Fit to Be Tied Page 2

  Today the task force was looking to pick up three men with ties to the Madero crime family who’d slipped federal custody in New York and were apparently hiding out with one of the guys’ distant cousins in the burbs of Chicago. That was what serving a warrant meant. It was fancy phrasing for taking someone into custody.

  The plan was for us to go into the five-story apartment building like thunder with battering rams, the whole deal. The raids were my least favorite, but I understood why we were there. Normally a Fugitive Investigative Strike Team consisting of Feds, local police, and other state agencies extracted a witness, and FISTs fell under the purview of the marshals service. It wasn’t a task force without us, so our office had been tacked on.

  Chicago PD went in first, the DEA douchebags following. Ian and I stayed put on the first floor until we heard shots fired in the stairwell. We went straight up while people yelled that there were men escaping onto the roof.

  I yelled first to let anyone else around know what was going on, then for backup, but they’d all scattered to the lower floors, so that left Ian and me to charge up to try and head off whoever was up there.

  “Do not go out that door!” I yelled after Ian, who, as usual, was in front of me. The only reason he’d been second earlier in the day was because I’d been in the passenger seat when the guy ran by the car. Nine times out of ten, I followed Ian into whatever the situation was.

  He burst through the heavy metal door leading to the roof and, of course, drew immediate answering gunfire.

  I ran out after him in time to see Ian level his gun and fire. Only in the movies did people yell “don’t shoot” when people were actually shooting at them.

  The guy went down, and I watched another turn and run. He didn’t have a weapon that I could see, so I holstered my gun and took off after him as Ian rolled the guy he’d shot onto his back and roared at the men who had followed us up to take him.

  I raced across the rooftop hard on the fugitive’s heels, churning my legs and arms to catch him before he reached the edge. He sped toward the building’s ledge, then launched himself into the air. I had no idea if there was another building there, but since there had been no scream, I pushed myself harder and followed after him into the sky.

  The rooftop of the four-story building across the narrow alley was a welcome sight, and I landed easily, somersaulting over onto one knee, then pushing up into a dead sprint again. I guessed we were out of real estate when the man abruptly stopped, whirling to face me. Pulling a butterfly knife from his back pocket, he flipped it open and advanced on me.

  I pulled my Glock 20 and leveled it at him. “Drop the weapon, get on your knees, and lace your fingers on top of your head.”

  He was deciding—I could tell.

  “Now,” I ordered, my voice dipping an octave into a cold, dark place.

  He muttered under his breath but released the knife and went to his knees. I moved fast, reaching his side before he complied with the entirety of my request, kicked the knife away, and pulled a set of Plasticuffs from my TAC vest. Shoving him facedown, I waited for backup.

  My phone rang and I winced upon seeing the caller ID. “Hey.”

  “What the fuck was that?”

  “That was the Ian Doyle special,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Oh, no, fuck you! I don’t jump off shit, Miro, only you do that!”

  I did have a bit more of a history with that than he did. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m good,” I replied, smiling into the phone. “Promise. I’ll meet you downstairs as soon as I get some fucking help up here.”

  His inelegant snort made me smile.

  Moments later I was swarmed by police officers ready to take the fugitive off my hands. As I was following the men down four flights, I asked the sergeant in front of me if we were transporting the criminals to their station, whichever one that was, or if they were going in our holding cell downtown.

  “I think the DEA is taking custody of all three.”

  That meant all three men would be questioned and the one with the best information would be given a deal. The others would be turned over to the police. It was a waste of time for Ian and me to have even been there.

  “Did you hear this bullshit?” I groused at Ian as he came hurdling up to me. “We don’t even get—”

  “Shut up,” he growled, grabbing the armhole of my vest and yanking me forward. His gaze ran over me and I heard how rough his breathing was.

  “Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” I whispered, leaning close so he could hear me but not touching, the motion making it seem like I was relating privileged information and nothing more.

  “I have faith in you, don’t get me wrong,” he said quickly. “But you know as well as I do that you leaped without knowing what was there, and that’s plain stupid.”

  He was right.

  “Don’t fuckin’ do it again.”

  “No,” I agreed, leaning back to search his face. “So am I forgiven?”

  He nodded, and I finally got a trace of a smile.

  We were going to head back to file a report when we saw the people who were flushed from the apartment, three guys in all, now sitting outside on the sidewalk.

  “What’s goin’ on there?” I asked the closest officer, gesturing at the men.

  “We’re about to let ’em all go.”

  “Why?” Ian asked, clipping the word, clearly irritated.

  “Hey, man,” the cop responded tiredly, “we ran those guys through NCIC for outstanding warrants already, and they all came up clean. There’s no use keeping ’em.”

  “Mind if we check?” I replied, trying to make my tone soothing.

  “Only if you take custody,” he replied petulantly. “I don’t have time to stand around here with my thumb up my ass waiting on you.”

  “Sure,” Ian agreed, his tone silky and dangerous. “Transfer custody to us.”

