Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

by Unknown

  Sheldon said it at almost exactly the same time, via the camera and microphone. “I don’t trust him. Look, I’m going to take the car, and I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to go and pick up some new clothes, in case the ones I’m wearing are somehow tagged, and then I’m going to shower and change.” He paused, then added, “Aaron, I’m so sorry for … everything. I love you.”

  And with that he, too, was out the door.

  “What do we do now? Intercept him or …?”

  Francine looked up to find that Martell was looking at her to answer his question, not Deb.

  Of course, Rory chose that exact moment to wake up and start to cry.

  Aaron immediately headed toward the bedroom, but was stopped by the sound of a car pulling off the road and into the gravel parking lot. And sure enough, the surveillance cameras here at Zebra—there was one out front, one out back of this building—picked up the blurry image of a car. A four-door sedan. Older model. With what looked like two people in the front seat.

  “That’s not Yashi,” Deb said. She’d already drawn her handgun. “Couldn’t be. Not yet.”

  Francine reached for her weapon, too, checking to make sure she was locked and loaded.

  “Ian’s still not answering the burner phone,” Martell reported. “I’d think he’d call to warn us, if it was him.”

  “He might’ve had to ditch the phone.” Aaron held out his weapon to the former police detective, before swiftly going to quiet the baby.

  Outside, the car stopped directly under the security cam, as if on purpose. And the driver opened the door and …

  “What the hell?” Martell put voice to what they all were thinking.

  “It’s Ian,” Francie called to Aaron. “It’s okay. We’re good.”

  Martell didn’t sound sure about that. “What the hell …?”

  Ian was naked, save for some kind of … something beachy-looking that he modestly used as a fig-leaf substitute, which was a very non-Ian thing to do.

  Still, as Ian looked up at the camera, he signaled that everything was okay—something he’d never have done if he were under duress. Francine knew for a fact that he’d die before putting them in danger.

  A woman was with him, and Francie leaned closer to the monitor to get a better look at what had to be Phoebe—who may or may not have been working for Davio Dellarosa.

  She was tall, with thick, wavy hair that spilled down around her T-shirt clad shoulders. But that was all she was wearing. Her long legs and her feet were bare. She clutched a similar beachy-something to her generous bosom. Light bounced off the lenses of a pair of intentionally nerdly glasses that kept Francie from clearly seeing her face. Was she pretty? Francie couldn’t tell, but the way Ian looked at the woman was certainly interesting.

  Martell had moved over to the door, but he hadn’t opened it, and Francine realized he was looking at her, waiting for her go-ahead.

  So she gave it. “Let them in,” she said as she went to the supply lockup to find Ian a pair of pants.

  * * *

  Ian had promised Phoebe that there would be clothing for them to put on at this place he called “Contact Point Zebra,” and indeed there was.

  Jeans—again too big, but she wasn’t complaining—and an overshirt that was too warm but at least helped hide the fact that she was without a bra.

  Ian’s brother Aaron, along with Martell and the goth-costumed FBI agent named Deb, had been joined by what was possibly the cutest baby in the world, and a petite blue-eyed blonde who looked simultaneously kickass and gorgeous, as if she were ready to join the cast of whatever postapocalyptic show was currently popular on TV. She was stunningly beautiful but fiercely makeup-free, and had long, glistening hair that didn’t require much besides a rubber band to keep it sleekly controlled. She wore hiphugging jeans and a tank top that showed off the svelte muscles in her arms, and clunky, jungle-worthy boots on her feet.

  Upon welcoming them inside a cozy and well-equipped two-bedroom apartment, the blonde had greeted Ian with a kiss on the mouth and a slap on his bare butt, which had made him laugh.

  Introductions were quickly made—as she’d guessed, the blonde was Sheldon’s sister Francine—but Phoebe focused on pulling on the clothes that Martell handed her, and thus didn’t have to directly face the woman’s challenging, proprietary, I’m the only one here who gets to slap Ian’s bare butt glare.

  Everyone was talking to Ian at once.

  Francine: “So what the hell happened?”

