Twisted and Tied Page 12

  When Ian and I stepped into the bullpen, all five men turned to look at us, and when Redeker saw me, his face broke into the wide smile with the deep lines—not dimples, as they creased the length of his cheeks—I remembered well from my short time spent with him. I raised my hand, and he gave me a nod back.

  “Who’s that?” Ian asked close to my ear.

  “Josiah Redeker, out of the Vegas office,” I replied softly, not wanting to disturb Kage, who was saying something about changes. “I worked with him and his partner, Bodhi Callahan, when I transported Josue.”

  Ian grunted, and we both looked at Kage, who had stopped speaking.

  We were just inside the circle of desks on the outer edge, but I had no desire to move closer, especially with Kage being quiet as he scanned the room. Normally that meant he was deciding something as he stood there, and like in school when you didn’t know the answer, not making eye contact never helped. But being right in front of him was not the best idea either.

  When the elevator dinged, Eli came into the room, followed closely by Maureen Prescott. She and Eli had not come together; that was clear when Eli stopped walking, noticing her behind him. Prescott said something to him quickly and touched his arm briefly as she scooted around him to join Kage at Ian’s desk. At the same time, Elyes stood up from her desk right outside Kage’s office and joined him and Prescott. They were all quiet for a moment, and only then did I see Prescott holding what looked like a large organizer with one of those Velcro closures, and Elyes had two smaller ones, as well as a handful of lanyards.

  “Okay,” Kage said. He took a breath before rising to his towering height and crossing his arms, which always made them look like tree trunks. “In the last twelve hours, there have been some big changes here at the office, and because of those, this department will be impacted.”

  Everyone was silent; nobody moved. Nobody even took a sip of morning coffee, which was amazing since we were a huge caffeine-fueled group.

  “The only one I’ve spoken privately to is Becker,” Kage said, looking over at him, giving a slight smile that somehow conveyed warmth, even being no more than a faint softening of his eyes and a curl to his lip that was gone before he turned back to all of us, “as he is the only one who’s being promoted. The rest of you will receive your new interim assignments, and they will be assessed in ninety days.”

  Still quiet.

  “As our department grows, so does our reach into the community, and we need to be able to work seamlessly with other law enforcement. The task force opportunities will only grow as we educate and are in turn educated by other agencies. For that reason, I’ve added a deputy director position here that we haven’t had before—haven’t needed before now—that will coordinate this new interagency cooperation.”

  Poor Becker. Really, God, poor fucking Becker. I couldn’t imagine the horror of being the guy who had to talk to Chicago PD and the Illinois State Police, the FBI, Homeland, ATF, and of course, the DEA. I got chills just thinking about being the poster boy of interagency clusterfucks. It made sense he’d choose Becker, as he was without a doubt the one of us who was the most unflappable, the most grounded, the guy who rowed the steadiest boat. But still, to be the center of the storm, the one who had to keep tabs on everyone, who coordinated who went where and how and what and when, required a level of professionalism and patience, organization and quiet, steely command I certainly did not possess. Becker was the best choice for the job.

  “So,” Kage said, taking a breath, “as of today, Christopher Becker has been promoted to supervisory deputy of the Northern District of Illinois.”

  It took a second for the words to sink in because that was not where I thought he was going at all. And didn’t we already have a supervisory deputy?

  “Holy shit,” I gasped, stunned and sucker-punched but also very thrilled for my friend, who so deserved the promotion. Just working with Ching all those years should have gotten him some kind of commendation.

  I started whooping and clapping along with everyone else, and anyone who wasn’t standing did, as did Becker, who smiled, nodded, and gave us a wave before flipping us all off. It was totally him.

  He then turned to Kage, who walked over to him and offered this hand. The two men shook, with Kage squeezing his shoulder and Becker taking deep breaths.

  “I won’t let you down, sir,” he promised as Kage passed him a new badge, new credentials in the small trifold wallet, and a lanyard we were all supposed to wear inside the building and never did.

