Chapter 8

 

SOMETIMES YOU went looking for one thing and found another. For instance, while my partner—the man I was secretly pining for—was away on a mission for the US Army, one of the many things I’d been doing was fugitive transport with my fellow marshals. That Tuesday, six weeks later, I was trailing after Mike Ryan and Jack Dorsey as they, with a whole contingent of state and local police, took Casey Dunn out to Northbrook where his body-dump site was.

Dunn was a cleaner for a Ukrainian arms dealer, took care of all the man’s enemies and put them in the ground under an auto salvage yard. As a stipulation of the agreement before he went into witness protection for rolling on his boss, he had to show the authorities where all the bodies were. They weren’t just interested in the body that Dunn’s brother, who testified against him, had seen him bury the night he followed him from their family home in Schaumburg. They needed a lot of murders to pin on Ivan Tesler; nothing in single digits would do. The thing was, when we arrived at what Dunn said was the second to last of the graves, all of a sudden he started screaming.

“I don’t kill women!” he shouted, and the way he moved, quickly behind me, shivering hard like his skin was crawling with ants, I got the idea that he was seriously freaked out. He had not been expecting to find the lady there.

It took three days after that to clear Dunn, and during that time, they examined the body as well, discovering startling similarities to other crimes committed by a known assailant. The problem was twofold. First, crimes—as in plural, and that was never good. Second, the problem with adding the newest kill to the list of victims of Craig Hartley was that the man himself was locked up and had been for the past four years. The thought process was predictable; there were three possible scenarios: Hartley had a partner, there was a copycat, or he himself was communicating with someone on the outside.

It was not my job to do any of that detective work. But since I was the only one this particular serial killer would speak to, I was on loan to the FBI and met them out at the Elgin Mental Health Center.

I met Special Agents Eric Thompson and Debra Rohl there, along with the local team of agents I already knew headed up by a man I had been working really hard not to see—Cillian Wojno. It was what came of sleeping around. Every now and then, you found yourself in uncomfortable situations with people you used to bang.

We did our best to ignore each other; we didn’t shake hands, just managed the head tip of acknowledgement before he followed the others into the interrogation room and I waited on the other side of the two-way mirror. They wanted to see if Hartley would speak to the new team without me, as it would make their job far easier. I hoped he would, but I wasn’t optimistic. I was, after all, the one who’d saved his life even though he’d shoved a very expensive chef’s knife into my side. The only reason I’d lived was that the tip had slid off one of my ribs on the way in and slowed the entry. I had nearly bled out in his kitchen, but even then had the presence of mind to stay in front of him so my Chicago PD ex-partner Norris Cochran didn’t have a shot. I’d wanted Hartley to pay for what he did to all the women and their families, not die from a gunshot wound to the head.

It was a whole big procedure of manacles and leg shackles when Hartley was finally brought in. It would have been considered overkill, but between his genius IQ, superior strength, and the fact he had been one of the top cardiothoracic surgeons in the country five years prior, they weren’t taking any chances. As always, I watched as the people in the room reacted to him.

He didn’t look like a monster. In fact, at six two, with a golden tan that was his natural skin color, a carved physique, and bright green eyes, you first thought boy next door, not cold and calculating serial killer. That had been everyone’s mistake, and nineteen women had paid with their lives.

As he took a seat, he scanned the room, eyes flicking over everyone before they settled back on the face of Rohl.

“Good morning, Dr. Hartley.”

He quirked his right eyebrow but didn’t speak, and I saw him fold his hands together.

“Will you speak to us?”

Nothing but a slight scowl and a pursing of his lips evidenced his disappointment. He had been expecting to see me and I wasn’t there.

Rohl cleared her throat. “As I know you have access to a television and newspapers, you are no doubt aware that a body was found in Northbrook and that the attack mirrored one of yours in several ways.”

No reaction. Beyond the coldness in his gaze, it would have been hard for anyone to tell he was even listening.

“We were wondering if you had any thoughts on who might have perpetrated the crime.”

Silence.

“We’re prepared to offer you some concessions, privileges, if you could lend us your insight, Dr. Hartley,” Rohl said, smiling at him.

I had been a brand-new police detective when I’d encountered the man who now sat so composed on the opposite side of the table from the agents. It was strange to see him so frigid. At no time, even before I suspected him, had I been treated that way.

“Doctor?”

He smiled, but it didn’t hit his eyes, and he turned to look over his shoulder at the guard standing stoically behind him. “I’m ready to return to my cell.”

Thompson turned to Wojno, who in turn gave a nod to his partner standing beside the mirror. He tapped it, and I walked out of the viewing room to join the guard on this side of the door.

“I’m up,” I told him.

“Sorry about that,” he commiserated.

“Thanks,” I said. He unlocked the door, and I slipped inside, waiting there for either Rohl or Thompson to acknowledge me.

