Chapter 17

 

OUR FLIGHT was at nine fifteen in the morning. I made sure everyone was up early to shower so we could grab breakfast. After dropping the car off, we walked through the terminal and stood in the line for law enforcement. Security checked our IDs, tickets, our warrants, and then our firearms. I only had one, Ian his two, and then we were on our way.

In the boarding area, I left to go to the bathroom, leaving Ian with the boys. When I was washing my hands, I caught a peek at myself in the mirror, and it startled me. I was smiling like a goof, and now I understood why everyone from the waitress at the Cracker Barrel to the ticket agent to the TSA agent had been so accommodating. They all thought I was lobotomized. I looked like I was drunk.

Ian.

It was all his fault. He was having a ridiculous effect on me, making me feel like I should whistle while I walked. God, what would I do if he ever said he loved me?

“Fuck,” I groaned, grabbing hold of the sink, almost clunking the face of the Rolex Daytona Catherine had given me last Christmas against the porcelain.

“You all right?”

Snapping my head up, I glanced into the mirror and saw a man in a three-piece suit standing behind me.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

Pivoting slowly, I faced him. “No, I’m good, thanks.”

He took a step sideways. Not closer, but not away either. It was a circling motion I wasn’t crazy about.

“I appreciate the concern.”

“Of course,” he said softly as a janitor walked into the bathroom pushing a supply cart and holding a Heckler & Koch P30 with a suppressor attached.

“Don’t move, Marshal.”

Fuck.

The first man took a step forward, and I grabbed the butt of my gun.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” the janitor said, lifting his weapon, two-handed, and holding it on me.

“You better shoot me,” I warned, not pulling my gun from the holster, but ready to. “Because I’m not giving up my gun.”

“Marshal.”

I turned from the man covering me, back to the man in the suit, who pulled a Beretta 92FS from a holster inside his suit jacket and aimed at me.

“I am Rahm Daoud,” he said. “And I only need to confirm something quickly, Marshal, and then I will be gone.”

“Those are not my orders,” the janitor snapped. “The plan is to kill one of the marshals and let the other live.”

Daoud was silent as he stalked slowly closer to him. “Yes, but as I advised your employer, killing policemen, marshals, FBI… brings trouble no one needs.”

“Leandro said that—”

Daoud’s action was a fast, scary coiled-snake striking movement. One second the janitor’s gun was trained on me, the next it was wrenched violently sideways before the janitor was forced to fire into his own chest.

I rushed forward but was brought up fast by the Beretta aimed at my face.

“Stay where you are, Marshal.”

Stilling, I watched as Daoud let the man sink to the floor before he released his hand, bending it gently across his chest. As he was wearing driving gloves, his prints would be nowhere on the murder weapon.

“This man worked for Leandro Olivera,” Daoud explained, his lip curling into a sly, sexy grin. Honestly, if he wasn’t about to kill me, I would have been a fan. He was stunning, with his dark flashing eyes, dimples, glossy black hair, and dark tanned skin. He looked like one of those hot Portuguese soccer players, and he moved with the same fluid grace.

“And who do you work for?” I asked, my eyes never leaving him.

“Lior Cardoso,” he answered, and the way the name rolled off his tongue sounded really pretty. “You know the name?”

“I do.”

“So you understand his interest in making sure the men who killed his nephew and then tried to cover it up were punished.”

“Sure.”

“But Leandro is a hothead. Thus we have this mess, instead of simply you and I having a quick conversation in the men’s room.”

I waited.

“And perhaps more.”

I scoffed. “I seem easy, do I?”

Daoud’s mischievous grin would have done things to my insides if a shyer, sweeter, more seldom-seen version from Ian didn’t already have me enslaved. “You look good.”

Flirting took the fear factor out of the equation. “What does Lior Cardoso want to know?”

He lowered the Beretta and replaced it in the holster under his coat. “The boy, Drake Ford. He will testify that Christopher Fisher was about to burn the body of Safiro Olivera?”

“Yes.”

