Twisted and Tied Page 3

  “Is she there?” Becker asked.

  “Yep, right here.”

  “Do me a favor and do not get in the car,” Ching told me.

  “Like I’ve never been kidnapped before,” I scoffed and made a show of hanging up, for all it mattered with him and Becker on the open channel.

  “He’s got a point there,” Becker agreed.

  “Shuddup,” I groused.

  “Enough with the chatter,” Dorsey grumbled.

  Approaching the car, I leaned over as she lowered the window, not getting too close, instead sinking to my haunches on the curb.

  “We going for a ride?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “And why not?”

  “They’re coming here instead. That way we can just meet in the office,” I told her, realizing she looked the part of a marshal. The black suit, white shirt, badge clipped to her belt, gun holster, all of it seemed like she’d been putting it on for years. Instead I knew she’d memorized how the real Hicks dressed. It made me sick to see the badge clipped to her belt, but I swallowed it down.

  She must have seen something there on my face: revulsion, hatred, loathing. Even though I was playing it cool, it might have seeped through. “What’s with you?” she asked, quiet, concerned, brows furrowed.

  “Nothing, why?” I shrugged, standing, thinking the movement would stop her from staring at me. “Hey, you hungry? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “Wait.”

  I stopped moving, brows lifted, hoping I was the epitome of nonchalance.

  “When I talked to you before, you said this wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It’s not,” I said, shrugging. “And it’s even less of an issue now, since instead of us taking an hour out of our day to drive out to where they are, they agreed to come to us.”

  She stared at me.

  “Food?” I prodded.

  She took a breath and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that’s not going to work.”

  “What’s not?” I played dumb, standing there on the sidewalk.

  “I need to see them at their home,” she pressed.

  “But you know that’s not how we do things,” I reminded her, assuring her of the protocol and trying not to sound like a wiseass, maybe missing it a little bit. I was getting angrier by the second. How dare she pretend to be Hicks. It was disgusting.

  “You’re going to have to do better, Jones.”

  “And why is that?” I asked right as I heard a noise behind me. I didn’t get the chance to turn, the muzzle of the gun stilling me as it was shoved into my right side while a hand curled over my left shoulder, holding tight.

  “Hold still, Marshal,” a man commanded, taking the device from my ear and crushing it under the toe of his boot.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, feigning surprise.

  She narrowed her eyes as she stared at me. “Give me an address.”

  Letting go of all pretense, I glared at her. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I will kill you, Marshal,” she threatened. “I’m working against a deadline here.”

  “And if you actually were a marshal, you’d know we never give up our witnesses,” I promised. “It’s the whole what-we-do thing.”

  “Fuck.” Up until that second, I would have bet my life on the fact that I had the situation well in hand, but then another set of hands closed on me, and two men propelled me toward the car.

  Bellamy got out and held open the back door of the Audi sedan so they could stuff me in, and I knew it was my one chance to get free. My team was coming—they weren’t far, I knew that—so I jerked back even with the gun pressed to my ribs because I was never being kidnapped again. Once was more than enough.

  When Craig Hartley—the serial killer known as Prince Charming—had taken me two years prior, I was chained up and tortured. The whole ordeal culminated in Hartley, a former doctor, removing one of my ribs. And while I knew, logically, the same was not about to happen—I’d be shot and killed, not beaten and cut open—I still couldn’t stop my immediate terror. My brain shut down, and because there was no flight, all that was left was fight.

  Twisting free, I rounded on the guy with the gun. But instead of shooting, he pistol-whipped me. I understood. A dead man could not lead them to Jolie and Brett; I was safe until I gave up their location. So even though it felt like my right eye exploded before I was suddenly blinded, I swung and caught the guy with an uppercut that flung him back against the passenger-side door.

  I was caught in the jaw hard and then the stomach harder, but as I went down, I still managed to kick the guy’s feet out from under him. Of course he came down on top of me, which wasn’t great, but then I heard Dorsey—he had a bellow that was unforgettable—and I relaxed.