  It was done in moments, and the freed officer jogged over to let his sergeant know. His superior gave us a head tilt, clearly thinking we were DEA since he couldn’t see the back of the vests. Had he known, he wouldn’t have given the go-ahead. No one ever turned people over to the marshals because with our warrant information network we could always find something extra, just that bit more and being shown up pissed them off like nobody’s business. No one ever hated asking for our help to pick someone up after the fact or on a lead that’d gone cold, but having the marshals show them up at the scene of a bust made everyone bitchy.

  Ian pulled out his phone as I squatted down in front of the first guy.

  “So who the fuck are you?” our first suspect asked.

  “Marshal,” I answered. “We’re going to run you all for warrants again.”

  No one seemed concerned.

  Mike Ryan and his partner, Jack Dorsey, were on desk duty that morning, which meant they got to look up the records of the men sitting on the curb. We released the suspects one by one—Ryan and Dorsey making a note of it over the phone—removed their cuffs, and wished them a good day. “Go to hell” was the most popular response to Ian’s cheerfulness while “fuck off” ran a close second.

  It turned out a warrant for attempted murder and aggravated battery came back for the last guy.

  “Winner winner chicken dinner,” I announced, smirking at him.

  “Fuckin’ marshals,” Dario Batista griped. “I thought this was a DEA bust.”

  Ian cackled as we hauled him to his feet.

  “Come on, man,” he protested. “I have information I can give you. Let’s work out a deal.”

  “We’re marshals,” Ian said as the three of us began walking back to the Taurus. “We don’t make deals.”

  I called in as we stuffed him into the backseat.

  “What the hell kind of clown car is this?” Batista complained.

  “It’s fuel-efficient,” I rationalized as I set the childproof lock on the back door before getting in.

 
; “God, I hate this car,” Ian growled irritably.

  I promised we’d check on a new one when we got back to the office.

  IT TURNED out Batista was the one moving money for the Madero crime family that had ties to the Solo cartel out of Durango, Mexico. The DEA could maybe, possibly, get him to roll on the family if they could get witnesses to make the money laundering and racketeering charges stick, but it was a long shot. They would have loved to try, but San Francisco PD had him solid on attempted murder and aggravated battery charges. So since San Fran had put out the warrant for him, and since that was why we’d picked him up, we processed him, notified them of his capture, and they had people scrambled and on a plane within the hour. All of that activity happened faster than it took the DEA to figure out precisely what had happened to their potential informant.

  After the DEA agents pulled their heads out of their asses and ran down the information from Chicago PD that the marshals office had, in fact, taken custody of Batista, they finally showed up about six that evening.

  The guy in charge was Corbin Stafford, and he barged into our office with four of his men and demanded to speak to the marshals who were on-site in Bloomingdale that afternoon.

  That was a mistake.

  Maybe if they’d come in tactfully, respectfully, something different might have occurred. As it was, my boss, newly promoted Chief Deputy US Marshal Sam Kage came out of his office and waited while Stafford yelled at him and told him in no uncertain terms why he needed to turn Batista over to the DEA immediately.

  Kage waited until they were quiet.

  “Well?” Stafford barked.

  “No,” Kage replied flatly.

  It took a moment for the word to sink in. “No?”

  Kage waited.

  “What the hell do you mean, no?”

  Kage let out the sigh we all normally ran from. “US Marshals are the enforcement arm of most federal agencies, including yours, and as such, we reserve the right to make arrests as we see fit.”

  Everyone opened their mouths to say something, maybe even to yell, but my boss lifted his hand to shut them up.

  “As the main enforcement agency, this gives us more power than you were obviously aware of in your limited understanding of our office.”

  “I—”

  “Therefore, in this instance, we see fit not to honor your request.”

  “We’ll see what your boss thinks about—”

  “My boss, Tom Kenwood, was confirmed by the senate only a week ago and is the new US Marshal in charge of the Northern District of Illinois,” Kage explained, and I could see the glimmer of evil in his smile. “I’m sure he would love to have one of his first orders of business be you questioning a decision of his chief deputy.”

  The room fell very still.

  “But do have your boss give my boss my regards,” he finished cheerfully.

  As Kage returned to his office, Stafford’s gaze swept the room.

  I waved.

  Ian did too.

  The “fuck you” was implied.

  THAT NIGHT at home, without me even seeing it coming, Ian and I got into it again. It was good that we kept it out of work—both of us were being really careful about not talking about our personal life—but the second we crossed the threshold, the underlying issue exploded.

  It was all my fault.

  I wanted more than he had ever even considered, and because I’d given voice to my desire, I’d fucked everything up. What was sad was that I always did that, always wanted it all instead of being happy with what I had. My friends had different theories about why I pushed when the person I cared about—and in this case: desperately, madly, loved—wasn’t ready. The idea everyone liked the best was that because I was a foster kid who was passed around from pillar to post until I was legal, when I saw my happily ever after, I went after it like a charging bull. In Ian’s case, and only his, I could concede their point. In the past, it had been a test, me pushing to see how serious the other person was, see if they’d stay if I got serious too fast. But with Ian, it was all about me having him right there for the rest of my life. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

  In my defense, I thought Ian wanted me not simply as his partner on and off the job, but for more. It felt like it, it looked like it, so I assumed. There was a reason that was bad, and my mistake was in not checking.

