Deliver Us from Evil (4 page)

“121MCE to ATC Tennessee,” the pilot said into his mouthpiece. “121MCE to ATC Knoxville, come in ATC.”

Roark couldn't hear the radio. He rubbed his palms on his jeans.

“121MCE to ATC Knoxville, come in ATC.”

Determined to be heard over the roar of the helicopter, he leaned closer to the pilot. “What's going on?”

The pilot cut his eyes over to Roark, then to the control panel. “I can't raise Air Traffic Control in Knoxville, and the blizzard's moving in. Too much wind and precipitation.” He tapped another button on the radio controller. “I'm on the right frequency.”

“And that means what, exactly?”

Both of the pilot's hands stayed in motion on the control sticks. “Just sit back and buckle in, please. This is gonna be a bumpy ride.”

Roark pushed back, slipped the seat belt over his thighs, and then locked the catch. Great. His heartbeat kicked up a notch. He glanced at Thomas, who stared bug-eyed behind his glasses. The dimmed lights spilled from the cockpit, reflecting against those thick glasses, making him appear much younger than his years. His scrawny frame seemed to diminish as the helicopter shook and rattled.

Roark gave a curt nod. “Just some turbulence.” At least he hoped so. He tapped the butt of his gun, drawing comfort from its mere presence. A reminder that he was back in control.

The flight medic turned a whiter shade of ashen and hugged the red cooler to his chest.

Sheets of snow blasted the helicopter, shoving it hard to the left. The aircraft surged down and up, then the rhythmic
thump-hum
of the rotor engine sputtered.

Metallic creaks shot across the aircraft, no longer masked by the growl of the engine.

The pilot cursed. A lot.

Roark leaned as far forward as his seat belt would allow. The instrument panel flashed yellow and white. Gauge needles bounced like Mexican jumping beans. Despite the freezing temperatures, the pilot's forehead glistened with sweat.

Roark's adrenaline spiked. He gripped his knees and stared out the bubble window. Zero visibility. All he could make out in the aircraft's running lights were tight tornadic spirals of white assailing the helicopter.

And he was stuck in a metal coffin.

Just as the nose of the aircraft dipped, red warning lights flickered in the cockpit. An alarm beeped, drowning out the hum of the engines.

Na-na, na—naaaaaa!

The helicopter shuddered.

“Hold on, I'm gonna do an autorotation,” the pilot hollered.

Like Roark knew what that was. He shot a glance at Thomas's face. The poor kid looked like he'd lose his supper any minute.

The helicopter lurched. The engine sputtered, then died.

Free fall.

THREE

Friday, 6:20 p.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

“NO MORE, NO MORE.” Mai drew her legs to her chest, then wrapped her arms around them, locking her hands together. No clothes, shivering, and curled up, she dropped her forehead to her knees, her long hair shielding her face from the prying eyes of the American towering over her. “No more.” Her accented English gave way to sobs.

Rough fingers dug into her shoulder as Poppy Fred jerked her upright.

Why did this American demand she call him by a familiar name? He was not her family—none of them were. Her family had sold her for food, which was almost as humiliating as what the American did to her. She blinked at him from beneath jagged bangs and breathed against the drum of her own heartbeat.

She shook as cold forced its way into her bones, like Poppy Fred had forced himself on her. Tears burned tracks down her face. Why had she believed the Americans, even for a second?

She had been so excited yesterday, ready to start a thrilling adventure in a new land. For years she had studied everything American. Was obsessed with learning their language and customs. Now her dreams had been shattered in the most nightmarish way, lying splintered and shredded at her bare feet. Mai hiccupped as she cried.

Poppy Fred reared back his beefy hand and brought it down.

A sharp sting prickled her face as her head snapped from the blow. She scraped against the cold hard wall of the suffocating room. She lifted her hand to her face, the heat on her cheek searing her palm.

“Get used to it. This is your life now.” His face twisted, not at all the appearance he had when he and Aunt Betty offered to help her escape poverty and get a real American education. At least that was what her father had told her when he let her know she had no choice in leaving.

