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Authors: Mary Calmes

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BOOK: Tied Up in Knots
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We had to leave the sidewalk, which became too clogged with people trying to get ahold of the cash floating in the sunshine. It was a madhouse.

“Fuck,” Morgan swore, a resigned tone to his growl. “Dispatch, do you have my position? Need backup. Tenderloin. Suspect is on foot. Heading towards Taylor. Carrying a black duffel and—”

I knew we’d hoped to keep things quiet, but it had just blown up. There was no way Sandell was going to simply stop running and turn himself in, and he was probably calling for reinforcements himself. So Morgan was making sure we weren’t alone, waiting to get picked off.

“—going to intercept,” he continued, because that told dispatch we were moving, not waiting on anyone to breach or take a suspect, instead already engaged. He was hearing the whole unit’s advised talk-track, and he was answering questions about where we were, giving them coordinates as he ran so that everyone was in sync. Because neither he nor I was in uniform, and we didn’t want to get shot by accident.

“Suspect is armed,” Morgan confirmed.

More money lay scattered on the concrete, a trail of green crumbs for us to follow, and Morgan took the corner in a sharp leap.

As we charged across Eddy Street in the Tenderloin, I had a moment to appreciate the ridiculousness of my situation as Morgan slid over the hood of a car
Dukes of Hazzard
–style and kept running, never slowing, never losing concentration, nothing. Ian was fond of that maneuver; I, on the other hand, had never been a fan.

“We could go around!” I yelled, swerving to miss the parked Lexus. “There’s no problem with missing the goddamn car!”

Morgan ran on, which was impressive considering how long we’d been at it—at least ten minutes running flat out at full speed—and he’d gone down six flights of fire escapes while I took the stairwell inside Hein’s building. Normally Ian and I switched it up, but clearly Morgan was used to being the alpha doing all the high-wire work.

A bullet hit a car window, shattering it, and he shouted, “Watch your back.” I ran by, and another made a divot in the brick wall in front of me.

“Somebody’s shooting at us,” I cautioned.

“No shit,” he thundered. “Keep moving. Harder to hit.”

Even though I was grateful for the laws of physics, we couldn’t keep hoping our luck would hold.

I wove as I ran, yelling, “We need to get off the main street.”

“Tell him, not me.”

Barreling around the corner onto Taylor heading north toward Ellis—I only knew that because Morgan was giving a running commentary on our location to dispatch—Sandell darted through the intersection, only to be cut off by a cherry-red Trans Am. He couldn’t stop—he was running too fast, flat out, and he ended up sprawled halfway across the hood. Morgan pulled up, allowing me to finally catch up with him, and I stood there at his side, panting, then bent over and trying not to hurl as I heard other cars come to screeching halts close to us.

“We might be a bit screwed here,” Morgan confessed under his breath.

“Follow my lead,” I ordered as I straightened.

“Freeze!” The guy in the Trans Am came out with a gun, yelling at me and Morgan. Clearly Sandell’s backup had arrived.

Lifting my head, I saw Sandell leaning on the car, trying to catch his breath while two SUVs emptied. Using their vehicles as barricades, they drew down on us.

“Federal marshals,” I roared in response, including Morgan, pulling my gun and aiming it at Sandell, letting all his men know, in case they didn’t, that they were messing with people above their pay grade. A lot of corrupt cops never let their underlings in on who they were actually shooting at. I was hoping the shock factor would work in our favor. “You need to drop your weapons and get on the ground!”

Doing as I asked and backing me up, Morgan had already pulled his Glock and aimed it at the dirty DEA agent we’d been trailing. It was impressive, really, that he was standing with me. It was his clusterfuck to begin with, but still, the man had some big-ass balls. Surrounded, outmanned, outgunned, he refused to back down and hadn’t left me hanging. Hopefully we’d both live long enough so I could return the favor.

“You need to stand down, marshal,” Sandell roared, having pulled his gun to join all the others.

“It’s you who needs to stand the fuck down,” Morgan retorted. The boom of his voice must have startled Sandell because his trigger finger was shaking. Morgan’s, on the other hand, held steady. He reminded me a lot of Ian—he was a rock under pressure as well—and at the moment, that was so very comforting.

