***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn of B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***
Robin Caroll has authored eight previous books including Bayou Justice and Melody of Murder. She gives back to the writing community as conference director for the American Christian Fiction Writers organization. A proud southerner through and through, Robin lives with her husband and three daughters in Little Rock, Arkansas.
Tuesday, 3:30 p.m.
FBI Field Office
Jonathanâ€™s throat closed as he stared at the building from the parking lot. He gripped the package tight in his arthritic hands. Could he do this? Turn over evidence that would implicate him?
His heart raced and he froze. Not the best time for his atrial fibrillation to make an appearance. Despite being on the heart transplant list for eight months, it looked like his progressed heart disease would do him in. The most important reason he couldnâ€™t go to prisonâ€”heâ€™d never get a heart and would die. While Carmen wanted him to confess his crimes, she wouldnâ€™t want him to die. The memory of saying good-bye to his beloved mere hours ago scorched his soul.
Her eyes fluttered open. Those blue orbs, which had once sparkled even in the absence of light, now blinked flat and lifeless.
He swallowed hard.
â€œJonathan,â€ her voice croaked, â€œitâ€™s time.â€
Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and he rested his hand over her parchmentlike skin. â€œNo, Carmen. Please, let me get the medicine.â€
Her eyelids drooped and she gasped. Air wheezed in her lungs. â€œSweetheart, the fightâ€™s . . . gone from me.â€ She let out a hiss, faint and eerie. â€œThe cancerâ€™s . . . won.â€
Jonathan laid his lips against her cheek, her skin cold and clammy, as if in preparation for the morgue. How could she continue to refuse the medicine? Even though she didnâ€™t approve of his means of acquisition, the drugs had kept her alive for five years. Five years he cherished every minute of. Heâ€™d do anything to keep her alive and the pain at bayâ€”the intense pain that had become her constant companion these last two weeks. It killed him to witness her agony.
She licked her bottom lip, but no moisture soaked into the cracked flesh. â€œYouâ€™ve done . . . your best by me, Jonathan. I know . . . you meant . . . no harm to . . . anyone.â€ Her eyes lit as they once had. â€œOh, how Iâ€™ve enjoyed loving you.â€
His insides turned to oatmeal. Stubborn womanâ€”sheâ€™d allow herself to die, all because she discovered how heâ€™d gotten the money.
â€œPromise me . . . youâ€™ll . . . tell the . . . truth. Admit what . . . youâ€™ve done.â€ Her breath rattled. â€œWhat youâ€™ve . . . all done.â€
Pulling himself from the wretched memory, Jonathan breathed through the heat tightening his chest. Heâ€™d secure himself the best deal possibleâ€”immunityâ€”or he wouldnâ€™t decipher the papers. And without him no one could make sense of the accounting system heâ€™d created more than five years ago. Officials hadnâ€™t a clue.
With a deep breath he headed to the guardhouse in front of the fenced FBI building. His legs threatened to rebel, stiffening with every step. He forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
At the guardhouse, a man behind bulletproof glass looked up. â€œMay I help you?â€
â€œI need to . . . see someone.â€
â€œAbout what, sir?â€
â€œI have some information regarding a crime.â€ He waved the file he held.
â€œOne moment, sir, and someone will be with you.â€
Jonathan stared at the cloudy sky. He could still turn back, get away scot-free. His heartbeat sped. The world blurred. No, he couldnâ€™t lose consciousness now, nor could he go back on his promise. He owed it to Carmen. No matter what happened, heâ€™d honor Carmenâ€™s dying wish.
â€œSir?â€ A young man in a suit stood beside the fenced entry, hand resting on the butt of his gun. â€œMay I help you?â€
Jonathan lifted the file. â€œI have some evidence regarding an ongoing crime ring.â€
The agent motioned him toward a metal-detector arch. â€œCome through this way, sir.â€
Jonathanâ€™s steps wavered. He dragged his feet toward the archway.
A car door creaked. Jonathan glanced over his shoulder just as two men in full tactical gear stormed toward them. He had a split second to recognize one of the menâ€™s eyes, just before gunfire erupted.
A vise gripped Jonathanâ€™s heart, and he slumped to the dirty tile floor, the squeezing of his heart demanding his paralysis.
Too late. Iâ€™m sorry, Carmen.
Two Weeks Laterâ€”Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.
Golden Gloves Boxing of Knoxville
Brannon Callahanâ€™s head jerked backward. She swiped her headgear with her glove.
â€œYou arenâ€™t concentrating on your form. Youâ€™re just trying to whale on me.â€ Steve Burroughs, her supervisor and sparring partner, bounced on the balls of his feet.
â€œThen why am I the one getting hit?â€ She threw a right jab that missed his jaw.
He brushed her off with his glove. â€œDonâ€™t try to street fight me. Box.â€
She clamped down on her mouthpiece and threw an uppercut with her left fist. It made contact, sending vibrations up her arm.
He wobbled backward, then got his balance. â€œNice shot.â€
It felt good to hit something. Hard. Sparring with Steve was the best form of venting. The energy had to be spent somehowâ€”why not get a workout at the same time? She ducked a right cross, then followed through with a left-right combination. Both shots made full contact.
Steve spit out his mouthpiece and leaned against the ropes. â€œI think thatâ€™s enough for today, girl. Iâ€™m an old man, remember?â€
She couldnâ€™t fight the grin. Although only in his late forties, the chief ranger looked two decades older. With gray hair, hawk nose, and skin like tanned leather, Steve had already lived a lifetime.
