Ian.
It was all his fault. He was having a ridiculous effect on me, making me feel like I should whistle while I walked. God, what would I do if he ever said he loved me?
“Fuck,” I groaned, grabbing hold of the sink, almost clunking the face of the Rolex Daytona Catherine had given me last Christmas against the porcelain.
“You all right?”
Snapping my head up, I glanced into the mirror and saw a man in a three-piece suit standing behind me.
“You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
Pivoting slowly, I faced him. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
He took a step sideways. Not closer, but not away either. It was a circling motion I wasn’t crazy about.
“I appreciate the concern.”
“Of course,” he said softly as a janitor walked into the bathroom pushing a supply cart and holding a Heckler & Koch P30 with a suppressor attached.
“Don’t move, Marshal.”
Fuck.
The first man took a step forward, and I grabbed the butt of my gun.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” the janitor said, lifting his weapon, two-handed, and holding it on me.
“You better shoot me,” I warned, not pulling my gun from the holster, but ready to. “Because I’m not giving up my gun.”
“Marshal.”
I turned from the man covering me, back to the man in the suit, who pulled a Beretta 92FS from a holster inside his suit jacket and aimed at me.
“I am Rahm Daoud,” he said. “And I only need to confirm something quickly, Marshal, and then I will be gone.”
“Those are not my orders,” the janitor snapped. “The plan is to kill one of the marshals and let the other live.”
Daoud was silent as he stalked slowly closer to him. “Yes, but as I advised your employer, killing policemen, marshals, FBI… brings trouble no one needs.”
“Leandro said that—”
Daoud’s action was a fast, scary coiled-snake striking movement. One second the janitor’s gun was trained on me, the next it was wrenched violently sideways before the janitor was forced to fire into his own chest.
I rushed forward but was brought up fast by the Beretta aimed at my face.
“Stay where you are, Marshal.”
Stilling, I watched as Daoud let the man sink to the floor before he released his hand, bending it gently across his chest. As he was wearing driving gloves, his prints would be nowhere on the murder weapon.
“This man worked for Leandro Olivera,” Daoud explained, his lip curling into a sly, sexy grin. Honestly, if he wasn’t about to kill me, I would have been a fan. He was stunning, with his dark flashing eyes, dimples, glossy black hair, and dark tanned skin. He looked like one of those hot Portuguese soccer players, and he moved with the same fluid grace.
“And who do you work for?” I asked, my eyes never leaving him.
“Lior Cardoso,” he answered, and the way the name rolled off his tongue sounded really pretty. “You know the name?”
“I do.”
“So you understand his interest in making sure the men who killed his nephew and then tried to cover it up were punished.”
“Sure.”
“But Leandro is a hothead. Thus we have this mess, instead of simply you and I having a quick conversation in the men’s room.”
I waited.
“And perhaps more.”
I scoffed. “I seem easy, do I?”
Daoud’s mischievous grin would have done things to my insides if a shyer, sweeter, more seldom-seen version from Ian didn’t already have me enslaved. “You look good.”
Flirting took the fear factor out of the equation. “What does Lior Cardoso want to know?”
He lowered the Beretta and replaced it in the holster under his coat. “The boy, Drake Ford. He will testify that Christopher Fisher was about to burn the body of Safiro Olivera?”
“Yes.”
“There is no question of identity?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said cheerfully, “then that is all I need, Marshal.”
“So, what?” I pried, taking a step toward him. “Cardoso was waiting to hear if it was true before he moves against Malloy?”
“He already moved on Malloy, as you very well know.”
I did, so I made the next intuitive leap. “Lior Cardoso has Orson Malloy.”
“Yes,” Daoud said, moving toward the door.
“But he was waiting to do whatever until he had confirmation.”
“Yes.”
“Did Fisher work for both Malloy and Cardoso?”
“Yes.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Deadly, actually, at least for Christopher Fisher,” Daoud said, putting more space between us.
“So can I expect that you’ll be paying Fisher a visit?”
“Perhaps,” he said huskily, edging away faster.
“Will we find any piece of Orson Malloy?”
“It’s doubtful.”
“And Drake Ford?”
“Drake Ford is in protective custody.”
“So is Christopher Fisher, and I know you know that,” I said, taking a step toward him.
“We have no problem with Drake Ford,” he informed me. “And soon Drake Ford will be able to get back to his life as we will kill every Malloy that wants him dead.”
“You—”
“I enjoyed meeting you, Miro Jones,” Daoud said silkily. “Let’s pretend we had an interlude and you wait the appropriate few minutes before emerging after I leave.”