Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

Phoebe woke up alone in a darkened room, with a pounding headache that made her want to throw up.

She was on the floor, in a very uncomfortable position, and it didn’t make sense—God, she felt awful, did she have the flu?—until she remembered.

Insisting that she go with the Dutchman in his car. Ian, upset with her, but finally realizing that it wasn’t his choice. I love you. The car on the highway, sliding across all those lanes of oncoming traffic. Vanderzee holding his gun. Despite the crash of pain, her relief that he’d hit her instead of firing a bullet into her head.

She would not have woken up from that.

Phoebe shifted, trying to move her aching head into a position that was more comfortable, and she realized that her hands were tied behind her back—but the restraint around her wrists was just loose enough so that she could imagine getting free. Her feet were tied at the ankles, but if she could get her hands free, she could probably get her feet free, too.

Assuming the urge to vomit again went away and the room stopped spinning long enough for her to see her feet.

She’d lost her glasses when they’d moved her from the car to wherever she now was—that was why the world was extra blurry.

At that same moment, Phoebe realized that she was gagged. She was gagged, and her stomach was churning from the blow to her head, and God, if she threw up, she’d choke to death.

The realization made her even more nauseous, and as she pulled at the rope restraining her wrists, it felt tighter not looser.

Panicking wouldn’t help, she knew that, so she closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing through her nose, shallowly and slowly. Air in. Air out.

Ian was coming for her. She knew he was coming.

Unless he was already dead, and okay, thinking that was as bad as thinking about throwing up. Neither negative thought would help her. She would not throw up, and Ian was not dead.

Which meant he was coming for her. But first he had to find her.

Phoebe pictured the surveillance van, and the equipment inside that Ian and his teammates would use to help them search for her.

And while she had no idea where she was, maybe Ian did.

And if he was out there, somewhere, she was going to help him.

So Phoebe started to hum. With the gag in her mouth, she could only make a relatively soft sound in the back of her throat, but as she gained confidence in the fact that doing this wasn’t going to make her throw up, she pushed it louder.

Row, row, row your boat …

She closed her eyes and tried to make her hands as narrow as possible, so she could slip free.

* * *

The van was still about ten minutes from the consulate when Ian’s phone rang.

After the truck had gone up in a blaze of flames and smoke, he’d called Vanderzee’s cell phone, repeatedly. He’d even left messages, but only now did the Dutchman call him back.

Ian answered it by playing heavy defense, on the off chance that Vanderzee would buy it. “What the f*ck, Georg? I was descended upon by black helicopters—there was nothing I could do to stop them—I barely made it out alive. Your cargo was completely blown to hell—”

“You can stop with the act,” the Dutchman said. “I already know, through my sources, that my cargo was returned to their mother. And since you’re not in custody, you’ve obviously been working with the authorities—don’t deny it.”

There were times when denial could work. This was not one of them, so Ian tried pathos with complaint, if only to keep this conversation going. “I didn’t have a choice. They had me by the balls—”

Vanderzee cut him off, “I suspect that I have something you want, and I thought, at first, that we might be able to strike a bargain—”

“We absolutely can,” Ian said.

“No,” the other man said, “we can’t. The children and their mother are being spirited away as we speak into your government’s witness protection program. Not even someone like you will be able to find them, so my hopes—that you might locate them, and kill them for me—are dashed. Although, even if you’d been able to oblige, you still would’ve owed me. Their father was willing to pay only three million for them, dead. Ten for them brought home alive.”


And there it was. Far more realistic numbers, compared to that one million extra that the Dutchman had previously told him he’d get if he delivered the kids alive.

“If it’s money that you want,” Ian started.

Vanderzee cut him off. “The money’s only part of it. I’ll be badly disappointing a longtime friend.”

“You don’t have to disappoint him,” Ian said, talking fast. “I can help you convince him that the children were killed in that blast. The group that attacked my truck didn’t particularly care if they lived or died—just as long as Dr. Vaszko was kept from returning to Kazbekistan. It’s a miracle they survived, and we can certainly spin it that they didn’t. I can get you indisputable proof of their death, and reimburse you for the difference in payment—”

“Well, she does mean a lot to you, doesn’t she?” the Dutchman said, and Ian realized he was doing this wrong.

He made himself laugh. “You’re kidding right? Phoebe—if that’s even her real name—works for the government. She was holding my leash and driving me f*cking crazy, the whole goddamn time. I was conning her, too. You know, I tapped that, and believe me, it’s not worth your effort. But hey, do whatever you gotta do. Beat the shit out of her, whatever. Just don’t kill her without knowing, clearly, what our government does to people who kill fed agents. You’ll be hunted, by drones, to the ends of the earth. You’ll live in a f*cking cave in northern K-stan until you kill yourself to escape the boredom.” He made himself laugh as if he thought he was the funniest man alive. “You want to get away with killing her? Take her back to your country and marry her first. Although good luck with that. She’s a bitch and a half. But she’s worth something to my bosses, so if you change your mind and you want to trade her for those death certificates so your longtime friend can find closure and you can recoup at least some of your losses? Let me know. You’ve got thirty minutes to call me back before this deal’s off the table.”

