Deliver Us from Evil (5 page)

“Somebody shot the man
at
the FBI office?” Warren slammed his palms against the table. “That's outrageous.”

Markinson held up his hand. “It was in the parking lot. No one was injured. The witness wasn't hit.”

“Did agents arrest the shooter?”

“No, he got away.”

Warren crossed his arms over his chest. “What an example of fine federal lawmen we have here in Knoxville. It's an absolute disgrace.” He shook his head, furrowing his brow. Had the FBI turned into the Keystone Kops? How could this have happened?

Markinson laid down the folder. “That isn't the issue, Congressman. The issue is the witness dropped the folder, then went into cardiac failure and lost consciousness. He was rushed to Parkwest Medical Center.”

“You don't say?” Warren leaned forward, resting his elbows on the scuffed wooden table. So . . . they
did
have something to go on.

“The man suffers from heart disease and has been on the transplant list for months. Getting shot at sent him into failure.”

“Well, surely he's been stabilized in two weeks.” Why wouldn't Markinson just spit everything out? What was he hiding?

The US attorney sighed. “Yes, he was—is—stabilized. However, because of his condition, the doctors determined it would be in his best interest to keep him in a drug-induced coma until a donor heart could be located.”

“And the documents can't be interpreted by anyone else?”

“We've had the FBI, NSA, and CIA looking into it. As of yet they've found nothing of use.”

“How can that be?” Surely all the government entities could decode one set of documents.

“According to the NSA decoders, these guys are good. We suspect the accountant, our witness, layered and hid the money well. As I said before, the key to the evidence is in our witness's head.”

“Who is this man?” Warren's tone left no room for arguing, tired of having to pull out information that should have been provided.

“Jonathan Wilks, a retired IRS agent. We can only assume he has the knowledge and capabilities to back up the documentation.”

“But what do you know about him?”

Markinson scanned the file. “After running a check on him and getting a warrant to search his residence of record in Rockford, we discovered he'd recently lost his wife to cancer, had no children of his own, and lived within his means. A stepson called in the wife's death and requested an autopsy. That's all we know right now.” He shut the folder. “We're still investigating. Some reports take more time than others.”

“Ah.” Warren nodded, as if granting approval. Time for action. “What's the game plan, Noah?”

“The man has a rare blood type, AB negative, but was at the top of the list for a heart transplant. The surgeons said it was only a matter of time before he dropped dead without one.”

“Was?” Warren folded his arms across his chest again, tucked in his chin, and pinned Markinson with his glare. “What's the status now?”

“As you've heard, we located a heart in North Carolina that matches the witness's. Of course, Jonathan Wilks is in ICU with armed marshals guarding his room and unable to be transported to the hospital in North Carolina. As we speak, the donated heart is en route to the hospital where the surgeons will perform the transplant. If all goes as the medical staff has led us to believe, after Wilks has the surgery, his prognosis will be good.” Markinson tapped the file.

“Let me get this straight—this witness is dying.” What was he missing?

“No, not dying. The heart surgeon—and trust me, we have the best available in the state on standby to perform the transplant—assures me the surgery should be successful and the witness will be able to speak and function clearly.”

“As long as the transplant goes well.”

Markinson nodded. “The only thing left to chance at this point is the heart getting to the hospital in time.”

“Is this an issue?”

“Well, generally speaking, the heart is only viable for four hours after removal. The helicopter flight from Wilmington to Knoxville is a little over three hours in normal weather conditions.” Markinson ran a hand over his mouth. “Due to the approaching blizzard, the medical technician transporting the heart has certain medications he can inject that will extend the viability for up to forty-eight hours. So it should all be fine.”

Warren shoved to his feet. “Keep me abreast of the situation, Noah. I'm heading to the hospital to be there when the witness comes out of surgery. I want to hear his testimony firsthand.” No way would he be left out of the loop again.

With a nod toward the other men at the table, he turned and left the room with Kevin right on his heels.

