by Unknown
“Stay with him,” Deb ordered Martell, who aimed his weapon at Ian, as she ran toward the back of the consulate, shouting, “FBI! We have a possible intruder! I need everyone hands out, down on the floor, for your own safety!”
Yashi followed Deb, and Francine was ready to go, right behind him, when she heard it.
They all heard it.
Sharp. Loud. Unmistakable. Coming from the back of the consulate.
A single gunshot.
Francine looked over at Ian, and the look on his face was terrible.
Berto came up behind her. “Jesus,” he said. “Was that …?”
“I think so,” Francine said.
* * *
Ian lost it.
Or maybe he found it.
All he knew, when he heard that gunshot, was that enough was enough. He needed to know if Phoebe was dead.
No way was he going to lie on the floor and wait for Deb to return and give him the news that he was a single fucking minute too late.
But Martell was not the only one who was standing there with his weapon trained on him. Other FBI agents—women and men who didn’t know Ian from Adam—had come in and were trying to figure out what-the-fuck.
So when Ian pushed himself up off the floor, there was a lot of yelling and posturing. “Get down, get back down! Right now, right fucking now!”
Ian kept his hands up, but really, the only reason that he wasn’t instantly shot was due to the fact that Martell and Francine and Aaron and Sheldon, and even Berto—where had he come from?—were there, surrounding him. Protecting him.
But even that didn’t really matter. Let them fucking shoot him.
Ian moved, down the hall, faster and faster, still surrounded by his team, which was surrounded by the FBI and the K-stani guards. Everyone was shouting—everyone but Ian.
The hallway turned to the left, and he remembered Shel telling him that Phoebe was in the room at the very end.
There was a man on the floor—it was Vanderzee’s guard Hitler Junior. He was on his stomach and his hands were on his head. Yashi was kneeling on his back, cuffing him, and saying something, but Ian couldn’t hear him over the yelling that surrounded him.
“If you’re going to shoot me, then just fucking shoot me and get it over with!” Ian roared, louder than all of them, and it stunned them into silence as he pushed open the door, where, Jesus, Deb was kneeling next to a bloody body. God, she was covering the face with a jacket or a sweater, but it wasn’t a woman, it wasn’t …
Phoebe …?
Phoebe was sitting up a few yards away, eyes open, alive.
Ian ran to her, which started the yelling all over again, but this time, he let Deb shout over it. “It’s all right! It’s all right! He’s my prisoner, he’s in my custody, will everyone just step back, into the hall! Move it, now, move!”
As Ian hit the floor, Phoebe reached for him, and then, God, she was in his arms.
“I got here as fast as I could,” he told her, even as she said, “I kind of killed Georg, but that’s okay, right, because he was going to kill me? He was choking me, and his gun was right there, and I guess he didn’t realize that I’d gotten my hands free.”
“You did great,” he told her, as he held her face between his hands, as he realized what that gunshot had been. She’d killed the Dutchman.
And she was really all right. Her voice was raspy and her throat sounded sore. Her lip was bleeding and swollen, and God, her neck was abraded, as if she’d been throttled—which she had. She had a scratch—a deep one—on the part of her chest exposed by the plunging neckline of her shirt, and he could tell from the way she winced that the son of a bitch had bruised if not broken at least one of her ribs.
But she was alive.
“Deb said we saved the kids,” she said as her eyes brimmed with tears.
“We did,” he told her as he felt his do the same.
“Ian, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t’ve gone with him, in his car, but … I had to.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s okay.”
“Was anyone hurt?” she asked.
Ian shook his head. “Just you.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “Although that motherfucker lost my glasses.”
Ian laughed. And he probably shouldn’t have kissed her, but he did. He hated the idea of hurting her poor battered mouth, but he couldn’t not do it, and she didn’t seem to mind as she passionately kissed him back.
