Table of Contents
Title Page
The United States Marshals Service
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
U.S. MARSHALS: CHASED Excerpt
Dear Reader
Copyright
U.S. MARSHALS: HUNTED
* * *
Men Too Dangerous To Love, Book One
Laura Marie Altom
The United States Marshals Service
* * *
Formed in 1789 by President George Washington, the United States Marshals Service is the oldest federal law enforcement agency—and in my mind, one of the most mysterious. They used to carry out death sentences, catch counterfeiters—even take the national census. According to their Web site, “At virtually every significant point over the years where Constitutional principles or the force of law have been challenged, the marshals were there—and they prevailed.” Now the agency primarily focuses on fugitive investigation, prisoner/alien transportation, prisoner management, court security and witness security.
No big mystery there, you say? When I started this series, I didn’t think so, either. Intending to nail the details, I marched down to my local marshals’ office for an afternoon that will stay with me forever.
After learning the agency’s history and being briefed on day-to-day operations, it was time to tour. I saw an impressive courtroom and a prisoner holding cell—not a good place to be! Then we went to the garage to see vehicles and bulletproof vests and guns! Sure, I’m an author, but I’m primarily a mom and wife. I bake cookies and find hubby’s always-lost belt. Nothing made the U.S. Marshals Service spring to life for me more than seeing those weapons—and I’m talking serious weapons! And then I glanced at my tour guide and realized that this guy isn’t fictional, but uses these guns, puts his very life on the line protecting me and my family and the rest of this city, county and state. I had chills.
When I started digging for information on the Witness Security Program, things really got interesting. Deputy Marshal Rick ever so politely sidestepped my every question. I found out nothing! Not where the base of operations is located, not which marshals are assigned to the program, where/who those marshals report to on a daily basis, what size crews are used, how their shifts are rotated—nothing! After a while, it got to be a game. One it was obvious I’d lose!
Honestly, all this mystery probably makes for better fiction. I don’t want to know what really happens. It’s probably not half as romantic as the images of these great protectors I’ve conjured in my mind. Oh—and another bonus to my tour…Deputy Marshal Rick was hot enough to star in any of my stories!
--Laura Marie Altom
1
* * *
“Mr. Morgan?” Gillian Logue called above the driving rain.
The man she sought stood there at the grumbling surf’s edge, staring at an angry North Pacific. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the wind, he almost didn’t look real—more like some mythical sea king surveying all that was rightfully his.
Gillian shivered, hunching deeper into her pathetic excuse for a jacket.
Even in the rain, the place reeked of fish and seaweed and all things not on her L.A. beat. They were achingly familiar smells she could try all she liked to pretend didn’t dredge up the past, but there was no denying it—it was hard to come home to Oregon. Not that this island was home, but the boulder-strewn coastal landscape sure was.
The crashing waves.
The tangy scent of pines flavored with a rich stew of all things living and dead in the sea.
The times she’d played along the shore as a child.
The times she’d cried along the shore as a woman.
Shoot, who was she to judge Joe Morgan?
Yeah, she’d lost a love, and yeah, it’d hurt, but it wasn’t like she’d been married to Kent, or they’d had kids. She couldn’t even fathom the complexities of Joe Morgan’s pain.
Shouldn’t want to.
She wasn’t on this godforsaken rock to make a new friend. She was here for one simple reason—to do her job.
“Mr. Morgan?” she called again.
He looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, not bothering to shield them from the rain. “Yeah,” he finally shouted. “That’s me. Mind telling me who you are? What you want?”
The wind slapped strands of her honey-blond hair in Gillian’s face. She took a second to brush them away before stepping close enough to hold out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Gillian Logue.”
The set of his jaw told her he had no intention of shaking her hand, so she reached into the right hip pocket of her navy windbreaker and pulled out a black leather wallet.
Flipping it open, she flashed him her silver star.
“I asked you a question,” he said.
“I heard you.” She notched her chin a fraction higher, hoping the slight movement conveyed at least a dozen messages. The loudest of which was that she might be housed in a small package, but she was as tough as any man—especially him. “I’m here on official business. Over a year ago, the drug lord responsible for killing your wife was released on a technicality. Now, we have him back, and we’d like you to testify.”
“What?” He put his hand to his forehead.
“The retrial starts in two weeks. Consider yourself subpoenaed.”
His brittle laugh didn’t do much for her wavering confidence.
“Because of your penchant for vanishing, my superiors thought it best you have an escort to the trial, along with someone to fill you in on current events—at least those pertaining to locking up this lowlife for good. Anyway,” she added with a tight laugh, “for the next two weeks, and the duration of the trial, you’re stuck with me.”
The man she’d studied quite literally for months eyed her long and hard, delivered a lifeless laugh of his own, then turned his back to her and headed down the beach for the trail leading to his cabin.
