All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Like twenty minutes, if I wasn’t about to be in morning traffic.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll get with the guys from vice.”

I snorted out a laugh.

“How old are you?”

“No coffee,” I reminded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, almost sadly.

“What’s with the tone?”

“Nothing.”

“Something,” I said confidently, because I knew him too well, every nuance of his voice categorized and memorized. He couldn’t hide anything from me.

“It’s too late to rethink your lot, M. You’re stuck with me.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Just, you know… I’m not easy.”

“Oh buddy, I know.”

“Shut up.”

“And I wouldn’t dream of getting a new partner.”

“Okay,” he said hoarsely, and then he hung up.

The drive should have taken maybe twenty-five minutes, but this was morning traffic on I-90 East toward Washington Park. I’d be lucky to be there before Christmas.

By the time I reached where the raid had gone down, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. Climbing out of the truck, I went around to the trunk of the deVille and opened it. As it was a work car, we both carried keys for it. I took off my jacket and my suit blazer, put on my tac vest, and eyed the raid slicker. SOP said it had to go on, but it was freezing, and my parka with “US Marshal” across the back was at home. But I could imagine getting shot because no one knew who I was and what Kage would say, and worst of all, what he would do to me and what my new job description would be. He was not to be messed with.

After putting my blazer and jacket both back on, I pulled the raid slicker on over that, then removed my badge from the chain around my neck I’d worn out of my house and clipped it to my belt.

“Miro!”

Glancing around, I found Ian dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt with “US Marshal” emblazoned down the arm, his vest, khaki cargo pants, and a baseball hat.

“Dressing down today, marshal,” I teased, closing in.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, we both were supposed to, but since I dropped the ball, I guess I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting today.”

“You poor thing.”

“This is what I’m saying.”

“At least I should stay clean today,” I quipped, reaching his side but not getting too close. All I wanted was to grab him, so I kept my distance on purpose.

Except… moving quickly with that fluid way he had, he stepped right into my personal space. “You said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not,” I said, my voice thick.

“Then act like it.”

“Okay,” I said at the same time a man came flying out the front entrance and started racing across the parking lot.

It happened so fast. I saw the men chasing him, made out the letters “FBI” on their raid jackets even from a distance, and took off, sprinting around the cars to intercept who I figured was a fleeing suspect. I ran a long route, circumventing the other pursuers, and emerged to the right of him. Hurtling into his path, I clipped him on the shoulder and we went down together, rolling, sliding over snow and gravel until a car halted our momentum.

Winded, gasping, I choked as the man shoved me off and tried to scramble away, crawling on hands and knees.

“Freeze, asshole,” Ian bellowed, running up to us, his Glock leveled at the man’s head. “Don’t fuckin’ move!”

I heaved for breath as the man was swarmed, shoved facedown onto the asphalt, and searched for weapons. Checking my wrist, making sure the cast was still intact, I realized from the twinge of pain that shot through it that I needed to take it easy on the tackling until I was back at 100 percent.

“Put your hands up,” one of the agents yelled, coming around the back of the Toyota Camry we had rolled up against, his gun leveled at me.

“The fuck you say!” Ian yelled before he drove the man back, lifting him up off his feet and pile-driving him over the trunk with a forearm in the guy’s throat. “That’s a fuckin’ deputy US marshal you’re pointing your goddamn gun at!”

Lots of movement, and I was hauled to my feet as four state police officers pulled Ian off the agent and crowded around him until he holstered his weapon.

“How ’bout a thank you for catching your suspect,” Ian snarled.

I pushed into the crowd, grabbed hold of his vest, and shoved him backward until we were free, only the two of us outside the throng of troopers.

“Hey,” I said softly, my hands on his sides, slipping to his hips without thought.

“Fuck you!” he shouted at them all. “You don’t draw a gun unless you know what the fuck you’re supposed to be shooting at!”

He was furious, and it was only because I could bench-press more than he could, having muscle on him where he had height on me, that I could hold him still.