  “Jones!”

  Ching was there, and Becker, and they shoved the guy off me so I could breathe. Dorsey lifted me to my feet. He was kind of big.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ryan breathed, doubling over, hands on his knees. “I thought you were shot when you went down.”

  “So did I,” Ching huffed, hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “I haven’t run that fast in a long fuckin’ time.’

  “You took years off my life, Jones,” Becker grumbled like it was my fault.

  It was nice they were all worried. I was sort of touched. “You guys start running when the earpiece went dead?”

  “Hell yes,” Dorsey told me as he led the zip-tied Bellamy from beside the car to the sidewalk and helped her to her knees, then laid her facedown on the sidewalk.

  “Where’s Warren?” Ryan demanded as he squatted beside her. “We want him.”

  “He’s in the same ditch she is,” Bellamy snarled, “but you’ll never find either of those stupid fucks if you don’t let—”

  “Take her phone,” I told him quickly. “She told me when I met with her before that this was her first trip to Chicago. At least we’ll have the route to check.”

  “Jones!” she shrieked.

  “Got it,” Ryan informed me before he got on his phone and ordered the download on hers. Hopefully it would be quick.

  “I’ll tell you where they are,” offered the guy who hit me with his gun. “You guys make me a deal, I’ll talk. I haven’t done shit but drive.”

  He was an accessory, but there were levels, for sure.

  “I swear to God, I wasn’t even with them when they killed the marshals.”

  It hurt to hear they were both gone, even though I hadn’t known either of them. But they were my tribe, and I’d miss them.

  “Hey.”

  I turned my head to see Becker, who took my face in his hands and lifted my chin, checking me over, gentler than I’d ever known him to be.

  “You need stitches, Jones. Let’s get you to the hospital. They’re gonna have to take a picture of your head an’ see if you’ve got a concussion.”

  “I didn’t even—”

  “I’m sorry; did you have something to say?”

  Sometimes Becker made me feel really stupid. “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so. Let’s go.”

  “Yessir,” I groaned as Bellamy screamed in rage behind me.

  I was surprised when he took hold of my arm.

  “I can walk, you know.”

  “I know,” he told me as he continued to lead me to the car.

  “What’s with you?” I asked.

  “You could’ve left us today,” he said gruffly. “I don’t think I’m ready to lose anybody on this team just yet.”

  It was hearing about Hicks and Warren. Everything had become real in an instant.

  Chapter 2

  MY EYEBROW only needed five stitches, which, compared to some of the other lacerations I’d suffered over the years, was nothing. The doctor on call checked me out—I got jumped in line because I got hurt, technically, in the line of duty, and because Ching looked pissed and no one wanted to tell him no.

  Because I was a federal marshal and had to carry a gun 24-7, I alwa
ys had to be checked out so a doctor could vouch for my brain not being scrambled. No one wanted someone to get shot accidentally because a marshal had a concussion and mistook them for a bear or something. I certainly never wanted to be the guy on the wrong end of a shooting incident.

  As I sat there in the ER, blood on my shirt and sweater, waiting as Becker talked to Kage and Ching paced as he talked to Dorsey, the curtain that separated me from the next bed was yanked open and Eli appeared, another man right behind him, like it was a magic show.

  “Hey,” I greeted, smiling, finding it odd he was there.

  “I was driving by from the airport and told you were still here. Since we’re supposed to be eating tonight, and I figured Doyle stranded you at the pickup site when he left with the SOG guys, it made sense to come grab you.”

  I nodded. “That seems reasonable,” I teased. “I find your logic sound.”

  He rolled his eyes theatrically but moved quickly, his nonchalance belied by how fast he got to me.

  Stepping between my parted legs, he checked my eye and face, upon which, Dorsey had informed me, the bruises had started to darken. Eli winced at the damage and my clothes. “I’m thinking we have to go by your place so you can clean up and put on something without blood splatter on it.”

