Deliver Us from Evil (23 page)

Looking over to Lincoln, Steve laughed. “Well, I knew you weren't injured like Brannon here.” His soft gaze rested back on her, pushing back the chill settling over her. “I'm just so glad you weren't hurt worse.”

“Nah, I'm fine.” She hugged her boss with a final squeeze, then hopped to lower herself onto the couch. Letting out a long sigh, she rested her head against the lumpy cushion. “But I sure am glad to be back home.”

“Speaking of home, you ought to hit the shower, then to bed with you,” Steve said.

“I
am
tired.” She ran a hand over her face, realizing the fatigue of the past couple of days had crept up on her. “It's been a long day.”

Lincoln stood in front of her and held out his hand. “Come on, I'll help you.”

She let him tug her to a standing position. Dizziness swarmed, and she swayed. Lincoln pulled her to him. “You okay, Brannon?”

“Yeah. I think the pain medication is kicking in, though. The room feels like it's spinning.”

“Get her to bed.” Steve's voice boomed across the room.

Lincoln didn't wait for an argument, just took control. No good-byes were necessary, and she didn't know if she could muster the strength to find her voice. All Brannon was aware of was the ache in her leg.

He led her to the door separating the ranger station from her home, flipping on lights as they passed them. Brannon gritted her teeth, concentrating on making it to bed without getting sick all over the place.

Once Lincoln helped her to her room, he placed a kiss on her temple and left, turning off the lights as he went. She fell across the bed. The hum of the heater coaxed Brannon into a semisleep state.

Images flitted across her mind—the Bell engulfed in flames, losing a helicopter pilot, getting shot at, hiking through the woods, Roark's smile, Roark's eyes, Roark's kiss . . .

Sunday, 10:00 a.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE dirty window pane, spilling brightness into a room void of hope. A bird perched on the windowsill and tweeted, startling Mai. She jumped, staring over her shoulder. A long whoosh of air tore from her lungs and snuck past her lips. She took a moment to study the free creature preening his wings before turning back to her task. Freedom, would she have it again?

She pressed her fingers into the hole in the edge of the mattress against the third hidden supplies stash—the cache was full. A smile pushed into her face as her heart sped. Dare she allow herself to believe they could succeed? She pounced in the center of the mattress, almost landing right on Kanya.

Her friend groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and buried her face in the mattress. “I need sleep. Leave me alone.” Her words were sleepy in her native tongue.

Leaning over, Mai hovered next to Kanya's ear. “We can leave soon,” she breathed, then shoved away.

Kanya jerked around and upright in one fluid motion. Her eyes widened, and moisture pooled over the dark orbs. “We have enough supplies?”

“Enough for three days, if we are careful. That should be plenty of time to get to help.” Mai drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Tomorrow is perfect, since Madam Nancy always leaves for a couple of hours on Monday nights. All the girls say so.”

Kanya tucked errant strands of ebony hair behind her ear. “Where does she go? Every Monday night, I mean?”

“I do not know.” Mai shrugged. “I do not care. The point is she leaves, and that is when we will make our escape.” She swallowed. Sweet freedom whispered, calling to her. A shiver vibrated throughout her body. She would succeed. Or die trying.

Anything was better than staying here and doing nothing.

“What is our plan? Who will help us?” Kanya, being younger, looked to Mai for direction and instruction. She blinked and sniffed.

For a moment Mai forgot the horrors they had endured—her friend had not yet lost the look of innocence. Would she, herself, ever get that back? Ever? Mai gave herself a mental shake. No, it was too late for her—she would never be innocent again. She had seen too much, lived through too much. She would never be the same. A part of her had been lost forever, stolen by the dirty American men. Hatred flamed her heart.

“Mai?” Kanya touched her shoulder, drawing her from her thoughts. The hope in her eyes filled the room with a light brighter than the sunbeams now dancing over the floor.