With a click, Ian cut the connection.

Jesus, he was dripping with sweat. “Drive faster,” he ordered Deb.

* * *

Ian was alive!

Phoebe looked up at Georg Vanderzee, who was standing just inside the locked door.

He’d come into the room while on the phone with Ian.

He’d had the call on speaker, so that she’d heard it all.

I was conning her, too.… Bitch and a half.… Not worth your effort.

Okay, so that was uncomfortable to hear, but what else was Ian going to say? He was clearly trying to convince the Dutchman that he had absolutely no emotional connection to Phoebe. Vanderzee’s killing or hurting her would not influence him in any way.

Do whatever you gotta do. Beat the shit out of her, whatever.

Was it possible that Ian knew she might be listening? Was he trying to remind her of the story he’d told, about how he believed that if he hadn’t stopped the Dutchman from beating his teenaged wife, the man might’ve let her live?

Just before Vanderzee had come into the room, Phoebe’d managed to work her hands free. She’d pushed herself up so that she was sitting in a chair—the better to work on the rope that bound her ankles. It was much tighter than the rope around her wrists had been, and she hadn’t gotten it off. She had removed the gag, though, but she’d put it loosely back into her mouth when she’d heard him at the door.

She’d also quickly tucked her hands back behind her, rubbing them together, trying to create friction, so that she would stand out from all of the other blobs of human body heat in this building.

Phoebe knew if she moved, she’d give away the fact that her hands were no longer tied, but in reality, it was likely that he already knew, since he’d left her in a pile on the floor.

Unless Hitler Junior had brought her inside, and Vanderzee thought he’d set her there …?

She wavered at that thought, her uncertainty flip-flopping with the pounding in her head. Move, stay still, move, stay still …

Through it all, as she rubbed her hands to make heat, she kept the song going, tapping her foot on the floor: Gently down the stream … hoping that someone was out there, listening.

* * *

When Francine pulled up to the consulate, the van carrying Ian was still at least several minutes away.

Sheldon was out of the car before she’d even parked, running across the street toward a pizza van that had to be an FBI surveillance vehicle. She could hear him over her headset, rattling off the plate number to Deb, who gave the order to let him in.

Sure enough, the back door of the Pizza Express opened, and Shel was quickly pulled inside.

His job right now was to provide Ian with as much information as possible, which meant he needed access to equipment that he didn’t have with him in the car.

Francie’s job, however …

Martell turned off his headset microphone. “I want to go in with you,” he said.

“You can’t,” she said as she looked at the consulate, even as she checked her gun. She was locked and loaded. “You have to wait for Deb.”

The consulate was even less assuming than it had been in the photos she’d seen—a typical Floridian post-WWII era building—a sprawling single-story structure made of concrete block, with a white cast-iron fence enclosing the yard, and a matching white tin roof. It had once been a residence, but it had been renovated and added onto significantly in the back. The former yard had been transformed into a graveled parking area, complete with a covered carport at the edge of the large lot.

It had only cursory protection in place—no giant concrete blocks to prevent car bombs, because really, it existed almost solely to provide the ambassador with the perks of a Miami vacation.

Francine guessed that security at the front door would be fairly limited, too. But there were surely guards, and they were definitely armed. And she knew both Vanderzee and his man Hitler Junior were armed and inside, too.

“If the Dutchman sees you, he’ll recognize you.” Martell reached out and grabbed her arm, his deep concern for her shining from his pretty brown eyes.

“Found her!” Shel’s voice came through Francie’s headset, even as she jumped because—holy Christ—Berto knocked on the outside of the car window. He was standing on the sidewalk, looking in at them. “Back wing, room at the very end. She’s humming the song Ian uses for microphone tests.”

“She’s alive,” Francine said it with a rush of relief at the same time that Ian did, but she punctuated her statement by leaning forward and kissing Martell—and not just because she wanted to piss off Berto.

“Wait for Deb,” she told him again. “I’m going in with Berto.”

* * *

Move, or stay still, or move, or stay still …

Vanderzee was frowning angrily down at his phone, maybe checking his email, maybe waiting for a message from Hitler Junior, or maybe actually considering taking Ian’s crazy deal.

Row, row, row, your boat …

It really wasn’t that crazy—she’d suggested it herself, days ago. Make the children’s psycho father believe that they were dead, or else he’d come after them again and again and again. End this, once and for all.

Move, or stay still …

While witness protection would be a good way to protect the children and their mother, it might be a challenge to hide a nuclear physicist who wanted to put her hard-earned degree to good use.…


Gently down the stream …

When Vanderzee finally turned, putting his phone back into his pocket, Phoebe saw a flash of the gun he was wearing holstered under his arm, and she knew with certainty that he was so angry that the very next thing he was going to do was draw that weapon and kill her.

