Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

Two weeks ago, he started seeing the same faces wherever he went. It was “freaking him the fuck out”—that was actually in my report. He liked his life and wanted to keep it, but lately he was having doubts it was possible. He thought Alessi’s men had made the connection and were in town to talk to him. He’d called the marshals office back in New Orleans—the Eastern District of Louisiana, because those were the men he’d started with—explained what was going on and asked if someone could come check on him. Newly alerted to his location, the marshals’ office in Vegas had decided to bring him in, forcibly put him in WITSEC, and transfer him across the country. When they asked where the next available opening was, the database chugged out the Northern District Office of Illinois, our office. Kage received the transfer order and put me on a plane to take the rock star into custody. Hess was in danger, so we were responding.

Even though no one could say for certain if Hess was seeing things, the threat was considered credible since the case was ongoing.

“The band is breaking up,” Callahan explained to me out of the blue. “Tonight’s show at Aces and Eights is supposed to be their last.”

“That’s lucky.”

He shrugged. “We’ve been watching Hess for two weeks now, and it’s pretty easy to see that he’s the only one with any kind of talent or work ethic. The rest of his band doesn’t take their music very seriously.”

“So maybe he won’t be all torn up to leave them.”

“Maybe.”

“Aces and Eights is a club, then, or a bar?”

“It’s basically a dive bar, similar to Double Down, but it’s smaller and hasn’t been around half as long,” Redeker answered.

“I’m from Chicago,” I reminded him. “I have no idea what that place is.”

He snorted out a laugh. “Have you been here before?”

“Yeah, but only on the Strip.”

“Then you haven’t ever really been to Vegas.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Callahan grunted.

“What?” Redeker snapped.

“Just because you’re still drinkin’ till the wee small hours doesn’t mean the grownups do,” Callahan said, his tone snide. “Maybe taking in a show and having a good meal is Vegas for Jones.”

Redeker rolled his eyes, and I was left again feeling like I was in the middle of… if not a fight, something close.

“So Aces and Eights is on the Strip or not?” I asked Callahan.

“It’s east of the Strip over on Naples Road.”

I had no idea where that was, either, but they were there to take me.

We exited the terminal, got into an older-model Dodge Durango, and as he settled in on the passenger side, Redeker told me there was bottled water in the cooler behind my seat.

“You wanna eat?” Callahan asked.

“Yeah.”

“Is breakfast good?”

“Always.”

“Really hungry or only a little?”

“Starving,” I admitted, because I was almost nauseated. That was how ravenous I was.

“Hash House A Go Go it is.” Redeker yawned, rolling down his window and resting his elbow there before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Let’s go, Cal.”

“Maybe he’d like something more—”

“Just do what I said,” Redeker muttered, not opening his eyes.

“You’re hungover,” Callahan stated, and I heard the edge in his voice.

“And you care why?”

“I don’t care. You’re just supposed to take better care of yourself. You’re a grownup, after all, right? You’re not supposed to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Drink all fuckin’ night.”

Redeker grunted.

“How are you helping me if you can’t aim your gun?”

“I can shoot just fine, kid.”

Callahan growled.

Oh, this was fun. “So what do you guys work beyond the usual roundup stuff?” I asked, to stave off any further bickering.

“We mainly work the regular FIST Task Force,” Callahan answered, looking at his partner instead of the road. “We don’t normally do a lot of witness transfer anymore, but we just got a new boss and he likes to rotate everyone around.”

“We do that too,” I said, just to make conversation, pleased to see he started paying at least some attention to maneuvering out of the airport and getting on the freeway. “It’s all interagency with us, except in our own office. We don’t do undercover or stakeout unless we’re in charge.”

“We do a lot of crap with the DEA,” Redeker rumbled, shifting to get as comfortable in his seat as he could, considering the length of his legs. He had to be at least six three, with his younger partner about my five eleven. “But that’s to be expected, with all the fuckin’ drugs.”

I made a sound of agreement and settled in to watch the brown go by while trying Ian’s phone again. I’d called from home and O’Hare, I called when I took off and called when I landed before making my way down the concourse. It went to voice mail each time, and though I wasn’t surprised, it would have been nice to at least get a text with an update.