No one moved. It was like time held its breath, but after several long moments, I glanced at Sandell and saw his smirk.

“You’re making career-altering decisions here, gentlemen,” Sandell insisted, and I realized fast there would be no time for us to be screwed over, demoted, or whatever else because he was going to murder us right there in the street and take any evidence off us and no one but his team would be the wiser.

“On the ground, all of you!” Morgan insisted, not backing down an iota. We were in the right, and it appeared that no matter what the consequence, he would follow through.

I felt like I should have been scared, but I was more worried about Morgan.

“They’re dirty cops! Take them down!” Sandell shouted. “I’ve got the evidence right—”

I tensed for a bullet’s impact, but a foghorn siren blast caught everyone’s attention at the same time. It was not the normal one from a police car, but instead came as a low
brrp-brrp
from a massive black ARV with a golden eagle emblem on its sides and windows so black they ate the light. After rolling to a shuddering stop, the ARV’s back doors exploded and a SWAT team deployed in a solid stream of enormous, angry-looking men. Even as happy as I was to be rescued, something about the men in full-body armor pointing their automatic weapons in my direction was disquieting.

“Drop your weapons and get down,” barked a mountain with lieutenant bars on his black vest. “Now.”

It was funny how fast a SWAT team could make a dirty cop and his crew toss aside their guns and kiss the asphalt. No one on the ground moved or even breathed. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go facedown, and from the looks of it, neither was Morgan. He simply holstered his gun, put his hands on his hips, and sighed with clear disgust.

The SWAT team moved in to take custody, everyone except for the lieutenant. He approached and the team parted like the sea did for Moses. There was no question of moving. His rank was in every rippling muscle, the swagger of his walk, and simply the sheer size of him. His shoulders alone were enough to get me to back down from a challenge.

After reaching us, he took off his helmet and aviators, then flashed me an improbable grin before he put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

“So,” the lieutenant said with a snort of warm laughter. “You called for backup.”

I was reeling. We’d just been saved by the Terminator, who was very obviously giving Morgan shit. What the hell was going on?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Morgan groused, gesturing around at all the armor-clad men. “I called for backup, not the Mongol horde.”

“We were the closest to your twenty, and hell, you nearly gave dispatch a heart attack with you needing help,” the lieutenant said with an eyebrow waggle. “You never call for backup; they thought there was a riot.”

Morgan shook his head, seemingly annoyed even with what I thought to be a reasonable explanation. I’d have seen it then, even if I’d missed the similar black hair, shorter but the same jet color, and the sinful glint in the deep-blue eyes, and the name Morgan stitched on the TAC vest.

“You should introduce me. You were raised better than that.”

Morgan growled in response, the irritation rolling off him as he gestured at me with a tip of his head. “This is Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones, who’s been my new partner for the week. Jones, this asshole is my older brother, Lieutenant Connor Morgan.”

“SWAT, huh?” I said, holstering my Glock.

“Con’s always had to be the one with the biggest dick. Or
be
the biggest dick. I get that all confused,” Morgan replied sarcastically. “Because getting a gun and a badge wasn’t good enough, he wanted a tank and a battering ram too.”

“I know the type.” I had a Green Beret of my own who was of a similar disposition.

Connor’s guys were bagging up the guns on the asphalt and zip-tying everyone. People just didn’t fuck around with SWAT. If they were on-site, no questions asked, they could just kill somebody. Everybody knew that, even dirty-as-hell pieces of crap who worked for the DEA. The clean ones knew they’d be shaken loose, but the ones on the take knew they didn’t have a chance in hell of walking away.

“Hey,” Morgan said, taking hold of Connor’s bicep. “Let’s not mention this to Miki, okay?”

Connor guffawed. “Then I suggest you and the marshal get the hell out of here because dispatch just told us Dad’s on his way.”

“Shit, that’ll bring the vultures and their cameras,” Morgan grumbled, glancing around. “I’ll meet you at the precinct.” Connor nodded and Morgan reached out for his hand, and Connor clasped it tight for a second.

“Thanks, Con.”

“Always,” his brother murmured, and I heard the depth of the feeling in the singular word.

As I followed Morgan, walking briskly down the street, dodging the people rushing toward the action we were trying to ditch, I had a question.

