Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (18 page)

We passed several side streets and a parking lot, went up and over a six-foot chain-link fence and across a vacant area full of cigarette butts and beer bottles, and finally came to another street that we crossed to reach a three-story apartment building that looked abandoned but, the closer we got, was clearly not.

We went around the side and down a short alley to the back, where dumpsters stood shoved up against the wall. There was a small laundromat directly across from them on the left-hand side. Five men hovered near the door that led into a building, and when we got closer, Oscar pointed, like that was it: inside was where his sister was. It was fortunate they were busy talking, smoking, and drinking and didn’t notice us. The way we were standing in the shadows didn’t hurt either.

“Okay,” I told the little boy as I grabbed his shoulder, walked him around a parked car on the street, and crouched down beside him. I think he thought I was going to let him go in with me, but that was certainly not going to happen. When he tried to follow, I lifted my hand, indicating for him to stay. He nodded and then lunged at me, wrapped his arms around my neck, squeezing tight and shivering. He pointed at my gun and then at the men, and I understood. Letting him go, I rose, patted his head, and returned to Ian and the others, still standing in the shadows away from the group of men.

“And?” Ian prodded.

“Those guys are strapped.”

“Of course they are,” he said, grinning and pulling his Glock. “What else would they be?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Hewitt cautioned, putting a hand on my chest. “None of us are wearing vests. We can’t run in there. We have no idea how many there are!”

“Right,” Ian agreed before he stepped into the alley where they could see him if they noticed, arm behind his back, and began his walk toward the door.

“Call for backup,” I directed, immediately following Ian.

“Fuck,” I heard Segundo growl behind me a moment before he touched my shoulder. “You and Special Forces over there better know what you’re doing.”

I grunted to let him know I’d heard him, but I was laser focused on the men we were approaching.

Normally, we had vests on, dressed up as something else: homeless men on the street, tuxedos like we were coming from a black-tie affair, or suits if we were going as drug dealers. Whatever the op called for, we had an outfit. But no subterfuge here, because we had no good reason to be in that alley. It was really deserted, we were far from the rest of the nightlife downtown, and all the surrounding buildings were dark but for the laundromat and some stairwells.

When the first man finally saw us, he shouted at the others and they all pulled their guns fast.

It was actually pretty frightening to watch the speed with which Ian dispatched people. He shot three, and I took out one and Segundo the other.

“Holy fuck,” Segundo gasped from behind me.

Ian ran around the fallen men and stopped at one’s side. Bending quickly, he holstered his Glock, took a Heckler & Koch P30L fitted with a compensator off the body, checked his pockets for extra mags, found two, and then went to the entrance.

Ian was listening as he made sure the new gun was loaded, stuffed a mag into each of his pockets, and reached for the knob to open the door.

“Why would he take that?” Segundo whispered, tilting his head at the gun in Ian’s hand.

“Because it’s a good gun,” I replied quietly. “With the recoil compensator attached, when he shoots a lot, the barrel won’t lift like it usually does. It makes your shots more precise.”

“How many people does he plan to kill?” Segundo asked cautiously.

“Anyone who shoots at us,” I answered, following Ian in as he threw open the door and darted through the opening.

He had run right so I went left, fanning out, Segundo following me as we faced not a large space with apartments, as I’d imagined, but a hall with a stairway at the end. There were four doors, and at that moment I really hoped Hewitt had called for backup. If we were at home, any other pair from our team would have made me feel safe. It was whoever-went-through-the-door-last’s job to call Kage. Our boss always sent everyone when we called for reinforcements. I had no idea who would show up here.

I moved in beside Ian but was ready to turn and fire at anyone who came out with guns blazing.

Ian kicked in the closest door and ran through, announcing himself as he went, “Federal marshals! Everyone out!”

I stayed in the hall, covering his back, praying there was no one in the house with a shotgun or an Uzi, and he flushed a couple from that room—early twenties, Caucasian, I was guessing meth addicts from their ruined complexions of telltale blotches and sallow skin—who explained quickly that this was a flop house and nothing else.

“You see any kids here?”

The guy coughed, loud and wet. “No, man, we—”

“I think upstairs. I heard someone crying a while ago,” the woman said.

“Go back inside,” Ian ordered, and they scrambled fast to obey.

It wasn’t an apartment building at all, we discovered after we went through each of the remaining three doors, but instead an enormous house with individual rooms and connecting Jack and Jill bathrooms.

Except for that couple, the floor was vacant, so with Segundo covering us from the back, I headed for the stairs. Ian stopped me with his hand, like he would have if I was in the front seat of the car, splayed across my chest.

“What’re you—”

“Me first,” he demanded.

“Why? Did you become bulletproof and didn’t tell me?”

If looks could kill, I would have been in trouble, but as it was I got the Green Beret death stare before he turned to sprint down the hall and start up the stairs. I was right behind him, with Segundo following.

As soon as we hit the hall on the second floor, we drew gunfire.

“Fuck!” Segundo yelled as I ducked back behind the corner of the wall, then leaned out for a second so I could see where everyone was before stepping out and laying down cover fire as Ian dove through an open door, rolled to his feet, and shot whoever was in the room.

Retreating for a moment, unnerved because I couldn’t see Ian, I yelled for Segundo. “Cover me so I can cross the hall!”

“What? Where the fuck are you—”

“There,” I yelled again, pointing at the first room on the right.

He gave me a quick nod, and I rushed across the hall, hitting the door with my shoulder before exploding into the room and falling to a crouch.

Five men were inside—two armed, who immediately fired at me. They missed, having aimed too high, not anticipating the textbook maneuver we were all taught upon breach. I returned fire, dropping them both, and then faced off with the other three who were standing around a naked girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve tied to a bed.

