man rushed into the room, leaned over, and whispered into Demott's ear. Whatever he said, it wasn't news the chief marshal wanted to hear. His face contorted into a grimace and he nodded.

The newcomer strode from the room while Demott stood. “We'll have to get these typed up and your signatures later.”

The other marshals in the room clamored to their feet. “What is it?” Roark asked.

“The witness is dead.”

Brannon's heart free-fell to her feet. “W-what? How? We got the heart here in time.”

Demott ran his hand over his red hair and sighed. “He died in surgery before they could even do the transplant.”

EIGHTEEN

Saturday, 7:45 p.m.

Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

WARREN TIGHTENED HIS KENNETH Cole tie, straightened his suit jacket, and adjusted his cuff links. He loved having money and all that it provided him. Made him elite. Focus, that's what he needed. No slipups could be allowed. He would master the outcome. Hadn't his father drilled into his head that the son of Colonel McGovern was meant for great things?

“Congressman, the marshals are entering the meeting, sir, and the surgeon is on his way.” Kevin stood a little taller as he sidled up next to Warren in the hospital's men's room.

Taking a step back to free his personal space, he frowned at Kevin. “Tell them I'm on my way and not to start the meeting without me.”

Kevin spun on his heel to do Warren's bidding. As he lifted his hand to turn the doorknob, Warren stopped him with another order. “Additionally, as soon as you deliver that message, call all the media back out. I intend to hold a press conference as soon as the meeting is concluded.”

“Are you sure you want to do that, sir? I mean, won't the FBI and marshals do that?”

How dare his aide question him? Warren straightened his shoulders, fighting not to show his displeasure. “I know what I'm doing, son. I'll be the one making the announcements. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin pushed open the door and fled.

Warren appraised his appearance a final time, smiled at himself in the mirror, then marched from the bathroom.

On the short walk to the conference room, he went over the questions he wanted posed in the meeting. He drew in a deep breath, held it, then exhaled and pushed open the door.

Agents from various government agencies milled about the room, some standing and chatting among themselves, others sitting at the table with heads bent as they whispered back and forth. Warren cleared his throat and glared at the woman in a dirty park ranger's uniform sitting near the head of the conference table. Her eyes appeared glazed, as if she'd been crying. Who was she, and what was she doing in the meeting?

Before he could ask, the door whooshed open, and the surgeon trudged into the room, still decked out in surgical scrubs and cap. He ran a hand over his chin. “I'm sorry to say that Mr. Wilks's heart wasn't strong enough to withstand the anesthesia. Time of death was 6:10.”

Of course he'd died—didn't hospitals kill people? Warren's beloved mother had been a victim of such incompetence.

“Did he ever regain consciousness?” Demott asked.

“No.” The surgeon's pager sounded over the deafening silence in the room. He glanced down at the number. “I hate to cut this short, but I have another surgery. I'm truly sorry we couldn't perform the surgery.”

“When will we have the official report?” Special Agent in Charge Greg Daly asked.

“You'll receive a copy by Wednesday at the latest. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to run.”

After the doctor rushed out the door, chaos erupted, everyone talking at once.

Warren pushed off the wall and whistled. All attention turned to him, and silence prevailed. “We need to decide the next course of action, gentlemen.” He let his gaze settle on the woman's face. “And lady.”

She gave a curt nod.

Warren looked over to the SAC. “Have the decoders come up with anything useful from the papers recovered from the witness?”

Greg Daly dabbed at his forehead with a cloth handkerchief. “Not yet. The only thing we know for certain is the account numbers are to a bank in the Cayman Islands. No information on whose names those accounts were in.”

“Anything more come up on Wilks?” Warren would be relentless. This might be his only time to get information. And he needed that information.

“Not directly.” The SAC pulled at files to read. “Autopsy report on his wife came back with some interesting toxicology labs. Traces of DCA, CV247, and ABT-737 were detected.”

“And those are?”

“Cancer treatment drugs.”

