by Mary Calmes
He chuckled. “There is absolutely nothing you could have done to save Agent Wojno. He had to save himself. You were the one cut open, beaten, knifed, and hung up like a slab of meat. You were brutalized, marshal, and it’s a wonder you made it out alive. You are in no way responsible for anyone but yourself.”
I crossed my arms because I was shaking and I didn’t want him to see. “Yeah, but what if, right?”
“How do you mean?”
“If I could have been a bit more convincing, maybe I could have gotten him out too,” I whispered, the floor I was staring at beginning to blur. When the tears welled up seconds later, I tried to rub them away fast. Goddamn Wojno, I had no idea why I even cared, other than he absolutely did not deserve to be dead. Rotting in jail, yes, but not dead.
“It’s important to you.”
“What?” I’d lost track of the conversation, as lost as I was in my own thoughts.
“It’s important to you to have saved him.”
“Well, of course.”
“To do what?”
“I’m sorry?”
“He would have spent the rest of his life in prison.”
“But he would have been alive.”
“And would that have suited him? Prison?”
“I don’t know.” I huffed out a breath, letting myself fall back in my chair, crossing my arms as I regarded the doctor. “Again, I think the alive part is key.”
He put down his pen and apparently made himself comfortable as well, hands behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him. “You need to stop blaming yourself for something completely out of your control.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
He was back to scrutinizing me. “May I say that your partner, as well as the rest of your team, all think very highly of you, marshal?”
“Oh yeah? Even my boss?”
He was silent.
I laughed at him. “Yeah, see, I knew it.”
“He’s very guarded.”
“Yeah, maybe you should go head shrink him.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You scared?” I baited him.
“Perhaps a bit.”
I stood up. “You’re clearing me for continued service, right?”
His sigh was deep. “I am, yes.”
“Thanks,” I said, heading for the door.
“You’re a very lucky man, marshal. Don’t waste your life mired in second-guessing yourself.”
“How’re you supposed to learn anything, then?”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I left before he changed his mind about me.
I STOPPED at Windy City Meats on the way home after seeing the shrink and was amazed at the cost on the beef tenderloin my regular butcher, Eddie, passed me over the counter.
“Holy crap, are you kidding?”
He shrugged. “It’s some of the best, Jones. Whaddya want me to say?”
“Is it unicorn? Is that why it costs so much?”
The little girl standing close to me gasped, and if looks could kill, her mother’s would have stopped my heart right there.
“Oh, I—”
“Nice, Jones,” Eddie groaned, shaking his head. “You want the hot Italian sausage or the regular?”
I glared at him.
“Fine, hot it is. Howzabout the prime bone-in ribeye?”
“Yeah, gimme two.”
He snickered as he turned away. “Keep your mouth shut while I’m gone.”
I would have flipped him off, but I was still close to the little girl and really didn’t want to do any more to piss off her mother.
Once I was done at the butcher, I went to the farmers’ market and picked up produce before heading home. After checking in with the cops sitting on my house, I hobbled inside and unloaded everything. Because it was hard for me to walk Chickie with my ankle, Ian had dropped him off with Aruna that morning and had plans to grab him on the way home from his stakeout assignment. I was putting away groceries when he called.
“You’re cooking?”
“Yeah. Your choice is between spaghetti or steaks.”
“Oh.”
It was a weird noise. “What?”
“I was gonna cook.”
“You cook?” I was stunned. Since when?
“Why you gotta say it like that?”
“I dunno, because—I had no idea you cooked.”
“I’ve cooked for you before.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
He was quiet.
“I would love you to cook for me,” I assured him.
“Of course you would,” he said smugly, and I smiled at the sound. Ian clothed in his arrogance, smirking on the other end of the phone, was the best thing I could imagine.
“So I’ll wait for you to get home and cook for me.”
“As opposed to what?”
“You walking through the door at some point tonight and the house smelling like food and me putting a cocktail in your hand as I serve you dinner.”
He was thinking again, quiet as he considered his options. “That sounds pretty good too.”
I chuckled. “When do you actually think you’ll be home?”
“I’m thinking around eight—we’re doing paperwork now.”
“Oh, you guys picked up Aronson already?”
“Yeah,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Well, guess who’s all mobbed up now?”
I could not bite back the snicker. “No shit.”
“No shit,” he grumbled. “Little Peter Aronson who used to be a CI when he was running with Cantrell and his car theft ring downstate has moved up in—”
“You’re such a snob.”
“What’re you talking about?” He was incredulous. “I’m trying to tell you a story about Aronson and how we have to put that piece of shit into WITSEC and you’re giving me—”
“Downstate,” I snorted. “Really, Doyle? Everything in Illinois that is not Chicago is what?”
“Crap,” he baited me, “and you know it is.”
“You should learn respect.”
“And who’s gonna make me?” I could hear the husky, smoky sound in his voice that signaled his desire to play. He wanted to be home very badly. “You?”
