The way I was hanging was bad: all my weight held only by my right hand, but that was why we practiced those damn dead lifts. Pulling myself up, I got a foot on the railing, pushed, twisted, let go of the ladder, and flung myself forward onto a slow-rising Roland. There was no air left in his body after I crashed on top of him, driving him facedown under me. It was loud and bracing, everything shook and rattled, and if I didn’t wake up the people in the apartment I faced as well as those directly below, I would have been surprised.
As if on cue, a light went on in the apartment and I had a shotgun pointed at my head through the glass.
“Federal marshal,” I yelled, both hands held high, chest heaving.
The man lifted his head, which was a good sign because it meant he wasn’t aiming anymore, not that he had to, as close as he was with the weapon in his possession. “Show me your badge.”
“I can have my partner bring it up,” I offered.
He squinted and then leaned close to the window and glanced down at the man unconscious under my knees. “That’s Roland Morris.”
“I just arrested him for drug possession,” I explained.
The man studied my face as I began shivering with cold and my quickly ebbing adrenaline.
“You have a broken wrist.”
And I did, but it was a strange time to notice. “Yes.”
“You carrying?”
“No sir.”
He scrutinized me a second before leaving suddenly.
When my phone rang a second later, I answered. “Hey,” I said before I coughed. “Everything all right up there?”
“The fuck should I know, I’m in the elevator!”
“Why’re you mad?”
“Why am I mad?” he yelled. “You jumped off a fucking building!”
“Ian—”
“What the fuck?!”
“C’mon, what’s the big deal? You jumped off a balcony the other day.”
“That was different and you were right behind me!” He was indignant and really loud.
“Technically—”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
He was furious, and I was starting to worry. Normally I could tease him out of any mood. “Ian, it’s—”
“Jesus Christ, Miro!”
“Listen, if I’d had my gun, I would have let you do the jumping.”
“I wouldn’t have done it!” he barked.
“The hell you say,” I retorted. “You would have done it in a heartbeat.”
“Fuck you, Miro. I’m not that reckless!”
I scoffed. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
The line went dead as a window opening caught my attention. Shotgun man was back, but this time he had the gun under his arm and he was holding out a blanket for me. He then flipped open a badge and I saw a Chicago PD shield.
I took the chenille throw and wrapped it around me in relief. “Miro Jones, US Marshal.”
“Henry Bridger, narcotics.”
“Oh,” I sighed, chuckling. “Can I interest you in a drug dealer, Detective, and all the paperwork that goes with it?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning at me. “You most certainly can.”
“I’ll go to the precinct with you.”
“Lemme get changed.”
“Okay.”
“Does your partner have your coat, too, or you wanna borrow one of mine?”
“He’ll bring it down with him.”
“Where the hell were you?”
I pointed up.
“I thought marshals only put people into protective custody or chased down fugitives.”
“Oh, no, Detective, we’re full service.”
“I’d have you come in, but—”
“He could wake up, I know,” I agreed, taking the Glock he passed me. “I carry a 20 loaded with 40 caliber, but this 34 is sweet.”
“The GTL 22 attachment is nice, right?”
I nodded, lifting it, testing the weight. “I should get a light for mine too.”
“You have to get a special holster, though.”
“True,” I said, a little unsteady as I stood up. “If my partner wants in….”
“I’ll buzz him up.”
“Thanks. What’s the number?”
“I’m in 801.”
Eighth-floor apartment. God, I really didn’t need my boss to get even a whiff of this. I could only imagine the comments from the others, from White and Sharpe—Sanchez’s replacement—Dorsey or Kowalski—all of them lived to give me crap. But worst of all would be the explanation: why, yessir, I did jump off a balcony. The idea was about as appealing as a tooth extraction.
“Jones!”
The yell came from the alley below.
Leaning over, I looked down at Deputy US Marshal Ian Doyle and waved.
“You fuck!”
I shushed him.
His shoulders fell and his head tipped as he glared up at me.
“801,” I called. “Come help me.”
He ran, tearing down the alley, and disappeared around the side of the building. I took a seat on the bench beside me and then checked on Morris to make sure he was still breathing. Minutes later, still shivering in the night air, I heard the one-man wrecking crew at the window.
“Hey,” I greeted my partner as he climbed out onto the fire escape.
“Ten fuckin’ years off my life,” he growled, squatting down in front of me, taking my face in his firm, callused hands.
“Not dead,” I confirmed.
He checked me over roughly, huffing out a breath as he turned my head right and left, finally lifting it before sliding his hands over my throat, chest, down my sides, and across my abdomen. “Anything hurt?”