  Ian: “Long story. Short version, bottom line: we survived an encounter with Davio’s goon squad.”

  Francine: “Or you brought one of his crack hoes back here, with you.” And yes, that was a hostile look she was aiming at Phoebe.

  And Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She laughed as the conversation swirled around her. She’d been called a lot of things in her life, but crack ho was a new one.

  Ian (to Francine): “Don’t be stupid. Any word from Shel?”

  Aaron: “He’s safe, no thanks to you. Effin’ Berto got him away from Davio.”

  Francine: “We sent them to the safe house, where Berto just left Shelly. He walked away, leaving Shel his car. We have surveillance tape of their conversation. You’ll want to see it.”

  Ian (to Francine): “You know Berto best. Is this a trap?”

  Francine: “I don’t think so. No.”

  Aaron: “I wanna go pick him up. I think he’ll be at the Y, showering and changing his clothes.” He had to be talking about his husband, Sheldon, not Berto.

  Martell: “After you catch your breath, Dunn, I want to talk about your previous contact with the man known as the Dutchman.”

  Ian (to Aaron, ignoring Martell): “Yeah, no, you’re not going anywhere.” (to Francine) “You’re certain Zebra’s secure?”

  Francine: “So far.”

  Aaron: “So, what? I’m supposed to just wait here?”

  Ian (to Francine): “No one followed you out here? You’re sure about that?”

  Francine: “Absolutely.”

  Aaron: “While you send, who? Deb? Shel’s never met her. That’s not gonna go well. He’ll think she works for Davio.”

  Deb: “No, I’m not leaving. Not when Dunn just got back here. Nuh-uh. At the very least I need to be part of that conversation about the Dutchman.”

  Ian (over Deb): “Will someone please get Phoebe some water? And something to eat while you’re at it …?”

  Martell: “There’re cold cuts for sandwiches in the kitchen. And breakfast cereal and milk, some fresh fruit …”

  Francine (over Martell): “We got one more federal agent, guy named Yashi, had to go up to Tampa. Since we left the safe house, we’ve been communicating with him through a scrambled connection. He doesn’t know where we are.”

  Martell (over Francine as he handed Phoebe a bottle of water): “And some kind of microwavable meals in the freezer …”

  Phoebe said, “Thanks.”

  Deb: “But we’re going to have to give Yashi our location. He’s part of this op, and you’re seriously undermanned. May I remind you that the agreement we made was that the rescue mission would start as soon as Sheldon was free. And he appears to be free.”

  Francine: “Appears isn’t good enough.”

  Aaron: “The deal was that we get him back. He’s not back.”

  Ian was now fully dressed—he’d had boots in his extra-large size waiting for him in this little apartment’s copious and well-stocked closets. He held up one hand, even as he took a long drink from a bottle of water that Martell had given to him as well.

  It was actually kind of amazing that he’d followed all of that. He not only had, but was more than ready to take over in his role of commander.

  “Aaron’s right,” Ian told Deb. “The deal was that we get Shel back, and he’s not back. Not yet.” He looked at Aaron. “But you’re not going anywhere. Francine’ll pick him up.” He turned his focus to Francine, ignoring Aaron’s outraged sputtering of di
ssent. “After you apologize to Phoebe for calling her a crack whore. I’m gonna need a new phone, so make sure you have that new number, because I want a call as soon as Shel is secured.”

  Francine rolled her eyes at the idea of an apology to anyone, but grimly nodded.

  “Oh, and don’t hate me too much, France—I realize that’s an impossibility—but I want someone riding shotgun. Eyes open wide, because I don’t trust Berto.” Ian turned to Martell. “And it looks like France’s wingman is going to be you, because here’s all you need to know about the Dutchman: He’s a douchebag—a very dangerous one—but he likes me. He thinks I saved his life a few years back.” Now he ignored Martell and Francine, both bristling for different reasons as he turned back to Deb. “What I need from you is the complete intel from the team that’s watching the Miami consulate, where these missing kids are allegedly being held.”