After days of snowstorms, was the appearance of the sun a sign that all would be okay? Mai wished it so. Determination gripped her in a tight hold. She would escape and lead Kanya to freedom as well. “We will wait until Madam Nancy leaves. Fred will come in, but we should be safe. He likes Oneia, and as soon as Madam Nancy leaves, he will go visit her.” Mai shuddered. “That will give us an hour to get out of the house and through the woods in the back.”

“We go through the woods?” Kanya's eyes widened even more. “Why can we not go down the street if Fred will be busy?”

Mai inhaled deeply, held it a moment, and then let it out in a rush. “Because we cannot risk someone seeing us.”

She pushed to her feet and strode to the window. The snow clumped on the bare branches, weighing the limbs down until they bowed. Several inches of snow lay packed on the ground. The sun reflected off the pristine snow, causing Mai to blink. Even with her eyes closed, white dots floated across her vision.

She turned back to Kanya. The tips of her fingers resting against the sill chilled. “We need to find extra clothes. Can you lift some of Aelita's? Maybe her long underpants?”

“I can try.” Kanya stood and joined Mai at the window, pressing her nose against the glass. “It looks cold out there.” She turned her expressive eyes back to Mai's face. “Can we really make it?”

“We have to try.” Seeing the uncertainty cross Kanya's features, Mai stiffened her spine. She wouldn't show doubt to her friend. “I have paid attention when Madam Nancy has spoken with the clients, so I have a mental map of the area. We will make it through the woods within an hour. After that, we will hit the valley of the mountainside. All we have to do is follow it for a couple of miles, and we will enter a national park.”

“What does that mean?” Kanya wrapped a thick strand of hair around her finger, twirling and twisting the hair into knots.

“It means there are people in a national park who will protect us from Madam Nancy.”

“How can we trust anyone?” Kanya frowned.

Mai shrugged. “We do not have a choice. I have heard these people are good—are the law here in America. We have to take the chance.”

“Will Madam Nancy come after us?” Kanya shuddered. Her shoulders protruded out as she hunched over.

Mai shook her head. “She will send someone after us. That is why we have to move fast.” She gripped her friend's shoulders. “We will have to run, Kanya—get a head start before she realizes we are gone. It is our only hope.”

TWENTY

Monday, 8:10 a.m.

US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

THE SUN BEATING DOWN on the terrain the past several hours had raised the temperatures, but they hadn't crept above freezing yet. Most likely wouldn't. Roark almost slipped as he bounded up the stairs into the Knoxville marshals' office. He passed security with a flash of his badge, then paused at the elevator bay. As of late, he'd taken the stairs, but today, well, today he punched the button and waited for the elevator.

He caught his reflection in the polished steel doors. His eyes could be mistaken for road maps with all the red lines streaking through them. Roark ran a hand through his hair, trying to bring the strands under control. No way would anyone expect him to be back in the office so early. No one but himself. Then again, nobody would be surprised to see him, either. His dedication to the job was a given.

Even after the Mindy incident.

Stepping from the elevator onto the third floor, he strode toward the conference room. He knew where his boss would be—holed up reviewing the files. The rubber soles of Roark's shoes squeaked against the nondescript tile floor. He knocked on the door once, then turned the knob.

Gerald Demott nodded as Roark strode into the room and dropped into a vacant chair after tossing his coat across the end of the table.

“Couldn't get any rest, Holland?”

“Not when there's work to be done.” And the haunting images of Brannon's eyes tormenting him hadn't helped any, either. Roark shook off the hours he'd tossed and turned in his bed the last two nights, only managing to twist his sheets into tight knots. “What have we got?”

“NSA is working overtime on the papers Jonathan Wilks had when he appeared at the FBI.” He gestured over the mess of papers and files on the table. “If only he'd brought in a key to the stupid thing. We can only pray they'll figure out the accounting mess.”

Roark chose to ignore the praying comment Demott had spit out so second naturedly. He was accustomed to his boss's religious statements and normally ignored them. But after being around Brannon and Lincoln, the comment seemed to jump out and smack him between the eyes. Was
somebody
trying to make a point? Was there a message he was supposed to get?

“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.