“On your knees!” I roared, hearing gunfire around me as well as Ian’s familiar shout of “federal marshals” before the pop-pop-pop of what had to be his gun.

The men were exchanging nervous glances, deciding what to do, so to help that along, I moved closer, twisting my body just enough so I was sure they could see the star on my belt.

“Federal marshal, get on your knees,” I snarled. “Hands on your head!”

Ian had the
stare
—the scary military one that made people understand he’d seen worse and done worse and they wouldn’t live too much longer if they didn’t comply with whatever order he was giving at the time. I didn’t have that stare, but what I did have was my hard, muscular physique, and I could make myself look pretty damn intimidating. Me there with the gun in a small space, my weapon already drawn and none of them even having their hands close to their holsters became the deciding factor.

All three went to their knees as the door flew open behind them, and Ian came through, gun out, blood spray on his shirt and face and in his hair.

“Clear,” he reported even as he saw the girl.

“You got them?” I asked, moving slowly to the side of the bed.

“I do,” he responded woodenly, and I saw how scrunched up his face was, how pained. He put them on their stomachs and pulled guns off all three.

“Make sure the two I hit are down,” I ordered, not wanting them to get up and shoot at me, Ian, or the girl.

He darted over, checked for a pulse on each, and then shook his head. “They’re both gone.”

“Okay,” I sighed, resigned to what I’d had to do.

Moving to the bed, I holstered my gun and tore off my long-sleeved shirt, covered her, then unbuckled her wrists and ankles. Scrambling to get up, she clutched at me, threw her arms around my neck, and plastered herself to my T-shirt–covered chest, trembling. I felt her intake of breath, and then came the high-pitched howl of a terrified, wounded animal.

“Fuckers,” Ian swore, his voice dangerously low.

“Police!” I caught from somewhere in the house before I heard Segundo identify himself from the stairs. Then the sound of thunder, of several boots climbing before I was looking at SWAT, automatic rifles pointed at us.

“Federal marshals,” Ian said, explaining who we were, raising his ID and letting them see the star on his belt.

In that moment, I realized that was why Oscar had trusted me, why his sister would not let me go: the star. Sometimes it was nice to be reminded about the badge you wore and why being one of the good guys was so very important.

H
ER
NAME
was Sofia Guzman, and her little brother, Oscar, lost his mind when I carried her out of the building. He let out a shriek that startled everyone, crying in that way little kids did where they ended up almost heaving out sobs. I sat with them in the back of the ambulance, my arm around Sofia and Oscar holding my hand.

The EMT was a very pretty woman—Collins Bryson, long bouncy ponytail, enormous robin’s-egg blue eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose—who spoke gorgeous flowing Spanish. She asked Sofia question after question, always nodding, always soothing with her tone as she checked the scared girl over.

“She wasn’t raped,” she said gently to me, not raising her voice. “That was supposed to happen next.”

I took a shaky breath and squeezed Sofia’s shoulders.

“They were going to film that,” Bryson said with a cough, her voice trying to even out. “They filmed her naked. You should alert the others.”

But I couldn’t leave the kids, so I yelled for Segundo, who was standing with Hewitt and a couple of police officers. Ian, on the other hand, was talking to the SWAT commander, two other officers in plainclothes, I was guessing a police sergeant, and several others. He was the epicenter of the storm, and as I watched, he handed over the gun he’d used to one of the policemen, dropping it into an evidence bag along with one unused mag. He’d reloaded at some point. That was disconcerting because that meant there had to be, at a minimum, fifteen more than likely dead men in the house.

“Whose shirt is this?” Bryson asked, drawing my focus to her.

“It’s mine.”

She nodded. “I figured.”

“I tried to look for her clothes, but she just wanted out.”

“She’ll never put on those clothes again, marshal. The shirt is good.”

Sofia was, in fact, holding the collar over her nose, so I guessed whatever trace of my cologne was on the shirt smelled better than whatever else she had been forced to endure. Oscar shivered and burrowed into my side.

“They both have to be transported to the hospital, marshal,” she pronounced. “Are you riding with them?”

“Marshal Morse and I are, yes,” I responded.

“Better call him, then, because we have to go.”

“Ian!” I called, and when he turned to find me, I gestured for him.

He joined me at the ambulance in seconds.

“She wasn’t raped.”

His relief, the slight tremble, the droop of his shoulders, and the way he visibly relaxed, calmed me as well.

“They filmed her, though, so collect cell phones and find everything—any laptops, I mean, you know the drill. I hope nothing got e-mailed or… make sure they take this place down to the studs because we need to be sure there’s no video of her anywhere.”

“I’ll question the witnesses myself. I’ll find out.”

“Okay, I—”

“Do we know if these kids are illegal?” the other EMT—Treschi, his name patch read—asked Bryson. She shrugged.

“Why does it matter?” Ian flared angrily. “Either way, she has to go to the hospital. What the hell?”

“Don’t get all defensive, marshal, I’m one of the good guys,” Treschi told my partner. “There are just hospitals that care, and some that only want the bill paid and will make long-term arrangements. If the kids are illegal, we’ll pick one of those that cares.”

Ian grunted, conceding nothing. “I see. Okay.”

“You gotta know all the ins and outs.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed but still didn’t apologize. It was not his way.

“Sorry,” I offered, “we’re both new here to Phoenix.”

Treschi moved behind me to put a butterfly bandage on the cut on Oscar’s head that he had cleaned earlier, ruffling Oscar’s hair when he was done. “No, you go right ahead. After the night you guys put in, you have every right.”