“Your dad?”

He grunted.

“Speak.”

Heavy sigh. “He’s a captain, and we’re about on the edge of this territory.”

Okay, two questions. “Lots of cops in your family?”

“You have no idea. We’re up to five at last count. We’ve got one who’s a fireman because, well, he’s shite with a gun, and one who’s a professor. History and whatnot at the college. Baby sister hasn’t decided yet. She’d do it if she could wear heels with her rookie uniform.”

“Who’s Mickey? Like the mouse? Wife? Girlfriend?”

“It’s Miki, no E or Y, and he’s my boyfriend.”

“Got it.”

I must have sounded odd after my near-death experience, because even though he snorted out a laugh, there was an edge to his voice when he spoke. “Problem?”

“Oh fuck no,” I assured him. “I was just being nosy.”

His laugh turned warm.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“That was my brother that did that.”

“No, it was you.”

He shrugged. “Thank you for believing me. It would have been just as easy to trust Sandell.”

“I have a good track record with Irishmen,” I teased.

“Do you, now?”

I shot him a grin.

 

 

ONCE AT
the precinct, Morgan downloaded the files from my phone while we watched through the glass windows as Koegle, Sandell’s superior, screamed at Morgan’s boss, Lieutenant Casey.

Koegle was turning red. Casey looked bored.

“Your boss is cool under pressure, huh?”

Morgan just scoffed. Clearly this kind of thing happened to Casey a lot. When we’d first walked into the area right outside his office, the DEA head was apparently lying in wait because he came roaring out and right up to us.

“You had no warrant, Morgan! How the hell did you even—”

“Sir,” I said softly.

“You think you can just—”

“Sir.” I got louder, even adding a cough.

“—barge into a—”

“Sir,” I barked, and when he turned in a huff, clearly irritated, I lifted my badge for him to see. “Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones out of the Chicago office,” I explained. “I was here on temporary assignment with the Northern District here, and—”

“I don’t give a damn who you think—”

“Step back,” a voice had called out.

Fun was everyone swiveling around to see the very tall, very elegantly dressed man in a topcoat and dark navy pinstripe suit with brown buttons and a red pocket square come striding into the bullpen, flanked by four other men. He was handsome—as I’d thought when I first met him when I got into town—imposing like my boss, his skin a deep rich umber, his teak-colored eyes taking in the room in one glance just like Kage always did. It wasn’t protocol to meet the higher-ups when one got to town, but Vance and Kage were friends, so I’d been directed to pay my respects.

“Who the hell are—”

“Supervisory Deputy Xavier Vance,” he announced, stepping around Sandell’s boss to reach me.

I took the offered hand and he clapped me on the shoulder.

“You good, Jones?”

“Yessir.”

“Excellent,” he said in a low baritone. “Kage wants you on a plane tonight.”

“Yessir,” I said, smiling. “He must be back.”

“It’s why I got a call.”

“Yessir.”

He turned to Morgan and extended his hand. “I need to see your boss.”

After shaking, Morgan said, “He’s right over there,” gesturing toward the glass-walled office at his lieutenant with the same tip of his head from earlier. “Name’s Casey.”

They all went in the office—Vance and the other marshals—and I had seen the DEA guy lose his fucking mind once the door closed. Casey and Vance looked bored as Koegle screamed on.

Now, back in the present, there was still yelling going on but both the only one raising his voice was Vance. I also noted that all his ire was directed at the DEA supervisor.

“It’s not bad, you know,” I said, turning from the scene inside the office back to Morgan.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Having a supervisory deputy for a friend,” I told him. “Vance is a good guy, and now he owes you.”

“Owes me?”

“For saving my life.”

“Well, you helped me and Brandt.”

“How’s he doing, anyway?”

“He’s good. If I ever get out of here, I’ll go see him on my way home.”

“To your Miki.”

“Yeah, to my Miki.”

“Who’ll kill you if he finds out you almost died today, right?”

“Ye have no idea. He’d have my balls, he would.”

The accent was a surprise, but I was guessing it came out when the man was agitated or when he was emotional, which he was at the moment. “Maybe he won’t find out.”

“He had a session today, so hopefully not.”

BOOK: Tied Up in Knots
3.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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