  “It’s not that I don’t want the same shit you want.” Ian sighed from where he was sitting at the table, peeling the label off an empty bottle of the Gumballhead I kept for him. “I just don’t get why it has to be that.”

  “You don’t get why I want forever and ever, ’til death do us part?”

  “No, that I get. I just don’t get the need for the ring and the piece of paper.”

  Maybe it was stupid, but I couldn’t help how I felt any more than he could help how he didn’t. It was that part that was killing me.

  The issue, he said, was not that he didn’t want to get married; the issue was that he didn’t understand why I wanted to so badly.

  “Forget I asked,” I snapped, clearing the table after dinner.

  “How can I forget it?” he replied irritably, following me to the kitchen. “You want something, you asked, I said no, and now everything’s all fucked up.”

  “So it’s all on me,” I retorted, rounding on him.

  “Well, yeah, you know it is.”

  “You’re saying it’s stupid to ask for what I want?”

  “No, but it didn’t go like you planned, and now you’re saying just forget it, but how does that work? You can’t just erase it and pretend nothing happened. You want something and you put it out there, and now we have to deal with it.”

  I crossed my arms. “Why don’t you want to be married to me?”

  Heavy sigh. “You know why.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Because it limits you and it makes my life hard.”

  “In what way?”

  “You’ll never be promoted,” he said, his voice charged with annoyance.

  “I disagree.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Fine, I’m an idiot. I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do! The guys on my team might be okay with me, but no one else will be. You’re basically asking me to end my military career just so you can have a goddamn piece of paper!”

  “It’s not just a piece of paper,” I argued, my voice brittle. “It’s a lot more than that.”

  “Not to me,” he replied coldly. “It won’t change how I feel, I won’t love you any more or any less. It’s nothing, and it takes away who I am, what I do, and how far I can go.”

  His words hollowed me out, and it physically hurt for a moment, like a punch in the gut, because it was the exact opposite for me. I wanted it all, always had. Husband, house, dog, and maybe even kids—I wasn’t sure about the fatherhood, not certain about the kind of dad I would make, but I sure as hell wanted the choice.

  Ian was good with how things were, with the status quo, with us living together and being partners on the job, lovers at home. He was done moving forward; he was dug in where he was.

  “Why can’t I be enough for you?” he asked hoarsely, clearly hurt.

  “That’s bullshit,” I fired back. “It has nothing to do with enough and everything to do with wanting everyone to know that you’re with me.”

  “But why does that matter?”

  “Because I want the Army to have to call me if, heaven forbid, something happened to you. I want to be the person a doctor has to ask to treat you. I want you to wear a ring. I want to be your husband.”

  “And it doesn’t matter what I want?”

  “Of course it matters. I just need you to make me understand why you don’t want that.”

  “I told you already, it doesn’t work for me.”

  “Because of why?”

  “Because of my job,” he yelled.

  We’d been going round and round for weeks. He was sick to death of talking ab
out this. The difference was, I kept hoping he’d wake up one morning with a completely changed opinion on the subject. I was waiting for a miracle.

  “Ian—”

  “You’re going to impact what I do and who I am because you wanna play house!”

  “I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?” I asked icily.

  Instantly his hands went up. “Okay. That was shitty, but c’mon.”

  “Come on what?” I demanded.

  “Why do I have to explain myself to you? Why are you pushing alluva sudden?”

  “I—”

  “Why’s it so important that we get married?”

  “Because I love you.”

  He moved fast, into my space, hands on my face, staring into my eyes. As always, love and desire and heat all swirled together and nearly stopped my heart. I wanted him desperately.

  “I love you too, M, but being married is not in the cards for me.”

  “But it would be if I were a woman.”

  He dropped his hands and stalked across the kitchen, pivoting around before leaving completely. “Why do you say shit like that?”

  “It’s true, though. If I were a woman, you’d marry me. There’d be no problem then.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “No.”

  “So the question is stupid.”

  I was quiet for a long moment, and so was he, before I said, “We need to just forget this. I’m tired of fighting about it, I’m sorry I ever fuckin’ brought it up.”

  He shrugged. “But you can’t change how you feel and neither can I.”

  “So then what?” I began, holding my breath like I’d been doing around him lately. My stomach was tightening and twisting into knots with incredible regularity because of Ian Doyle. But it was better to finally ask and hear his answer so we both knew where we stood. Wondering, imagining the worst-case scenario, none of that was productive. It was cowardly, and tiptoeing around the elephant in the room was no good for anyone. My body went cold, hands fisted at my sides as I croaked out the question. “You’re just gonna leave?”

  “Leave?”

  Quick inhale. “Walk out, bail, ask to be deployed for like—ever. I dunno.”