And the emotion that filled him was soul-shaking. Ian felt his chest tighten and he struggled to breathe. And when he pulled back to look at her, he couldn’t speak. Instead he just rested his forehead against hers as this time she held his face, her fingers cool against him, soothing in his hair.
But he had to tell her, and in a voice that was embarrassingly shaky, Ian said, “You didn’t believe me when I said it, but it’s true.” He lifted his head to look into her eyes. “I love you. Madly. Passionately. Deeply. Honestly—”
Phoebe smiled then, cutting him off with “I know.”
Ian laughed again, but before he could get in her face about her Han Solo imitation, Deb was back, contrite and overwhelmed.
“Ian, I’m sorry. If we’re going to get away with this whole charade, I really do need to get you cuffed, and bring you in.”
Ian nodded and looked back at Phoebe. “I think I’m gonna need a good lawyer,” he said.
Phoebe nodded. “And a shirt,” she said. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’m thinking you might also want a shirt.”
As Ian put his hands behind his back so Deb could do the honors and perp-walk him out of there, Phoebe made him smile.
“I’ll bring you one,” she said. “When I come to bail you out.”
“Thanks,” he said.
She smiled tremulously back at him, and said what he really wanted to hear: “Ian, I love you, too.”
Aaron and Shel were sitting on the trunk of Martell’s car, parked in by the emergency vehicles that surrounded the consulate, when Berto found them.
“Hey,” he said.
Aaron looked at Shelly for direction. Did he or didn’t he want to talk to his half brother?
But Shel said, “Hey,” back, and then, “Thanks for helping. That was above and beyond.”
“Yeah, well.” Berto shrugged. “Francine called, so …”
“We owe you a truck,” Shel said.
Yes. Right. The truck that they’d blown sky high had been Berto’s. Both cab and trailer. “That might take us a little bit of time to pay back,” Aaron said.
“Forget about it,” Berto said. “It was insured. What?” he added, no doubt because Aaron had looked surprised. “You didn’t think I had insurance? Most of the business I do is legitimate. I’m not my fucking father.” He sighed. “Which brings us to … our fucking father. I spoke to Davio last night. He definitely killed Manny, but we’re both playing it like he didn’t. Long story short, we came to an agreement. I got him to promise to leave you the fuck alone. Zero contact. From henceforth. He did it in front of his lieutenants, so I think we can trust he’ll keep his word.” Berto laughed. “If he doesn’t, it’ll get out that his word is for shit, and believe it or not, that means something to him. So you can tell Ian that our deal’s off. There’s no need for it. He’s all paid up. You’re safe. The two of you and Rory. Ian. Francine.”
Aaron glanced at Shelly, who couldn’t quite believe it.
“Jesus,” Shel breathed. “What did you have to promise him?”
Berto laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement. “That doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t!”
“Look,” Berto said. “It was eye-opening. The past few days. Seeing you with your kid. Seeing Francine with … I fucking hate Martell, but he’s a good guy. He’s good to her and … That makes me … glad. All of it does. You’ve made a family, Shel, a good one—much better than the one you were born into.”
“What did you promise him?” Shel aske
d again.
“I pledged him my allegiance.” Berto shrugged, like it was no big deal.
“Oh, God, no,” Shel said.
“It’s okay, little brother,” Berto said, and it was clear that he meant it. “I lost everything I loved a long time ago, because I fucked things up. It was my mistake, my fault. You reap what you sow. And I really love that you’re reaping some really good shit. Just keep doing that, okay? And I’ll be fine.”
He held out his hand to Aaron, and Aaron took it and shook. He did the same with Shel, but then pulled him down off the car and into a rough embrace.
“Take care of yourselves,” Berto said, and walked away.
Sheldon looked stunned, and Aaron grabbed his hand, pulled him back up onto Martell’s car. He kept their fingers interwoven—which was not something they usually did in this part of Miami. But it had been one hell of a day.
“Am I wrong to just let him go?” Shel asked when he finally spoke.
“No,” Aaron said.