She removed her mouthpiece, gloves, and headgear before sitting on the canvas. â€œOld? Youâ€™re still kickinâ€™ me in the ring.â€
He tossed her a towel and sat beside her. â€œSo you wanna tell me whatâ€™s got you all hot and bothered this afternoon?â€
â€œCome on, spit it out. I know somethingâ€™s gnawing at you, just like you were picking a fight with me in the ring. Whatâ€™s up?â€
How could she explain? â€œIâ€™m not exactly keen that the district feels thereâ€™s a need for another pilot in the park.â€ She tightened the scrunchie keeping her hair out of her face.
â€œThatâ€™s a complimentâ€”having you on staff has been so successful they want to expand.â€
â€œBut I have to train him. Did you notice his arrogance?â€ She ripped at the tape bound around her knuckles. â€œHeâ€™s nothing more than a young upstart with an ego bigger than the helicopter.â€ While only thirty-six, she often felt older than Steve looked.
â€œYouâ€™re so good, you can come across a bit intimidating at first, girl.â€ Steve grabbed the ropes and pulled to standing, then offered her a hand. â€œGive him a chance.â€
She let Steve tug her up. â€œYeah, yeah, yeah. Even if he had maturity, I still have to train him. With all the rescues weâ€™ve been called out on of late . . . well, I really donâ€™t have the time.â€ She exited the ring. â€œLike those kids yesterday.â€ She shook her head as she waited for Steve to join her on the gym floor. â€œTheir stupidity almost cost them their lives.â€
â€œThey were young, Brannon.â€
â€œPlease. Any amateur with half a brain should know better than to try to climb Clingmans Dome in winter.â€ Didnâ€™t people realize if something happened to them theyâ€™d leave behind devastated family and friends? Loved ones who would mourn them forever? She fought against the familiar pain every time she participated in a search and rescue. All because people hadnâ€™t taken necessary precautions.
â€œThey didnâ€™t know any better.â€
â€œIt takes a special kind of stupid not to have researched your climb.â€ Most SARs could be avoided if people planned a little more. It ripped her apart that so many parents, grandparents, siblings . . . fiancÃ©es . . . survived to deal with such grief. Sheâ€™d tasted the bitterness of griefâ€”twiceâ€”and the aftertaste still lingered.
Steve paused outside the locker rooms and shifted his sparring gear to one hand. â€œI agree, but most people donâ€™t see the dangers we do every day.â€ He tapped her shoulder. â€œHit the showers, champ. You stink.â€
She laughed as she headed into the ladiesâ€™ locker room. Maybe Steve was right and the new pilot just made a lousy first impression. Maybe heâ€™d be easy to train.
Please, God, let it be so.
Friday, 2:15 p.m.
US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse
â€œYou want me to escort a heart?â€ Roark struggled to keep his voice calm. He tapped the butt of his Beretta, welcoming it back to its rightful place on his hip.
Senior US Marshal Gerald Demott glared. â€œLook, I know you think this is a slight, but itâ€™s important. And for your first assignment back on the job . . .â€
â€œIA cleared me of all wrongdoing. Iâ€™m seeing the shrink and everything.â€ He gritted his teeth and exhaled. â€œIâ€™ve been released to return to active duty.â€
â€œThis is active. Itâ€™s a field assignment, and itâ€™s important. Hereâ€™s the case information.â€ Demott passed him a folder, then glanced at his watch. â€œYouâ€™d better hurry or youâ€™ll miss your flight.â€
Roark grabbed the file and turned to go.
He looked back at his boss. â€œYeah?â€
Demott held out Roarkâ€™s badge. â€œYou might want to take this with you, too.â€
Roark accepted the metal emblem, then clipped it to his belt before marching out of Demottâ€™s office. A heart. His job was to escort a human heart from North Carolina to Knoxville. Any rookie could handle that. But no, they still didnâ€™t trust him enough to handle a real assignment.
Heâ€™d done everything they askedâ€”took a medical leave of absence while Internal Affairs went over every painful minute
of his failed mission, saw the shrink they demanded he speak to every week since Mindyâ€™s death, answered their relentless questions. The shrink reiterated heâ€™d been forgiven for acting on his own.
Maybe one day heâ€™d forgive himself. How many innocent lives would he have to save for his conscience to leave him be?
Roark slipped into the car, then headed to the airport. But to be assigned a heart transport? Not only was it wrong, it was downright insulting. After almost fifteen years as a marshal, heâ€™d earned the benefit of the doubt from his supervisors. Especially Demott. His boss should know him better, know heâ€™d only disregard orders if it was a matter of life and death.
But Mindy Pugsley died. Theyâ€™d all died.
He pushed the nagging voice from his mind. Even Dr. Martin had advised him not to dwell on the past. On what had gone wrong. On disobeying a direct order.
If only Mindy didnâ€™t haunt his dreams.
Roark touched the angry scar that ran along his right cheekbone to his chin. A constant reminder that heâ€™d failed, that heâ€™d made a mistake that took someoneâ€™s life. Heâ€™d have to live with the pain for the rest of his life.
He skidded the car into the airportâ€™s short-term parking lot. After securing the car and gathering the case folder, Roark grabbed his coat. Snowflakes pelted downward, swirling on the bursts of wind and settling on the concrete. The purple hues of the setting sun streaked across the mountain peaks beyond the runways, making the January snow grab the last hope of light.
Yes, heâ€™d handle this mundane assignment, then tell Demott he wanted back on real active duty. Making a difference would be the best thing for him. Would make him feel whole again.
The characters in the story were well rounded, the plot wasn’t contrived, and the writing was excellent.Â I was on the edge of my seat, turning pages and holding my breath as I read.Â Suspense, mystery, intrigue, romance — you want it, this book’s got it!