The only buildings by Grant Park — and they had to be at the other end of the parade. Walking would take ten minutes without crowds. They pushed their way past a barrier to fight against the press.
Zachary grabbed his mobile, and Molly followed suit, dialing Kent. “Any luck?” she asked without greeting.
“Nothing on the east side of the street.”
The buildings were on the west side. Molly scanned the street. “Where are you?”
“Columbus and Jackson.”
The intersection before the Art Institute. “He might be in a perch at the Art Institute.”
Kent groaned. “Not that new building — it’s huge.”
She covered the microphone and glanced at Zachary typing on his phone. “Think he’s in the new wing?”
He maneuvered past a pair of rowdy teenagers and looked in that direction. “Good vantage point.” He tapped his foot, thinking. “Go for it.”
Molly relayed the conclusion to Kent. “Entrance on the west side, right?” he asked.
They’d have to run around the block, too. “It is. We’ll be there soon as we can.” Molly ended the call as they reached a less crowded spot on the sidewalk. She turned to Zachary.
“X is checking the Institute, too.”
They looked at one another. Did they leave this up to Kent and X?
Those two could handle it. But after all this, could Molly and Zachary miss the final conclusion of the case?
Zachary held out a hand. “We can catch up if we hurry.”
She smiled, took his hand, and started at a run.
They jogged around the block and badged the admission desk before the vast size of the space hit Molly. How would they ever find Pearse? This wasn’t any better than searching the street. She paused a moment, scanning the entry hall. The new wing was to the left.
Zachary reached her, panting heavily, holding his temple again.
“All right, love?”
“Sure, now I’m your love.” He leaned against the wall. Molly stepped closer, but he held up a hand. “I’m good. Go get him. I’ll catch up.”
Could he? Zachary waved her on. “You got him.”
She charged ahead to the Modern Wing, another high-ceilinged hall. Windows lined the north end and the east wall of the passage, facing the street.
Facing the parade.
From this level, she could only see the crowd outside. Pearse would need a better angle to see the floats. The galleries might have a decent view. No time for elevator traffic. Molly scanned the room again, her gaze finally settling on the suspended stairway with a landing by the windows, halfway between the floors.
She broke into a run again at the same time she spotted Kent running toward her. She pointed to the stairs, and they both curved for the target.
The gallerygoers on the stairs jerked out of the way. A couple spectators stood on the landing, unaware. Molly pivoted to dash up the rest of the stairs, but checked the landing’s spectators again. Two seemed to be holding phones. One with black hair. In coveralls, a classic disguise.
“Pearse!”
He jumped and whirled around, his eyes the size of saucers. He lifted the mobile, his finger over a button. The trigger.
Time seemed to slow down. Kent lunged for him, and Pearse leapt sideways to escape. Molly seized the opportunity and Pearse’s collar. She swept her foot behind his, tripping him to bring him to the floor. The mobile clattered across the floor.
By the time Zachary arrived to keep the onlookers back, a protesting Pearse was already in cuffs.
“Nice takedown, Molly. Got this under control,” Zachary said between gasps.
She looked to Zachary. The poor man definitely needed medical attention. And a good workout. She hoped he was only winded because he was out of shape. “Someone needs a PFT.”
He pursed his lips but not for long before he had to pant again. He obviously didn’t want to endure the Bureau’s rigorous physical fitness test. “I passed when I had to,” he gasped.
“Do you need to go back to the hospital?”
“I’m not that out of shape.” He shook his head. “Just gotta catch my breath.” He panted. “And take it easy.”
“And your meds.” Molly turned to the resisting-but-restrained man she still held to the ground. “Pearse Canavan, you’re under arrest.” She continued with the charges and Miranda warning, then Kent and Molly hauled Pearse to his feet.
“You’re that Molly,” Pearse practically spat. “You traitor! How could you betray your people?”
Then he did spit.
“Way to add assaulting an officer to your charges,” Zachary said under his breath, a threat behind his words.
Molly didn’t flinch, wiping the spittle from her cheek and onto his shirt. “If you think mass murder makes you better Irish than me, you’ve no right to the name at all.”
Pearse glared at her. “Anyone who oppresses her people deserves that and worse. I wish you’d been on the street when I pulled the trigger.”
Molly looked to Zachary. “Did you hear that confession?” Before he responded, she turned back to Pearse. “You’ve the right to remain silent. Use it.”
“We’ll take it from here.” Two Chicago cops strode past Zachary.
“Sure thing, Dice,” Zachary said.
Xavier pushed through the spectators, and Molly was finally ready to hand over custody. Xavier and the cops marched Pearse off. They watched Pearse go. He glanced over his shoulder with a glower, and Molly returned a final smirk before the prisoner started down the stairs.
Now it was over. Molly dragged in a deep breath, jittery with all that excess energy and no release.