She hugged herself, hunching her back to better cover her exposed chest. This was not what she agreed to, not what she wanted. America was supposed to be different, the land of the free. But now she found herself imprisoned again, punished for wanting a better life. She should not have to endure such pain. Unless she got schooling. Then the suffering might be worth the pain. Maybe this . . . this
thing
with Poppy Fred was payment for that—she knew how expensive school was.

Mai lifted her eyes to the man who zipped his trousers. “I go to American school now?”

His cackle bounced off the bare, dirty walls, making her ears hum. “This is the only kind of American schooling you'll be getting.”

Fear sat like lead in the pit of her tummy while her body shook with sobs. The stench of Poppy Fred's sweat mixed with the reek of stale cigarette smoke made her want to gag. Maybe she could pull further into a ball and just die.

“You be nice now. Uncle Milt will be here in a minute to test the goods, too.” Poppy Fred flashed the smile that had made her happy to be going to America, the one he used to get her to leave her family and homeland at the age of fourteen. But now it made her stomach turn.

“Remember, we hold your papers and can turn you in to the bad police here.” His lips curled back. “And they do painful things to bad little Oriental girls.”

Mai squeezed her arms until her nails dug into her skin. She winced. “I be good, Poppy Fred.” Nothing could be worse than this.

“Be a good girl and you'll survive.” He tucked his shirttails into his trousers and stalked out.

Alone in the tiny room, Mai glanced around. Chills came in waves, racking her body. Why had Poppy Fred taken away her clothes? Her teeth rattled from the shivers. She pushed off the cold floor and rubbed her palms together. Even the mattress, with patches of springs poking through the quilted top, didn't have a sheet or a blanket.

Spotted moonlight streaked through the window, but the beams did not shine on her. The panes were so tiny, even she would be too big to pass through it.

Wind swirled around the building, whistling through the trees.

Keys clanked in the hall. Mai shoved herself in the adjacent corner, pushing back as far into the space as possible. The frigid wall pressed into her spine.

The door swung open, and the biggest man she had ever seen filled the frame.

She opened her mouth to release the scream trapped in her throat, but no sound emerged. Only her own raspy breathing resonated in her head.

Like a gorilla, the big man did not have a neck—his bald head sat right on top of his broad shoulders. Sucking up all the air and space with his bulk, he turned and locked the door. Looking back at Mai, he smiled, his white teeth flashing against his chocolate-colored skin. “Fred tells me you're a good girl.”

“I be good. Poppy Fred say so.” She crossed one leg over the other, yearning for covering, and this time not for protection from the chill.

The big man ran his tongue over inflated lips, then slipped it back in his mouth with a slurping pop. “I done called Nancy, but we're running a little late.” He took a step toward her. “We have a little time to get to know each other better. Ain't that nice?”

She had no way to escape, no place to hide. She was too small to fight him, her limbs refused even to try. Mai pinched her eyes shut and begged her mind to take her far, far away.

Her mind was already cursing America when Milton laid his hands on her.

Friday, 6:30 p.m.

Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

EVEN IN THE DISMAL winter weather, a crowd of media pushed against Congressman Warren McGovern. The air sucked his lungs dry with each reporter shoving against him. Lights from cameras shone on his face as paparazzi swarmed in front of him. Warren paused under the arch of the four-story annex at the courthouse and held up his hands. He waited for the clamor and shuffling to stop, smiling down on the press like a king addressing his subjects. Wouldn't his father be proud?

The reporters and cameramen juggled umbrellas, microphones, lights, and cameras, but none would leave this impromptu press conference. Tonight, on all the local 10:00 news channels, Warren's sound bite would be the lead-in for the segment.

“Fellow citizens, I am as outraged by the allegations set out by the US Attorney's office as you are. In just a moment, I'll be meeting with Mr. Noah Markinson, the US attorney, to discuss this most serious issue.”