  I grunted before holding out my hand to greet the man who must be his cousin but looked only fleetingly like Eli. Where Eli was tall and built like a swimmer with wide shoulders, a broad chest, narrow waist, and long legs, Ira was leaner with long muscles, not ones defined in a gym like Eli’s.

  “Oh yeah,” Eli said. “This is my cousin, Ira. Ira, this is Miro Jones.”

  The smaller, nerdier, bespectacled cousin of a guy I trusted with my life moved forward to take my outstretched hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ira.”

  “And you,” he said with a half grimace, half smile.

  I patted our gripped hands with my other, then let go, gesturing at my face. “Oh, this is nothing. Par for the course.”

  He nodded. “I have a friend, Tracy. This kind of thing happens to him too.”

  “Is he in law enforcement?”

  “No, but his brother is.”

  “Turns out you know the brother indirectly,” Eli explained. “Me and Ira were putting it together in the car that you know Alex Brandt, and he’s Ira’s friend’s brother.”

  How did I know that name?

  Eli, who read me pretty well after the years between us, noticed me struggling. “You worked with my buddy Kane Morgan in San Fran the last time you were there and—”

  “Oh, Brandt’s the DEA agent,” I realized. “Shit, how is he?”

  “Good,” Ira said, grinning. “He’s annoying and kind of a douche, but yeah, all in one piece.”

  “Oh, I’m glad.” Even though I’d never met Brandt myself, Inspector Morgan struck me as the kind of man who didn’t take his friendships lightly. I was pleased to hear he wasn’t missing anybody. “And damn, that’s a small world,” I said to Eli.

  “It is. I mean, I know Kane, but I had no idea Ira knew the Brandts.”

  I looked back at Ira. “So you like San Fran?”

  “I do,” he said, then indicated Eli with a tip of his head. “This one liked it too until Natalie.”

  Eli inhaled sharply, which made me ready to hear all about whoever Natalie was.

  “Hey,” Becker said, snapping his fingers to get our attention.

  Eli and I turned to look at him.

  “State police in Huntsville, Alabama, already found a shallow grave off I-65 North.”

  “So they recovered both bodies?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s good.”

  Becker half shrugged, and I understood. Yes, it was good they’d been found because this way their families got closure—but bad for the obvious reason—they were dead.

  I twisted back around, taking a breath before smiling at Ira, giving him an eyebrow waggle, needing the diversion of a good story. “Okay, so, dish about Natalie.”

  “No,” Eli barked, putting it on. “Shut up, Ira. Don’t you say a fuckin’ word.”

  Ira chuckled.

  “I’m not kidding.” He pointed at him. “Just—you don’t need to tell him about—”

  I grabbed Eli’s arm and drew him closer, upsetting his balance just enough that we bumped and he had to put his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. “Tell me all about Natalie,” I instructed Ira.

  Ira was enjoying seeing us jostle around, the delight easy to read on his face.

  “Don’t,” Eli warned.

  “Do,” I pressed, holding Eli’s arm tighter when he tried to lunge at Ira.

  “He followed Natalie out here from San Fran, and a week later, she dumped him.”

  I moved my hand to Eli’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “Aww, buddy, is that before you started dressing well?”

  “Fuck you,” he groused as he eased back into my hold, not struggling, content to stand there beside me.

  It was funny. We were fooling around, and in the midst of waiting in the ER, I was comfortable, and I realized that was because I was with Eli and the rest of the guys.

  I realized at Thanksgiving last year that I’d stopped looking for companionship outside of my circle, outside of the guys I worked with and counted on. My last friendship with a nice attorney who moved in next door to me and Ian turned out to be nothing but a ruse, and in the aftermath of that betrayal, I found myself hesitant to open up to anyone new. I was never a real trusting guy to begin with—foster care did that to you, made you wary of strangers—but now where I used to smile and make conversation with everyone, I was far more reserved, downright quiet. I listened a lot, which was good, and as a result, the guys, especially Eli, had become the ones I looked to for companionship.