“Miro,” Hartley greeted me, his smile wide, his eyes glinting as he stood.

The guard moved forward fast, hand on Hartley’s shoulder, baton out, ready to make him retake his seat.

“It’s all right,” Rohl rasped, visibly fighting down her fear at having the man looming over her. Her instinctive response had to have been to run. Thompson was so startled that when he’d leapt to his feet, he’d knocked over his chair.

Craig Hartley was a scary man, even more so because of the calm so easily shattered with fierce, decisive movement.

The guard stepped back warily, not replacing the baton, holding it ready instead. Thompson didn’t retake his seat, just stood there watching Hartley as he stared at me like I was the second coming.

“I was hoping you were here somewhere,” he sighed, gesturing for me to come closer like it was a table at some restaurant somewhere and not a maximum security interrogation room at a prison for the criminally insane. “I haven’t seen you in almost two years.”

“Yeah, not since you helped with the Lambert killing,” I said from where I was.

“You were pleased with my observations,” he reminded me, squinting, shifting from one foot to the other. “I read that Christina Lambert’s killer died in prison. Was he raped first?”

I cleared my throat. “I have no idea.”

“It would have been just desserts. There’s no excuse for rape; that’s what seduction is for.”

Hartley had killed first and then mutilated his victims, turning them into what he’d described as art. It had been hard for me to see anything beyond the blood and exposed tissue, muscle, and bone. What had been clear was that Hartley had never caused his victims a moment of pain. Women went from his bed to sleep to death. It was how Norris and I had finally caught him. The recurring description we got from people was that they had seen a beautiful blond man, a gorgeous man, Prince Charming in the flesh. Once we started cross-referencing dates, times, and places, a pattern emerged, and we made daily visits to him, poking, prodding, trying to trip him up. His hubris had allowed it, so certain that neither Norris nor I was as smart as him. But he’d allowed us in the last night, given Norris permission to look around as I watched Hartley cook in the kitchen.

It was my fault; I’d turned my back on him and seen the Tahitian pearl ring with the diamonds sitting in a dish on the ledge above the kitchen sink. It was like being struck by lightning—that moment when I made the connection to why that ring looked familiar and where I’d seen it before.

I knew that particular piece of jewelry, had seen it a hundred times, and had always thought that the expensive bauble looked lovely adorning Kira Lancaster’s ring finger. It had been on prominent display in the photo we were given when she went missing. The token of affection had been an anniversary gift from her husband, and Hartley had taken it as a trophy after he slept with and killed her. He had given the ring to his sister, and it came out later that she had been over the night before. As she was doing dishes, she had slipped the ring off, placed it in the dish, and then forgotten it there. The simple act had unmasked her brother for the monster he was.

I saw the ring, and as I’d turned and looked over my shoulder, he’d rushed forward and pulled the knife from the block beside the sink. His arm went around my neck and I couldn’t pull my gun from that angle. My yell brought Norris, weapon drawn, screaming for Hartley to get his hands off me. Two things came out of that day: I saved a killer and lost a partner. Norris didn’t want to ride with a man who had no concern for his own life, and I decided that there were better ways for me to serve and protect other than being a homicide detective.

“Miro?”

I looked up at Hartley, brought from my memories by his use of my name, which I allowed, much to the chagrin of almost everyone. “Sorry.”

He was charmed, and it was evident by his smile. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I should be paying better attention.”

“I almost killed you and you saved my life anyway. I won’t ever be able to make things right between us until I get out.”

I nodded and grinned at him. “So never, then.”

He took a breath.

“Yes?”

“Never is such a long time,” he said softly, his gaze moving from me to Rohl. What was frightening was how quickly the warmth leeched out of his eyes once they were off me. “Would you mind getting up so I can speak to Marshal Jones?”

She rose quickly, and I moved forward, taking the seat in front of him. Immediately he sat and leaned close, looking me over, finally meeting my gaze.

“You look tired, Miro. Not sleeping well?”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, fiddling with the manila folder Rohl had left in front of me. “Can we talk about the situation in Northbrook?”

“Whatever you want to talk about is fine with me.”

“But it’s your thoughts that we’re interested in.”

He coughed softly. “Did you get the Christmas card I sent?”

“I did, thank you.”

He seemed pleased, his eyes softening, his smile widening. “Go ahead and ask me anything.”

I loosened my tie, which had him riveted. “So we both know you’re way too smart to have an accomplice.”

“It doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“No,” I said with a smirk. “And the copycat thing?”

He snorted. “Tell me, did he have my clean lines?”

“No, not at all.” I rolled my shoulders, trying to dislodge the familiar tension there. Visiting a man who had shoved a knife into me carried with it a certain amount of stress. “But that brings me to our final question, Doctor.”

“Of course, but first may I ask after Detective Cochran? How is he?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I haven’t spoken to him in a very long time.”