Friday, 6:45 p.m.

Abrams Creek Ranger Station

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

BRANNON STRODE TO THE radio control center, her senses humming, and lifted the mike.

“What're you doing?” Jefferson rose to his feet and moved to the desk, staring at her.

“I'm going to try to get that Bell pilot's flight plan to see which route they're taking.” She twisted the knob, changing the radio frequency, and squealed the mike. “RCM986 Tennessee to North Carolina ATC.”

The radio squalled.

“RCM986 Tennessee to Wilmington ATC, come in, please.”

Nothing but static filled the air.

Wind gusted around the ranger station, whistling and whipping against the wood cabin. Brannon tried to hail air traffic control again but with no response. She slammed down the microphone and chewed the skin beside her fingernail. The storms must have knocked out the ranger station's communication capabilities with ATC.

“What're you thinking?” Steve took a long slurp of coffee, staring at her over the rim of the cup.

“Pull up the radar screen.” She nodded toward the computer linked to the National Weather Service. “I want to see where the storm's moving right now. If that pilot's any good, he'll veer off course to avoid the brunt of the blizzard.”

Steve's fingers flew over the keyboard until the screen pulled up the latest satellite radar of the storm front. Brannon leaned over his shoulder to study the monitor, inhaling the familiar scent of Old Spice and cigarettes. She traced the straightest path from Wilmington to Knoxville. The worst area of the storm was right in the line she'd drawn.

“They're flying right into it!” Jefferson said.

Brannon shook her head. “Not necessarily.” She tapped the screen again. “Look here. If he alters about forty degrees off course, he'd miss the bulk of it.” She narrowed her eyes. “That would put them right over the Appalachian Trail . . .”—she glanced at her watch and did a quick mental calculation—“in an hour or so.”

“What do you want to do?” Lincoln sat on the edge of the desk, letting one leg dangle.

Straightening, she chewed the hardened skin by her nail again. Steve would go with her judgment. As the pilot, she had the responsibility of making the call. She stared at the screen once more. If that Bell didn't veer, the helicopter would go down. But any pilot worth his weight would shift off course. Then again, those Life Flight flyboys weren't always trained for countermaneuvers. Most often they flew local flights—straight shots from one hospital to another. Brannon dropped her hand and sighed. “I don't know.”

Lincoln touched her shoulder. “What's your gut telling you?”

She closed her eyes, letting her subconscious take over. All she could envision was the helicopter going down in the park, in the storm. No way could they survive the elements if they even survived the crash. Brannon opened her eyes and locked gazes with Lincoln. “We need to go back up.”

Her partner hoisted to his feet. “Now?”

She glanced at the clock, then shook her head. “Not right this second. I'd like to start patrolling the area in about forty-five minutes, though. We'll start around the Smokemont station and double back to here.”

“In this weather?” Steve tapped the weather satellite screen again. Big clumps of red and yellow covered the entire park's perimeter. The blizzard had arrived in full force.

“The Dolphin can handle the blizzard.” Brannon ran a hand over her hair, smoothing down the wisps that had escaped the scrunchie.

“Can you?” Steve met her gaze. He wasn't doubting her abilities, just asking as her supervisor.

She took no offense. “Of course I can. This storm is nothing compared to some of the typhoons I had to fly SAR in when I was in the Coast Guard.”

“Okay, then.” Steve reached for the mike. “You guys go gas up the chopper, and I'll keep trying the radio.”

“I'll copilot.” Jefferson all but bounced with excitement.

“No. You aren't trained in park rescues yet.” Brannon glanced at Lincoln. “You up to it?”

“Lead the way, sweetheart. I'm right behind you.”

FOUR

Friday, 7:00 p.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

MAI STARED OUT THE cracked, dirty window, her body shivering in response to the cold. The oil lantern on the dresser emitted a dull glow over the room, but it did not provide warmth. What happened to freedom? The backs of her eyes burned, but she would not cry, not again. She touched the bruise on her cheek, a constant reminder of how tears were not allowed.