  “I know that,” Kage assured him with a true smile this time, patting Becker’s shoulder before releasing him and stepping back.

  We rushed Becker then, Ching first, hugging his best friend and partner tight and whispering urgently.

  All I heard was Becker’s reply: “Nothing changes with us.”

  “No,” Ching agreed, pounding his back and then letting go so the rest of us could hug him, one after another.

  After he and Ian embraced, when my husband went to draw back, Becker clutched at him, holding him there. “I promise to give you all the support you need, Doyle.”

  Ian looked up at him, appreciative but also confused. “Why do I need support?”

  Becker shrugged and then gave him a pat before letting him go.

  “Settle,” Kage ordered, and we all went quiet. “Darren Mills has been reassigned to the Warrants division here and will be reporting to Becker as of today.”

  He didn’t say the words no one ever wanted to be associated with: demotion, reclassification, reassignment. I noticed the grimaces on everyone and felt it too, the stab of guilt that came with the relief that it wasn’t me.

  “As supervisory deputy, you carry a gun, but Mills does not in his new capacity,” Kage said, enunciating the “not” at the end so Becker, along with the rest of us, were clear. “I had him turn in his firearm last night, but if he comes in with his spare for any reason, he’s to be placed immediately on administrative leave.” He finished with a pointed stare at his new supervisory deputy.

  “Yessir,” Becker acknowledged solemnly.

  I glanced over at Becker, and his look of pain was unmissable. That was going to be a barrel of fun right there.

  “Moving on,” Kage said quickly, facing the room. “The commander position that has been vacant in SOG will be filled by Wesley Ching.”

  I was stunned, and clearly, when I turned to Ian, so was he. But Ching was a former Marine, a gunnery sergeant with years of combat experience, and he’d been a marshal a lot longer than the rest of us, except for Becker. So the surprise wasn’t that Ching couldn’t do the job, never that, it was just that Ian, with his Special Forces background—he was an ex–Green Beret, for fuck’s sake—was, in my mind, the more likely choice.

  But… if I were Kage, maybe that’s the choice I would have made too. As hotheaded as Ching seemed, as dangerous as his reputation was, as badass, he was still, on a whole, more by-the-book than Ian. He didn’t charge in; he assessed, he made a plan, and he always, always had Becker’s back. There wasn’t a time I could recall when Becker couldn’t turn around and find Ching right there. The same could not be said for me, yesterday being a prime example. Ian went where he thought he was most needed, which was not always where the group consensus agreed he should be.

  Before anyone could congratulate Ching, though, Kage lifted his hands to stop us. “I have more of these to get through,” he explained, and so we all stayed still except for Becker, who had his hand on the back of Ching’s neck, squeezing gently as Ching stood, looking dazed but with a trace of a smile lighting up his normally stony expression.

  Elyes slipped over to Ching, passed him an organizer and a lanyard, and then moved quickly back to Kage’s side.

  “That has a new department designation on the lanyard,” Kage said to Ching, “but your badge remains the same.”

  Ching nodded as Kage continued.

  “When he returns from vacation, Jer Kowalski will take over the director p
osition of Judicial Support. That department has come under scrutiny lately, and I need someone I can depend on. I have no doubt that he will do an exemplary job.”

  “Without a doubt,” Eli agreed, and I could tell from his voice the comment was bittersweet. He’d miss his partner.

  “Beginning today, Miro Jones will take over as interim director of Custodial WITSEC.”

  Even knowing it was coming, I was still floored by the faith my boss had in me. And when I looked at Ian, expecting him to be shooting daggers out of his eyes, instead I saw resignation.

  “Ian?” I said under my breath.

  This was my moment, and the question was, would he be supportive or not? Would he ruin it or not? Because yes, he had concerns, and we were arguing and trying to come to some kind of compromise, and the road was about to get ten kinds of rocky, but… taking care of kids, caretaking, nurturing, there was just no way that wasn’t right up my alley. He knew that, didn’t he? If he knew me and knew what I needed and who I was, then couldn’t he put aside what he needed for what I—for what… I… for me. Just me.

