Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

Kowalski and Becker lifted me to my feet, and Kohn helped me around the couch until I could reach Ian. Putting my hand on his shoulder, I hobbled over to the kitchen table and took a seat on one end of the bench. It was a picnic-style setup, so we never had to go hunting for chairs.

The food was good. Everything Aruna ever made was. The loaded shepherd’s pie—apparently Liam’s mom gave hers a little kick—grape, avocado, and arugula salad; homemade yeast rolls with cinnamon butter; and chocolate peanut butter brownies for dessert because Aruna knew they were Ian’s favorite. Watching her hug him was particularly endearing.

The meal took a couple of hours, and when everyone else was gone and it was only us marshals left, the ten of us, sitting around having beer, Kohn started again.

“I think the rib cage is symbolic.”

“It protects your chest, your heart,” Dorsey chimed in. “So by Hartley taking Wojno’s rib cage, he was taking what was supposed to guard his heart.”

“And that’s why he took your rib,” Ryan agreed. “It was supposed to be the start.”

We were all silent.

“Wojno deserved what he got,” Kowalski told us. “Just because Miro got away from that fuckin’ psychopath doesn’t let him off the hook.”

“Agreed,” Ching said quietly, meeting my gaze. “He would have let it be you instead of him. You can’t forgive that simply because Hartley took out losing you on him.”

“I don’t give a fuck what happened to Wojno,” Sharpe announced, getting up to walk into my kitchen to grab himself another beer. “He was dirty, and when you’re dirty you get what you get. But the report says he was sliced up his back and the rib cage was cut out of him and that it was done—at least for a few seconds—when he was alive.”

No one said a word.

“For that—I’m putting a bullet in that guy’s head myself,” Sharpe growled.

“I just want him caught, one way or another,” Ian said. “I don’t want Miro to keep looking over his shoulder.”

“Yeah,” Ching agreed. “One way or another.”

THEY STAYED late—it was Friday night—drinking beer, talking, watching ESPN, and telling us what had gone on while we were vacationing in Phoenix.

“Fuck you all,” I groused.

“It’s like this giant glass terrarium that they work in,” Ian was explaining later as I was chuckling beside him. “I mean, seriously, it’s still in the nineties there, and it’s fuckin’ October.”

“You didn’t have to go,” Kohn mentioned.

Ian flipped him off.

“When do you need to sit with the Feds and talk about Wojno?” Dorsey wanted to know.

“Monday,” I sighed. “They’re coming to the office to talk to me.”

Everyone was quiet after that.

Once we had the house to ourselves, Ian took some Cokes and sandwiches out to the cops in the patrol car sitting on our curb. Until Hartley was caught, they’d be there night and day. It was a shitty gig, and I really hoped he’d show himself soon, because if he was still at large in January, we’d have to let the cops camp out in our living room. It would be way too cold to be guarding the house in the middle of winter in Chicago. No car heater could run that long.

I was turning off the big lights and flipping on the ones we left on at night when I heard Ian come in behind me.

“You’re supposed to be using the crutches.”

Looking over my shoulder at him, I watched as he closed and locked the front door—we used a key and turned the deadbolt when we went in or out—before darting over to me.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“So why aren’t you using them?”

“I’m contemplating the stairs.”

He chuckled. “Oh yeah?”

I grabbed hold of the bannister on the left, since on the right there was only the wall, looked him up and down, leering, and then took a breath. “Yeah… contemplating.”

He swallowed hard, and his voice came out like dried leaves. “What’s with you?”

“You. You’re with me.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I wanna get laid.”

His smile crinkled the lines around his eyes. “I don’t think you can do that with your surgery and—”

“Yes, I can,” I assured him, bracing my arm and leaning so it would take my weight as I hopped.

“Don’t do that,” he ordered. “You’ll tear your stitches.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, but I do,” he rumbled, pushing by and stopping in front of me before kneeling, presenting me with his broad back.

It took me a second. “Oh, fuck no.”

He didn’t even try and hide the snickering. “Come on, M, lemme help you.”

“Just move,” I grumbled, trying to push him out of the way with my knee. “Kage won’t let me out on the street with you if he thinks I can’t—”

“Now,” he demanded, “or it’ll get really embarrassing for you.”

“Meaning?”

“I can caveman carry you up, if you’re into that.”

“With my rib out and all?” I called his bluff.