“Because of me,” he almost purred.

I tipped my head back and forth. “Sort of.”

“You chose me over him, that’s why.”

“That’s a bit simplistic, Doctor.”

“Is it?”

“I think so,” I said, tired all of a sudden. “But tell me, do you have an admirer on the outside?”

He studied me a moment. “I would very much like to see you more than only when you need an answer about something.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Are we negotiating?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“Marshal,” Rohl warned from behind me.

“He’s talking to me right now,” Hartley reminded her icily before his gaze returned to mine. “So?”

“What do you want?”

“What are you offering?” he asked softly, seductively.

I thought of what I could actually do and not need to give myself the Silkwood shower when I got home and added to that. “Once a year.”

“Every six months,” he countered.

“Done,” I said, because that was, in fact, my limit. The most time the prison allowed was thirty minutes in maximum security. I could go there twice a year, for a total of an hour. I could. “Now tell me about your admirer.”

“I’ll say who, but not how.”

“Okay.”

“And you should relocate my sister and her family, Miro.”

I met his stare. “Why’s that?”

He shrugged. “I have more than one follower, and many of them blame her for my arrest.”

“She’s your sister,” I reminded him.

“She left the ring for you to find, Miro.”

“It was an accident; we both know it was.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he sighed, mapping my face, the study almost unnerving.

I turned in my seat, but Thompson was already on his phone.

“We’re on it,” he snapped.

I pivoted back to Hartley. “The name?”

“What will people think?”

“That I came here with these people and saw you and then we found this guy.”

“And I’ll be a snitch?”

“I caught you; it follows that I would catch him. Don’t you think?”

“But then you’ll have a bull’s-eye on your back,” he said sharply. “I can’t have that.”

“Well, however you talk to them all—make sure I’m okay.”

“As long as you keep your word.”

“I thought you were in my debt.”

He looked like I’d hit him.

“Aren’t you?”

Quick nod.

I inhaled quickly. “I’ll show. I promise.” He was a serial killer, and normally they didn’t do well in captivity. Someone always had a question for him—they needed insight, answers—and I was the carrot they dangled to get him to play ball. Someone would always be there to remind me of my commitment to the law, and therefore, to seeing Hartley.

He swallowed hard. “Clark Viana has a home in Highland Park.”

“What does he do?” Rohl asked.

“He’s a stockbroker.”

“And how will we know he’s our man, Doctor?”

“He keeps trophies in his wine cellar.”

“Okay,” Rohl huffed, and suddenly the whole room was on a phone, no longer caring about me or the good doctor.

Since they were all busy talking, no one noticed when Hartley reached out and took hold of my tie. The guard, from where he was standing behind Hartley, couldn’t see what was going on, but that was okay. I wasn’t scared. I had, in fact, never been frightened of him, and that had become the basis for our ongoing relationship. That and the fact that he’d tried to kill me and failed.

“I’ll find out how you’re getting messages out,” I promised.

His grip on my pale blue tie with the red circles was light; if I leaned back it would have slid over his curled fingers. “Someday, Miro Jones, I will possess you, and you will be my greatest work.”

I nodded.

“You might not believe me now, but you will.”

“I’m sure,” I said as he slowly opened his hand.

“There will come a morning when you’ll open your eyes and I’ll be there with you,” Hartley whispered, the middle finger of his right hand inches from my face.

“Not fuckin’ likely,” I grunted, leaning back, the tie running through his hand like water before I stood up. “We’ll save your sister and her family.”

His smile made his eyes glimmer. “The things you think I care about, Miro.”

I moved through the crowd of agents to the door.

“Do take care of yourself,” Hartley added.

I knocked on the heavy steel door.

“I’ll see you in July when it’s hot.”

“Yes, you will,” I agreed as the door opened and I slipped out.

Looking back in at the room, I watched Hartley as more questions were fired at him, but he went silent, facing them with dead eyes until finally the guard announced it was time for him to be returned to his cell.

I was suddenly ridiculously thankful that I’d driven and didn’t have to wait on the FBI agents so I could leave. I thought about the last time I had made the trip out to Elgin.

That day I had felt the bile rise in my throat and bolted down the hallway as I pulled my phone from the breast pocket of my suit jacket. There was only one person I wanted to talk to.

“Hey,” came the gravelly voice over the line. “You almost done in there?”

“Why? Where are you?”

“Outside.”

He was there. All I had to do was reach him.

“You drove out?” I asked as I was buzzed through the inner door and then the outer one, leading down the corridor that separated solitary from general population.

“Yeah. I figured you needed backup.”

“I do,” I agreed, speeding up, wanting out, needing out. “I’ll be hungry after, I always am.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I barf.”

“I would too.”

“Okay,” I said, my voice cracking as I was allowed through another three doors. Each one had to open and close before the next could. And while the security measures were impressive, I could barely breathe. “I’m almost there.”

