Deliver Us from Evil (22 page)

“Well, he sits on that committee our Justice Department set up to oversee the child-trafficking reports.” Demott shrugged. “I guess he's worried about the reelection factor.”

“I think there's more to his interest than that.” Roark turned his attention to the movement at the end of the room.

Lincoln held Brannon's elbow, assisting her to her feet. He pushed the crutches at her. She grimaced but took them. Lincoln turned his back to her, and Brannon stuck her tongue out at him. Roark bit back a chuckle.

“So what do you want us to do?” Lincoln rounded the table and addressed the two marshals.

“Let me see if I can find someone to type up your statements. All we'll need is your signatures, then you can wash your hands of this.” Demott stuck his head out the door, whistling, then speaking in muffled tones.

“Can the ring be busted without the witness?”

Brannon's soft tone startled him. “We can always hope the departments working on the paperwork will get a break.”

“That's it? That's the only way these . . . these child abusers will be busted?”

“It's in the hands of the FBI field agents.” Roark shifted his weight from one foot to the other. How could he explain it to her when he, himself, couldn't understand the invisible lines drawn between government law enforcement agencies?

“So these men will get away with exploiting innocent children? That's just wrong.”

“I know. My boss has assigned me to the follow up on the case, but until more evidence is uncovered, our hands are pretty much tied.”

Chirp! Brring! Chirp!

Lincoln lifted a cell phone from his jacket and pushed it against his ear. “Hello.”

Roark assessed Brannon as she stood beside her partner. She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, making a slight hissing noise. His arms twitched as he recalled how it felt to hold her close, so close he could feel her heartbeat.

Lincoln flipped the phone closed and glanced at Brannon. “That was Steve. He's sending the new pilot to pick us up.” He glanced at his watch. “ETA in about ten minutes.” He looked to Roark. “We need to get up to the landing pad. Can we sign our statements later?”

They were leaving—
she
was leaving. Why did his heart feel like a giant vise had it in its grip and was tightening it with every passing second? He knew he'd have to say good-bye. He just wasn't ready. Not yet.

Demott returned his attention to Lincoln. “You say your ride is on its way?”

“Yes, sir. A helicopter is en route as we speak. We really need to rest, sir. We've been up for more hours than I care to count. Can we please reschedule the review of our statements?”

“Okay, okay. We can set up an appointment to conclude everything sometime next week, I suppose.” Demott glanced over at Roark.

Still staring at Brannon, Roark wanted to shout, “No, they can't delay the statements. It has to be done now”—anything to keep her from leaving. She turned those intoxicating eyes on him, and his soul rocked full force from their penetrating impact. “Yeah, I suppose,” he mumbled, yet never took his eyes off her.

“Great. You know where to reach us.” Lincoln grabbed Brannon's crutches, maneuvering to offer her full support.

That strange sensation jabbed in Roark's gut again. Jealousy. Envy. He clenched his jaw muscles. He knew nothing was between Lincoln and Brannon except their friendship.

And then she smiled at him. “I just wanted to say it was a pleasure to have met you.”

Did he detect a hint of disappointment in her expression? Hope surged. Facing his boss, Roark lifted a single brow. “I'll escort them to the roof.”

Demott stared at him a moment, then a slow grin pushed across his ruddy face. “Okay. Meet you back here.”

Roark turned and pulled Brannon against him. His eyes narrowed as he glared at her partner, silently daring Lincoln to try to take her away from him.

Lincoln's eyes widened, then he gave a slight nod. “Why don't you guys head on up? I need to, uh, stop by the restroom. I'll bring the crutches with me.”

Tilting her head, Brannon studied Lincoln. “Are you sure? We can wait for you.”

“No, it'll take you longer. I'll be right behind you.” He stared at Roark, his meaning clear in his eyes.

Roark mouthed
“thank you,”
then led Brannon toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

They moved little by little, as Brannon favored her injured leg, but Roark didn't mind. He knew once she got on that helicopter and headed back to the ranger station, he'd lose someone special.

