Twisted and Tied (Marshals 4)

I followed him into Cullen’s office, where he didn’t knock. He shut down her assistant with a sharp word that sent her scuttling after the others, strode to Cullen’s desk, took the phone out of her hand, and hung it up.

Cullen was a short blonde woman with a medium-length bob with bangs. She shot up out of her chair. “How dare you—”

“No.” He punched a button on the phone so it was on speaker. “Marshal Kenwood.”

“Kage,” the US Marshal for the Northern District answered.

“I’m here with Sebreta Cullen, sir.”

“And is Prescott there?”

“I am, sir,” she answered, moving around to stand beside Cullen.

“And who’s taking over in the interim?”

“Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones, sir,” Kage replied smoothly, leaving me stunned and staring, gulping like a fish on dry land. “He’s the one with the commendation from the State Department and the Spanish consulate for the recovery of a cultural attaché’s children.”

“Oh yes, excellent,” he agreed quickly. “Sounds like you have it well in hand. Have the DOJ get the investigation done to find out if it’s criminal or merely gross negligence. Make sure she’s escorted from the building after Public Affairs meets with her and reminds her of the agreements she signed when she was hired.”

“Yessir.”

“Do you have a team at her home now?”

“I do, sir.”

“Excellent. I’ll expect a report in two hours.”

“Yessir.”

When he hung up, I looked back at Cullen and noticed she was shaking. She had to step aside as Prescott plugged into her computer a flash drive I knew from experience gave her immediate access to the desktop.

“What the hell is going on?” Cullen shrieked, and I noticed her peaches-and-cream complexion was steadily pinking with anger.

“Well, that’s what we’re going to find out,” Kage explained, scowling.

“I don’t understand. My record is impeccable with—”

“White middle-class kids,” Prescott interrupted, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “But with black kids, Asian, mixed, gay, bi, transgender—your record is for crap, Ms. Cullen.”

“I don’t—that’s not true,” she shouted, banging her hand on the desk. “I’m a Christian and—”

“You hypocritical piece of crap,” I snarled. “How could you—”

“I won’t stand for—”

“You will stand for it!” Kage roared, and holy crap, was he loud. I forgot sometimes, considering how good he was about keeping his tone modulated, that when he wanted to, he could bounce his voice off the walls. But it made sense. He was massive with muscle, his arms, shoulders, and chest built like a tank, so when he wanted to yell, Jesus Christ, he could. “No Christian I know treats a child—any child—with the willful disrespect, disinterest, and disdain you’ve shown.”

“I—”

He turned and pointed at two women and a man, all in suits, who stood just inside the office door. “These people are here to advise you of your rights, place you on administrative leave for the duration of the inquiry, and take your statement about the welfare of the children who are supposed to be cared for by the department you manage.”

“You cannot expect me to take care of the bad children like I do the good ones,” she told him, her voice rising a second time. “Many of those kids have serious mental issues, or they’re juvenile delinquents or—”

“They’re children,” Kage said, his voice so hollow and cold I could feel the chill. “It’s your job to protect them. You failed.”

“I can’t be expected to help the black boys, because they hate me, and those horrible kids who don’t know if they’re boys or girls, or the dirty little faggots—”

Prescott gasped, which snapped Cullen from her tirade, prompting her to cover her mouth with her hand.

Instantly I thought of Josue and Cabot and Drake, all young men, not children, but still in need of direction, guidance, and protection. A few years younger and they would have been treated to Sebreta Cullen’s icy indifference and possibly may have gotten as lost as Han and Wen. I was nauseated thinking about what could have happened to my boys—or even me—in a different time and place. I was gay and in the foster care system, but I never faced anything like Cullen. She looked into the hopeful, needy eyes of children turning to her for salvation and shelter, care and concern, and threw them away like garbage. The surge of disgust was visceral, and I had to breathe through my nose not to vomit.

Kage turned his head to the suits in the room, focusing on one woman who was clearly in charge. She got on her phone as another man strode forward, folder open while he wrote frantically.

“Done,” the woman on the phone said to Kage, looking up for only a moment before returning to her conversation. I saw her badge before she started closing the blinds in the office, Department of Justice easy to read above her name: Rhonda Taylor. She was tall—at least six two—a stunning woman with long blonde hair who looked more like a model than a DOJ lawyer.