  “So,” I said, looking at Eli. “You followed a woman out here and, what, fell in love with the city?”

  He shrugged. “She left to go back, couldn’t take the winter, and I stayed here.”

  “And then your mom moved here too?”

  “Well, yeah,” he replied with a smirk. “She can’t live without her baby.”

  “Which sucks for the rest of us,” Ira chimed in, “because his mother can cook.”

  I smiled at him. “And yours can’t?”

  He winced. “Just don’t—if you ever meet her, don’t tell her I said that.”

  “Said what?”

  Ira pointed at me, grinning at Eli. “Oh, I like him.”

  Eli was going to say something shitty back, I was sure, but a commotion in the hall interrupted us, and we all watched uniformed hospital security rush by, and then a nurse and a doctor followed. Before I could even open my mouth to ask, a person—I couldn’t tell if it was a kid or a woman—bolted past, and then Ching, who was still behind me, drew the curtain wide, opening it around my bed so we could see what was going on.

  The heavy coat was thrown off, and a teenaged girl emerged from underneath, clad in booty shorts and a tank top that were too skimpy for March in Chicago, where the weather went up and down so fast that it could be sixty on one day and thirty the next. The shoes she had on, platform strappy heels, also made no sense. When she went down, the heel twisting under her, I hopped off the table to go help, and when I moved forward, she looked up.

  “Jesus,” I gasped because it hit me. “Wen?”

  She heaved out a sob, got her feet under her just as security reached her, and charged forward, closing on me in seconds and hurling herself into my arms.

  I clutched her tight, tucking her head to my chest but still careful not to crush her since it was like holding a baby bird. I had no idea what the hell was going on. The last time I saw her, she was not this skinny, was not wearing mascara that was running down her face in black rivulets, and certainly was not dressed to walk the streets. I was horrified and filling with slow, seething rage as every protective instinct inside of me went off. The urge to shelter her thrummed under my skin.

  Security guard
s moved forward, and I took a step back, bumping my bed. They might have advanced a second time, but Eli was there, hand out to still them.

  “We need you to hand over that patient,” one of the guards ordered, addressing me. “She assaulted her guardian and hit a nurse who was trying to help her and—”

  “You need to step back,” Becker informed them, opening his coat so they could see the badge hanging from the chain around his neck. “We’re federal marshals, so you need to explain what the hell is going on here.”

  “There, there,” Wen cried, pointing at a man bolting for the exit.

  “Stop,” Ching bellowed, drawing his gun as people screamed around him and dropped to the ground. “Or I’ll be forced to fire.”

  The man did a slow pan, and the arrogant smile slowly crumbled as he took in Eli, who had pulled his gun as well, and Ching, both advancing on him. From his reaction I bet he had been ready to face security guards, not federal marshals. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he assured them.

  “We’ll see,” Ching informed him, holstering his gun, pulling the zip ties from the pocket in his cargo pants as Eli covered him.

  The guy wasn’t looking at Eli anymore, though; it was Becker, his gun trained on him, who was suddenly making him shake.

  “Benjamin James,” Becker said as Ching shoved the guy to his knees and secured his hands tightly behind him. “Picking up where Rego left off? You pimping out underage girls?”

  The shaking turned into a tremor, but I didn’t care. It was Wen sobbing in my arms, holding on so tight, who had all my attention. Lifting her head, I looked down into her face.

  “What happened, sweetheart? Where’s your sister?”

  “Han,” she gasped, “she got hurt real bad. The man… he hurt when he—when—Miro!”

  Howling cries then, and she dissolved in my arms as I lifted her and put her on the bed I’d been on. She weighed nothing, a mere slip of her former self, and I wrapped her in a blanket that Ira, now off the floor where Eli had pushed him, handed me. Swallowing down my desire to go kick the shit out of James, I made myself stay there and be strong for Wen, letting her lean forward and bump her head on my chest.