Tied Up in Knots (Marshals Book 3) Page 2

  “You’re making career-altering decisions here, gentlemen,” Sandell insisted, and I realized fast there would be no time for us to be screwed over, demoted, or whatever else because he was going to murder us right there in the street and take any evidence off us and no one but his team would be the wiser.

  “On the ground, all of you!” Morgan insisted, not backing down an iota. We were in the right, and it appeared that no matter what the consequence, he would follow through.

  I felt like I should have been scared, but I was more worried about Morgan.

  “They’re dirty cops! Take them down!” Sandell shouted. “I’ve got the evidence right—”

  I tensed for a bullet’s impact, but a foghorn siren blast caught everyone’s attention at the same time. It was not the normal one from a police car, but instead came as a low brrp-brrp from a massive black ARV with a golden eagle emblem on its sides and windows so black they ate the light. After rolling to a shuddering stop, the ARV’s back doors exploded and a SWAT team deployed in a solid stream of enormous, angry-looking men. Even as happy as I was to be rescued, something about the men in full-body armor pointing their automatic weapons in my direction was disquieting.

  “Drop your weapons and get down,” barked a mountain with lieutenant bars on his black vest. “Now.”

  It was funny how fast a SWAT team could make a dirty cop and his crew toss aside their guns and kiss the asphalt. No one on the ground moved or even breathed. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go facedown, and from the looks of it, neither was Morgan. He simply holstered his gun, put his hands on his hips, and sighed with clear disgust.

  The SWAT team moved in to take custody, everyone except for the lieutenant. He approached and the team parted like the sea did for Moses. There was no question of moving. His rank was in every rippling muscle, the swagger of his walk, and simply the sheer size of him. His shoulders alone were enough to get me to back down from a challenge.

  After reaching us, he took off his helmet and aviators, then flashed me an improbable grin before he put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

  “So,” the lieutenant said with a snort of warm laughter. “You called for backup.”

  I was reeling. We’d just been saved by the Terminator, who was very obviously giving Morgan shit. What the hell was going on?

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan groused, gesturing around at all the armor-clad men. “I called for backup, not the Mongol horde.”

  “We were the closest to your twenty, and hell, you nearly gave dispatch a heart attack with you needing help,” the lieutenant said with an eyebrow waggle. “You never call for backup; they thought there was a riot.”

  Morgan shook his head, seemingly annoyed even with what I thought to be a reasonable explanation. I’d have seen it then, even if I’d missed the similar black hair, shorter but the same jet color, and the sinful glint in the deep-blue eyes, and the name Morgan stitched on the TAC vest.

  “You should introduce me. You were raised better than that.”

  Morgan growled in response, the irritation rolling off him as he gestured at me with a tip of his head. “This is Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones, who’s been my new partner for the week. Jones, this asshole is my older brother, Lieutenant Connor Morgan.”

  “SWAT, huh?” I said, holstering my Glock.

  “Con’s always had to be the one with the biggest dick. Or be the biggest dick. I get that all confused,” Morgan replied sarcastically. “Because getting a gun and a badge wasn’t good enough, he wanted a tank and a battering ram too.”

  “I know the type.” I had a Green Beret of my own who was of a similar disposition.

  Connor’s guys were bagging up the guns on the asphalt and zip-tying everyone. People just didn’t fuck around with SWAT. If they were on-site, no questions asked, they could just kill somebody. Everybody knew that, even dirty-as-hell pieces of crap who worked for the DEA. The clean ones knew they’d be shaken loose, but the ones on the take knew they didn’t have a chance in hell of walking away.

  “Hey,” Morgan said, taking hold of Connor’s bicep. “Let’s not mention this to Miki, okay?”

  Connor guffawed. “Then I suggest you and the marshal get the hell out of here because dispatch just told us Dad’s on his way.”

