Fit to Be Tied

by Mary Calmes

  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.

  HER 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.”

  All at once new lights, new sirens, and a stream of big black SUVs invaded each end of the alley.

  Ian’s glower was dark. “What the hell is the FBI doing here?”

  You could always recognize Feds. While marshals tended to swagger a bit, the FBI always walked into any situation like God himself had arrived, so now things could be handled correctly. And while normally the pompous act grated on me, with the local cops there and the federal representatives outnumbered, I felt myself warming to their presence.

  The suits were endless, and after only moments in the cluster of police along with Segundo and Hewitt—who had clearly done his job and called for backup—they were directed to Ian and me and so headed over.

  Ian stepped in front of me, protectively, as he always did.

  “Marshals,” the first man said as he closed in on us, pulling a badge that clearly identified him as being with the State Department. “Do we have Sofia and Oscar Guzman?”

  “We do,” Ian informed him, moving sideways, no longer barring the path between him and me and the kids.

  The State Department guy turned and signaled to one of the cars, and all four doors opened. A man and a woman, an older boy, and three other people climbed out and came running. All were dressed immaculately. The woman was in what I knew was Chanel from all the times I’d bought suits with one of my girlfriends; the man I guessed was Sofia’s father appeared polished and crisp in Dolce & Gabbana; and the teenager was in slacks and a dress shirt with a sport coat on over that. I knew I was making assumptions about who they were, but once Oscar looked up and screamed, “Mama!”, there was no question.

  She was not a big person, Oscar’s mother, but everyone got out of her way as she tore over to the ambulance. I would have moved, but Sofia still had a death grip on me. Oscar leaped at his mother and she grabbed him so tight, so hard, it looked painful.

  “Sofia!” the older man yelled, and when she heard his call, she lifted her head off my chest and looked around for him.

  There was no missing the bruises or the bloodied lip, or the haunted look in her eyes as tears welled up in them. But the relief on her little face when he was finally right there in front of her, at the rear of the ambulance, was the most heartbreaking of all.

  “Papa,” she whispered as she climbed into her father’s arms.

  When he grabbed her, the shirt rode up a bit, and I leaned over and patted Mr. Guzman’s arm to direct his attention to the fact.

  Instantly he turned to the other boy, who had to be her older brother, and I watched as he pulled off his sport coat, wrapped it around his sister’s waist, and tied the sleeves together tight, making sure it couldn’t come loose.

  Sofia was telling her father everything; I heard the rush of words and my name—and Ian’s, which she had asked for—and then more words that cut off when she started to cry.

  After a few moments, Mr. Guzman handed Sofia off to her mother, who wrapped her daughter up in her arms and rocked her and hugged her and kissed her over and over. Mr. Guzman then scooped up Oscar and crushed him to his chest, whispering to his son, crooning his name as he kissed him.

  It was a very sweet reunion, and eventually the older boy took his sister and brother in his arms, and then both parents wrapped up all their kids. Not wanting to intrude, I hopped down out of the back of the ambulance and put my hand on Ian’s shoulder.

  “Good job, marshal,” I sighed, moving my hand to squeeze the back of his neck.

  “Can we go back to the condo after this?”

  I chuckled. “Why marshal,” I teased. “Are you tired?”

  “Fuck yeah,” he grouched. “And I’d like to point out that it’s still like eighty degrees or some shit out here. I hate this crap.”

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “Yes, I did,” he growled. “Where you go, I go.”

  “And vice versa,” I agreed, so wanting to kiss him, needing to. “You should be more careful when you’re the first one through the door.”

  “I was,” he assured me. “I didn’t run into the room as soon as I kicked the door down.”

  It was as good as I was going to get.

  “Miro!”

  I turned and Sofia was there, banging into me, arms around my waist, Oscar following, same action on the other side. Bending, I curled over both of them and rubbed their backs.

  “Marshal.”

  Lifting my head, I was faced with Mr. and Mrs. Guzman.

  “My son says that you were the only one who stopped to help him,” Mr. Guzman said.

