Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“On your knees!” I roared, hearing gunfire around me as well as Ian’s familiar shout of “federal marshals” before the pop-pop-pop of what had to be his gun.

The men were exchanging nervous glances, deciding what to do, so to help that along, I moved closer, twisting my body just enough so I was sure they could see the star on my belt.

“Federal marshal, get on your knees,” I snarled. “Hands on your head!”

Ian had the stare—the scary military one that made people understand he’d seen worse and done worse and they wouldn’t live too much longer if they didn’t comply with whatever order he was giving at the time. I didn’t have that stare, but what I did have was my hard, muscular physique, and I could make myself look pretty damn intimidating. Me there with the gun in a small space, my weapon already drawn and none of them even having their hands close to their holsters became the deciding factor.

All three went to their knees as the door flew open behind them, and Ian came through, gun out, blood spray on his shirt and face and in his hair.

“Clear,” he reported even as he saw the girl.

“You got them?” I asked, moving slowly to the side of the bed.

“I do,” he responded woodenly, and I saw how scrunched up his face was, how pained. He put them on their stomachs and pulled guns off all three.

“Make sure the two I hit are down,” I ordered, not wanting them to get up and shoot at me, Ian, or the girl.

He darted over, checked for a pulse on each, and then shook his head. “They’re both gone.”

“Okay,” I sighed, resigned to what I’d had to do.

Moving to the bed, I holstered my gun and tore off my long-sleeved shirt, covered her, then unbuckled her wrists and ankles. Scrambling to get up, she clutched at me, threw her arms around my neck, and plastered herself to my T-shirt–covered chest, trembling. I felt her intake of breath, and then came the high-pitched howl of a terrified, wounded animal.

“Fuckers,” Ian swore, his voice dangerously low.

“Police!” I caught from somewhere in the house before I heard Segundo identify himself from the stairs. Then the sound of thunder, of several boots climbing before I was looking at SWAT, automatic rifles pointed at us.

“Federal marshals,” Ian said, explaining who we were, raising his ID and letting them see the star on his belt.

In that moment, I realized that was why Oscar had trusted me, why his sister would not let me go: the star. Sometimes it was nice to be reminded about the badge you wore and why being one of the good guys was so very important.

HER NAME was Sofia Guzman, and her little brother, Oscar, lost his mind when I carried her out of the building. He let out a shriek that startled everyone, crying in that way little kids did where they ended up almost heaving out sobs. I sat with them in the back of the ambulance, my arm around Sofia and Oscar holding my hand.

The EMT was a very pretty woman—Collins Bryson, long bouncy ponytail, enormous robin’s-egg blue eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose—who spoke gorgeous flowing Spanish. She asked Sofia question after question, always nodding, always soothing with her tone as she checked the scared girl over.

“She wasn’t raped,” she said gently to me, not raising her voice. “That was supposed to happen next.”

I took a shaky breath and squeezed Sofia’s shoulders.

“They were going to film that,” Bryson said with a cough, her voice trying to even out. “They filmed her naked. You should alert the others.”

But I couldn’t leave the kids, so I yelled for Segundo, who was standing with Hewitt and a couple of police officers. Ian, on the other hand, was talking to the SWAT commander, two other officers in plainclothes, I was guessing a police sergeant, and several others. He was the epicenter of the storm, and as I watched, he handed over the gun he’d used to one of the policemen, dropping it into an evidence bag along with one unused mag. He’d reloaded at some point. That was disconcerting because that meant there had to be, at a minimum, fifteen more than likely dead men in the house.

“Whose shirt is this?” Bryson asked, drawing my focus to her.

“It’s mine.”

She nodded. “I figured.”

“I tried to look for her clothes, but she just wanted out.”

“She’ll never put on those clothes again, marshal. The shirt is good.”

Sofia was, in fact, holding the collar over her nose, so I guessed whatever trace of my cologne was on the shirt smelled better than whatever else she had been forced to endure. Oscar shivered and burrowed into my side.

“They both have to be transported to the hospital, marshal,” she pronounced. “Are you riding with them?”