Zachary slipped an arm around her waist, and she released that breath, the adrenaline in her veins decrescendoing. She slid an arm around him in return and gave him a squeeze. She took a step toward the stairs down, but Zachary guided her around to the window to watch the rest of the parade. “The best vantage point, isn’t it?”
She relaxed against him. “We’re goin’ to have so much paperwork Monday.” But neither of them made a move to do anything but watch the parade pass. More than that, as her heart rate slowly returned to the normal range, Molly settled into Zachary’s arms. Like she’d finally ended up where she’d wanted to be all along.
The pipe bands and floats, marching bands and just plain marchers passed. Molly spotted a group of dancers in green and purple. “My girls.”
Kent strolled around to face them. “Looks like we need an FD-292.”
Molly groaned. “You can do your own paperwork.”
“Wait, that’s . . . change in marital status?” Zachary guessed.
Molly shot him a lifted-eyebrow look. “Movin’ a bit fast, aren’t we?”
“I dunno,” Zachary said. “We both loved wedding planning so much.”
“You liar.” She swatted his chest — then stopped short when she saw she was still wearing the fake engagement ring. “Would you look at this? You’ve dragged me down to your lyin’ level!”
Zachary pulled out a ring box. “I’ll make an honest woman out of you.”
She gaped at him and reached for the box, but he tucked it into his coat pocket, trading it for two slips of paper — movie tickets for The Woman from AUNTIE.
Perfect.
“That’s just the beginning,” Zachary said.
Molly laughed and slipped her fingers between his. “Then I’ll clear my to-do list.”
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Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading Saints & Suspects! I’m so glad to finally share it with you. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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I, Spy —To save her secrets and her country, CIA operative Talia Reynolds must sacrifice the man she loves.
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I was sure the first book in the series would be the longest I’d ever take from writing a book until its final publication. And then this sequel threw me for a loop! After eight years and eight million changes, I’m so glad to finally get this novel out to you.
Publishing would be impossible without the love and support of so many people. My patient husband, Ryan, has gone above and beyond as I struggled and labored with this book for months on end. I cannot outline all the things he’s done to support me and my writing — and you wouldn’t believe me if I did. Our children, Hayden, Rebecca, Rachel, Hazel and Benjamin, have also been very patient, though I think we were all frustrated with the amount of work and time this book sucked up! My parents, Ben and Diana Franklin, taught me to love reading and writing from a young age, and they were my first (demanding!) editors. My sisters Jaime, Brooke and Jasmine, have cheered for me all along the way.
Once again, Sarah Anderson was invaluable as an alpha reader, the one and only time I’ve let someone read a work in progress. She encouraged and helped in the drafting process all those years ago. More recently, Raneé S. Clark again provided invaluable feedback, as did Heather Bairds, which led to another big rewrite. JoLyn Brown gave some great feedback to refine the next version, and Jaime Wilkins and Ben and Diana Franklin (AKA my parents) also gave final feedback. Naturally, Sarah Anderson gave it one last read-through before it was ready for you.
I want to again thank Sarah M. Eden for fantastic advice on writing an Irish character. Once again, Aisling Doonan of RubySasha Designs kindly read this book and offered excellent help on perfecting my Irish phraseology and culture from a native. Jenn Adams provided editorial feedback, but any errors here are not her fault. I swear, there are ghosts in the machine.
More research help came from Steven Kerry Brown, formerly of the FBI. He provided valuable information about how the FBI works — which led to more revisions. Joseph Francis Collins, a firefighter and paramedic with expertise in explosives, also helped with research facts on how a demolition company might store its explosives. Both of these men understand the challenges of fact and fiction because they are authors themselves, and their help made this book stronger.
A special second round of thanks is due to Jaime Wilkins, Sarah Anderson and Ben Franklin, who gave extra feedback and an even bigger dose of encouragement at the last minute when I feared this book would never see the light of day. Without their help and feedback, I might’ve scrapped the whole thing. Instead, I was able to polish the book until it was not only ready to publish, but a work I was truly happy with.
Once again, the source of all inspiration, talent, time and effort is my Heavenly Father, and I’m eternally grateful to Him for these blessings. More than anything, this book became a very important part of a personal journey, and as such, despite the almost endless work this book required, I will always be grateful for the chance to tell this story.
Thank you for reading!
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An award-winning author, Jordan McCollum can’t resist a story where good defeats evil and true love conquers all. Her first four novels, the Spy Another Day series, were all voted as finalists for the Whitney Awards, a juried prize. In her day job, she coerces people to do things they don’t want to, elicits information and generally manipulates the people she loves most — she’s a mom.
Jordan holds a degree in American Studies and Linguistics from Brigham Young University. When she catches a spare minute, her hobbies include reading, knitting and music. She lives with her husband and five children in Utah.
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