Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“You blame yourself for the people Hartley killed when he escaped from prison because you put him in prison and not in a grave when you had the chance,” he said flatly. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” I admitted.

“I think we all take responsibility for things that aren’t logical.”

Yes. “Perhaps,” I allowed.

“Go home, Jones. You’ve got to be on a plane very early in the morning.”

“Yessir,” I said, turning and leaving his office.

Ian was in the hall, and when I got close, he grabbed my hand and tugged me after him to the elevators. Inside, he shoved me up against the wall and sucked on my tongue. He would have never done it in the elevator in the middle of the day—too many people to witness a PDA—but it was late on a Sunday night and we were alone.

He kissed me breathless, grabbing my ass, pulling me close, and my hands were on his face, holding him there, making sure he couldn’t pull away. When he finally had to break the kiss for air, he held me there pinned to the wall.

“Enjoy this,” I told him, “because when we get home, you’re gonna be the one doing what I want, how I want.”

I heard his sharp exhale, and his hooded eyes never left my face.

“Now let’s go get a cab. I don’t wanna wait for the El.”

He nodded. “We should just go to impound and pick a car,” he suggested.

My wince as we got off the elevator made him stop walking. “What’s with the look?”

“There’s a Cabriolet,” I offered cheerfully before I bolted toward the front doors and out onto the street to flag down a cab.

He jogged to catch up with me. “The fuck is that?”

From the expression on his face, I couldn’t even bear to tell him.

REALLY, I was in no way surprised when we got home and Delaney was there, waiting outside our door with several men in the same military trench coats like Ian had on.

When we got closer, two other men got out of the passenger and driver’s sides of one of the parked SUVs, and they were in dress coats as well.

I paid the cab driver, got out on the street, not waiting for Ian to get out first onto the curb, and hustled around the back of the car so I could stand at his side.

“What’s going on?” Ian asked from where we were.

“Marshals Doyle and Jones?”

“Yes,” he answered coolly to one of the men who had gotten out of the SUV.

“We’re going to need you to come with us, Doyle.”

“Then I’m going to need to see a lot of ID,” Ian parroted, because, well, Ian. He was a smartass of the first order.

One of the men came forward, and from his stride and the way he flipped open his badge, I figured he was in charge. “Special Agent Corbin Bukowski, Criminal Investigative Division.”

“What the hell is this?” Ian groused.

I was about to say something else when another car pulled up alongside the curb, and this time the guy who got out of the passenger side immediately went to the door behind him and opened it, then held it open for the gentleman who got out. He was dressed exactly as Ian was, except his beret was black. When he was close enough, Ian stood at attention and saluted.

“At ease, Captain,” the man said, and then turned toward me, walked forward, and offered me his hand. I took it quickly, and since I’d forgotten to put on my gloves, noted his handshake was warm and dry. “You must be Marshal Jones.”

“Yessir.”

His smile was kind, and I noted the lines on his face, the glint in his pale-blue eyes, the strong line of his jaw, and the long, straight nose. He looked like he should have been on recruitment posters.

“I’m Colonel Chandler Harney, CID, and I’m here to escort Captain Doyle and the rest of the patrol that served with Kerry Lochlyn to Washington, DC. We are investigating said individual.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“The deaths of Second Lieutenant Taylor Regan and First Lieutenant Edward Laird—who was, as you know, laid to rest earlier today—have officially been ruled homicides,” he concluded.

The ice that ran through my veins chilled me from the inside out.

“The Criminal Investigative Division is in charge of the inquiry until we can determine if the individual in question is a terrorist threat or a nonmilitary one.”

“Would it be possible to ask another question?”

“Of course.”

“You’re taking the whole team, including Marshal Doyle, to Washington, DC, right now?”

“I am.”

“And are you looking for Kerry Lochlyn, sir?”

“We are. Yes.”

“So you’re convinced that he’s murdering members of the patrol he was with the night that he had a breakdown.”

“We’re not convinced of anything, marshal. We’re merely gathering facts at this juncture,” he explained crisply. “As far as what happened on that patrol—that’s classified.” He looked sideways at Ian because clearly, he had no idea what had or hadn’t been explained to me. “These are two separate issues.”