“Miro?”

I dragged in a breath. “Yeah. I’m here.”

The line was silent as I passed through another two doors. I didn’t see the warden, which was fine. He was probably waiting to say good-bye to the feds. I was just a marshal; he saw us all the time.

Ending the call, I collected my gun, badge, and keys on the other side of the metal detector and jogged to the front door. Hitting the panic bar, I was outside on the steps moments later. Not stopping, I rushed down the stairs and vomited into the trash can. Moments later I was passed a bottle of water and napkins and a hand pressed between my shoulder blades.

“You okay?”

I nodded, still bent over, shivering.

Ian rubbed gentle circles on my back and then, because I was sweating, pushed my hair out of my face as I straightened up. “You’re gonna be okay. Rinse out your mouth and I’ll get you some pancakes. Breakfast cures everything.”

But it wasn’t eggs or toast or hash browns I needed, it was Ian.

I needed Ian.

That was almost two years ago. And today, as I crashed through the last door to the outside and ran down the same stairs and heaved up my spleen, he wasn’t there.

No grounding touch, no rough caress.

No rumbling voice.

No cocky grin that said he could make it better by sheer force of will.

I missed him, and some days it felt like my chest was full of pins every time I took a breath. And on even worse days, I had to talk to a serial killer because I was the only one he liked well enough to converse with.

My breakfast and lunch were all gone in one shot, my stomach left clenching as I made sure I was done before I moved.

“What the fuck, man,” a guy who passed me moaned. “That’s fuckin’ gross.”

“Shut the hell up,” a woman snapped at him, closing in on me with a tub of baby wipes in one hand and a toddler on her hip. “Here you go, shug, clean yourself up.”

It was nice. I thanked her profusely, and when I reached my car, I smelled lavender fresh. I’d left a bottle of water in the front seat, which was good, because I needed to rinse my mouth out. Gargle. I toyed with the idea of either running home or to the office to get into my locker. In either place there was a toothbrush and toothpaste.

As I contemplated where I was going, my phone beeped, and I saw Kohn’s name appear on the display.

“Hey, I—”

“Where the fuck are you?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m out at Elgin.”

“That was this morning?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re with me today and we’re on transport. Hurry up and report to the office so we can get our assignment.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Good,” he said and hung up.

 

 

IT HAD been a roulette wheel of partners since Ian was away, and today I had self-proclaimed metrosexual Eli Kohn sitting at Ian’s desk when I got to the office.

“Hey, Jonesy,” he greeted me cheerfully.

I flipped him off.

“So grouchy first thing this morning. You must need coffee?”

I needed my partner back. That’s what was missing and making me foul. “You’re with me?”

“Always, baby.”

I shook my head as he cackled.

Kage filled the doorway of his office and notified us that we were on transport this morning and retrieval in the afternoon. Kohn walked over and took the piece of paper Kage held out.

“Remember, gentlemen, not getting updates makes me cranky.”

I knew that firsthand. Kage liked to know where we all were. Not checking in got you sent home without pay. “Yessir.”

“Jones.”

I stopped moving and gave him my undivided attention.

“The feds said that you were invaluable to their investigation, though they felt that your methods bordered on misconduct.”

I coughed.

“They said that you flirted with Dr. Hartley and that he extracted a promise for you to see him twice a year.”

“I think that whatever they heard, or didn’t, has no bearing on their case.”

“Agreed.” He clipped the word. “You did good work today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How does it feel to have the cast off?”

I flexed my hand for him. “You have no idea.”

He nodded quickly, retreating back into his office but leaving the door open like always. I caught up with Kohn in the hall.

“You know, you and Doyle make the rest of us look good.”

I missed Ian too much to take any crap about him. I was in defense mode. “What’re you talking about?”

“You guys jump off balconies.”

“That was just the once,” I said snidely, stuffing my scarf into my quilted black jacket, hoping it didn’t get much colder.

He grabbed my right bicep, stopping me so he could step in front of me. “I was there for the first one, but I heard that the second time, you flew.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

“Tell me how you remember it, then.”

Easing my arm free, I explained about jumping off Emma’s balcony after the drug dealer as we walked. By the time we got to the elevator, he was staring at me like I was insane. “What?”

“Are you kidding?” he said dryly. “You don’t follow people off balconies, Jones.”

I scoffed, pulling my phone out of my coat pocket as it started buzzing.

“You’re not the Green Beret, ya know. Your partner is.”

“Yeah, okay,” I placated him, grabbing his wool and cashmere toggle coat and holding out my phone so he could see the text from the Chicago PD homicide detective our office was working with. “Rybin says that he and Cassel will meet us at the safe house in Brookfield so we can take custody of our witness to transport her to court for her deposition.”

“Why are you getting a text from a detective and not someone on our team?”

“You know White gives out our numbers to the detectives he’s working with.”

