Tied Up in Knots

by Mary Calmes

  “Ian,” Danita called out to him.

  He turned from me and waited as she moved around in front of him.

  “Before you go, could I get your number? I’d love to get a drink and catch up.”

  His squint would have made me smile, but I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t. “What for? We don’t have anything to catch up on.”

  “I would—” Her breath hitched like she was nervous. “—love to see you.”

  It took him a second to get that she was hitting on him. Normally he was quicker, but he had a ton of stuff on his mind. “Oh, I can’t do that,” he informed her. “I’m basically engaged.”

  “You are?” she asked, her gaze flicking to me and then back to him.

  “Yeah. I asked, it was a yes. We’ve just gotta pick a time to get it done.”

  “You’re getting married?” She was flabbergasted, if her tone and how wide her eyes got were any indication.

  “Yeah,” he said, looking from her back to me. “Stay here while I go say bye to Rose and her mom.”

  “’Course.”

  He left quickly and I was alone with Danita.

  “Is he marrying you?” she asked cautiously.

  Normally I would have remained silent, but I was too proud of calling Ian mine. “At some point, yeah.”

  I watched her absorb the news, saw her brow furrow, lips press tightly together, eyes going vacant in that empty expression people had when they were completely lost in thought and aware of nothing else. In moments she was back, her gaze laser focused on me.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised yeah?”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t know he was—and Ian’s not—I mean, I’ve always had a stereotype in my head about what gay men look like and act like,” she confessed, clearly flustered, going by the flush of pink on her cheeks and her fluttering hands as she spoke.

  “Sure.”

  She gestured at me. “You don’t look gay.”

  I shrugged. “Gay isn’t just one kind of person.”

  “No, I know,” she said, sounding almost irritated, but I was guessing more with herself than with the situation. “I—but you know what I mean—what I’m trying to say.”

  I coughed softly. “I think we’re back to those stereotypes you were talking about.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, inhaling fast. “Yes.”

  Some people wouldn’t have taken the moment, wouldn’t have done any self-examination at all, so it was sad, really, that I wouldn’t get to know her better because of the choice she’d made with Ian that inadvertently nearly cost him his life.

  “He loves you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He likes being with you, then,” she said, and it was more rhetorical than anything else. “So that could be why… I mean, maybe that’s why he didn’t want me. Maybe that’s why he never did anything but kiss me.”

  She must not have realized a lot of people were clustered closer than she thought—the living room was only so big—or she’d never have let loose with that confession. As soon as the words were out and she saw me lift my eyebrows—even before I glanced right and then left—in that exact second, she got it, what she’d said, and she lifted her hand to her mouth, covering it, as though that could possibly help.

  Odell gasped from behind me. “Wait. What?”

  I turned to look at him, and him at me. I saw new anguish there, along with betrayal and so much anger.

  “He fuckin’ should’ve said.”

  But Ian felt like the thought itself was enough to be punished for. He’d planned on seducing his brother’s wife, and the guilt over that, to him, was the same as carrying out the act. I knew him, knew how his mind worked, and that was the reason for his silence and the acceptance of the judgment passed.

  At the same time, though, when he got back, he was purged of the sin and left their company without a backward glance. That too was Ian. Once you were square, he was vapor, and there was no more talking after that. Had Eddie Laird not died, he would have never seen these men again. They were all still carrying him with them, still burdened with their guilt. But to Ian the debt was settled, and he never gave any of them a second thought. As I took in the faces of the men around me, all looking shell-shocked and pained, knowing what they were party to—especially Delaney, who sank into the closest chair to him—I had a moment of peace. I loved closure, and I was thinking Eddie Laird did too.

  “Let’s go,” Ian called from the front door, refocusing my attention on him and off the stunned crowd around me before he slipped out.

  The four other marshals and I went and hugged and kissed Rose and Janice before we left and were standing outside together on the front porch moments later. Ian was there, taking deep breaths, smiling.

  “You all right?” I asked, joining him a few steps away from the others.

  “Yeah.”

  “Feeling vindicated?”

  He shook his head. “No. I did a shitty thing, but I paid for it.”

  I moved closer to him. “We’re gonna need to talk about everything.”

  His grunt was more of a groan.

  “I know how much you love that, but I need to know.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk, then you.”

  “Me?”

  He motioned with his finger to include all of my face. “Cochran.”

  “Right. It’s a deal,” I said hoarsely, because listening to Ian recount horrors perpetrated on him always turned me inside out.

  “It was years ago,” he whispered, kissing the side of my neck. It was a favorite spot because he liked the feel of my skin and the scent. “Keep it in mind.”

  “It won’t help,” I said, putting a hand on the side of his face, holding him there.

  Turning his head, he kissed my palm and then leaned back. “I love you too, M,” he muttered as the guys crowded around us. “Okay, so, I’ve got to go to the office before we go listen to crappy music.”

  “Yes!” Ryan cheered.

  “Shit,” Dorsey groaned, letting his head fall forward.