“There is no question of identity?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said cheerfully, “then that is all I need, Marshal.”

“So, what?” I pried, taking a step toward him. “Cardoso was waiting to hear if it was true before he moves against Malloy?”

“He already moved on Malloy, as you very well know.”

I did, so I made the next intuitive leap. “Lior Cardoso has Orson Malloy.”

“Yes,” Daoud said, moving toward the door.

“But he was waiting to do whatever until he had confirmation.”

“Yes.”

“Did Fisher work for both Malloy and Cardoso?”

“Yes.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Deadly, actually, at least for Christopher Fisher,” Daoud said, putting more space between us.

“So can I expect that you’ll be paying Fisher a visit?”

“Perhaps,” he said huskily, edging away faster.

“Will we find any piece of Orson Malloy?”

“It’s doubtful.”

“And Drake Ford?”

“Drake Ford is in protective custody.”

“So is Christopher Fisher, and I know you know that,” I said, taking a step toward him.

“We have no problem with Drake Ford,” he informed me. “And soon Drake Ford will be able to get back to his life as we will kill every Malloy that wants him dead.”

“You—”

“I enjoyed meeting you, Miro Jones,” Daoud said silkily. “Let’s pretend we had an interlude and you wait the appropriate few minutes before emerging after I leave.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then I’m going to kill you.”

“You can try.”

He grunted. “So cocky. I truly wish we could have met under other circumstances. I think we would have got on well.”

“We still can, Daoud, just gimme your gun.”

“Sadly, like you, I cannot be parted from it.”

I watched his eyes, and the second I saw his gaze shift, I grabbed my gun.

He darted around the corner as I yelled out the order for him to freeze. Flying after him, reaching the entrance, I ran to the right far enough that the bullet he fired at me grazed my left bicep instead of embedding itself in my heart.

His expression, the begrudging respect paired with the head tip before he turned and ran, was infuriating.

He tore through the terminal, gun in hand, and I followed, arms and legs pumping, gaining ground, as we flew past the boarding area where Ian and the boys waited. I didn’t slow to say anything, knowing he would stay and protect them.

Airport security joined in the chase; they ordered us both to halt, which, of course, caused neither of us to slow even a little.

I was too close behind Daoud for him to stop, turn, and fire a second time, and shooting over his shoulder at me would slow his momentum. If he faltered even a little, I’d have him, and he knew it as well as I did. He screamed at people to get out of his way, and they made a hole that he and I charged through.

It was not a big airport, and when we ran past security, I yelled “Fire!” to get attention and held my gun up, which caused the expected eruption of shouting.

More people started to chase us as Daoud bolted through the automatic doors, and I was seconds behind him, running straight out into the middle of the street and almost getting hit by a car—screeching tires, blowing horns as people slammed on their brakes to miss us. I sprinted down the median after him before stopping suddenly and hitting the pavement as a barrage of bullets strafed the road.

I saw him get into the passenger seat of an SUV that tore away, but not before Daoud waved.

“Fuck!” I roared, getting to my knees, not missing the fact that there was no plate on the car.

Sirens, armed men and women all converged on me, and I was ordered to drop my weapon and put my hands behind my head.

Laying my gun down gently, I laced my fingers over the top of my head and waited. The first guy who reached me almost put his foot on my gun to kick it away from me.

“You touch the gun, and you’ll buy me a new one.”

He stopped—they all stopped—and then someone noticed the badge on my belt.

“Oh fuck.”

My sentiment as well.

Fifteen minutes later, I was talking to the head of airport security and individuals from the sheriff’s department, and getting my arm bandaged up by two EMTs.

“How long’s it been since you had tetanus booster, Marshal?”

“Like a month ago,” I informed her.

“Get shot a lot, do you?”

“Pretty much,” I said, wincing as she cleaned the wound.

“Miro!”

I groaned, leaning around her to see Ian charging through the terminal, Drake and Cabot in tow. From the bellow I’d been treated to, the hard set of his jaw, and the tight bunch of his fists, I got the idea I was in trouble.

