Twisted and Tied (Marshals 4)

“Taking into consideration those two factors—yeah,” I allowed.

“But with Custodial you’re talking about kids being hunted and killed if the person they’re testifying against gets ahold of them.”

“Right,” I obliged, “and that’s the part that the social worker riding along with me and Redeker has never seen in action.”

“Got it.”

I coughed softly. “You know, I’m doing pretty well today.”

“Why do you sound surprised? You’re great with kids,” he said, defending me.

I smiled into the phone. We argued all morning, back and forth, and then simple statements like that told me exactly what Ian’s true feelings were about my capabilities. He’d have me sighing like some schmuck in a rom-com if I wasn’t careful.

“I am good with kids, but I can see the difference between this being my job and what the commitment to being a parent is.”

“You’re beating a dead horse here, you know that.”

Perhaps, but I needed Ian to hear it, that I knew what I could truly do. “So off topic: guess who had homemade empanadas today?”

“What?”

I cackled.

“Empanadas?” he whined. They were one of his absolute favorites and hard to find—the ones he truly loved, not greasy, not super flaky, just the perfect in-between.

“I might have eaten a few.”

“And you, what, didn’t snag me one?”

“Didn’t wanna be a glutton,” I taunted.

“You know I was worried about you, you dick.”

He still was, but it was good to laugh, even though he hung up on me.

“I dunno if your relationship with your husband is all that healthy,” Redeker said after a few minutes of silence.

But it so very much was.

IT WAS after four when we made it upstairs to the bullpen. I was surprised by all the suits there, and Becker crossed the room to me with Adair and three others in tow. He excused Redeker, told him to check in with Ian on the other side of the room for his partner assignment, and then turned to me as the men clustered around.

“We’re in the conference room, Jones.”

I nodded, looked around him for Ian, who gestured me over to him.

“One sec, I’ll meet you in there,” I told him, brushing by the others to follow Redeker over to Ian.

“I’ll be right with you,” Ian said to Redeker as he took hold of my bicep and led me a few feet away. “You still doing all right?”

“I am. Like I said, it’s been busy but good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, we got some kids moved out of some bad situations, saw some others that were fine. All in all, for a first day, I’ll take it.” I grinned.

He smiled back, lifted his hand like he was going to touch my cheek, but remembered where he was and lowered it. “Mine’s been… different.”

I snorted.

“Hey,” he said, glaring. “I’m a billion times more patient than I thought I was.”

“Oh?”

“You have no idea.”

I took hold of the lapel of his suit jacket. “You’re coming to the conference room?”

“I will. I’ll be right there.”

I nodded and then turned to rejoin Becker and the others.

Kage was standing by the whiteboard at the front of the room when I walked in, and he pointed at a seat at the end of the table across from three empty places. When I sat and Adair tried to take the seat beside me, Kage told him to take the next one down. Two others tried, but Kage kept it open for Ian, who was the next to last one in the room. He moved quickly, crossing the room, moving the chair closer to me, bumping my knee with his as he sat. There were twenty people in the room when Becker held the door open for one last man, then came in and closed the door behind them.

“Everyone,” Kage began, “this is Andrew Ryerson, assistant director of the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch of the FBI.”

Ryerson moved to the front of the room beside Kage and stood there looking over all of us before he turned his attention on me. He was a handsome man, I was guessing midfifties, with traces of gray in his hair—less than Kage, who had lots of silver streaks in his hair now but somehow made that look good: fatherly, debonair, and classic. Ryerson had a thin, drawn, pinched face with no laugh lines. His suit was immaculate, it fit perfectly, and he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover, not in front of a room full of rumpled men who’d worked all day. Kage was the only one who looked just as good, though standing up there next to him, Ryerson looked almost fragile.

“Marshal Jones,” Ryerson addressed me.

“Sir.”

“I’m going to be frank with you, Jones, and skip all the jargon and the posturing because I’d like us to all get to the heart of the matter as quickly as possible,” he said, voice strained, clearly exhausted but still professional. “Is that acceptable?”