He shook his head. “That’s not protocol.”

I scoffed.

“Shut up.”

“Mr. I took time off my last security detail to go bang some girl before picking up dinner.”

“One time!”

I did my best Sam Kage impersonation. “Perhaps you need an extended vacation, Mr. Kohn, so you can get all the fucking out of your system.”

“Crap,” he groaned. “You would have thought Ching would have warned me that he was on his way over from the safe house.”

I snickered. “Ching lives for that shit, you know that.”

“I know it now,” he said, exasperated.

I couldn’t help laughing.

“And that Kage impression is kinda creepy.”

We rode the elevator down in silence and when the doors whooshed open, Chris Becker stood there with his partner, Wes Ching.

They made an interesting pair, Becker, the ex-University of Kentucky linebacker, and Ching, his smaller though decidedly more aggressive partner. Becker was one of those guys women watched when he walked down the street, a confident stride and easy smile. Ching was quieter, and, people thought, the saner of the two, until he kicked down a door and charged through. After a raid it was always “That black guy and the Asian guy, what the fuck was with them?” Of course that was only if Kage wasn’t around. If he was, you could bet no one said a word about any member of his team. It wasn’t healthy.

When Becker saw us, the cocky grin instantly appeared. “Morning, ladies,” he teased, waggling his thick brown brows.

Kohn flipped him off.

“What’s wrong with you, you havin’ your period?” Ching asked loudly.

I smiled at all the women in the hall getting on the elevator. “Make sure you all report that bullshit to Supervisor Kage upstairs.”

“Fuck you, Jones!”

Kohn pointed at Becker before turning to follow me down the hall. “Asshat,” he grumbled.

“Yes,” I agreed. “But when Becker’s coming through the door after your ass, you like him, right?”

He grunted.

That was a yes.

In the car, Kohn started complaining. “Let’s take mine. This is like going back in time.”

“It’s vintage.”

“It’s shit,” he confirmed. “For fuck’s sake, Jones, there aren’t even any air bags in this.”

I changed the subject, because I had to drive. I had a whole thing about other people driving; it was only because Ian was such a dictator about it that I gave in to him. “So what witness are we transporting?”

“Nina Tolliver,” he said, grinning. “And I heard you like her, so that’s good, right?”

“I don’t make judgments,” I lied, flat out, because of course I did. I was human, after all. “And I don’t like her like I wanna pick out china patterns with her. I just think she’s a good person who totally won big in the ‘I married a psycho murdering scumbag’ department.”

Drew Tolliver had started out as muscle in the Corza crime family and worked his way up and up until he was a major player in prostitution, drugs, loan-sharking, protection, and guns, and his newest addition right before the feds busted him was assassinations. His wife had been blind to all of that. What she did see, the day he stopped beating only on her and started in on his twin boys, age seven and a half, was that he was a bad man.

“I can’t imagine being a prisoner in my own house,” Kohn said thoughtfully. “It was smart to send her kids off to boarding school. I mean, sucks for her not to see them, but at least they were safe.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And it gave her time to get a new hobby.”

The amount of incriminating evidence Nina Tolliver had collected on everyone who came to their home was staggering. By simply leaving her laptop on in the living room when men dropped by to see her husband and turning on a web camera no one ever noticed, she got hours of damning footage. Murders were planned, people were named, and every face was captured, so there could be no doubt about who was talking, who was giving orders, and who was carrying them out.

Then, to get away, she’d begged him to take her along on a trip to Atlantic City, and he’d relented. “She’s really brave,” I interjected, because it had to be said. “And it was brilliant to freak out on the plane with an air marshal. They took her off in cuffs.”

“Yes. Brilliant.”

“And now she gets to finally be with her kids in a safe, secure place.”

“As soon as she testifies,” he reminded me. “Which the first part of is her deposition.”

“Which she does today.” I sighed. “So let’s get her there so she can put her husband away for life. The quicker she starts this process, the faster he rolls, and guys even higher up the food chain can be put away.”

“You know her husband doesn’t deserve to go into the program.”

“WITSEC doesn’t judge; it depends on what he saw,” I said sagely.

“Yeah, I know. It just sucks.”

 

 

THE SAFE house in Brookfield was not federal, but a Chicago PD property, and as such, it lacked many of the amenities that usually came with ours. It was a small ranch-style suburban tract home with a huge basement. It was older, had only radiators for warmth, and basically reminded me of one of my least favorite foster homes, down to the pink tile and frosted glass sliding doors in the bathroom. There were some missing ceiling tiles in the kitchen, so if you were cooking, you could glance up and observe spiderwebs above you. The whole place gave me the creeps. It smelled like Pine-Sol and mold. I was glad protection rotation only came around every three or four months. Sometimes marshals did transport, sometimes protection, sometimes relocation. They moved us around so we stayed sharp. It was also supposed to make it impossible for anyone to ever be able to say with any kind of certainty which marshal would show up for what duty.