  “Shit, that’ll bring the vultures and their cameras,” Morgan grumbled, glancing around. “I’ll meet you at the precinct.” Connor nodded and Morgan reached out for his hand, and Connor clasped it tight for a second.

  “Thanks, Con.”

  “Always,” his brother murmured, and I heard the depth of the feeling in the singular word.

  As I followed Morgan, walking briskly down the street, dodging the people rushing toward the action we were trying to ditch, I had a question.

  “Your dad?”

  He grunted.

  “Speak.”

  Heavy sigh. “He’s a captain, and we’re about on the edge of this territory.”

  Okay, two questions. “Lots of cops in your family?”

  “You have no idea. We’re up to five at last count. We’ve got one who’s a fireman because, well, he’s shite with a gun, and one who’s a professor. History and whatnot at the college. Baby sister hasn’t decided yet. She’d do it if she could wear heels with her rookie uniform.”

  “Who’s Mickey? Like the mouse? Wife? Girlfriend?”

  “It’s Miki, no E or Y, and he’s my boyfriend.”

  “Got it.”

  I must have sounded odd after my near-death experience, because even though he snorted out a laugh, there was an edge to his voice when he spoke. “Problem?”

  “Oh fuck no,” I assured him. “I was just being nosy.”

  His laugh turned warm.

  “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “That was my brother that did that.”

  “No, it was you.”

  He shrugged. “Thank you for believing me. It would have been just as easy to trust Sandell.”

  “I have a good track record with Irishmen,” I teased.

  “Do you, now?”

  I shot him a grin.

  ONCE AT the precinct, Morgan downloaded the files from my phone while we watched through the glass windows as Koegle, Sandell’s superior, screamed at Morgan’s boss, Lieutenant Casey.

  Koegle was turning red. Casey looked bored.

  “Your boss is cool under pressure, huh?”

  Morgan just scoffed. Clearly this kind of thing happened to Casey a lot. When we’d first walked into the area right outside his office, the DEA head was apparently lying in wait because he came roaring out and right up to us.

  “You had no warrant, Morgan! How the hell did you even—”

  “Sir,” I said softly.

  “You think you can just—”

  “Sir.” I got louder, even adding a cough.

  “—barge into a—”

  “Sir,” I barked, and when he turned in a huff, clearly irritated, I lifted my badge for him to see. “Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones out of the Chicago office,” I explained. “I was here on temporary assignment with the Northern District here, and—”

  “I don’t give a damn who you think—”

  “Step back,” a voice had called out.

  Fun was everyone swiveling around to see the very tall, very elegantly dressed man in a topcoat and dark navy pinstripe suit with brown buttons and a red pocket square come striding into the bullpen, flanked by four other men. He was handsome—as I’d thought when I first met him when I got into town—imposing like my boss, his skin a deep rich umber, his teak-colored eyes taking in the room in one glance just like Kage always did. It wasn’t protocol to meet the higher-ups when one got to town, but Vance and Kage were friends, so I’d been directed to pay my respects.

  “Who the hell are—”

  “Supervisory Deputy Xavier Vance,” he announced, stepping around Sandell’s boss to reach me.

  I took the offered hand and he clapped me on the shoulder.

&nbs
p; “You good, Jones?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Excellent,” he said in a low baritone. “Kage wants you on a plane tonight.”

  “Yessir,” I said, smiling. “He must be back.”

  “It’s why I got a call.”

  “Yessir.”

  He turned to Morgan and extended his hand. “I need to see your boss.”

  After shaking, Morgan said, “He’s right over there,” gesturing toward the glass-walled office at his lieutenant with the same tip of his head from earlier. “Name’s Casey.”

  They all went in the office—Vance and the other marshals—and I had seen the DEA guy lose his fucking mind once the door closed. Casey and Vance looked bored as Koegle screamed on.

  Now, back in the present, there was still yelling going on but both the only one raising his voice was Vance. I also noted that all his ire was directed at the DEA supervisor.