Warren let his gaze kiss each attentive face in the media. “As many of you are aware, I sit on the Coalition Against Child Trafficking, consulting with investigators empowered by the Justice Department. In my capacity with this organization, I have received no information regarding this alleged child-trafficking ring, nor of the key government witness who's awaiting the heart transplant televised not long ago.” He'd had to see the newscast to get the information—no one bothered to inform him, which made his blood boil.

The wind picked up, pushing snow across his face. Warren dusted off the shoulders of his trench coat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you I'll get some answers and report back to you as soon as they are confirmed. Thank you.”

He ducked into the courthouse, ignoring the reporters' questions. Warren's nose wrinkled as he entered the old building. It had been renovated in 1998, but the air still reeked of stale body odor and lack of ventilation.

Kevin, his aide, dabbed at the water marks on Warren's Armani suit as they marched down the long, empty hall. Great. It would cost him plenty to have the water stains removed.

“Sir, Mr. Markinson is waiting for you in the conference room.”

“I just bet he is.” Warren shoved away Kevin's hand. “He'd better have some answers for me. I still can't believe his office leaked this information without calling me first.” A crucial investigation like this . . . well, it could help his reelection campaign beyond measure. Not to mention he headed up the Coalition. How bad did it look that he hadn't been informed?

“I know, sir. It's unthinkable.”

Warren stopped outside the closed conference room and patted Kevin's arm. “You stay close, boy, and I'll show you how the real game of politics is played.” Time to find out what was going on. He squared his shoulders, then blew into the room.

Clouds of yesterday's cigarette smoke hung in the air, even though the building boasted a no-smoking policy. Warren recognized several of the players lounging around the time-weathered table. Some sat in the cushionless chairs, some hung out by the coffeepot, and more leaned against the wall. He nodded to the head investigator in charge of the Coalition. The Justice Department flunky assigned to the Coalition stood vigil by the coffee machine with a man Warren didn't know. A good turnout for a meeting called after quitting time.

Pressing into the center of the room, Warren spied the one who hadn't thought to bring him into the loop: the US attorney. “Noah, what's all this nonsense about having a government witness in protective custody?”

All heads snapped at his entrance.

Markinson waved toward the chairs. “Let's have a seat and go over the details.”

Warren moved to the head of the table. His father, a lifetime military man, had instilled in Warren the need to live by rules and policies. And rule one—always appear to be in charge. People respected the leadership attitude, and with respect came information.

He settled in the chair, which creaked as he shifted, then stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Fill me in, Noah.” Rule number two—call someone by his first name—it shows superiority.

The US attorney emitted a long sigh. His gaze darted around, landing on each person's face briefly, then focused on Warren's. “Two weeks ago a potential witness tried to enter the Knoxville FBI office. He had documents, which we now know are regarding a large child-trafficking ring based right out of the state.”

Raising an eyebrow, Warren released an undignified snort. “Child-trafficking ring in Tennessee?”

Snickers erupted from the men.

Markinson shook his head. “I know how ludicrous it sounds. Trust me, I was as skeptical as any of y—”

“How can you take this seriously? What did this alleged witness say?” Warren interrupted before the man could finish his sentence. Rule number three—always bring the focus back to yourself—you get more respect that way.

“I'm getting to that, Congressman.” Markinson lifted a folder but didn't open it. He waved the file around like a white flag. “The man had documents showing the money trail of this ring: cash deposits in amounts less than ten thousand dollars at a time so as not to garner any currency transaction reports, fielding the money through dummy corporations and finally landing in offshore accounts.”

Heat rose up the back of Warren's neck. He shifted in his chair, causing it to groan again. “So why haven't arrests been made?”

“The documents prove the money trail, but we can't uncover who owns stock in the corporations or who owns the offshore accounts. At least not without the witness, who was the obvious moneyman in this ring. The code to get the information is in his mind.”

Perspiration clung to Warren's back, dampening his button-down shirt. “But what does this witness claim?”

“That's the problem. Someone shot at him as he tried to enter the FBI building and went—”