  It hit me like a bullet to the brain, what I’d been missing, what Ian had been saying all morning.

  Holymotherfuckinghell, how goddamn blind was I?

  “Miro?”

  Jesus Christ, could I be any stupider?

  “M?”

  Oh, fuck me.

  “Love?” Ian whispered, standing next to me beside Kowalski’s desk, which I guess technically wasn’t his anymore because he was leaving, and that was just one of many things that would be different and strange, and since it didn’t seem like Kage was anywhere near done, that meant there would be more strangers coming and more friends leaving, and it felt like everything was moving faster and faster and….

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Life-altering change along with deep, soul-sucking revelation equaled panic attack. I could see the spots in front of my eyes, and the room seemed to be rocking back and forth… back… and forth.

  It was funny but, while being shot at, facing life-and-death things, I felt no panic, no hysteria. But anything to do with Ian—like at all—and I was a fucking basket case.

  Why was that? What was it about Ian that made me go fetal with doubt?

  “Miro,” Ian said, low and gravelly, “try and breathe.”

  But yesterday my life was one way, and today….

  I thought I’d just be upstairs from the guys I worked with and still see them all the time, and Ian would still be my partner both on and off the field, and I’d still be trying to figure out what Kowalski’s first name was, and Eli and I would hang out, and I’d see… and I would spend time… and….

  People were leaving me and—how in the hell had I let myself get so close to all these guys? The girls were one thing. I knew they’d always be there, all four of them like rocks in my life, and then Ian—that was why he had to stay home with me, be home with me, because the idea of losing him was just…. I couldn’t, and now he’d been trying to tell me he was feeling the exact same way, and I—

  Because he’d chosen me, us, our life, yes, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t change his mind back. It wasn’t like he had just one choice to make. He had unlimited options if, for instance, he stopped caring about having me in his life. And no, that wasn’t likely, but it was possible. He’d picked me, but he could pick the Army again if I fucked this up, if I showed him over and over again that he was not the most important thing in my life.

  I thought that once we were together in the same place each and every day, that would be it. We’d be perfect. But the fact of the matter was, if you didn’t want what you had once you got it, then that didn’t work either. It wasn’t enough of a solution.

  What if Ian decided he’d made an impossible choice to be with me, and he couldn’t live with it and wanted to go? Or, again, if he made the wrong choice and wanted to go? Then either way, he’d leave, and I’d be alone. Worse than alone: without him.

  A wave of dizziness nearly put me on my knees, but Ian was there, right there, grabbing hold of my arm, keeping me steady and on my feet.

  “Okay,” he soothed, his voice like honey as I held on, probably too tight, clinging as the surge of emotions rolled through me, ridiculously scared he was going to walk out on me.

  I was not some kind of ingenue alone in the world. I was strong. I’d been alone before, I could remake my life from scratch if needed. I could. No doubt. But the issue was not if I could; the issue was I didn’t want to. Ian was it. Ian was the one, and losing him would make me different. I didn’t want to know what I would look like without him.

  The epiphany was a whopper, and I’d been blindsided to boot.

  “Jones?” Kage said my name irritably, but it was like he was far away at the other end of a long tunnel, and I could barely hear him.

  There were no words. I had none for him.

  “He’s just overwhelmed, sir. It’s a big deal,” Ian said quickly, and I heard it clearly because my hearing came back in stereo, even though my vison stayed blurred.

  “He’ll do fine,” Kage declared like he was giving me his blessing, and suddenly Prescott was there at my shoulder, passing me a thick black organizer with the marshals’ star on the cover, and the lanyard I’d be wearing into people’s homes that had my employment photo on it, which was even more horrible than the picture on my driver’s license.

