Redeker looked at me, horrified, releasing his breath in a rush. “I thought you were kidding about that.”
“Nope.”
“Did you say a Gremlin,” Callahan asked, the concern flooding his face, looking a bit stunned. “Is that even safe?”
Ian shrugged. “I dunno, but I wouldn’t wanna test it.”
Redeker bolted for the elevator as Callahan followed Ian like he was in a fog. The horror of the truly frightening automobile—been there.
I SPENT some time that morning doing follow-up calls and checking on the placements made the day before. Eli called right about noon and asked if I wanted to get lunch, and when I asked where Ian was, he said he was stuck in his office with DEA agent Corbin Stafford. Apparently they were working out things to do with Lorcan and a joint task force, so maybe a better working relationship was on the horizon. Maybe. I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Perhaps, though, with Ian at the helm, there could be new inroads made with the DEA. But it wasn’t anything I would ever be working with him on, and acknowledging that was bittersweet because, yes, Ian and I were still together, still both marshals, but we were separated. I’d decided I was content to be in Custodial—it was the better fit for me—but not having Ian at work was new, and I felt the pang of being without him. It wasn’t logical; it simply was. It would take some time to get used to.
I was about to make the turn from the bullpen to head to my office when Becker stopped me. When I turned to him, he pointed at the elevators, which dinged almost as if on cue.
“Oh, what the hell,” I said under my breath as I saw a woman getting off the car with six other men in trench coats.
The woman stopped in front of me as Eli sidled up on my right. She opened her credentials so I could see the FBI badge, and her expression was grim and resigned at the same time.
“What happened?” I groaned, terrified of what the answer would be and knowing instinctively her being there had something to do with Hartley.
The agents with her came in close, circling us so it was only me and Eli and Becker together, no one else allowed.
“I’m Christina Stigler from the Office of Partner Engagement, and I flew out here from Langley to speak to you, Marshal Doyle, on Monday, as I’ll be working with you going forward to coordinate—and I have no idea why I’m giving you this background, because none of that matters right now.” She sighed, and I saw how tired she looked. “What’s important at the moment is that Kol Kelson just explained two hours ago that he has a bomb inside of him that could go off at any time.”
I shook my head. “So they called the bomb squad and had him checked for radiation, and let me guess: he beeped.”
“He did.”
“So they transported him where?”
“They were on their way to—”
“And they were forced off the road.”
“Yes,” she said, sounding like she was a hundred instead of in her midforties like she looked.
“You realize that by now you guys should have Hartley’s MO down, right?”
“Agreed.” The pained tone did not recede.
“How many times has he done this?”
“It’s easy to see in hindsight, not when he’s doing it.”
I nodded. “And there’s more.”
“Yes.”
Eli’s hand on my shoulder was more than comforting. It kept me grounded in the here and now instead of letting me go tripping into scary, dark places where nightmares lived.
“My boss, Director Ryerson, was informed today that though his wife was saved and taken into protective custody yesterday, his son, going to school here at Northwestern, was not.”
I took a breath, willing myself to stay calm.
“No,” Becker said sharply.
Her eyes scrunched up, and I saw the pain etched on her face. “It’s not your call, Marshal. That belongs to Marshal Jones.”
“The hell it does,” he assured her. “Marshal Jones is—”
“Stop,” I ordered. “Where is Hartley?”
“We have no idea,” she said, and I heard the tremble in her voice. People got that way where Hartley was concerned. Everyone had to stay constantly vigilant, and being on guard all the time was hard to maintain. “You’re just supposed to go out the front door of this building and run as fast as you can straight down the sidewalk, and apparently it will become clear.”
“But you don’t know if this is Hartley or Kelson.”
“What?”
“None of this is how Hartley normally operates. I could be running to Kelson and not Hartley,” I clarified.
“Well, yes, I—yes.”
“And someone, either Hartley or Kelson, has Ryerson’s son?”
“Someone does,” she agreed. “We have proof of life.”
“None of this sounds like Hartley,” I told her. “He doesn’t do this.”
“Or hasn’t before,” she cautioned. “Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think you do, Marshal.”