“Like it or not, Mr. Morgan, I’m staying!” Her throat ached from shouting over the rain. “Shoot, you may even need my protection! If we found you, one of Tsun-Chung’s henchman could, too!”
He didn’t look back.
“Your testimony’s vital to the prosecution’s case!”
Still, he kept right on walking.
Okay. Two could play this game.
She jogged to catch up, coming within a few feet of him. “If you won’t do it for your country, sir, don’t you owe it to your daughter to see that the man responsible for her mother’s death is put behind bars?”
He stopped, but didn’t turn around. His only movement was a slight clenching of his fists.
“Mr. Morgan, sir, I’m here for the duration. We know you’re a private man and we respect that, so I’ve come alone. And again, in regard to your probability for flight—you have lived in fifteen places over the past twenty months—they left me here without a boat.”
“But you have a radio, right? A satellite phone?” His whole body clenched, and he still wouldn’t look at her.
“Um, no, sir.”
“Liar. Call yourself a ride. Otherwise, I’ll take you back to the mainland.” He grinned, but the gesture didn’t come close to reaching his ey
es. “In these ten-foot swells, should be a fun ride in my skiff.”
Wow.
Gillian hadn’t figured this assignment would be a cakewalk, but never had she expected to encounter this barely human ice cube. Scrambling after him up the well-worn trail, she tried not to think about what amazing shape the guy was in to keep this harrowing pace on such a steep hill.
Her footfalls fell silent along the pine needle strewn path.
A little too silent.
The place gave her the creeps.
Nostrils flaring from the pungent smell of resin, she glanced over her shoulder, telling herself it was just the eerie gloom raising goose bumps on her arms. The forest of shore pine, red alder and towering western red cedars closed in on her, blocking the afternoon’s weakening gray light, reducing the wind’s howl to a gentle shush.
Stepping over a branch that’d fallen onto the trail, hearing the chatter of small stones skipping down the hillside with each misplaced step, returned Gillian to afternoons spent hiking with her brothers. For the most part, lessons in frustration.
Sure, the scenery had been gorgeous, but as overprotective as Caleb, Beau and Adam had been, it was a wonder they hadn’t figured out a way to safely stash her in their backpacks. Ever since their mom had died, when she was just eight, they’d treated her like a china doll, preferring she stay close to the house. Her dad shared that preference.
By the time she’d left for college at eighteen, she’d had enough coddling. Enough questions about her every intended move. Enough—
The slam of Joe’s cabin door jolted Gillian back into the present. The metallic thwack of a lock rammed home steeled her resolve to see this assignment through to a successful completion.
This time around, she was in charge.
Her dad had never been prouder than when all three of his boys graduated with honors from the University of Oregon, then went on to ace U.S. Marshal’s Service exams.
How had he reacted when she’d done the same?
I hope this makes you happy, cupcake. But I think your mother wanted you keeping a fine home. Raising lots of chubby babies.
Gillian swallowed the sentimental knot at the back of her throat.
The only baby she’d be handling was the overgrown variety who’d just locked himself in his cabin.
Steeling her spine, she marched right on up to the covered porch, past a rick of neatly stacked firewood, then banged the heel of her hand on a weather-beaten pine door. “Mr. Morgan, open up. We need to talk.”
From inside came a halfhearted bark—of the canine variety.
Stepping a few feet to her left, Gillian cupped her hands to a large paned window and peered inside.
A friendly eyed yellow Lab made his way to the door, doggy toenails clacking on the sections of hardwood floor not covered by thick rag rugs.
Joe Morgan was sitting in an exhausted-looking gray armchair. The rest of the cabin’s furnishings looked equally weary. The only items in the room offering any cheer were the silver-framed photos lining the mantel.
She guessed they represented happier times that even accompanied by the glowing fire in the hearth, still weren’t enough to offset the permanent chill in Joe Morgan’s heart.
Remembering the turn of events that had led the man to this point, Gillian exchanged a fraction of her professional detachment for compassion.
Over the years, she’d told her brothers and father so many times that she didn’t need them or any other overbearing, overly concerned men in her life, that she almost believed it. Then came that one shining summer between her junior and senior years of college when she’d learned that no, she didn’t need a man, but they sure could be fun when they weren’t related!
Gillian fell hard for Kent Hawthorne. He was tall, lean, and golden from hours spent in the summer sun. For those all-too-brief three months, she’d fancied herself in love. She’d wondered if maybe she’d fulfill her mother’s wish for her daughter to one day marry and raise her own family.
Gazing at Kent from the back end of a canoe as they’d drifted down one of the sleepy portions of the North Umpqua, images of the beautiful babies they would share ebbed and flowed like the cool, green water. Maybe they’d have a daughter, then a son. The girl would have her daddy’s dark hair and freckles, while their son would be a honeyed blonde just like her.
They’d go on family outings together, to the zoo and museums, and to leisurely Sunday morning breakfasts at their favorite waterfront café, where all four of them would fight over the best pages of the Oregonian.
