Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“We might be a bit screwed here,” Morgan confessed under his breath.

“Follow my lead,” I ordered as I straightened.

“Freeze!” The guy in the Trans Am came out with a gun, yelling at me and Morgan. Clearly Sandell’s backup had arrived.

Lifting my head, I saw Sandell leaning on the car, trying to catch his breath while two SUVs emptied. Using their vehicles as barricades, they drew down on us.

“Federal marshals,” I roared in response, including Morgan, pulling my gun and aiming it at Sandell, letting all his men know, in case they didn’t, that they were messing with people above their pay grade. A lot of corrupt cops never let their underlings in on who they were actually shooting at. I was hoping the shock factor would work in our favor. “You need to drop your weapons and get on the ground!”

Doing as I asked and backing me up, Morgan had already pulled his Glock and aimed it at the dirty DEA agent we’d been trailing. It was impressive, really, that he was standing with me. It was his clusterfuck to begin with, but still, the man had some big-ass balls. Surrounded, outmanned, outgunned, he refused to back down and hadn’t left me hanging. Hopefully we’d both live long enough so I could return the favor.

“You need to stand down, marshal,” Sandell roared, having pulled his gun to join all the others.

“It’s you who needs to stand the fuck down,” Morgan retorted. The boom of his voice must have startled Sandell because his trigger finger was shaking. Morgan’s, on the other hand, held steady. He reminded me a lot of Ian—he was a rock under pressure as well—and at the moment, that was so very comforting.

No one moved. It was like time held its breath, but after several long moments, I glanced at Sandell and saw his smirk.

“You’re making career-altering decisions here, gentlemen,” Sandell insisted, and I realized fast there would be no time for us to be screwed over, demoted, or whatever else because he was going to murder us right there in the street and take any evidence off us and no one but his team would be the wiser.

“On the ground, all of you!” Morgan insisted, not backing down an iota. We were in the right, and it appeared that no matter what the consequence, he would follow through.

I felt like I should have been scared, but I was more worried about Morgan.

“They’re dirty cops! Take them down!” Sandell shouted. “I’ve got the evidence right—”

I tensed for a bullet’s impact, but a foghorn siren blast caught everyone’s attention at the same time. It was not the normal one from a police car, but instead came as a low brrp-brrp from a massive black ARV with a golden eagle emblem on its sides and windows so black they ate the light. After rolling to a shuddering stop, the ARV’s back doors exploded and a SWAT team deployed in a solid stream of enormous, angry-looking men. Even as happy as I was to be rescued, something about the men in full-body armor pointing their automatic weapons in my direction was disquieting.

“Drop your weapons and get down,” barked a mountain with lieutenant bars on his black vest. “Now.”

It was funny how fast a SWAT team could make a dirty cop and his crew toss aside their guns and kiss the asphalt. No one on the ground moved or even breathed. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go facedown, and from the looks of it, neither was Morgan. He simply holstered his gun, put his hands on his hips, and sighed with clear disgust.

The SWAT team moved in to take custody, everyone except for the lieutenant. He approached and the team parted like the sea did for Moses. There was no question of moving. His rank was in every rippling muscle, the swagger of his walk, and simply the sheer size of him. His shoulders alone were enough to get me to back down from a challenge.

After reaching us, he took off his helmet and aviators, then flashed me an improbable grin before he put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

“So,” the lieutenant said with a snort of warm laughter. “You called for backup.”

I was reeling. We’d just been saved by the Terminator, who was very obviously giving Morgan shit. What the hell was going on?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan groused, gesturing around at all the armor-clad men. “I called for backup, not the Mongol horde.”

“We were the closest to your twenty, and hell, you nearly gave dispatch a heart attack with you needing help,” the lieutenant said with an eyebrow waggle. “You never call for backup; they thought there was a riot.”

Morgan shook his head, seemingly annoyed even with what I thought to be a reasonable explanation. I’d have seen it then, even if I’d missed the similar black hair, shorter but the same jet color, and the sinful glint in the deep-blue eyes, and the name Morgan stitched on the TAC vest.