  “It’s not bad, you know,” I said, turning from the scene inside the office back to Morgan.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Having a supervisory deputy for a friend,” I told him. “Vance is a good guy, and now he owes you.”

  “Owes me?”

  “For saving my life.”

  “Well, you helped me and Brandt.”

  “How’s he doing, anyway?”

  “He’s good. If I ever get out of here, I’ll go see him on my way home.”

  “To your Miki.”

  “Yeah, to my Miki.”

  “Who’ll kill you if he finds out you almost died today, right?”

  “Ye have no idea. He’d have my balls, he would.”

  The accent was a surprise, but I was guessing it came out when the man was agitated or when he was emotional, which he was at the moment. “Maybe he won’t find out.”

  “He had a session today, so hopefully not.”

  “Session?”

  “Recording.”

  “Oh, he’s a what—a musician?”

  Morgan nodded.

  “Is he famous around here?”

  “And other places as well.”

  “Oh yeah? Think I’ve heard of him?”

  “Maybe.” Morgan’s grin was sly. “Miki St. John.”

  I knew that name. “He fronts a rock band, yeah?”

  Morgan gave me the full wattage of his smile, clearly pleased.

  I winced. “I’m more a blues guy, Ian’s the rocker.”

  “Ian?”

  We hadn’t discussed much beyond the case during our short time together, which was why I was just learning about his rock star and he was only now hearing Ian’s name. “My”—the label was still a weird thing—“partner,” I went with. It wasn’t completely correct, but it wasn’t wrong, either. “You’d like him; he’s a lot like you. I’m sure you guys’d get into all kinds of trouble together.”

  “What you call trouble I call good police work.”

  “I have no doubt,” I patronized.

  I heard a commotion in the hall then, and I saw Connor coming in, several of his men in tow. He sauntered over to us—I would move like that, too, if I were him—and explained that all the DEA agents were downstairs, waiting to be processed.

  “They’re all gonna walk,” I told them.

  Connor nodded. “But when is the question.”

  “I see the evil runs fast in this family.”

  Morgan grinned widely. “If you were staying, I’d take you to see my mum so you could see the truth of that.”

  “You made the news,” Connor informed Morgan with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Fuck,” Morgan whined before turning to me. “I think you better put me in protective custody.”

  “Why? Your guy’s a rock star. How scary could he be?”

  Connor’s cackle was a little bit unnerving.

  IT TOOK hours to sort everything out, collect all the evidence, book Sandell, get Hein from his office where we’d left him and then book him as well. It was going to take time to figure out who was dirty and who was clean among the DEA agents, so everyone got processed before they were put on administrative leave. I was pretty sure Brandt was going to get a promotion when he got out of the hospital, as he would be one of the only good guys left standing.

  Since Morgan had been running the undercover op with Casey’s full backing, in the end, all that was left for the SFPD to do was have the marshals’ office take Sandell and Hein into federal custody. They also told the DEA to kiss their ass and basically stomped all over Koegle. I was worried Morgan had made an enemy of him, but he’d also made a friend in Vance, so I figured it would balance out. He didn’t seem worried.

  That night he drove me to the airport where we parted ways, and I got a hug as I tried to extract a promise for him to visit Chicago.

  He winced. “It’s cold there, yeah? I mean, we get cold here, but you guys, that’s glacial.”

  I shook my head and he chuckled, and I was inside before he pulled away.

  On the way to the terminal, I stopped at one of the last open stores to grab water for the plane and spotted the cover of Rolling Stone.

  “No shit,” I said, staring at Miki St. John with the rest of the band before grabbing it off the rack. Kane Morgan was a lucky man, as were whomever, men or women, the rest of the boys belonged to. They were almost blindingly gorgeous all clustered together.

  “Is this it?” the clerk asked.

  “I know this guy’s boyfriend,” I told her.

  She gave me a patronizing nod before ringing me up.