“Do you know what this means? With your name cleared and Davio no longer hunting us?” Shelly answered for him. “We get to be normal.”
Aaron smiled at that. “As normal as we can be, considering. I’m pretty sure, knowing Ian, that he’s going to want to get the business up and running again. I mean, now that he doesn’t have to go back to jail.”
Shel nodded, so seriously. “We’ll need a nanny. And the company HQ is our house, so Rory can be around—to make up for when we’re out of town.”
“We’ll need a general contractor to fix the house.”
“And a dog,” Shel said, and when Aaron looked into his eyes, he could see their entire beautiful future stretching out in front of them.
“Two dogs,” Aaron said.
Shelly smiled and kissed him. “Works for me.”
* * *
Martell lingered outside of the FBI’s temporary command post, just down the street from the K-stani consulate.
Deb had been talking to the locals, who’d been staking out the consulate ever since those kids had gone missing. But she’d just gotten a phone call from someone very high up the ladder, possibly even the head of DHS, and she was being all Yes, sir, and Thank you, sir, and Just doing my job, sir.
Martell was tempted to snatch the phone from her fingers and say, “Give this woman a promotion, bitches!” But he suspected she wouldn’t appreciate that.
Ian had been taken downtown—Yashi had been assigned to babysit him, making sure he didn’t accidentally get shipped to non-Faux-Cuba.
Martell had overheard that Deb was getting ready to escort Phoebe first to the hospital for a quick nearly-got-your-ass-killed medical check, and then to her condo to find her spare glasses before they joined Ian at FBI HQ.
As Deb finally got off the phone, Martell caught her eye, and she came toward him with a smile.
“Good job today,” she said, even as he said, “You did a really great job today.”
Then they both said, “Thanks,” like a pair of fools in seventh grade.
Martell added, “I just wanted to make sure I got a chance to say that, before I headed back to Sarasota, and you went … wherever you’re going next.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah. I don’t know. Probably back to Boston. Or D.C. I guess it depends on where they need me.”
“Well,” Martell said. “If you ever need cheap backup, or, you know, someone to wear a kilt who doesn’t look like a Catholic school–girl—” Ah, Christ, had he really just said that? Could he sound any more stupid? “—you know where to find me.”
She laughed, because what else was she going to do? Shout Wow, you’re a loser, and then run away, screaming?
And then, probably because he figured he couldn’t embarrass himself any further, Martell said, “I can’t stop wondering. About that situation. The other night. On the yacht. To keep the Dutchman from seeing the sunrise. Would you have really dot dot dot?”
And now she was looking at him as if he was a maroon. An offensive one, to boot.
When she spoke it was with some serious indignation. “You did. You’re seriously going to judge me for the same exact thing that—”
“Whoa,” Martell said over her, as soon as he realized where she was going. Holy shit. “Wait. No! You seriously think—”
They did the saying-the-same-thing-at-the-exact-same-time thing again, with Deb saying, “—you did with Francine?” as Martell said, “that Francine and I—”
He soloed on the ending: “—hooked up? Because we didn’t. That was just, you know. An act. Pretend. To fool Berto. That’s all it was. Really. And apparently you got fooled, too. But we didn’t, you know. Hook up. I mean, even if she wanted to, I wouldn’t have. Because. She’s seriously damaged. And that’s just not okay to take advantage of.”
Deb chewed her lip as she gazed back at him, and then said, “Well, I guess you’re better than me.”
“Okay, whoa,” Martell said. “That was not what I was implying—”
But now someone was calling her from the command post, which she pointed to with her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s really all right,” she said. “And I gotta …” She turned to leave, but then she turned back. “In case I don’t get to see you before you go …” She held out her hand to him.
He took it. Was she really saying good-bye with a handshake?
Yes, she was.
And just like that, she was gone.
“Fuck,” Martell said, and turned around to find who else standing just outside of his peripheral vision but Francine. Who’d kissed him like she’d meant it, just a short time ago. “Shit. Hi. Hey.”