  “Not allegedly,” Deb interjected.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll need proof of that. I also want all the info available on everyone involved—not just the kids and the captors and every staff member working at the consulate, but on the mother and father, too. And when I say complete, I mean complete. I want to know everything. No surprises. But first, before you hit me with video footage and e-files, I want a sandwich—and I need to meet my nephew.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “Do it,” Ian ordered. “Now.”

  Francine was the first to put herself into motion. She stomped past Phoebe, muttering a very insincere “Sorry,” as she headed for the closets to grab that new phone Ian had demanded.

  Martell followed. “I’ma need firepower if I’m truly riding shotgun,” he said to Francine.

  Deb, too, faded back toward a simple wooden table, where a computer had been set up, her phone to her ear.

  And that left Ian, Aaron, Rory, and Phoebe.

  Ian turned to his brother, who was holding that candidate for world’s cutest baby, and held out his hands. “May I?”

  Phoebe realized that Ian hadn’t asked his question of Aaron, but instead had been talking directly to the baby, who gave his answer with a drool-filled smile.

  As Phoebe watched she tried to move back and away, suddenly hyperaware that she was witnessing something that should’ve been private. But this place was so small, there was really nowhere for her to go as Rory went easily into Ian’s arms.

  “Hey, buddy,” he whispered with an expression on his face that, on any other man, she would have described as awe. “Wow, you are a big guy, aren’t you? I’m your Uncle Eee. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

  Ian laughed as the baby reached for him—maybe for his hair or his nose—and ended up smacking him in the face. “Why am I not surprised that he packs a punch,” he told his brother, who had clearly forgotten his own anger for a moment, as he smiled, too.

  It was then that Ian glanced over at Phoebe. And the smile he gave her was a mix of amusement and embarrassment, probably because he was unable to hide his absolute, softhearted, fully human pleasure.

  And idiot that she was, that shared smile—probably because it was accessorized by that very, very cute baby who looked completely at home in his massive arms—made her stomach go into freefall and her treacherous heart skip a beat.

  God help her.

  “Maybe you should at least pretend that you’re not already madly in love with him.”

  Phoebe looked up to find Francine standing beside her, holding out a cell phone with unconcealed hostility.

  “Give this to Eee for me,” the blond woman continued. “I’ve got the number and I’ll call him when I connect with Shel.” She started for the door, but then stopped. “It’s locked with his usual code, so you can’t use it to call out,” she added. “So don’t bother trying. And for the love of Christ, don’t sneak away again. You know, you really fucked things up before by leaving the way you did.”

  The nasty-ass attitude had gone on long enough. Phoebe got up in Francine’s face to say, “It was a mistake, and I apologize. I won’t make it again, so you can stop with the hating. FYI, I’m not a threat—of any kind.”

  Francine blinked her surprise, apparently unused to being challenged, but then she laughed. “Is it possible that you’re really that stupid?” she asked, leaving Phoebe no chance to retort because she swept out of the apartment.

  Martell followed her, shooting Phoebe a what the hell have we gotten ourselves into look before he closed the door behind him.

  Still on the phone, Deb drifted across the room like a goth-flavored ghost, and locked the many deadbolts on that door.

  Meanwhile, Ian remained enthralled by Rory. “I have heard a lot about you,” he told the little boy, as Phoebe tried her best not to watch.

  But it was right then that Aaron’s smile vanished. “Have you really?” he asked his older brother, instantly antagonistic again.

  Phoebe tried to be as invisible as Deb as she headed for the corner of the room that was set up as the kitchen. She opened the cabinets and found several loaves of bread and a package of deli rolls.

  But Aaron didn’t lower his voice, so it was impossible not to overhear him as Phoebe found a plate and opened the refrigerator, searching for the cold cuts. “Because none of whatever you heard came from me.” He was trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, for Rory’s sake.

  Still, a quick glance in their direction was all it took to know that the baby was thinking about crying.