Snow fell so hard she could not see more than a couple of centimeters from the window. The moonless night settled around the run-down building. The wind sounded like screaming through the walls with cracks large enough for small rodents to slip through. A layer of snow covered the ground outside the small building that housed more than twenty-five girls like her. The men who came called it a
brothel.
Mai was not sure what the word meant but knew what they would call her back in Thailand.

She had so wanted to be American. Did everything she could to fit in. But she never learned about the hell she lived in now.

A vehicle screeched to a halt outside, sliding on the ice in the driveway. Outside lights came on, lighting the pathway to the road. Mai pressed her nose against the icy windowpane. The side of the large white van opened. Milt—she would not allow herself to think of him as an uncle—stepped out and strode toward the building.

Mai moved to the opposite corner of the room she shared with five other girls. She was alone now, the others “entertaining.” Could Milt be returning for her so soon?

The door slammed so hard the windows rattled in their chipped wooden frames.

Mai ran to the window and stared outside once more.

Milt trudged through the snow and opened the back of the van. Girls about her age and younger spilled out. Dressed in tattered and threadbare long shirts, their feet uncovered, they shuffled toward the door. Several slipped and fell, only to be yelled at.

More girls like her—tricked into coming to the United States with empty promises.

Mai lifted her hand to bang on the glass, to warn them to run—run far away. She balled her palm into a fist, then dropped it to her side, hiding it in the folds of her own tattered and threadbare long shirt. Milt would beat her if he caught her.

How many had already learned what they were to do here? Mai swiped a silent tear from her face.

Loud voices echoed down the hallway. Six bedrooms lined the hallway right next to the office, as Madam Nancy called it. At the end of the hall was the working corridor holding twenty rooms. These had nice furnishings and heat, but the girls were not allowed to sleep there. Oh no, those were only for the visits from the men who came in and out all day and night.

Mai pressed her ear against the wall closest to the office. She was able to make out Madam Nancy's squeaky voice. “These all look real fine, Milton. Here's your money.”

“This may be the last shipment for a while.” His booming voice echoed. Mai moved a fraction of an inch away.

“Why's that? I like getting fresh batches. Keeps the men interested. And I have my other locations to think of as well.”

“We've had a little glitch in our system. It's being worked out now, but until everything's all clear again, we're stopping all shipments.”

“I hate interruptions, Milton.”

A chair creaked over the wind. Mai bit her bottom lip.

“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry. We all have a lot to lose here, Nancy.”

“I suppose. Would you like a drink? I have some of my special Scotch hidden away.”

“Lawd, woman, you must be reading my mind. I'd love a shot. It's colder than an ice sculpture out there.”

Madam Nancy's high-pitched laugh hurt Mai's teeth.

“Thanks. This hits the spot mighty nice.”

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Well, now that you mention it, there is this one girl I had the pleasure of getting to know. Brought her in from Thailand about an hour or so ago. Didn't get her name though.”

“Hmm. I just sent a group to the Colorado location. Can you describe her?”

“All them girls look alike, you know that.” His deep chuckle rumbled. “But she had this little birthmark, right about here.”

Mai touched the tiny mole just below her hairline. She backed away, turned, and huddled in the farthest corner of the darkened room. Hot urine trickled down her legs.

Friday, 7:30 p.m.

Airspace over North Carolina, Heading Northwest

THE ABSENCE OF THE engine brought out every creak and screech in the helicopter. Roark gripped the back of the pilot's seat. “What's going on?”

The pilot didn't turn his head to answer. “Too much wind. The currents are blowing the snow right into the rotors. The engine's shut down.”

“What do we do?”

“Sit back and be quiet. And hold on.”

Roark tightened his grip. Be quiet? While the ground rose up to meet them? At a fast pace, no less?

“Are we gonna crash?” The flight medic's face reflected fear. Raw fear.