Pushing through bystanders, he reached me and dropped down to one knee beside the bench I was sitting on. “What the fuck?”

“There was a hit man for the Nava Cartel in the bathroom.”

“What?”

“I—”

“There’s a dead man in there now,” someone chimed in.

His eyes flicked to my arm. “Jesus.”

“It’s a graze.”

“It’s on the same side with your heart.”

I grimaced.

“Again!”

“Yeah, but—”

“Miro!”

“I got a name,” I said quickly, hoping to get him to change the subject.

“You got whose name? The hit man’s?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

What was I supposed to say? “He was kinda flirty.”

“Flirty,” he repeated flatly, and I watched, utterly riveted, as his eyes went from their normal pale icy blue to deep, dark cobalt.

“Wow,” I said, grinning without meaning to. “You have it kinda bad, you know?”

His eyes narrowed to slits.

Crap.

He moved to get up, but I took hold of his wrist and held tight. “Don’t leave me.”

“Oh, I won’t leave you until I kill you,” he promised, smirking. “Now I’m gonna call your boss. I hope you live.”

That wasn’t nice.

 

 

BECAUSE IT was my day, Kage was flying into the Tri-Cities airport to rendezvous and fly back to Chicago with us. We had, of course, missed our plane, and with the latest development, he wanted to be on site. He would have been leaving Arlington today anyway, but now he was backtracking to help us transport our witnesses home because I was, technically, out of commission. Even though I told him I was fine, he was coming because he, too, wanted to hear what I had to say to the sheriff’s department, FBI, Homeland Security, and airport security. Press swarmed everywhere, and law enforcement sequestered us in the lounge, since no one was supposed to see our witnesses.

Ian alternated being on his phone with working on his computer while Cabot and Drake watched television until Cabot fell asleep on his boyfriend.

“So it sounded like, from what you said,” Drake began when I crossed the room to check on him, “that the cartel people don’t want to hurt me.”

“Yep,” I sighed. “That was my understanding as well.”

“How come, do you think?”

“I think if you hadn’t seen Safiro Olivera that night, he would have been burned up and no one would have ever known what happened to him.”

“So now his family knows what really happened to him.”

“And that way they can grieve.”

“Well, good, that’s important.”

We were quiet a moment as I studied him. He had such a good face, strong and kind. “So your life will probably go back to normal faster than you think. Maybe you and Cabot can go back to Bowman and—”

“No sir,” he said implacably. “Cabot and me, we’re going to start our life together far away from all that.”

“You’re really young, Drake. You realize that this—you and Cabot—might not end in a fairy tale. You might not last.”

He thought a moment, his gaze surfing the room before landing back on me. “Maybe. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know we’re really young, both of us just turned eighteen, and it’s not gonna be easy. We’re gonna have to go to school, and even though school will be taken care of, we hafta eat, right?”

“Yes.”

“And Cabot, I mean, he’s never worked a day in his life. He doesn’t know about anything, so that part’s kinda scary.”

“Sure.”

“But I love him like crazy, you know? And when you love someone like crazy, should you stand around being scared that something might not work out, or do you do something about it and take a chance?”

He was right. And because he was so young, he could look at his situation and see it for what it really was—time to take a leap of faith. I had to do the same.

Leaning forward, I patted his knee. “You’re right. Just do the best you can.”

His face lit up. “Thank you, Miro.”

I got up and walked over to Ian, who was back on his phone. When I was close enough, I overheard him say “Emma,” and so I hesitated.

“No,” he sighed, raking his fingers through his hair before he turned around to look for me. I could tell because his gaze swept the room, and then he tensed before he noticed I was right there.

I saw him take a quick breath and settle, and it hit me, like I’d been shot. He needed me to ground him, to tether him, so he didn’t float away. I would do the best job of it ever once we got home. We had to talk on the plane. There was so much to say.

“I can’t,” Ian said gruffly into his phone. “It looks like I’m gonna be tied up for the foreseeable future.”

And he was. With me.