  “Apparently it was decided that I should be left in the dark, as clueless as Rory, as to what the hell was going on with you,” Aaron continued. He took Rory from Ian’s arms as Phoebe found the sliced turkey and Swiss cheese. There was mustard in the fridge door. She set it all out on the counter as he took a deep breath. “Apparently I’m—What was the reasoning, Eee? I’m unable to keep a secret, or not worthy of knowing the details or—What? I’m dying to know.”

  Ian sighed. “Look, Air, I had to keep it from you. It was hard enough to do, without having to face your anger and disappointment.” He aimed his next words at Phoebe. “Leave that out for me, okay?”

  She looked up at him. “Oh. Sure. You want me to make you one?”

  “No. Thank you. I’ll do it.”

  Rory was clearly on the verge of howling, but Aaron held him close. “It’s okay, little man,” he murmured as he rocked the boy. “Daddy’s not mad at you. Daddy’s not even really mad. I’m just …” His exhale came out sounding a little too much like a sob as he rather obviously did his best not to cry, too. “Really, really upset with Uncle Eee.”

  “See, I knew you’d be upset,” Ian said.

  “You should have told me before you made the deal with Manny,” Aaron whispered. It was clear that his two choices for volume were whisper or shout. “Because Jesus, eighteen months in prison, Eee? That is not okay. I would’ve vetoed it. I would’ve chosen another way entirely.”

  “What other way?” Ian asked almost gently. “Running and hiding, and running again?” He shook his head. “I want you to have a life.”

  “And I want you to have one, too,” Aaron countered.

  Ian didn’t back down. He didn’t even blink. He just stood there, gazing at his brother. “Do I look like I’m unhappy?”

  Aaron didn’t hesitate. “Hell yeah.”

  “Well, look again, little brother, because I’m not.”

  “Not unhappy,” Aaron repeated. “That’s great, Eee. That’s something to really strive for. To be not unhappy. Brav-fucking-o.”

  He walked away, taking Rory into one of the bedrooms, where he closed the door behind him, almost impossibly quietly.

  Ian watched him go, then looked back at Phoebe.

  Making choices for others seems to be a chronic problem for you. Things not to say, at least not out loud.

  Instead, as he came over and reached into the bread bag to build his own sandwich on the plate she’d gotten out for him, she said, “If you want, I can talk to Deb and set up full immunity for you, so that
you can share what you know about the Dutchman with the feds without fear of repercussion.”

  Ian laughed as he helped himself to the rest of the sliced turkey, piling it onto the bread in a single thick slab. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re protected,” she said. “We can set the fact-gathering session up like a deposition. Cut and dried. Just you, me, Deb, Martell—”

  “Nope.” He reached across her for the mustard, forcefully squeezing a small mountain onto the turkey.

  “Oooh-kay,” she said. “I can make arrangements for Georg Vanderzee to receive immunity as well, if he’s a friend of yours—”

  Ian put the plastic bottle of mustard onto the counter with a bang as he turned to face her. “What part of The Dutchman’s a dangerous douchebag implied that he’s any kind of friend?”

  Phoebe refused to back down even though he was standing much too close. “Important business contact, then.”

  “Yeah, he’s not that, either.”

  And there they stood, face to face, eye to eye. And there it was again, that shifting-earth-beneath-her-feet sensation.

  There hadn’t been much conversation in the car on the ride over here. Ian had been deep in thought, and Phoebe had found herself lulled by the sound of the tires on the road, and to her amazement, she’d actually dozed off.

  She was still exhausted, and she longed for the comfort of her own bed.

  Which was probably being carted out of her condo by looters and thieves, right this very moment. Still, that thought wasn’t as awful as the realization that had dawned when Sheldon’s perfect blond sister had slapped a very possessive hand against Ian’s bare butt.

  It was more than obvious that Ian was not romantically involved with Francine. But Francine surely wanted them to be.

  And even though, just a few short hours ago, Phoebe had recited the friends speech to Ian, the sight of Francine kissing him had sent a roiling wave of emotion coursing through her.

  She was jealous.

  And stupid.

  Because even though she didn’t want the complications that came from kissing Ian Dunn, she didn’t want anyone else kissing him, either.