Page 4 of Newly Tied

“Why?”

Doyle grimaced. “Because Hawkins is done for not backing you up for any fuckin’ reason, and Bill Collins drew his weapon on a young, deaf pregnant woman this morning.”

That was all over the news an hour later, and Sam Kage was praised for immediately putting Collins on unpaid administrative leave. That meant fired, and everyone knew it. Knowing Kage, even for the very short time I had, I didn’t think he cared that everyone thought he’d made the right choice. He seemed like the kind of man who followed his own code. But watching all the cell-phone videos of Collins pulling his gun on the terrified Asian girl with the ponytail, and her dropping her shopping bags with baby stuff in them and then signing wildly at him, was enough to make anyone sick. The chief deputy was not having that guy work for him. Ever. It clearly illustrated that instruction was one thing, as was riding along with your fellow training officers, but being out in the field, on the job, was a whole other piece that you could either do or not. Collins could not. Her hand movements had freaked him out. He hadn’t even been able to parse what he was seeing. In the moment, making life-and-death decisions, you had to be made of stronger stuff. You also had to have your partner’s back no matter what.

The following week, Jeff Crosby and I were in the process of apprehending a fugitive, working with an FBI task force out of San Francisco. They had intel on a meet that was going down at a chop shop. Inside, once the special agent announced herself, bullets started flying. Seconds later, Crosby yelled for me to get out, as we were taking heavy fire. But I couldn’t leave the FBI agent twenty feet from me on the ground. He was shot but alive, and if we retreated, he’d be dead without medical attention.

“Cover me!” I yelled to Crosby, but instead, he went for the door.

“Covering,” another FBI agent yelled my way.

I ran out there, retrieved the fallen agent, and dragged him behind a really gorgeous silver Mercedes-Benz AMG GT 55 RWD that I hoped no one would shoot up. It was far too pretty to have bullet holes.

Once everyone was in custody and Agent Demming was on his way to the hospital, having made sure to grab my hand in thanks before he left, Crosby found me and ripped me a new one about putting him in danger. Partners didn’t do that, he said. And I agreed, but not in the way he thought—partners didn’t do that; partners had each other’s back.

When we returned to the office, the supervisory special agent who had been on site with me, Deidre Merriweather, was having a closed-door meeting with Becker. When they finally emerged, she charged across the office toward my desk. Her smile when she reached me was a surprise.

Thrusting her hand out, she said, “Agent Demming is going to be fine due to your quick action, Deputy.”

“Just doin’ my job.”

“And it was appreciated,” she assured me as we shook hands.

As she made her way toward the elevator, Becker called Crosby into his office. That was the last day he worked there. Unlike the others, he wasn’t terminated, simply transferred—to Alaska, we were later told.

The next day, I joined the guys from SOG, Special Operations Group, the tactical arm of the fugitive response unit, in securing the family of Alex Hollister, a whistleblower who had arranged to roll on his employer, Canning Steel, for shortcuts they’d made in several of their plants that led to three, so far, structural collapses. Hollister’s family had been taken by individuals who, we assumed, had been hired by the Canning Steel fixer. But when we checked the house in Evanston where the people were being held, there were so many more individuals than had been initially reported.

The SOG guys hit the door, and we were next. But the men inside had machine guns and, it turned out, Canning Steel had outsourced to guys who were normally muscle for hire, most notably for the Russian mob. There were so more hostages—not only Alex Hollister’s family, but young women being trafficked.

Bongani Richards and Cherry Baylor followed Ross and me into the building. Banks and Warren ran back to the cars to call it in, even though Ross, who’d ducked down beside me behind the kitchen island, was on comms with Doyle.

I was going to move, but Ross’s hand clamped down hard on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, he shook his head, pointing at the shadow on the floor.

He then sent Richards and Baylor to the left and had me dive forward. When the startled guy turned to shoot me, Ross caught him in the leg and shoulder, putting him on the ground. It didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would to reach the family and the young women. The SOG guys moved in tight formation through the mansion like a hot knife through butter, and we could hear the short bursts of their weapons, compared to the several rounds of wild, sporadic firing that the untrained muscle were letting loose. There was something to be said for precision shooting versus filling the air with lead.

Ross and I reached the girls, and Richards and Baylor made it to the family and barricaded themselves in. We secured the young women, keeping them safe in case anyone tried to come in and grab them and use them as human shields. Once we got the all-clear that the hostiles were either in custody or dead, we went outside to an absolute circus of press, news helicopters, and more law enforcement.

The Hollisters were removed immediately, secured by the marshals service, and four of the guys I’d seen around a lot—Ryan, Dorsey, White, and Sharpe—took custody. They all went and told Baylor and Richards how well they’d done, and then made a point of coming to see me and Ross and shaking our hands and telling us that this was how we got things done in the Northern District. Even better, Baylor—who told me and Ross to call her Cher because she hated Cherry—and Richards—who said to call him Bon because Bongani was a lot for most people—came and helped us when we transferred the girls to the hospital. Interestingly, Banks, whom I’d been riding with, and Warren, who’d been partnered with Ross, told us they would meet us at the hospital later. It seemed strange that neither my partner nor Ross’s was with us.

Once there, we met Miro Jones, the director of Custodial WITSEC, which oversaw children without parents entering witness protection. Even though some of the girls might have parents, he made certain they were put under the umbrella of the State Department and social services, not CPD. That way we, the marshals service, could arrange to get them home if they wanted, or they could immediately apply for asylum, since not one of them was a US citizen. My fluent Spanish came in handy, and when Warren said he was amazed that a shit kicker like me could speak another language since I barely spoke English, Ross was on his feet before I even got a word out.

“He might speak slow, but he clearly thinks a hell of a lot faster than you,” Ross said, his voice dripping with disdain and judgment. “You useless fuckin’ prick.”

Warren charged him, but Bon stood up—nearly six-five and covered in muscle normally reserved for superheroes—and Warren wisely decided to take a step back. I would have gotten up myself, but I was talking to two sisters, one with both her arms wrapped around my left bicep and the other, the younger one, maybe twelve, sitting across from me, holding both my hands in hers.

“The hell is going on?” Jones yelled as he came striding down the hall toward us, flanked by Eli Kohn, Redeker, and Callahan. “This area is solely for federal law enforcement.”

Warren and Banks looked confused, but Ross flashed them a brilliant smile, understanding more than I did in that moment.

“You two”—Jones pointed at Banks and Warren—“need to go with Callahan and Redeker.” His tone, the coldness in his eyes, and his posture spoke volumes. He was not to be questioned at that moment.

Once they left, and Jones and Kohn were talking to social services and the guys from State, I reached for Ross. I meant to grab his wrist to get his attention, but he moved and I caught his hand instead. It was warm, and my head snapped up to meet his gaze as he held on so I couldn’t pull away.

“What name do you like to go by?”

“Del,” I answered, staring up into his gorgeous brown eyes, my mouth going dry.

“Del it is,” he said, and his voice was both silky and deep. “And it’s Lang to you.”