Tied Up in Knots (18 page)

“No.”

“Were you friends?”

“No, but he knew my husband.”

“Oh, so, were they friends?”

“Not friends, no. My husband knew Rego James as well.”

“So you’re connected to both Adams and James through your husband?”

“In a way, I guess.”

I squinted at him. “Why did Adams call you that night?”

“To tell me that my husband had acted very bravely in the face of danger,” he sighed.

“Then the update on James was more a courtesy just to let you know how things had worked out, or how he thought they would.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but why in the world would you have followed up with Carrington Adams? The case had nothing to do with you, and the man himself was not your friend.”

“Are you thinking I’m looking for absolution, Jones?”

“No, sir, but I do think you’ve been blaming yourself since you heard what happened to him, and why in the world would you?” I was feeling again how I did about myself and Adams. Like, why the hell did I need to feel bad or answer questions? It had nothing to do with me beyond being the catalyst for Wojno’s betrayal. I almost resented Carrington Adams because both my boss and I were responsible for his legacy when neither of us had known him at all.

“You blame yourself for the people Hartley killed when he escaped from prison because you put him in prison and not in a grave when you had the chance,” he said flatly. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” I admitted.

“I think we all take responsibility for things that aren’t logical.”

Yes. “Perhaps,” I allowed.

“Go home, Jones. You’ve got to be on a plane very early in the morning.”

“Yessir,” I said, turning and leaving his office.

Ian was in the hall, and when I got close, he grabbed my hand and tugged me after him to the elevators. Inside, he shoved me up against the wall and sucked on my tongue. He would have never done it in the elevator in the middle of the day—too many people to witness a PDA—but it was late on a Sunday night and we were alone.

He kissed me breathless, grabbing my ass, pulling me close, and my hands were on his face, holding him there, making sure he couldn’t pull away. When he finally had to break the kiss for air, he held me there pinned to the wall.

“Enjoy this,” I told him, “because when we get home, you’re gonna be the one doing what I want, how I want.”

I heard his sharp exhale, and his hooded eyes never left my face.

“Now let’s go get a cab. I don’t wanna wait for the El.”

He nodded. “We should just go to impound and pick a car,” he suggested.

My wince as we got off the elevator made him stop walking. “What’s with the look?”

“There’s a Cabriolet,” I offered cheerfully before I bolted toward the front doors and out onto the street to flag down a cab.

He jogged to catch up with me. “The fuck is that?”

From the expression on his face, I couldn’t even bear to tell him.

REALLY, I
was in no way surprised when we got home and Delaney was there, waiting outside our door with several men in the same military trench coats like Ian had on.

When we got closer, two other men got out of the passenger and driver’s sides of one of the parked SUVs, and they were in dress coats as well.

I paid the cab driver, got out on the street, not waiting for Ian to get out first onto the curb, and hustled around the back of the car so I could stand at his side.

“What’s going on?” Ian asked from where we were.

“Marshals Doyle and Jones?”

“Yes,” he answered coolly to one of the men who had gotten out of the SUV.

“We’re going to need you to come with us, Doyle.”

“Then I’m going to need to see a lot of ID,” Ian parroted, because, well, Ian. He was a smartass of the first order.

One of the men came forward, and from his stride and the way he flipped open his badge, I figured he was in charge. “Special Agent Corbin Bukowski, Criminal Investigative Division.”

“What the hell is this?” Ian groused.

I was about to say something else when another car pulled up alongside the curb, and this time the guy who got out of the passenger side immediately went to the door behind him and opened it, then held it open for the gentleman who got out. He was dressed exactly as Ian was, except his beret was black. When he was close enough, Ian stood at attention and saluted.

“At ease, Captain,” the man said, and then turned toward me, walked forward, and offered me his hand. I took it quickly, and since I’d forgotten to put on my gloves, noted his handshake was warm and dry. “You must be Marshal Jones.”

“Yessir.”

His smile was kind, and I noted the lines on his face, the glint in his pale-blue eyes, the strong line of his jaw, and the long, straight nose. He looked like he should have been on recruitment posters.

