Twisted and Tied (Marshals 4)

“Or I’m absolutely correct, and Kelson’s gonna try and kill me.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said and started taking off my blazer.

“No,” Eli croaked, his voice rough and brittle. “And definitely not before Ian gets to come out here and talk to you.”

“Agreed,” Becker said gruffly. “You stay here, I’ll get him.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Stigler rasped, worn thin.

“We’re making time,” Becker insisted before pushing through the press of men.

It took only moments for Ian to join us, and when he did, the stricken look on his face told me exactly how terrified he was.

“It’ll be all right,” I assured him, wanting to touch him but afraid if I did, I wouldn’t go. Leaving him to go to Hartley went against everything in me.

“No,” he protested. “I refuse to let you risk your life for—”

“Stop,” I whispered, handing him my jacket so I could be unarmed when I met Hartley.

“Miro,” he husked, taking the Glock from me, and the new holster he’d bought me for Christmas that was just like his, handmade leather with brass buckles.

“You’d do the same,” I ground out. “Just—I’ll be right back. He probably wants to have a chat, and it’s not like he can call.”

He took a quivering breath. “I don’t—I can’t—”

“I know,” I whispered as Kage joined us.

“The hell do you have my guy doing?” Kage thundered at Stigler.

She took a breath and retold the story quickly as I put back on my jacket.

“Everyone goes downstairs right now,” Kage demanded, turning on Becker. “I want SOG on standby now.”

He said “now” about eight more times before I was allowed on the elevator. Ian came with me, standing directly behind me, hands on my shoulders.

On the way down in the elevator, Stigler passed me a dime.

“What is—”

“You feel the weight?” I nodded as she took a deep breath. “It’s a tracker. He won’t be able to tell unless he holds it in his hand.”

“Okay.”

“He will not take you out of this area. We won’t let him. We have all the streets in a two-mile radius sealed off. Just get the boy and get out any way you can,” she stressed, grabbing hold of my shoulder. “We don’t want Hartley. We just want you and Max both in one piece.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she barely got out, forcing a smile.

I stepped away from Ian and watched him clench his jaw. “I’ll be right back.”

His eyes filled, but he did not shed a tear. “Hurry.”

The sidewalk was full of federal agents and CPD, and into that crowd came Kage and everyone from upstairs. When I saw Ching arrive, I turned to Kage, who gave me a nod. Turning fast, I bolted down the sidewalk.

It was a long, busy street—all the driveways that opened out onto the road, with the endless purge of cars, thick crowds, homeless people, stragglers from groups—a continual tide I had to dodge or, in a few cases, leap, even veer into the street to avoid, only to almost get hit before careening back onto the sidewalk and running on. I was in good shape—I ran with Ian every other day, did my cardio, lifted weights—but still, after twenty minutes of running all-out, I was tiring. Ian was the distance runner, his muscles compact, tight, lean, and sleek like a big cat. I was more bull, with what Ian called my massive shoulders and hard, heavy muscle. When I saw the van out of the corner of my eye, I was thankful. When it stopped ahead, double-parking beside another car so two others couldn’t pull out, I ran to catch up, certain that was where I was going.

It rolled forward half a car length into the crosswalk, and upon reaching it, I dived inside the open door as a young man with his hands tied behind his back and duct tape over his mouth was shoved out onto the hood of a parked Honda Civic.

I scrambled to sit up as the van lurched forward and saw—

Craig Hartley.

Immaculately put together as always. As usual he looked like he was styled for a magazine shoot, from the three-hundred-dollar haircut to the Carlos Santos brown wingtip boots. The Soho-fit herringbone navy wool suit was stunning on him, setting off his thick blond hair, styled in a side part that looked particularly good. Funny, his boots were the exact ones I’d been shopping for just weeks before. We had always shared a similar taste in footwear.

Even after how many times our paths had crossed over the years, it was still a surprise to see him. I always expected each time to be the last.

“Nice gun,” I commented, swallowing hard, tipping my head at the automatic rifle.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, smiling fondly. “I found that I needed more bullets than the Desert Eagle afforded me, and I’m not a terribly good shot, but with this,” he said, lifting the Heckler & Koch MP7A1 I’d taken off more than one would-be gangster, “I don’t have to be.”