  Still holding on to Ian, I realized Kage’s attention was elsewhere, and I felt the relief Frodo and Sam must have experienced when the Eye moved off them, because I could breathe a bit more, even though I was still right there on the edge of hyperventilating.

  “Hey.”

  Turning to Ian, I saw a trace of a smile before he took a deep breath in and then blew it out, softly, slowly.

  I watched him intently as he did it again.

  “What is this, Lamaze?” I teased, my voice cracking, going out on me.

  He repeated the process, and the second time, I mimicked him, which was clearly what he was after, and finally pushed some air into my lungs.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered, his eyes locked on mine.

  “I’m a piece of shit,” I husked, “and I don’t deserve you.”

  “Oh?”

  I growled softly, wincing, feeling worse by the second. “You left the Army for me.”

  His smile was wicked as he shook his head. “No, you were right. I left the Army for me, because I wanted to be with you.”

  “But you stopped doing something you loved for me, and I was just about to not stop doing something for you, and what about commitment? What about our wedding vows?” I choked out, reeling with everything running through my head.

  Oh, I was seriously going to stop breathing and have a full-blown panic attack after having a goddamn revelation in the middle of the bullpen about how I had been just as selfish and singularly focused as Ian.

  Everyone was clapping again as I bent over and braced my hands above my knees.

  Ian put a hand on my back, began rubbing comforting circles there before leaning down so he could speak into my ear. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “How?” I gasped, taking shallow breaths. “I needed you home; you changed your whole life. You need me with you; I’m saying no. It’s the same.”

  “I was on the other side of the world. You just might miss dinner sometimes,” he clarified, chuckling softly, speaking into my hair.

  “Why’re you being nice to me now?”

  “Because you just saw things from my perspective, and that’s pretty great.”

  “But nothing’s fixed,” I claimed miserably.

  “Yeah, but nothing’s completely busted either.”

  “You’re being very glass-half-full right now instead of empty.”

  “I know, right? Lookit me with the growth and shit.”

  God. “We won’t work together anymore,” I reminded him, trying to breathe around my fear.

  “No.”

  “And that was half the point of y
ou staying home, wasn’t it? I mean, Kage was going to give me a new partner because you were gone so much, and neither of us wanted that, and you made a point of—”

  “Maybe you should sit down, huh?”

  “When this meeting is over, I’ll go tell Kage that—”

  “No,” he insisted. “You won’t tell Kage a damn thing.”

  I took a breath. “You’re the most important thing.”

  “I feel the same.”

  “Which leaves us where?” I asked, catching my breath, then swallowing hard.

  “We’ll figure—”

  “Are you okay?” Eli asked, moving in beside me, hand next to Ian’s on my back. “You look like you’re gonna barf.”

  “I’m having some issues.”

  “Well, yeah, you—”

  Kage started talking again. “As of today, Eli Kohn will be the new director of the Public Affairs Division, the new face of the Northern District.”

  I straightened up like I’d been zapped by a Taser, looked at Kage a second, and then turned to look sideways at Eli. To say he looked gobsmacked was an understatement.

  “Now who’s lookin’ barfy?” Ian asked Eli with a smirk.

  Eli opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  “As that post has stood vacant for the last six months since the retirement of Gordon Eames, Kohn will not be interim, but the direct replacement to the post.”

  Deer in the headlights all the way.

  Eli accepted the organizer and lanyard from Elyes as Kage assured him he’d do a fine job. “I have every faith in you,” he finished. “You’ll represent the office well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Eli said, his voice sounding like dried leaves.

  We were all standing there looking shell-shocked.

  “And finally,” Kage said in his deep rumble, “Ian Doyle will take over as deputy director and, going forward, will be the main point of contact in all interagency dealings. He’s the go-to guy for issues with anyone outside of this office.”

  Oh. Holy. Fuck.

  I turned to him, and Ian was gray. I’d never actually seen anyone do that. All color drained from his face—I had no idea that could actually happen. “Gobsmacked” didn’t do his expression justice anymore.