“I’m Colonel Chandler Harney, CID, and I’m here to escort Captain Doyle and the rest of the patrol that served with Kerry Lochlyn to Washington, DC. We are investigating said individual.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“The deaths of Second Lieutenant Taylor Regan and First Lieutenant Edward Laird—who was, as you know, laid to rest earlier today—have officially been ruled homicides,” he concluded.

The ice that ran through my veins chilled me from the inside out.

“The Criminal Investigative Division is in charge of the inquiry until we can determine if the individual in question is a terrorist threat or a nonmilitary one.”

“Would it be possible to ask another question?”

“Of course.”

“You’re taking the whole team, including Marshal Doyle, to Washington, DC, right now?”

“I am.”

“And are you looking for Kerry Lochlyn, sir?”

“We are. Yes.”

“So you’re convinced that he’s murdering members of the patrol he was with the night that he had a breakdown.”

“We’re not convinced of anything, marshal. We’re merely gathering facts at this juncture,” he explained crisply. “As far as what happened on that patrol—that’s classified.” He looked sideways at Ian because clearly, he had no idea what had or hadn’t been explained to me. “These are two separate issues.”

Glancing at Ian, I saw his lips drawn into a hard line. Apparently he didn’t like me questioning the colonel in the least.

“Can you tell me what the process will be, sir?”

“CID, the JAG corps, and finally,” he sighed, “if it’s not deemed to be a military matter, then the FBI, as I’ve said.”

“And why is the bureau involved?”

“Because if Lochlyn is responsible, then these killings across state lines constitute a federal crime,” he informed me.

“How long will the men be questioned, sir? Marshal Doyle and I are supposed to fly to Las Vegas in the morning to transfer a witness.”

“We’ve contacted your supervisor, Jones, and marshals from the office in Las Vegas will meet you at the airport there when you land tomorrow to assist you in acquiring your witness. Then you’ll be able to return him or her to Chicago.”

I cleared my throat. “After the questioning, will Marshal Doyle be returning here, sir?”

“If he is not implicated or needed in the field,” Harney said coolly, “then of course.”

Which basically meant Ian could be gone, just like that, and this was the last time I’d see him for God knew how long… again.

“His unit just returned home, sir,” I said breathlessly, trying not to let the raw, pained, aching sadness bleed into my voice.

“Do you presume that Special Forces units take time-outs, marshal?” he asked me, his tone biting and clipped. Clearly he was not enjoying me questioning him. “That the enemies of our country ever rest?”

It was probably meant to shame me, being a civilian, but I didn’t care. The only thing I cared about was how Ian was perceived, and so I answered respectfully. “No, sir.”

“And are you prepared to do your duty, Captain?” he asked, turning to Ian.

“Yessir,” Ian almost shouted.

The duty part was meant for me, and I got it. I did. What Ian did was important, and I’d tied myself to a soldier. I knew that from the beginning and was so very proud of him. But… his job as a deputy US marshal was of paramount importance as well. Even if we were nothing else but partners at work, didn’t his current job matter just as much as being a soldier? The answer was a clear and resounding no.

“Grab your gear,” Harney ordered.

Ian had two bags packed at all times so that the second he got home, if he was called back to service that same night, he’d be prepared to leave. In the time he was gone, my job was to unload the pack he brought home, wash everything, and repack it so it would be ready. I knew most units came home from active duty and were off for months at a time. The difference for Ian’s twelve-man team was that they were Special Forces, deployed for retrieval or to subdue a target by any means necessary. It was guerilla warfare on the ground in a foreign country, and it was his duty, and he could… easily could… be going immediately out on an active mission after he was questioned about Lochlyn.

Again.

I was having trouble moving air through my lungs.

Again
.

Just got home and could be leaving again.

Ian moved quickly to the house, opened the front door, and moments later, Chickie ran outside to me. He came fast and stopped at my side, eyeing all the men but not moving, keeping vigil over me, protecting my flank.

“This is the life,” Harney said to me.