Just as easily as those images bloomed, along with autumn’s first killing frost, they’d died.
Kent was a year older than her.
He hadn’t been able to decide whether to apply for graduate school in Oregon, or take a job with a high-paying, high-profile consulting firm out East.
In the end, he’d gone for the job, leaving Gillian behind. She’d retreated back into her beliefs that the whole married-with-2.5-kids routine would never be for her.
Gazing at the images of Joe Morgan’s former life, while she couldn’t possibly understand the enormity of his loss, brought her own days of mourning to the surface.
Losing her mother at a time when she’d needed her most.
Losing Kent, even though, truth be told, she’d probably never had him at all.
Gillian took a deep breath and turned back to the door.
“Sir,” she said, delivering a lighter knock. “Please, give me a few minutes. I realize you’ve already been through so much, but—”
Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the heavy door creaked open.
It’d happened so fast, she needed a second to process that she’d been granted access to the cabin’s warmth. As for any human warmth, judging by the scowl Joe Morgan still wore now that he’d wound his way back to his chair, that she might never see.
There did seem to be at least one friendly member of the family. From the reading she’d done on Joe, Gillian knew the Lab belonged to his daughter. So what was he doing here when Meghan was back in Beverly Hills with her maternal grandparents?
The big dog sniffed Gillian’s feet and knees, then nudged its soft, silky head up under her hand.
“What’s your dog’s name?” she asked.
“Bud. Stay away from him.”
Ignoring Joe’s ridiculously harsh request, Gillian knelt before the dog, turning her face when a big, wet doggy-breath-smelling tongue slicked her cheek.
Eyes narrowed, she recalled from time spent absorbing Joe’s file that the dog wasn’t named Bud, but Skye—after a dog character from a kid show called, Paw Patrol. Research had also shown the dog on the show was a female. Joe’s daughter apparently had a better sense of humor than him.
She shot Joe a look, but let the slip go.
“Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said to the adorable lug. Thank heavens at least one male in the house was friendly.
“Thought you had something to tell me.” Joe stared into the dancing fire.
“Look.” Gillian slipped off her jacket and slung it over the back of a lumpy beige-plaid couch. “We can either do this the hard way by being nasty to each other, or the easy way by at least trying to be friends.”
Joe laughed—sort of. “Oh, you kill my wife, then wanna be my friend?”
“Whoa,” Gillian said, hackles raised. “We were all sick over the loss of your wife, but for the record, four damn fine marshals lost their lives in that incident, as well.”
The only indication that he’d even heard her was the twitch in his jaw.
Deciding this whole scene needed lightening up, Gillian reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. “Here,” she said, crossing the twelve or so feet to Joe’s chair. “I heard that when you were in the safe house, you were real fond of these.”
Gillian offered him the candy.
After accepting it, he looked at her.
He ran his thumb over the smooth brown wrapper. Brought the candy t
o his nose and deeply inhaled. Was the secret to breaking down his walls as simple as chocolate?
He parked her gift on a side table, then pushed to his feet. “I’m outta here,” he said, brushing past her on his way to the door.
Gillian frowned.
Well, shoot. She pocketed the Snickers while launching a new chase. His loss, her gain. No way was she passing on perfectly good chocolate.
* * *
With bud beside him, Joe jogged the short distance into the forest, then leaned hard against the trunk of a towering pine.
What’s wrong with me?
Trembling, he bowed his head, raked his fingers through his hair.
Why couldn’t his mouth form the words of blame he so badly needed to speak? Why couldn’t he unleash the wrath that’d lived inside him for so long even he wasn’t sure where the past ended and the present began?
Then again, was any of this real, or was it the final stage of him going all the way mad?
He heard the creak of the door, even this far from the cabin.
“Joe?” the woman called, her voice eerie and echoing through the drizzle. “Please come back inside. It’s cold out here.” There was blessed silence, then the crunch of her footfalls. “We don’t have to talk about the case. Hell, we can talk sports if you want. I grew up with three brothers, so I know every sport from football to skiing.”
Joe winced. Why wouldn’t she go away?
It’d been a long time since he’d carried on polite conversation with anyone besides his in-laws and daughter. With anyone else, he kept to the basics. Since his wife’s death, since her killer’s release, since the relentless surprise attacks on his life that had transformed him into the nomad he was today, Joe had become a stranger even to himself. And the beauty of it was, he didn’t care—at least he hadn’t before she’d shown up.
Something about knowing this marshal was here made him once again accountable. Honor-bound to conform to society’s graces. To offer drinks and food. Shelter and warmth. And he hated that—feeling like he had to do what was expected instead of what he wanted, which was to fling the woman off of his island as if she were of no more consequence than a piece of driftwood marring his shore.
U.S. Marshals: Hunted (U.S. Marshals Book 1) Page 1
