Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“Oh, no,” Ian groaned. “No-no-no.”

“I’m fine,” I soothed him. “I’m gonna need to go to the hospital. Can you come here and pick up my truck?”

“Your truck?” Kohn was incredulous. “Who cares about your fuckin’ truck? Are you gonna die?”

“Jesus, Kohn,” I grumbled. He wasn’t helping in the least.

“Miro!” Ian shouted.

“No, come on, I promise it’s not like that. I’m not gonna die. I have a bullet in my arm is all, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re gonna make Ian pass out, you fuckhead,” Kohn insisted.

I wanted to use an endearment, tell him I loved him, tell him not to worry, but Kohn was there too, and then I heard Dorsey ask what was going on. “Ian, come see me.”

“I—”

“Have Kohn drive you.”

“What? Fuck no!”

“Ian,” I gentled him, suddenly a little light-headed, realizing blood was dripping down the fingers of my left hand. I was maybe bleeding a bit more than I thought. “Let Kohn drive so you get here in one piece. You’re gonna have to drive my truck, so it makes no sense to bring another car, right?”

“I—yeah—yeah, okay.”

“You need to hurry,” I said as I lay on the bed. “I want you here before the ambulance, before they move me.”

“Have you even called an ambulance yet?” Kohn asked.

“Actually, no, and I need you to call the bureau—unless Kage wants you guys to come collect Hartley. Go ask him and let me know. I’ll wait.”

“You will not wait. We’ll take care of the FBI, you hang up and call the ambulance, you stupid fuck!” Kohn flared angrily. “We’re on our way.”

The line went dead and I knew Kohn had hung up on me. Ian wouldn’t have. I called for help and stayed there, lying down and guarding the closed door as I spoke to the 911 operator. There were no windows in the closet; this wasn’t a horror movie where I’d barricade the door, leave it, and come back to find it open and the murderer escaped. The reality was, if he opened the door, I’d shoot him in the head. With all the lights on, I wouldn’t miss.

AS I predicted, the FBI, as well as the ambulance, were there before Ian and Kohn. Sadly, the older couple who owned the house had been killed and left in the basement, but that had happened a full twenty-four hours before Hartley went out and kidnapped Emerson and Saxon Rice. I was told by the FBI agents on site that Emerson’s husband was going to make a full recovery. The bullet that Hartley put in him had missed everything vital. I was so glad Hartley hadn’t ruined another family.

Sitting up in bed in the emergency room at Advocate Lutheran, I was thrilled to see Ian walk by me down the hall.

“Hey!” I called after him.

Kohn was a few feet behind him, so he heard me first and whistled for Ian. As soon as Ian appeared in the doorway, he exhaled sharply. What was interesting was that even though Kohn came into the room, Ian didn’t move.

“Come here,” I coaxed softly, seductively. “I wanna see you.”

He moved fast, one moment at the door, the next beside the bed, slipping his hand into mine, the other cupping my cheek.

“Guess what, I was wrong,” I teased, waggling my eyebrows at him. “Both bullets only grazed me.”

“Both bullets?”

“Yeah, isn’t that lucky?”

“Oh yeah, that’s great, that’s so much better.”

“What? Nothing to dig out? That’s not good? Come on. All you do is put some Neosporin on both of ’em and a Band-Aid and call it a day.”

“I think I wanna strangle you to death,” Kohn assured me.

“How the hell did Hartley get his hands on you again?” Ian erupted.

“Wait—”

“Are you kidding?” he roared louder, stalking a few feet away before rounding on me. “We’re gonna have to get you a panic button. Jesus Christ, M!”

“Stop yelling,” Kage said as he breezed into the room.

For a second I was speechless, because in all the years I’d worked for the man—including when he came out to collect Ian and me from the middle of the countryside—I’d never seen him in anything but a suit and tie. But it was Saturday, now about eight at night, and he was in black jeans and biker boots, a crew neck white T-shirt with a charcoal button-up, and a pale gray cable-knit sweater with button neck over that. I had noticed how big he was before, but in something that clung to his broad shoulders and massive chest, the effect was a little disconcerting. He could break me in half, and I was not a small guy.

Crossing his arms made the size of his biceps readily apparent. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

So I explained as Ian fumed beside me and the hospital staff came in and took care of me, doing exactly what I suspected would happen: cleaning my abrasions, applying salve, and bandaging me up. When the nurse was explaining wound care, Ian interrupted her and promised that he knew what to do.