  I had no idea what I was supposed to say to that. It was a real concern, the fact that lots of people didn’t stop to help kids anymore because they were afraid of being accused of child molestation. And as it happened, Oscar had needed help, because pedophiles were already preying on his sister.

  “You have my enduring gratitude, marshal,” he said gravely, glancing over at Ian. “Both you and your partner.”

  “I only wish we’d gotten there sooner,” Ian told him.

  “You responded as soon as you were apprised of the situation by my son,” he said, inhaling quickly. “I could not ask for more.”

  Mrs. Guzman flung herself at Ian, hugged him tight, and though surprised, he gave her a quick squeeze back before she turned and grabbed me.

  Mr. Guzman offered me his hand, enfolding mine in both of his, giving me a truly heartfelt thank you before doing the same with Ian.

  “Your son was very brave,” I told them. “He had to go a long way for such a little boy, had to remember where Sofia was and be out alone until he found help. He was amazing.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Guzman agreed, pulling his phone from the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Please, I would like both your full names and who I should contact on your behalf.”

  “Oh, that’s really not necessary,” I assured him.

  His eyes lifted from the screen of his phone to my face. “Oh, but it is, marshal.”

  Ian coughed. “You should include Marshals Segundo and Hewitt as well,” Ian suggested. “They were our backup.”

  Mr. Guzman cleared his throat. “Though my son does not yet speak English, only French in addition to Spanish and a few others thus far—”

  “Thus far?” I chuckled. “Christ, what is he seven?”

  “He’s six,” Mr. Guzman replied, smiling at me. “I was most recently assigned to Paris, and of course my family was with me, so my son, who has already mastered Portuguese and Italian, as well, was just beginning his English studies.”

  “Holy crap, he speaks four languages already?” I was in awe. “I can barely speak English!”

  Mr. Guzman chortled over that, squeezing my arm as Sofia drew away from me and went to Ian. She’d watched him throw one of the men who’d hurt her down the flight of stairs when he tried to bolt after Ian told him to walk with his fingers laced behind his head. On the ground, Ian had put his foot on the guy’s throat and asked him if he would and could follow directions from that
point on. The man peed his pants when Ian pulled his gun and asked a second time. Sofia had watched the man cower before Ian, and so, in his arms, I knew, she felt safe. I was of the same mind when it was me there.

  “My son,” Mr. Guzman continued, “understood that the other two marshals were not as inclined to help him as were the two of you.”

  “There’s protocol we violated,” I disclosed. “And come tomorrow—we’re gonna be made to understand the scope of that, sir.”

  “No,” he said quickly, squinting to try and keep his eyes from filling, the battle quickly lost. “You will not.”

  I got a second handshake from him as I rubbed his son’s head.

  “What is your supervisor’s name?”

  I cleared my throat. “We’re actually not from Phoenix, sir. We’re from Chicago.”

  “Oh,” he said, exhaling quickly. “I love Chicago. My kids particularly enjoy the Lincoln Park Zoo.”

  My smile was huge. “Me and my partner live maybe two blocks from there.”

  His sudden squint caught my eye and I instantly knew what I’d said. But he’d been talking about his family, so I talked about mine, and that included a werewolf currently eating my friends out of house and home and the man standing beside me.

  “It’s beautiful there,” he commented and that was all.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “We hope to be home before it starts snowing.”

  He grinned at me. “You like the snow, marshal?”

  “I didn’t use to, but a month here has me rethinking my entire opinion on snow, sir.”

  “Really?”

  I threw up my hands. “It’s 85 degrees right now. Are you kidding?”

  “It’s hot,” Ian chimed in irritably.

  Mr. Guzman laughed at us, and that was good, better than standing there slowly coming apart because he had not been there when his kids had been assaulted by monsters.

  “Spell your name and your partner’s,” he instructed.

  I exchanged glances with Ian, but he just shrugged. There was only so much we could do.

  “It’s Miro, sir,” I said, and I spelled both my first and last, giving him Jones and Doyle instead of the fake ones, because for starters, he deserved the truth, and secondly, Segundo and Hewitt were too far away to overhear.