“You’re awfully lippy over the phone,” I said as I turned toward the front door, having decided I needed to take a quick walk down to his favorite bakery and pick him up a blackberry pie. It was his favorite. “Come home and try and give me this much grief.”
“Oh, I’ll give you something.”
“Promises, promises,” I teased.
Silence.
“Ian?”
He cleared his throat. “So if I… if I wanted….”
I’d been waiting for this. Hoping. “Yes?”
“I could—” He took a breath. “—because since you’ve been home, I’ve wanted to—and it’s stupid, but—”
“It’s not stupid.”
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“Oh, of course I do.”
“What?”
I smiled into the phone. “You want to be inside me.”
No reply.
“Because then you’ll know I’m really here, with you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“When we—” He coughed. “Two weeks ago, the first time after the kidnapping, I got that all out of my system.”
“What?”
“I felt like you were slipping away, like maybe you thought I couldn’t protect you.”
“I can protect myself. Me getting kidnapped was on me, not you.”
“Yeah, but I’m your partner, your backup. You should know if you can’t do something, that I can.”
“We’ve been through this already.”
I was not weak. He couldn’t protect me from the whole world, and neither did I want him to. Having him put all that on himself, the burden of not trusting me,
instead feeling as though he had to watch me when we went out into the field together, wouldn’t serve either of us well. We were partners; he wasn’t there to be my shield.
“I know, and I don’t want to dredge it up because everything got better.”
“After we had sex.”
“Yeah.”
“But now?”
“Now nothing, we’re good.”
“Ian?”
“You can’t think that how we have sex matters to me.”
“I don’t, but I also think that sometimes you want me but you stop yourself.”
“Yeah, so what if I do?”
“Why would you do that?” I sighed. God, getting the man to trust me all the way was going to kill me.
“Because maybe you don’t—”
“What did I say?” I demanded, my voice edged with frustration. Why on Earth would I tell him something I didn’t mean? It was maddening the way he couldn’t tell me what he was thinking and feeling.
“Miro—”
“Ian,” I said sternly. “What did I say?”
“I don’t wanna go over—”
“Ian!”
“God, you’re like a dog with a bone!” he lashed out. “You said that however I wanted you was good.”
“And so what, you don’t trust me? I’m a liar?”
“No, but—”
“Jesus, Ian, you don’t think I’ve thought about it?”
“What?” He was breathless.
“You don’t think I’ve thought of you shoving me up against a wall or down on the bed and just taking what you want?”
“Stop.”
“Your skin all warm on mine,” I mused with a groan.
“I’m at work, dickhead.”
“Your hand in my hair, the other on my cock,” I went on, my voice low and seductive, knowing I was pushing it but loving the idea that I was driving him nuts. “Stroking me until I spill all over your hand?”
“Oh God, now I can’t even walk.”
I cackled, feeling mischievous and powerful at the same time. “You know, sometimes I think, what would Ian feel like moving inside of me?”
I got only a garbled noise from the other end of the line.
“And I know you, so I know you’re worried ’cause you don’t wanna be a selfish prick in bed, but think about that a second.”
“It’s all I’m thinking about at the moment,” he rasped.
“You love me.”
“I used to, back at the beginning of this conversation.”
I scoffed. “Oh, no, baby, I know better,” I crooned. “You love me bad. You ache with it, and because of that, I know you will take care of me when I’m under you in bed.”
The sharp inhale made me grin like an idiot.
“So Ian, come home and I’ll feed you and then you can have your wicked way with me.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“I know.”
“But I think about having you wrapped around me… in every way… all the fuckin’ time.”
My stomach flipped over and my cock hardened painfully fast in my jeans. “Come home now.”
“I swear to God I will be there as fast as I can.”
“Looking forward to it, marshal.”
“Aww, don’t call me—”
“I’m really good at following orders.”
“Jesus, Miro, get off the phone before I gotta explain to Kohn why I have a boner in the middle of the office.”
I was laughing when I hung up.
SINCE I decided on the way to the sidewalk that pie wasn’t going to hit the spot, I got in my truck and headed over to Webster Avenue instead. I wanted to get some cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B’s, because honestly, they made these awesome jumbo ones we could eat in bed. I had a one-track mind.
After I got dessert, I headed over to The Silver Spoon near west Armitage and north Halsted to pick up the keychain I’d ordered for Aruna. It was a silver circle I’d had hand stamped with her hubby’s and her daughter’s names. She’d been taking care of Chickie so much, I wanted to make sure she knew I appreciated her, and that boutique was one of her favorites.
I had parked my truck around back of one of the buildings, and after I hit the alarm and got in, there was a tap on my window.
Jolting with panic, I turned to find a stunning woman in an outfit that looked like she’d walked off the cover of a fashion magazine giving tips for fall layering. The diamond wedding ring on her left hand was the size of a small ice rink. I immediately rolled down my window.