Had it really only been a little over a day since he'd met her?

He wanted nothing more than to get to know her better. On a much more personal level. Even though they didn't live too far from each other, they would both get back to their normal lives and wouldn't build on the friendship they'd begun. The realization saddened him.

Shoving open the door to the roof, cold air slammed against them, pushing them backward. He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist and turned her to face him.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, undoing Roark. The tip of her tongue darted out from between her chapped lips. A spiral of intense yearning tugged at him. His body moved of its own accord. Lowering his head, he pressed his lips against hers.

Heat wrapped around him, taking control of his senses. Roark pulled her close, wrapping his hand in her hair. He was right—it was as soft as silk against his calloused palms.

She sighed against his mouth, drawing him deeper into infatuation with her. Then honor shoved to the forefront of his brain. He stiffened and ended the kiss. Her eyes, glazed over, blinked up at him. The delicate skin around her mouth reddened from the stubble on his face, making him want to kiss her all over again.

“Oh, good, the helicopter's landing.” Lincoln spoke louder than necessary, causing them to jump apart. He eased a hand under Brannon's elbow. “You ready?”

She nodded but kept her gaze locked on Roark. He reached out a finger and traced the line of her cheek, planted a quick kiss on her temple, then stepped back to let the rangers pass onto the landing pad.

He watched them duck into the waiting helicopter, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to jump from his chest. Roark knew the statistics of people in intense situations often finding themselves attracted to each other. This should have been just that—a statistic.

But he knew himself, and what he was feeling for Brannon was more. Or it could be.

He didn't have time to analyze what could be—he had a successful assignment that failed. Roark had to concentrate on salvaging his job, his career.

Yet he had a feeling that a certain set of mismatched eyes would haunt his dreams.

NINETEEN

Saturday, 9:15 p.m.

Helipad, Parkwest Medical Center

Knoxville, Tennessee

WHAT WAS WRONG WITH her?

Brannon blinked back the tears until Lincoln helped her into the copilot's seat. As the helicopter lifted into the air, she set the headset onto her head. Within seconds a voice hummed in her ear. “Well, hello, hotshot. How was your adventure?”

Just his voice twisted her insides into knots. She swiped her knuckles across her cheek and glanced over to her new coworker. A mass of shiny golden blond hair topped a tan and rugged face. Jefferson Montgomery was going to be a thorn in her side.

She keyed the controller to engage the headset. “Hi, Jefferson. Thanks for picking us up.”

“Anytime. You know I love flying.”

Brannon took stock of the helicopter. “Where'd you get this?”

“Local aerial tour company heard about your chopper getting shot up, so they loaned us this one.”

Nice of them, but she couldn't help wondering what NPS would do for the future. She could only hope her Dolphin had been well insured. Otherwise, she and Jefferson might both be out of jobs. And her a home, since District demanded she live at the station 24-7.

“Heard you injured your ankle. How is it?”

“Doctor says I'll only need to stay off of it a couple of days or so.” A sliver of competitiveness stabbed her heart. “I'll be back flying by the weekend.”

“No hurry. I can cover all the flying needed.” He pulled back on the collective.

Just what she was afraid of. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to think of something else. Her mind shifted to Roark. Of being in his arms. Of kissing him. Fresh tears burned her eyes. His kiss had been good-bye. She shouldn't care. Shouldn't give one iota that she'd never see him again.

But she did.

“I heard your rescue was a success.”

Why did Jefferson continue to make small talk? “Partially.”

“You got that marshal and the heart out. Must've been some adventure.”

“Yes.” The bitter burn of failure left a bad taste in her mouth. “But the pilot and flight medic died, and the person who was to receive the heart died anyway.”

“Humph. That's not your problem, though, right?”

“Actually, it is. It's not only
my
problem but every upstanding citizen's, too. That witness was going to blow the lid off a child-trafficking ring. Now . . .” She spread her palms and stared out the bubble window.