It was why Topher Cassel, Joshua Rybin, Ted Koons, and Keith Wallace, the four Chicago PD detectives there when Kohn and I showed up, had no idea who was going to walk through the door. They probably didn’t expect the GQ model Eli Kohn resembled. Between the clothes, the three hundred dollar haircut, and his lean and muscular build, they probably thought someone was screwing with them.

“Hey,” Kohn greeted, pulling his badge from the breast pocket of his stand-up collar trench coat. “Lemme see yours, gentlemen.”

They brought out badges for him, which were basically redundant since we were only there because we had clearance to be. After we all shook hands, I turned to talk to our witness.

Nina Tolliver was a tiny woman. It was the first thing I thought. Her long brown curly hair hung to the middle of her back, and it was held away from her face with an octopus clip—which I recognized because I had roommates in college, four of them, all women, and the bathroom had been littered with everything from rubber bands to lacquered chopsticks. None of my annoying, loving friends had hair as long as Nina’s, though. So to be saying something as I walked up to her, hand out, I commented on it.

“Damn, woman, you got a lotta hair.”

And that fast, instead of the obvious apprehension she had for the police detectives, I got a warm smile. She looked good in her navy Ann Taylor suit.

“I’m Nina Tolliver,” she said, like I didn’t know. Like maybe we were having a normal conversation. “And you are?”

“Miro Jones,” I answered, smiling back.

She tipped her head. “Miro?”

“It’s short for Miroslav,” I explained like I always did. “It’s Czech.”

“I like it,” she said, and I recognized that along with the interest I was getting, the genuineness, I was also seeing concern.

“Are you scared?”

She shook her head.

“Then what?”

“You two came alone?”

“No. There are two other marshals here somewhere. Maybe you haven’t seen them yet.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Gotta be,” I scoffed. “I promise you, we always transport in fours, not twos.”

Her brows furrowed. “You’re wrong. You’re the only marshals I’ve seen today.”

It was instant—the roll of my stomach, the shiver of dread, because I knew, right then, at that moment, that it was me and Kohn and Nina, and that was all.

I glanced to Kohn and he gave me a quick nod, understanding what was happening as much as I did.

“Oh Lord, I gotta pee,” he announced loudly, and all four detectives laughed as he darted out of the room.

“I like the running shoes,” I said, pointing at them. “They really set off the outfit.”

She shrugged. “I figured I’d carry my heels with me for the deposition, but I’m probably overdressed anyway. It’s not court today, not yet.”

“Right,” I agreed, realizing that now would be the perfect time to kill her, before the bright lights of the media circus. The calm before the storm, just a federal prosecutor and the defense attorney listening to what she had to say. “So we have some time. You want some tea?”

“That would be great,” she replied softly.

“I’ll make you some tea,” I yelled after Kohn before pivoting to face Nina again. “Take me to the kitchen if you would, please, madam.”

She graced me with a smile, and I was about to follow her down the short hall, but I remembered that I was acting and had to make sure it all appeared real.

“You guys want any?” I offered the detectives.

“No, man, we’re good,” Cassel answered.

Grabbing Nina’s arm, I walked her directly through the living room, into the kitchen, and stopped at the back door, where I waited.

“Hey,” one of the detectives called out to Kohn. “You all right in there?”

It was obviously to gauge where Kohn was, and in that instant, I heard the chirp of a sensor.

“Fuck!” came the yell as I heard feet pounding across the floor.

“Check the kitchen for the other one!”

Hurling open the sliding glass door, I drew my gun and shoved Nina through. “Keep up with me when I run,” I ordered loudly.

“Yes,” was all she said.

We scrambled down the back stairs, bolted across the yard, and I hopped the small chain-link fence that separated one piece of property from the other, and then helped Nina over, lifting her easily. I was surprised that I didn’t have to urge her on, to follow me, but she was very focused on survival. She wanted to live, kept chanting it, telling me as we ran.

“I have boys,” she repeated as she hiked up her skirt. “They need me.”

Through the neighbor’s obstacle course—a Jack Russell terrier that came streaking out through its doggie door to greet us, swing set, patio furniture—we ran as I pulled my phone from my pocket and called my boss on his private line.

“Jones?” he rumbled.

“I’m running from the safe house in Brookfield with Nina Tolliver. I’m not sure if Kohn got out or not. He was creating a diversion for me and the witness by going out the bathroom window. I have two detectives in pursuit. I think White and Sharpe are down somewhere on the grounds. I’m headed to George’s diner two blocks away because it’s the only place I know around here. Send backup now.”

“Copy that. We’re en route. I’ll be on-site in twenty, Jones.”

He was basically thirteen miles away, which could take him either twenty minutes or an hour. It all depended on traffic, even with a flashing blue light on top of his car. I-55—we never referred to it as the Stevenson Expressway—was the quickest way. “Okay.”