Warren shrugged. “Not so interesting when the woman died of cancer.”

“She hadn't been under a physician's care in more than five years, Congressman. And those medications are still in trials.”

“That means?”

Daly shook his head. “She was taking some sort of black-market cancer cocktail.”

“Which Wilks would require quite a bit of money to afford for those five years. That's why it appeared he lived within his means.” Warren nodded.

“The rescue team has recovered the three bodies.” A junior FBI agent flipped papers. “They're on the way to the hospital now. We'll identify the shooters and see what we can find out there.”

Warren shifted his gaze to Demott. “Do you have anything?”

Demott's jaw jutted out, and the tips of his ears turned an interesting shade of red. “No offense, Congressman, but this is a law enforcement situation. I don't think we should be sharing information with every Tom, Dick, or Jane.”

“Then what's
she
doing in here?” Once more Warren tilted his head toward the woman sitting at the table.

Demott cleared his throat. “These are national park rangers Brannon Callahan and Lincoln Vailes. They were the rescue team who delivered the heart.”

“What right do they have to be here? Yet you question my presence when I sit on the Coalition?” Warren folded his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at the marshal. What were they trying to keep hidden? From him? Or from the public?

A man stood suddenly, his chair shoving back so fast it made a horrid scraping sound against the floor. His hands balled into fists at his side as he scowled at Warren. “They have a lot more reason to be here than you do, Congressman.”

“Ah yes, you must be the marshal who delivered the heart.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “It's a shame you didn't get the heart here quicker—our witness may have stood a better chance had the surgery been performed earlier.” Rule number ten—detract attention from yourself by instigating someone already appearing to be on the edge.

“My name is Roark Holland, and yes, I'm the marshal who delivered the heart.” He took a step forward, his muscular build invading Warren's personal space.

Warren scrambled backward. Maybe he'd goaded the wrong man this time. “I need to know what information we're going to release to the media.”

“The media?” Daly bolted to his feet. “I don't think we need to alert the media to any more details.”

“The press knew the surgery was going to take place. We can't put them off.” Warren took another side step away from Roark, who still looked as if he'd like to rip Warren's head off.

“Whose fault is that, Congressman?” Demott drew to his feet as well.

The SAC held out his hand. “This is still an ongoing FBI investigation. We can't release information that could compromise our case, especially not to the media.”

“We can't just leave them in the dark.” Warren crossed his arms again. “We need to make some kind of statement.”

Holland looked ready to pounce. Demott laid a hand on the younger marshal's arm, tightening his fingers around the man's bicep. Then the chief marshal glared at Warren. “If this case is compromised, we'll never catch these scumbag child traffickers.”

Warren opened his mouth to spout off another argument, only to have the woman stagger to her feet. “Excuse me. I realize I'm not working this case or anything, but what I do know is there is still someone out there involved in this ring. I think someone should try to find that person. Maybe then you'll get some answers.”

The agents and marshals began discussing their options, while the woman's gaze burned into his flesh. Making a mental note to do a little checking on her, Warren slipped out of the conference room.

Saturday, 8:10 p.m.

Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

ROARK CLENCHED HIS JAW, fighting to control his anger. The stuffy and pretentious congressman had some nerve, insinuating he belonged in the meeting and Brannon didn't. She'd put her life at risk to save them, as well as to get the heart back to the hospital. For the jerk to have implied it was their fault the witness died . . . It made his blood boil. He saw the censure in Demott's eyes, and Roark let out his breath in a huff.

He turned back to the congressman, but the man was gone. In the burst of excitement, he'd snuck out. Roark nudged his boss. “Sir, the congressman is gone.”

“Probably making statements to the press. Time for damage control,” the Special Agent in Charge said as he rushed from the room, a group of FBI agents dogging him.

“I guess they'll handle McGovern.” Demott ran his hand over his face. “I don't like that man.”

Roark nodded. “There's something suspicious about him, boss. He's much too interested in this case for a normal politician.”