Page 31 of Newly Tied

His gaze met mine, and I was surprised how dark his eyes were, how intent. “I think if someone finally got you in bed, they’d want to make things permanent.”

It took me a second to breathe. I could feel all the air leave my body as I sat there, pinned by his attention, his unwavering focus, and his nearness.

“I don’t think you should give any of your time to people you don’t really care about.”

“And you?” I ground out, my voice sounding mangled. “What about you?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, holding my gaze. “It’s time I make a change, do something different, and—wait.”

“No, I’m not gonna wait, Lang. You need to⁠—”

“Look by the bar.”

“What?”

“Could you just turn your damn head, please?”

“I have no idea what⁠—”

“Your two o’clock. Look now.”

And when I did, it took me a second, but then I saw Tobias Mosbach, who was wanted for questioning in the 2022 disappearance of Missy Regan. He was the last person the nineteen-year-old college student was seen with. There were only grainy images on surveillance footage from the apartment across the street, but Tobias and Missy had walked out of a house party together. When CPD detectives went to speak to him, he was in the wind. But now, suddenly, there he was.

Of course, he was in disguise. His blond hair was now black, the mustache was a nice touch, and he had packed on at least twenty pounds of muscle. The thing was, though, when you popped up onto the radar of the US marshals, our IT guys ran your face through software that created every disguise permutation imaginable. The dye job and bad facial hair was one of the easier ones. And no, neither my partner nor I had every fugitive committed to memory, but Missy’s disappearance had made national news, there had been an episode of Dateline, and numerous podcasts had asked the question of what happened to her. Most of the coverage was because she came from a wealthy family, the one percent, and it hadn’t hurt that she was lovely, with big green eyes and auburn hair. It had been a sensational case, and now I was looking at the one guy who had if not all the answers, then a great many.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my eyes on Mosbach. “What’s your thought?”

“I’m calling for backup, you go to the right side of the bar, and I’ll go up the middle.”

We didn’t say a word to anyone at the table, simply stood at the same time, me pulling my Sig Sauer P226 from the holster on my hip, covered by my T-shirt, and Lang going down on one knee to retrieve his Colt Delta 10mm, very shiny, nickel plated, from his ankle holster. He had his phone pressed to his ear as he gave me a nod, and I went right while he started across the now very crowded lounge, toward the bar.

Mosbach was on the lookout for threats—no way for him not to be; he was a wanted man, after all. But he was with his friends, they were doing shots, and he was at the bar in the center of the floor and could easily see the entrance.

Lang was there, close, and tapped a beautiful woman on the shoulder.

“Hello,” she said, smiling, pleased, it seemed, to see such a handsome man.

“Excuse me,” he rushed out. “I need to speak to Tobias.”

Instantly, Mosbach turned toward the threat, reaching inside his jacket, but as he was focused on Lang, I slipped in behind him and put my hand on his left shoulder.

“Federal marshal, do not move.”

“Fuck!” he yelled, lifting his hands, remaining still as Lang, who looked like any other patron in his Prada suit, raised his gun, and leveled it at the fugitive. This was his personal gun; the regular one he carried on a day-to-day basis, his Glock 20, was stored at the office in his locker just as mine was. I preferred my Sig P226, which was the compact version of the P228, easier to conceal and far less flashy. “What the hell are you guys even—what the fuck?”

“You have any friends here?” Lang asked, holding the gun on him as I turned Mosbach around to face the bar and patted him down, taking the Walther P99 from the shoulder holster he was wearing and passing it to Lang. “Maybe some folks who have been helping you stay out of sight?”

“I’m not turning in my friends, you assholes.”

I looked to the bartender, who had stepped back several feet. Everyone had moved away, giving us room. No one was running or screaming or yelling because no shots were fired. But the music was off, and the closing lights were on as patrons strained to see what was going on.

“Hey, who was he drinkin’ with?” I asked the bartender.

“Him”—he pointed to a guy in a tracksuit, of all things—“and him,” he finished, picking out from the crowd the second guy, who was obviously Mosbach’s muscle.

“Step over here,” Lang commanded the guy in the designer tracksuit, then turned his attention to the very large man staring daggers at him. “And you as well.”

Tracksuit started toward us.