“Don’t die.”

“Yessir.”

And he was gone as Nina and I hit the street and ran. With her skirt around her ass and her running shoes on, she was flying. With my longer legs, I was still much faster, so I slowed to keep pace with her, but both of us were running for our lives.

A car closed in behind us, and a bullet hit a trash can beside me. I shoved Nina to the ground, turned, saw the threat, and fired. Cassel, who had come around the car to shoot me, went down as I put one in his shoulder. But Rybin, using the car as a shield, shot over the hood and caught me in my right shoulder, just off the edge of the second-chance vest I wore under my shirt. I absorbed the shock, feeling pressure and pain. Nina’s scream scared me as I fired back, putting shots in the hood and shattering the windshield, enough to make Rybin dive for cover.

“Come on!” I yelled at her.

The sirens terrified me, because the men chasing us could also call for backup. I could have been a rogue marshal who drew down on them. I could be trying to kidnap Nina. The scenarios were endless, and so because of that, I didn’t stop to wave down a police cruiser. We ran on toward Ogden Avenue, gun in one hand, the other pressed to my shoulder. Not that it was helping, there was blood seeping through my fingers.

A car came up fast beside us, and my first thought when Nina screamed was that she’d been hit. But the fact that she was able to run by me, followed by searing, smothering pain in my upper chest, let me know that it was me who took the bullet. It was at the inside of the shoulder joint and above the neckline of the damn vest, on the left side this time.

Time slowed and I was scared for a second, worried that I couldn’t protect her, knowing I was hurt. It was strange, that clarity in the midst of all the adrenaline.

“Are you—”

Her voice, the tremor in it, snapped me back into the moment. “Don’t stop! Run!”

I passed her and she followed me, the two of us running behind a frozen yogurt place, then between two buildings. We lost them because the alley was too narrow for a car and they had to circle back around. Grabbing Nina’s hand, I ran headlong into the street, horns and yelling greeting us as cars came to squealing stops to avoid running us over.

It always looked so easy in movies or on TV. People dodged cars like it was nothing. It was why I normally ended up yelling at the screen. Ian wouldn’t go with me to movies anymore; instead he made me watch them at his place. He said I got too invested in the action and needed to learn to distance myself emotionally. I was working on it.

Nina was amazing. If I had to handpick a civilian to run from armed gunman with, I could not have chosen any better. She listened better than anyone I had ever met.

Safe on the opposite sidewalk, I stumbled forward, my vision blurring for a moment. I was losing too much blood too fast and had to make a change.

“Follow me,” I barked at her after catching sight of a man standing in the doorway of an automotive repair shop.

Charging over to him, Nina staying right with me, I yelled for help.

People always surprised me. Instead of turning tail, running inside and rolling the big bay doors down from the ceiling, he waved at us to hurry. When we got close, he stepped aside so I could run past him, Nina right behind me.

I lost my balance, fell to my knees but twisted sideways, shoving Nina behind me, shielding her between my body and a parked car, my back plastered to her front. I heard her gasp.

“I need to see how bad you’re hit,” she ordered. “Take this off so I can check.”

“Not until I’ve assessed all threats.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, her breath catching, “but maybe you could hold the gun with one hand and let me take off the coat and then change hands?”

“What?” I was having trouble following her among the dizziness, darkening vision, and sharp, throbbing pain. I really needed to remain conscious.

“Just—let me.”

It was difficult to maintain my focus as she reached around my chest, unzipped my jacket, and pulled at me roughly, divesting me of my ruined piece of outerwear.

“Oh God,” she moaned, her face scrunching up. “You’re really bleeding. This T-shirt is soaked and—I thought this vest was supposed to fucking do something!”

It did, just not everything. It wasn’t body armor.

“Move your arm. I need to check and see if it came out the other side.”

I ended up transferring the gun between hands as she’d suggested.

“Oh Jesus,” she cried, which gave me an even better idea of the amount of fluid she was looking at. “Miro, your collarbone is—and your shoulder, I—you’re losing too much blood!”

The man and five other mechanics crowded in around us even as I held my gun on them.

“It’s okay,” the man who let us in soothed, lifting his hands, turning his head right and then left, jerking it up both times, clearly signaling to the men. The others stepped back before he took a step forward. “You running from the cops?”

“Yes,” Nina cried, her bottom lip quivering. “And they shot him! Twice!”

“Yeah, I see,” he murmured before he reached behind him, pulled a shop towel from his back pocket, and wadded it up. “I’m gonna throw it over to your girl, okay? Don’t shoot me.”

“He’s not going to shoot you!” Nina shouted, her voice rising fast. “He’s a US marshal, for crissakes! He’s trying to save my life!”