“I see.”

She wasn't in the mood to deal with this man right now. She wanted to crawl into bed and mourn her failures—losing those men and then the witness. And just as surely, losing Roark. She sniffed against a pity party.

Lincoln pulled her headset away from her ear and whispered, “‘May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.'”

Her heart lifted for a moment, and she smiled over her shoulder at him. He understood her better than anyone. “Too easy. You made me learn this when I became a ranger. Psalm 90:17.” She let out a hiccupping breath. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

He winked, then leaned back in his seat.

“Am I missing something?” Jefferson tilted his head as he kept his eyes on the terrain.

Her spirits soared higher than the altitude of the aircraft. “Lincoln was just reminding me that I have control over nothing in this world.” She smiled wider as Jefferson spared her a fleeting glance. “God's always in control over everything, even our jobs.”

“You believe in God, faith, and all that?”

“One hundred percent.” She wet her lips. “Don't you?” This conversation felt an awful lot like the one she'd had with Roark not too long ago.

Roark. The knife in her heart twisted another inch.

“Not really.” Jefferson's breath wisped against his microphone. “Seems to me if there was a great and powerful God, such bad things wouldn't happen in the world. I think people dictate what goes on in their lives.”

“That's where faith comes in. The believing in what you can't see because you know it to be true.” She glanced at Jefferson, wondering if her words ministered to him.

He was quiet for a while. “Interesting way of looking at it. I suppose you use whatever you have to in order to deal with stuff.”

She bit her tongue, knowing she should just pray for him and keep her mouth shut. He showed no inclination toward being witnessed to. Not right now.

“For instance, my mom died only a month ago. Did God do that?”

Brannon swallowed, choosing her words with care. “I'm sorry you lost your mom. I don't profess to know all the answers as to why things happen.”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the airspace before them. “Cancer. She'd been fighting it for years.”

“I'm sorry. Are you close to your stepfather?”

Jefferson snorted. “Not hardly. He didn't even bother to stay with her when she died. He called to tell me she'd passed away and to come to the house. When I got there, I found my mother's body, but my stepfather was gone. Just vanished. Not that I care, mind you, but he should've at least had the decency to stay around to bury her and settle their estate.”

“That's awful.”

“Yeah.” He popped his knuckles. “How does God play into that?”

“He'll provide comfort, if you let Him,” Lincoln said.

Jefferson harrumphed. The helicopter shifted. As Jefferson began the descent, regret filled Brannon's heart. Why hadn't she told Roark about her feelings for him? If only she could've witnessed to him more, been a better example, talked to him awhile longer—who knew what strides she could have made with him? Why hadn't she pressed the issue? Brannon gazed over her shoulder at Lincoln. Had his words halted her in witnessing stronger to Roark?

As soon as the skids touched the concrete, Brannon yanked off the headset and jumped from the loaned helicopter. Her momentary lack of acknowledgment of her injury came back in record time when she put weight on her left leg. The pain pills the doctor had given her didn't even mask the agony. Teetering as she hopped on one foot and gripped the helicopter door, Brannon gritted her teeth.

Lincoln handed her the set of crutches, smiling. Didn't he realize how horrid they were—an outward, visible sign of her weakness? She shook her head, making his smile spread into a full grin. He took the offensive sticks and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Let's get inside and check on Steve.”

The wind cut through the air, chilling Brannon deep down into the warm recesses of her body. She shivered and shifted closer to Lincoln. If there was any justice in the world, it would have been Roark helping her.

She wouldn't dwell on Roark or what could have been between them any longer. She pushed him out of her mind as hard as she pushed open the station door.

Steve rushed to her side, pulling her from Lincoln and into a big bear hug. “Girlie, I was so worried about you.” He scrutinized her, as if checking for himself that she was really okay.

“Oh, I'm fine, Steve, thanks for asking,” Lincoln chuckled as he leaned the crutches against the coat tree.