Sharon Sala - Miracle Man (Romantic Traditions) (Silhouette Intimate Moments No 650)

The Miracle Man

Book Jacket

This book is dedicated to the belief in miracles and miracle workers everywhere. To the doctors, nurses, care givers and EMTs. To men and women of the cloth. To all the men in law enforcement who daily put their lives on the line, and to everyone who believes.

And especially to the miracle workers who have impacted upon my life: Dennis Dukes, EMT; Kathy Orr, EMT; RaeAnne Berry, EMT; Dr. Frank Howard, Dr. Robert L. Talley, Dr. Ross Pope, Dr. Michael Goddard and Dr. Don Mace. Also a belated thanks to retired doctors John G. Rollins, M.D., and Jake Jones, M.D., and to the late Dr. Ned Burleson, as well as the late Dr. Kirk T. Mosley, who was always there when I needed him.

Chapter 1

The small, twelve-seater airplane assigned to the United States Marshal's Office sat on a runway at the Tallahassee airport. As armed guards watched from the runway, a nondescript blue van pulled up and began emptying its deadly cargo;

Three men, marked by prison uniforms, leg irons and shackles, filed out of the van with little fuss. Hog-tied by more than the bonds of the criminal justice system, they had nowhere to go but up the ramp and into the waiting plane where they were placed in seats.

Emmit Rice muttered belligerently as he shifted his six-foot-fiveinch, three-hundred-pound bulk toward two of the three seats at the front of the airplane.

Oversize handcuffs circled his massive wrists, and the shackles and leg irons, compliments of the Federal Correctional Institution in Tallahassee, Florida, rattled when he came to an abrupt stop at the seat and landed with a grunt. He glanced up and then glared at the marshal who was waiting patiently for him to settle.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he muttered.

For the past fifteen years, Lane Monday had served as a United States marshal. So a disgruntled prisoner, even one the size of a small tank, was nothing new to him.

Lane grinned, then ducked out of habit to keep from bumping his head as he maneuvered his own six feet six inches into the bulkhead of the plane. His answer, as well as the slow appraisal that he gave Emmit Rice, were telling.

"What am / looking at? Not much," he said, and stifled another grin when Emmit Rice's face flushed in anger. It was probably one of the few times in his life, Lane mused, that Emmit Rice had been reduced in size, as well as strength, by little more than a look.

Rice snorted and stretched his massive body into as much space as he possibly could. It was an intimidating gesture that he knew usually netted results. But the cool, assessing stare that the big marshal gave him was proof that intimidation was not going to work. Not on Lane Monday.

Monday was more than a match for him in height. And while he had nowhere near the bulk of Emmit Rice, he had a powerful body to back up the gun that he carried.

And it was Lane Monday's size alone that had been the reason for his recall from a much-needed vacation. Someone had to escort Emmit Rice from the Federal Correctional Institution in Tallahassee, Florida, to the one in Lexington, Kentucky. Who better than a man who could look Rice in the eye and come away grinning? The last man to board the plane was the other marshal, Bob Tell.

"Buckle up, boys. Better safe than sorry." Bob laughed at his own joke as he did a last-minute check of the prisoners and their restraints.

One of the prisoners laughed with him. The other two, Rice included, neither smiled nor looked at the man who thought he was a comic. Their eyes were fixed upon the mass of man who stood between them and freedom, wearing a cold blue stare and a gun on his hip.

"Time to check guns," Bob said, opening the lid of a strongbox and holding it toward Lane, while he kept an eye on the prisoners who were watching the proceedings with entirely too much interest.

Monday slid his weapon out of its holster and dropped it into the lockbox as Bob followed suit, pocketing the key before stowing the box in the cockpit.

It was standard procedure to check guns before taking off. The last thing a lawman wanted was to be overpowered by a prisoner and have his own weapon taken away and used on an innocent bystanderor on himself.

Finally the plane was airborne, and there was nowhere to go but

down. It was then that the air within the cabin seemed to settle, and two of the prisoners even dozed while Bob sat watch.

But Rice didn't sleep. His small, green eyes were firmly fixed upon the marshal who'd had to turn sideways to get his shoulders through the door.

Lane Monday didn't budge from the position that he'd taken when the plane had lifted off. He knew all too well how desperate the man was he'd been assigned to transport.

Emmit Rice was a lawman's nightmare. He was a lifer with nothing to lose. Regardless of what else he might do, he'd already lost everything that mattered but his life. And the way he looked at living behind bars, his life was already lost.

And then they flew into the storm and everything changed, including the hand that fate had dealt them.

Although it was still hours before nightfall, the clouds that had arrived, seemingly from nowhere, were pitch-black. In the space of a heartbeat, the plane appeared to go from day into night as it flew right into the mouth of a storm. Lightning flashed outside the plane, momentarily illuminating the sky.

"Son of a bitch," one of the prisoners muttered, ducking his head from the brilliant flash of electrical energy.

In seconds, Bob was on his feet and heading for the cockpit while Monday stayed put, bracing himself against the bulkhead with both feet outspread and his arms above his head, riding out the air pockets with grim-lipped determination. He'd been in some bad spots before and gotten

through them fine. But something told him that this time might be a different story.

"We're gonna crash! We're gonna crash!"

Prisoner DeVon Randall was losing control. His voice had elevated three octaves as, wild-eyed, he stared around the cabin, trying to

free himself from the seat in which he was bound.

Emmit Rice glared at Randall, hating him for verbalizing what they all felt. He would not have admitted his fear under penalty of death, but he was afraid the little man might be right.

"Calm down, Randall," Monday said.

His order to the prisoner went in one ear and out the other. The man was chainedand in hysterics. The combination could prove lethal for them all. Then Bob burst out of the cockpit and nearly ran Monday down.

"Damn, Monday. This is bad. We've got to prepare the men in case of"

He never finished what he was saying. Blinding light, followed by a loud crack, sent both lawmen to their knees. The plane bucked and the cabin momentarily went dark. When the lights flickered back on, Bob was scrambling for the keys in his pocket and heading for the three prisoners, pinned in their seats by shackles and leg irons.

"Help me," Bob shouted. "We're going down, and they'll die for sure if they can't get out."

Monday hesitated for a moment. It was instinctive. Letting these three loose, even inside a plane in danger of crashing, was taking chances that he didn't want to consider. But leaving them as they were was the same as shooting them where they sat.

"I want my gun back," Monday growled. Bob nodded, hurrying to retrieve their weapons.

When his gun was safely back in its holster, Monday headed for Emmit Rice. He was, after all, the reason that he'd come.