He startled as I felt a throb run through my chest, making me shudder with the effort it took to hold the gun up. I was starting to worry that I was going to pass out and wouldn’t be able to protect Nina. If it were only my shoulder, I wouldn’t have worried. The bullet had gone in the back of my right shoulder and exited from the front. The through and through was good, the blood running down my bicep to the crook of my elbow to my forearm was not so great, but still probably not life threatening. The one in my chest was another story. I wasn’t sure about the damage there and it was unnerving. If I was going to die, I wanted to talk to Ian first.

“You’re a marshal?”

Shit. Had to focus. “Yeah,” I said, leaning sideways so he could see the badge on my belt.

“Lemme come to you, marshal.”

I lowered the gun because I was quickly losing the ability to hold it up.

He moved fast, rushing forward and shoving the towel against my shoulder, near my throat.

“Fuck.”

“Lado!” he bellowed. “Bring me clean towels from the back and call 911!”

“No,” I said, turning my head to look at Nina but not able to catch her eye when she was in motion. She had gotten up and moved around in front of me, took her suit jacket off, and wadded it up so she could push it against the other hole in my shoulder. “Nina, get my phone and call my boss.”

“How do I know who—”

“It says boss,” I said, having trouble focusing before I met the gaze of the man who took over for her, now holding both his towel and the ruined suit jacket to both sides of my shoulder.

“This looks more glamorous in the movies,” he informed me, smiling gently.

“Right?” I coughed, chuckling.

“I’m sorry, man, I thought maybe you’d kidnapped her or the two of you were running from the cops.”

“We are,” I said, laughing and groaning at the same time.

“Hurts, huh?”

“Yeah.”

The phone was suddenly against my ear, Nina pressing it there gently.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell are you, Jones?” Kage growled angrily.

I looked up at the man keeping me from bleeding to death. “Where am I?”

“You’re close to Ogden and Maple at Chaney and Sons Restoration.”

“Okay,” I said, letting my head drop forward. “You hear that?”

“Yeah, but Brookfield is like the auto shop capital of the world, I need a landmark.”

“Landmark?” I asked.

“The Flower Pot Garden Center is next door.”

“Boss?” I asked, because talking was fast becoming a real chore.

“I heard him. We’ll be right there. Where are the detectives who were chasing you?”

“I dunno. God willing, not outside preparing to come in, guns blazing.”

“That’s not funny, Jones.”

“I—” The sirens sent a ripple of fear through me instead of inspiring the relief they normally did. “You hear that?”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

I nearly passed out. “Okay. I’ll wait here and bleed, ’kay?”

“Just don’t die. I haven’t lost anybody yet today, let’s not start with you.”

“Yessir,” I said and hung up just as my phone rang. “It’s gonna be okay,” I swore to the kind Samaritan and Nina. “I promise.”

“What?” Kohn asked from the other end of the line.

“Oh thank God, hey, buddy,” I winced.

“Now I’m your buddy? Since when?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“I’m in a shed in a civilian home on Vernon Avenue.”

“You okay?”

“I got scraped up going out the window, but I’ll live. I really don’t want to shoot the raccoon that’s in here with me, but if it charges, I’m gonna. I mean, it could have rabies.”

I winced because it hurt to laugh. “Please shut up. Call your boss now, he’s almost to me.”

“I did already,” he said quickly. “You sound weird. What’s wrong?”

“Shot.”

Silence.

“Eli?”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me Eli, you’re not gonna die.”

“Okay,” I said even as my vision started going darker around the edges.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” he rasped, and I heard the words “federal marshal” on his end before the line went dead. He was safe, I was relieved.

“Oh shit, Miro, sit up,” Nina commanded even as I slouched to the cold concrete floor. “The ground is gonna suck out all your warmth. You gotta sit up and lean on me.”

But there was no way. I wanted to rest. Nina was safe because of me, and Kohn was safe because he was in a potting shed or a tool shed being hunted by a rabid woodland creature. The very idea made me chuckle.

“Jesus, Miro, you’re so cold.”

But I wasn’t anything anymore.

“Federal marshals!”

I made a noise of relief as there was the sound of gunfire close by, like right outside. Several shots followed by two more. It was important to warn Nina, to get her down, but when I tried to speak there was nothing.

“Jones,” I heard Kage say in his guttural growl at the same time I got a big hand on my chest. Amazing the amount of warmth in my boss’s palm, I could only imagine what being wrapped in his arms would be like. “Don’t die.”

Lord, I really was out of it. I liked my boss, but I was only carrying a big blazing torch for one man. And Jesus, this would piss him off when he found out.

“Boss?” I managed to choke out.

“Don’t talk, Jones,” he snarled, and then I heard him yell. “In here!”

“Kohn’s in a shed.”

“He was. Dorsey and Ryan picked him up.”

“Tell Ian I—”

“You can talk to Doyle your damn self. Hold on and shut the fuck up.”

I was going to argue, but I passed out instead.