My gaze met his, and I checked for any trace of disgust or judgment. Ian had told me that no matter how things changed on the outside—the death of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell; the intolerance of slurs or prejudice—the Army still cultivated a mindset of non-acceptance. You just never knew when you were going to run into it. But as I scanned the colonel’s face, I saw him only making a statement of fact that he would to any spouse or partner of a soldier.

“Yessir,” I agreed.

It took Ian only moments and he was back. He didn’t say a word to me, didn’t even look at me, and I realized he was embarrassed. My questions, my obvious distress had shamed him in front of his superior.

“Marshal,” the colonel said to me before he walked away.

Ian’s eyes met mine only for an instant, but after he got into the car with the others and was gone, what surprised me and left me speechless on the sidewalk was how wrong I was. In that instant when he left me, I hadn’t seen anger or humiliation. He wasn’t judging what I’d said or done. I saw only longing.

He wanted to stay. I saw it clear as day. The yearning had been there, all over him, on his face, in the catch of his breath, the parting of his lips, the fist he made with his right hand, and the way he almost stumbled when he turned to follow the man who was taking him away. I was home for him, I knew I was, and leaving me was gutting him.

There was some small comfort in the knowing.

I WALKED
right by them, mostly because I expected them to meet me in the terminal at McCarran International, not on the concourse.

“Are you Jones?”

Pivoting, I faced… I wasn’t sure. I would have guessed surfer, maybe some sort of instructor—paddle board, scuba diver, hard to tell—but between the tan and the wavy sun-streaked dirty-blond hair that fell to his shoulders, the guy talking to me was not on the job.

“Yes?”

He took a step toward me, hand outstretched, a sardonic smile twisting his lips invitingly. “I’m Bodhi Callahan from the Vegas office, and this is my partner, Josiah Redeker.”

Callahan didn’t look like any marshal I’d ever met. I didn’t know cargo shorts and deck shoes were appropriate attire, or the T-shirt under a drug rug hoodie like I hadn’t seen since college. His partner looked like maybe he ran a bar. His straight dark hair fell around his face, and I noted the mustache and heavy stubble on his chin that could have been called a beard if it was filled in along the line of his jaw. As it was, he appeared artfully unkempt, with his beat-up jump boots, faded jeans, and long-sleeved gray Henley. The two of them together did not inspire fear. But maybe they didn’t need to in Las Vegas. Maybe it was low-key, though with all the drugs that moved through the state, I doubted it.

“Jed’s good,” Redeker told me, returning my focus to him, his hand out, ready for me to take the second I was done with Callahan. “Only my mother calls me Josiah.”

They made an odd pair. Callahan’s accent said California all the way, which helped the laid-back surf-rat vibe, and Redeker had a deep, rich cowboy thing happening in his voice. I wondered how they meshed together.

“How long have you been marshals?” I asked after I released Redeker’s hand.

“Five years for me,” he replied, “two for the kid.”

“Kid?” I asked Callahan.

“I’m twenty-seven,” he told me. “But apparently being eleven years older is a whole big amount of time that puts him out of reach.”

His wording was odd—out of reach—and made me wonder about them right off. Why was that important to Callahan? Did he mean just as a partner, or was there more to their story?

“Were you briefed on the witness that you’re picking up?” Redeker asked, taking my duffel without being asked, leaving me with my laptop bag.

I had been, so I knew that Josue Hess had run when he was supposed to stay put and enter WITSEC, thus moving him from the nice list to the naughty one. Lots of people did it, bolted instead of going into witness protection, but once the marshal service was involved, private citizens no longer got a say in the matter. The guy I was there to transfer to Chicago had left New Orleans for Vegas, but instead of disappearing as everyone had assumed he would, he simply changed locales and kept living his high-profile life.

“I read up on him on the plane.” I yawned, walking between them, feeling the tension now, smack dab in the middle of whatever their deal was. “He’s been working the club scene here, I understand. I watched some of his YouTube videos. He really can sing.”

“Yep,” Redeker agreed. “Our best guess is that he actually thinks he’s not in any danger anymore since he left NOLA. He never told anyone he wouldn’t testify, just said he couldn’t do protective custody because of his career and what he felt he owed the rest of the band.”