  “I’m gonna drink a lot,” Ching announced as he thumped down the front steps. “Not even kidding, just so you guys are prepared.”

  “He’s kind of an ass when he drinks,” Becker chimed in.

  “We know!” I yelled out along with everyone else.

  Ching flipping us all off was the best thing that had happened all day.

  Chapter 9

  SHARPE AND White, two other members of our team, were on duty when the six of us made it downtown to our office in the Dirksen Federal Building. Becker and Ching went to check on a warrant they’d put out on a drug trafficker, Dorsey and Ryan got on the phone with Homeland Security on a terrorism task force inquiry, and Ian and I sat at his desk and logged in to look for Kerry Lochlyn, a guy Ian served with four years ago when he was on active duty in Afghanistan.

  “So what’s the deal with this guy?” I asked as the computer hunted for the guy through every database we had access to.

  “I dunno,” Ian said as he typed and read what came up on the screen to prompt him for more information. “I thought he came home and got help.”

  “But you didn’t know. You didn’t follow up.”

  “We weren’t friends.”

  “How long was he with you?”

  “Six months, I think.”

  “Do you remember what happened with him?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, still typing. “We were out on patrol one night and—”

  “Who was?”

  “Me, Delaney, Odell, Bates, Regan, Laird, and Lochlyn.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “He freaked out.”

  “About what?”

  Ian had to think a second. “I remember me and the other guys were talking to some locals and he just lost his shit.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “It gets scary, right? Day after day you never know who to trust, can’t tell who wants to kill you and who just
wants to mind their own business.”

  It was second nature, a reality of life for him and a terrifying possibility for me.

  “I remember he was yelling at this guy and his wife—or his mother, I don’t remember—but a little kid went over to him, and she came up behind Lochlyn, and he started screaming.”

  “Did he hurt anyone?”

  “No, because we got him outta there. Delaney took him back to base with Regan, and the rest of us stayed and finished up the patrol.”

  “So you don’t know what went on from when they left you to when Lochlyn got put on a plane for home.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Could he have been given a second chance?”

  “I think that might’ve been it already. I seem to recall him freaking out before, and Delaney let it slide.”

  “But Delaney had a choice.”

  “Sure. Keep him there with us or send him home.”

  “And so he went home.”

  “Yeah. I mean, he had a meltdown; it wasn’t something he was going to get over so Delaney made the call.”

  “Did he have to?”

  He turned in his chair to look at me. “These are people’s lives at stake, M. Lochlyn’s carrying a big-ass gun and walking through towns with kids and old people. What if his paranoia got the better of him and he killed someone?”

  “But what if all he needed was a little help?”

  “No, it was more than that. You get to a place where you can tell the guys who are gonna make it. He wasn’t, and Delaney knew it too.”

  “Did you ever see him again after that night?”

  Ian was quiet a second. “No. I never did.”

  “So it’s very possible that if this guy, Lochlyn, had a hard time when he got home and blames Delaney for sending him, that he also blames you for not sticking up for him.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he agreed with a grimace.

  “What?”

  He glanced at me. “That’s kind of a stretch, isn’t it?”

  “How?”

  “Delaney sent Lochlyn home, and now he’s out to get us?”

  “You said he was unstable.”

  “Yeah, but once he got back here to the world, maybe everything righted itself.”

  “Or not,” I said, playing devil’s advocate. “And if he never saw you again, he would assume that you’re still in that unit.”

  “Probably.”

  “You’re not buying it.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lots of guys have a hard time over there, and I’d say most of them come home and get help.”

  “But you don’t know what he came home to.”

  “No, I don’t, and—shit,” he growled before leaning back in the chair and gesturing at the screen. “This certainly isn’t helping.”

  I checked the screen myself and saw that according to our database—not only the same one the bureau and Homeland Security used, but also our own warrant information network—Kerry Lochlyn was nowhere to be found.

  “He refused treatment and was discharged, and that’s the last record we have.”

  “Look, though,” I said, pointing at the address. “His folks live in Trenton.” Turning in my chair, I yelled for Sharpe.

  “Jesus, I’m right here,” he snapped.

  I ignored his tone. “Hey, remember when you went to Jersey to pick up what’s-his-name—the cat burglar who saw the mob hit….” I had to think. “Tommy something?”

  “Timmy,” he corrected me. “Timmy Halligan. Yeah, why? What about him?”

  “You worked with a couple guys you said would fit right in with us, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember the guys, but”—he turned to White—“what were their names?”

  “Kramer and Greenberg,” White supplied.

  “Yeah,” he said and then looked back at me. “Why?”

  “Ian needs them to make a home visit.”

  “Send it over here and I’ll call ’em.”

  Swiveling around, I was faced with a glower. “What?”

  “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to mix military business and marshal business.”

  “If this guy is gonna try and hurt you, then it’s all the same,” I assured him.

  “I don’t think so, and Kage probably wouldn’t want us wasting company resources on—”

  “Let’s see,” I said, standing up.

