“We’ve had eyes on you since Hartley escaped.”

Uh-huh.

“Even your run-in with a mugger earlier today was witnessed.”

I was quiet. So nice of them to step in and make me feel safe. What were they going to do, watch as the madman put a bullet in my back? Chickie was better backup than the Feds.

“We followed his trail as far as Maine, but he crossed into Canada and his track went cold in Quebec. We have agents coordinating with the RCMP there, but as of right now, we don’t know where he is.”

I nodded.

“Jones.”

Turning, I gave Rohl my attention.

“Do you remember me from our trip out to Elgin?”

“Yes.”

She smiled faintly. “Well, it’s no secret that Hartley still has quite a following and many people willing to hide him and house him and do whatever’s necessary to aid him in his flight from justice.”

“Of course,” I replied woodenly, focusing on my breathing, in and out, trying to keep it regular so I didn’t hyperventilate.

“But even with those resources, we don’t think he’s stupid enough to return to the country. We can say with quite a bit of certainty that he’ll leave Canada and go abroad, probably to France, as he has many friends there and speaks the language fluently.”

I would have laughed if I could have made the sound. Jesus, how stupid were they? The man was an egomaniac. There was no way in hell he’d ever leave Chicago. It was his city, he’d terrorized it, he’d been news, people still brought up his name in fear if a friend started dating a guy who seemed too good to be true.

“Maybe he’s Prince Charming?”

People still whispered it and scared themselves and then checked Google to make sure Hartley was still incarcerated.

It was scary, I knew Hartley so well. He’d never leave his people, and he would never, ever leave without dealing with me.

“Marshal?”

My gaze met Agent Rohl’s. “Yeah, he won’t do that.”

She frowned at me. “He won’t do what?”

“Leave.”

“You don’t—”

“He’s going to do whatever in Canada, clean up, get his money situation straightened out, and then he’ll send people after his sister and me or come himself,” I choked out. “He’s not gonna let it go, let us go. He’s much too thorough.”

Everyone was silent.

“How did he get out?” Ian asked.

Oliver sighed. “He had a ruptured appendix and was transported to the hospital to have the surgery, but—”

“He didn’t actually have an appendix since he’d had that out years ago,” I finished for him, chuckling under my breath. “Damn, that’s impressive.”

“How did you know he had his appendix out?” Wojno asked, his tone sharper than it needed to be.

“We talked about it,” I told him, meeting his gaze only briefly. “We talked about a lot of things when I went to see him. He had it out when he was twelve, and he was pleased that his father had insisted that a plastic surgeon be on call so that there was no scar. He’d always been sympathetic that there wasn’t one on call for me the night he put that chef knife into me, more sorry about the scar than his actions.”

“Well, it was missed in his records,” Rohl informed me. “When they were prepping him for surgery, apparently the guard stepped out, thinking Hartley was already under, but the anesthesiologist was an old college friend of Hartley’s, and she helped him subdue a nurse, get out of the handcuffs, and then kill the officer guarding him.”

“Is she still alive? His friend?”

“No,” Rohl answered. “They found her in the parking lot at the hospital. The official cause of death was an overdose of morphine.”

“At least she didn’t suffer,” I said sadly. “Damn nice of him.”

Ian took a breath and turned to Kage. “What’s the plan?”

Kage moved over to the edge of the table, close to Ian and me. “You two are going on loan to a task force out in Phoenix until the Marshals Service and the FBI deem it safe for you to return here to Chicago.”

Of course. Because there was a madman on the loose, I had to suffer. Again.

“Both?” Oliver asked. “Why would you send—”

“Because Doyle is his partner,” Kage explained curtly, and I watched as Oliver recoiled from the hard, brittle tone of my boss’s voice. I was always surprised when anyone talked back to him. He was so big, so imposing, and whether it was his sheer size or how cold his stare got, I couldn’t say, but people knew on some primal level that tangling with Kage would be bad. I had told the others on my team that I was sure it had been a factor in all his promotions: he just looked like how you’d imagine a chief deputy would—plain old mean.

“I in no way mean to imply that I would question your decision, Chief Deputy Kage, but—”

Tags: Mary Calmes Marshals Crime
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