  I was surprised when my phone rang while I sat in the boarding area, even more so when I read the caller ID.

  “Hey,” I said hoarsely.

  “You had to be rescued by SWAT?” he growled.

  His voice sounded really good. Tense, but good. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked on TV,” I assured Ian, wondering if Morgan’s balls were in a vise at this exact moment. The news crew—all of them—made the entire situation, even without benefit of our names, sound a lot more dire than it was.

  “You better be on your way home.”

  “I am.” I swallowed hard. “Are you?”

  “Yep.”

  A two-week Special Forces op had turned into a just-over-four-months marathon, so him telling me he was coming home to our overpriced Greystone sent a shiver of anticipation through me. I’d missed him bad. “I’m just waiting to board, so I’ll be home in the morning. You?”

  “Saturday night.”

  My stomach, which had not reacted to imminent death earlier today, flipped over in response to those words. I sighed deeply. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too,” he croaked.

  “Ian?”

  “Goddammit, Miro, you’re supposed to stay home when I’m not with you!”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said with a smile he couldn’t see. “It was Phil.”

  “Who?”

  I explained about the nozzle who was in charge while our boss took a much-deserved vacation with his family.

  “Yeah, well, I bet Kage had him killed already.”

  “I seriously would not put it past him. Kage left orders and Tull disregarded them. We both know how well that goes over.”

  He grunted.

  “So you’re all in one piece?” I asked, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

  “I am.”

  “Any new scars you want to tell me about?”

  “No,” he said hesitantly, and I finally heard it, the pain in his voice. “But Sunday… I need you to go to a funeral with me.”

  “Of course,” I breathed, waiting to hear who’d died.

  “Buddy of mine.”

  I’d been worried that maybe it was his father. Ian and his dad weren’t close, and the last time they saw each other had been a disaster, but…. “So your friend—”

  “Laird. Eddie Laird.”

  That was really fast. “He wasn’t there with you on the op?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t the time to ask for
specifics, but I was curious, I couldn’t help it. “Okay, so I’ll see you at home on Saturday. Call me from the—”

  He coughed. “No, uhm, why don’t you pick me up.”

  I was ridiculously touched. Never had I been allowed. Most of the time he didn’t know exactly when he’d show up, but also, Ian liked our homecoming scenes private. He was not a PDA kind of guy at all, and the reception of men returning home from deployment was loud. Artillery barrage, explosions, boots on the ground, all that big-ticket noise, Ian could do. Squealing high-pitched joy was beyond him.

  “Miro?”

  “Sorry. You just never want me at the airport.”

  “Yeah, well, now I do.”

  I was excited and nervous at the same time because if I went, it was possible I might meet other men from his unit. I had only ever met one in the past, and he transferred out not long after that, so this would be a first time for me with the group. But maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe it would just be Ian, and that was the reason for the invite. “Will it be just you or—”

  “No, we’re all on the same flight.”

  Interesting. “What’s the flight number?”

  He gave it to me, and I heard his sharply indrawn breath, which told me it hurt for him to move. “Are you sure you’re all in one piece?”

  “Yeah.”

  A short answer was not good.

  “So, M,” he began softly. “You been sleeping okay?”

  Ian was a Green Beret who’d seen and done things that would have given me night terrors for years. I knew he’d been on secret missions to countries the US wasn’t supposed to be in, that there was blood on his hands and his horrors were legion, while mine amounted to one man, one time that showed me how futile struggle could be and how truly powerless I was. It made me feel ridiculously whiny and weak to ever complain to Ian about the PTSD I experienced after being kidnapped by Dr. Craig Hartley. Our department shrink diagnosed me while Ian was gone. Ian was actually the one who made me see the doctor, but really, confessing to the man I loved—who had real ghosts that haunted him—would not be something I ever did.

  “Miro?”

  “I sleep better when you’re here.” And that was not a lie. Between sex or cuddling, I slept like a rock when I had him plastered to my back.