“Can I help you?” I asked, breathing through my nose, calming my racing heart. Gun-shy was an understatement for what I was.
“Marshal Jones?”
Instantly I was on edge. How the hell did she know my name? “Yes.”
She took a breath and her eyes welled with tears. “I have a daughter—her name is Saxon and I know, what was I thinking? All the boys are going to call her Sax when she gets older and then it’ll be Sexy Saxy and later on Sex instead of Sax but I figured she had time to yell at me, right? She had all the time in the world.”
Oh, she was so scared, and the rambling was only half of it. Her hands were shaking, her voice was going in and out, and she was maybe another minute and a half away from hyperventilating.
“Ma’am,” I began, opening my door a crack.
She slammed it closed. “No! Ohmygod, you can’t get out of the truck! What if I can’t get you back in there after or—he’ll kill her!”
She was now sobbing, pulling in those great gulps of air, totally breaking down. And I understood why, of course.
Craig Hartley was a scary sonofabitch who made good people do very bad things. It was why she pulled the gun out of her purse and leveled it at me. She really needed me to listen.
EMERSON WENTWORTH Rice was in the kitchen when the back door opened and her husband came through, followed by a man holding a gun on him. Quickly, efficiently, he asked her if she could help him with a serious matter. When she didn’t answer, he shot her husband in the stomach. The screaming began then.
“He has my little girl,” Emerson said now, her explanation halting because she was still doing the half-crying half-talking thing people did when they were scared out of their minds.
She’d been allowed to call 911 for her husband of fifteen years before she and her daughter were loaded into the BMW SUV and driven away. She had no idea if he was dead or alive. What she did know was that she got to trade me for her daughter, and by God, that was what was going to happen.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she assured me as she leaned against the passenger door, both hands on the weapon, making sure that if I twitched she blew off the side of my face. “But he wants you and I want my daughter.”
“I understand.”
“I need your gun. He said you’d have one.”
“Where am I going?” I asked as I pulled the Ruger from the holster under my jacket and passed it to her.
I had to drive out to Park Ridge, and Emerson directed me to Touhy Avenue and then down Courtland. Four blocks south on the left was a large two-story house, and I was told to get out and go to the front door and ring the doorbell. Emerson would be right behind me.
Yes, I could have easily taken the gun from her, but she was terrified for her daughter and I understood that.
“As soon as I have my child, marshal, I will send the Marines back here for you, I swear to God,” she promised as we climbed the front steps.
I had no reason to doubt her sincerity.
Ringing the doorbell, I thought of my phone in the truck, under the seat where I’d dropped it when Emerson had glanced away from me to make sure we were going the right way. Hopefully, when Ian tried to call and didn’t get me, his law enforcement brain would kick in and he’d know exactly what had happened. At least the phone in my parked vehicle would alert him to my last whereabouts. From here, depending on Hartley, it was a crapshoot.
Because I didn’t want to scare Emerson an
y more than she already was, I was working really hard to not come unglued. I was taking shallow breaths, keeping my nerves on a tight leash, and forcing myself not to throw up, even with how knotted up my stomach was. I was terrified, plain and simple, and trying desperately not to let her see it on my face.
When the door opened a crack, I saw a scared, sniffling little girl for a second before she saw her mother.
“Mommy!” she squealed, and Emerson had to put her hand on my back to keep herself on her feet.
“Hi, lovey,” she soothed. “Just stand right there for me, okay? Freeze like a popsicle, until we find out what the man wants.”
Saxon turned her head to listen, and then her little six-year-old face lifted to me. “Are you Miro?”
“Yes, I am.”
She took a deep breath. “He wants you to come in, and if you do, I get to go out there with my mom.”
“Okay, then, lemme in,” I said, smiling openly so she’d know everything was going to be all right.
She turned again, listening, looking at her mother. “He says we can go, Mom, but we have to be superquiet and not talk to anyone until we get to the end of the street. If we’re not good girls, he’s gonna be mad.”
“Yes,” Emerson whispered. “Whatever he wants.”
Saxon listened again. “He wants you to put the gun in the mailbox in front of the house.”
“Yes,” Emerson agreed frantically.
Saxon told the psychopath what Emerson had said, repeating it for him even though he could clearly hear both mother and child perfectly. It was a control measure, and for perhaps the hundredth time in my life, I thought about how clever he was. The man was a master of manipulation; he had a singular focus and no one could doubt his follow-through. It was such a waste that his mind was broken.
“He says okay,” Saxon told me. “You can come in now.”
I moved forward as she came out, slipping easily by me, and I closed the door behind her. I heard mother and daughter scurrying down the front steps, and then everything else was gone as Craig Hartley stepped out of the shadows to face me.
I was certain my heart stopped. How was it even possible that I was with him again? Every part of me screamed for flight, but all I could do was stand there and stare. He’d kill me if I moved, and on the cast, I wouldn’t get far if I punched him and tried to get away.