  “Miro,” Ian snapped irritably, trying to grab me and pull me back down into my chair. “Just shut—”

  “Men,” I called out to the room. “Listen up.”

  I had everyone’s attention.

  “Who thinks Ian and I should check out a guy who may or may not have a vendetta against Ian’s old team from when he was a Ranger and who might then want to kill him?”

  It took a few moments for my words to sink in.

  “Is this a trick question?” Becker asked.

  I arched an eyebrow for Ian.

  “I’m calling now,” Sharpe let me know.

  “Sit the fuck down,” Ian grumbled.

  It was fun being right.

  CHING WANTED Greek food, so the six of us headed over to The Parthenon on Halstead to get our saganaki on. We all ate a bit at the house after the funeral, but not big full plates, so eating so soon was not a problem. We were caravanning to Hyde Park. Becker and Ching were leading in their car, and Ian, Ryan, Dorsey, and I were following in the tricked-out Hummer they had been assigned. It was one of the things we did, driving cars seized in drug raids and awaiting auction.

  “This is nice,” I said, wiggling in my leather seat. “We should carpool somewhere else before this baby gets sold.”

  “We could seriously help SWAT out in this thing.” Ryan snickered. “I feel like people should get the fuck out of my way… in… traffic….”

  “What’s wrong?” Dorsey asked, able to read Ryan’s voice just as I could Ian’s.

  “The fuck is going on up there?”

  Ian and I leaned forward, and the four of us watched as, on the other side of the street, through the light we were now stuck at, Becker and Ching were stopped.

  A police cruiser was sitting behind them, and as we waited for the red to change to green, another cruiser roared up and parked behind the first one while still another slid into the spot in front of Becker and Ching.

  “What the hell?” Dorsey asked as we saw the four uniformed officers all draw their weapons and aim them at the interior of the car.

  “Oh fuck, no,” Ian roared as the light changed colors.

  Things happened fast.

  Ryan gunned the motor, and we were there behind the last cruiser, coming to a screeching halt that couldn’t be helped with how close we were and how fast we moved. We all got out at the same time and jogged toward the scene.

  The shouting was immediate as I heard sirens in the distance.

  “Stop where you are!”

  “Those are federal marshals!” Dorsey shouted back. “The hell are you doing?!”

  There were more cops in minutes, but by then, the four of us were around Becker and Ching’s car, all with our hands up but not giving up our weapons—if we in fact had them, which we did, but they couldn’t see under our coats—and certainly not getting on our knees. The cops hadn’t shot at us, luckily, and we hadn’t stopped, stubbornly, but that was as good as it was going to get. Already, that fast, things had escalated. It was scary and really, it had to look odd, four men standing around a car while six officers held guns on us and no one backed down or away, everyone just static. As the first news helicopter flew over us, I thought it was time for the officers to rethink their position.

  “You’re drawing down on six federal marshals,” Ryan informed the cops even as others joined them. “Do you want to maybe look at some ID at this point?”

  “The man in the car refused to get out,” one of the officers responded in a near shout.

  “No, I said I would get out and I agreed to comply, but
I also wanted to show you my badge.” Becker corrected from inside the car. “I was taking off my seatbelt and pulling my ID when the first officer drew his weapon instead of waiting.”

  “Why the hell would he need to get out?” I asked, moving to the driver’s side window so he no longer had a clear shot at Becker.

  “Don’t move!” the cop warned me.

  “Miro, stop!” Ian ordered, and I heard the edge of fear in his voice.

  “You need to put down your weapons,” Dorsey bellowed at the cops. “We’re federal marshals, you asshole!”

  But the cops weren’t buying it—as they shouldn’t have, without ID—but wouldn’t let any of us reach into our coats. Since we weren’t about to let them take Becker or Ching out of the car, we were at a standstill.

  It felt like we stood there for hours, with more helicopters and more policemen, and of course the crowd that formed. And it didn’t need to be any of those things, but as far as I could tell, Becker and Ching had gotten pulled over for no other reason than Becker being black.

  Ching was livid. I could hear him swearing. Both he and Becker still had their hands on the dashboard, but with the four of us around the car, the cops couldn’t even see inside anymore.

  “I’m still convinced that not all of these guys are racist or stupid,” Becker said from beside me as I was standing at his window. “I just think that a few of them who perform these stop-and-frisk searches are, and they’re the ones who end up looking like fuckups on the nightly news.”

  “Or do worse than look stupid,” I said angrily.

  “Yes,” he agreed solemnly.

  “And if they weren’t racist, they wouldn’t be targeting African-Americans,” I griped, squatting down beside the window so I could look him in the eye.

  “Shit, stop moving,” he cautioned as there was a barrage of yelling behind me.

  “Miro, freeze!” Ian demanded from the other side of the car.

  “They’re not gonna shoot me,” I assured him before refocusing on Becker. “Tell him they’re not gonna shoot me.”

  “I can’t say that with any real conviction,” Becker replied. “The only reason they didn’t shoot me and Wes was because four white men surrounded the car.”

  “I don’t believe that.”