“Yeah,” she said, and he instantly knew that she’d heard what he’d said to Deb. Damaged. “Look, I was thinking about … the whole dinner thing, and … it’s probably not a good idea.”
“Oh,” he said, and now, stupid him, he was disappointed. “What?”
“Yeah,” Francine said again. “Bad … timing. For me. And … I’m heading out. Aarie and Shel and I are going downtown, to make sure Eee’s okay, but, um, I just wanted to say … Thanks again for being so great.”
And then she, too, turned and walked away, leaving him close to where he’d started. A guy with a piece of shit for a car. Wondering what the fuck had just happened.
Martell got in, started the engine, and took out his phone and gave his friend Ric a call. It went to voice mail, so he left a message: “Hey, I got your message. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’m heading for home—I’ll stop by the hospital to see you tomorrow, and tell you the whole crazy story.”
As he pulled away from the curb, he adjusted his sun visor, and a manila envelope fell into his lap, so he braked to a stop.
Holy shit.
It was the twenty K that Ian had given to Vanderzee as a fake finder’s fee. Someone had found it, either on his person or in his car or somewhere in the consulate. They’d written on the outside, For your POS replacement fund and/or your nephew. And they’d drawn a smiley face.
Martell didn’t know it for sure, but he suspected that handwriting was Francine’s.
And as he drove away, he smiled, because he knew he couldn’t keep it.
* * *
Ian was sitting in the interview room at Miami’s FBI headquarters when Phoebe arrived.
He did a double take when he saw her, because she’d decided that as long as she was going home, she’d take a shower. And as long as she was clean, she’d change her clothes. And as long as she was coming here in her official status as his lawyer, she’d put on a suit and wear heels.
Ever since she’d passed the bar, Phoebe had learned that lawyers who dressed down didn’t get the same respect as those who dressed up. It shouldn’t’ve been that way, but there it was.
Truth be told, she’d considered wearing what she thought of as her sexy lawyer outfit, which had a skirt that ended well above her knees. One of which was still skinned and raw. The other sported a bruise that might’ve passed for a tattoo of an oddly
shaped turtle, but probably not.
So she’d covered her legs with pants, and settled for higher than usual heels.
As she went into the room, she handed Ian the T-shirt that she’d promised to bring—Aaron had gotten it from the safe house when he’d gone to check on Rory.
Someone had found Ian a shirt in the meantime, but it was a little small. Still, he kept it on, putting down the shirt she’d brought him as she headed for the chair that was on the opposite side of the table.
“Yashi’s arranging for your release,” she told him as she sat. “He’s also making sure that the government fulfills its end of the deal that you made with them. When you walk out of here, you’re free and clear. And Aaron and the others are, too.”
Ian nodded. “Good.”
“It seems they won’t require four days of high-intensity debriefs,” she said. “Particularly since that’s really not standard operating procedure.”
“Apparently not for this branch of the FBI.” He smiled at her. “Nice glasses.”
They were frameless and barely there—a contrast to her favorites with their clunky frame.
“I assume the looters left them behind,” he continued, “along with the hot lawyer outfit?”
“My apartment was in good shape,” she told him. “Someone already replaced the door and it was locked. I don’t think anything was stolen.”
“As soon as I have some time, I’ll fix your screen, too.”
When he said that, Phoebe felt a rush of relief. Part of her still didn’t quite believe he wasn’t going to simply vanish into the night after she got him released. Part of the reason she’d dressed up was because she thought it possible that his words of love had been uttered in the heat of the moment. Now that time had passed, reality would kick back in.
She’d been prepared to offer him an out. I know you really didn’t mean love-love when you said what you said.…
But now, with the way that he was smiling at her. “I gotta confess,” he said, “These are nice, but I like the other ones better. Your glasses,” he added at her blank look.
“Yes,” she said as her eyes suddenly welled with tears. “Me, too.”