So she took her chances and picked move, hoping for the beating over the bullet in the head. She launched herself up and at him, attacking him by hopping toward him even though her feet were still bound, roaring as loudly as she could beneath her gag.

She hit him with her shoulder, aiming low for his center of gravity and he went down—to both of their surprise.

He scrambled back away from her, as his anger bloomed into something awful—something that was mixed with delight—on his almost-handsome face.

And here it came. The beating she’d requested.

Phoebe braced herself for it, even as she continued to hum Ian’s tune.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily …

He hit her, hard, and she landed on the floor, also hard. He was on top of her, then, punching and pummeling, his body pinning her down as he unleashed a flurry of punishing blows.

But it wasn’t until his hands went up, around her throat, that Phoebe stopped singing.

* * *

“Jesus, Eee, I think he’s killing her!” Shel’s voice came through Ian’s headset as Deb hit the brakes hard, skidding to a stop just down the street from the consulate.

“Get out of the van,” Ian shouted, brandishing his handgun so that Deb and Yashi could say that he had.

“Shirt off,” Deb shouted as she scrambled to vacate the driver’s seat. “I should’ve thought of that before!”

Ian knew why she was telling him that, and he yanked his T-shirt over his head even as he slid behind the wheel.

When attacking a foreign consulate, it was best to be absolutely clear about the fact that one wasn’t wearing a suicide bomber vest. Going in shirtless would help.

Also, the surgeons wouldn’t have to pick pieces of fabric from his bullet wounds.

Should he survive.

“Ready or not,” Ian said to whichever of his team members were still able to hear him. “Here I come.”

* * *

Ian Dunn was freaking crazy.

Martell saw the van—formerly white, now a battered blue—rocketing toward the consulate, picking up speed. He saw Ian behind the wheel, looking like he was posing for a picture that would appear in the dictionary, next to determination.

Or maybe the phrase he best represented was true love.

Dude looked relatively and remarkably serene, considering he was probably going to die violently in a matter of seconds.

But his plan was now clear to Martell.

Once Ian committed the crime of punching a van-sized hole through the consulate wall, the FBI could rush inside to arrest his ass—and to otherwise assist in evacuating the building.

All of the rooms would have to be searched and cleared, including those holding kidnapping victims.

As Martell watched, the van bounced up as it hit the curb, and was more of a missile than a torpedo as it hit the front left window of the building with a crash and a smash.

Deb went running past him, with Yashi and Aaron on her heels, and Martell followed, praying that they weren’t too late.

* * *

Francine stood in the lobby of the consulate with Berto. She knew what was coming. She thought she was ready.

But as Ian drove the van through the window, she realized that it wasn’t possible to be completely ready for an event of that magnitude.

Glass exploded—it was like a bomb went off. Dust and debris—shards of concrete blocks—went in all directions. A curtain rod narrowly missed her head, and the rings that had held the curtains in place bounced and rolled across the now-cracked tile floor.

The guards—two, in matching uniforms with Makarov sidearms—scrambled out of the way, diving for cover behind the podium of a security checkpoint.

Berto grabbed Francie’s arm, trying to pull her out of the way of a still-bouncing shard of metal—part of the van’s grill? But she jerked herself free because what she had to do here was get in the way.

“Help my husband, help my husband,” she screamed as she put herself and Berto, both, between the guards with the weapons and the smoking wreckage of the van.

Berto shot her a weary look that said Really? But then sank to the floor, nearly on top of the guards, covering his face and screaming, “My eyes, my eyes!”

It was then that Deb burst through the door—“FBI! On the ground!”—as Ian crawled out of the passenger side of the van. Shirtless and bloody—cut by the broken windshield—he kept his hands high in the air, even as he sank to his knees on the debris-covered floor.

Yashi, Aaron, and Martell were right behind Deb.

“I think there was someone else in the van,” Francine shouted. “He went that way.” She pointed to the hall that led to the back wing.

“Stay with him,” Deb ordered Martell, who aimed his weapon at Ian, as she ran toward the back of the consulate, shouting, “FBI! We have a possible intruder! I need everyone hands out, down on the floor, for your own safety!”

Yashi followed Deb, and Francine was ready to go, right behind him, when she heard it.

They all heard it.

Sharp. Loud. Unmistakable. Coming from the back of the consulate.

A single gunshot.

Francine looked over at Ian, and the look on his face was terrible.

Berto came up behind her. “Jesus,” he said. “Was that …?”

“I think so,” Francine said.

* * *

Ian lost it.

Or maybe he found it.

All he knew, when he heard that gunshot, was that enough was enough. He needed to know if Phoebe was dead.

No way was he going to lie on the floor and wait for Deb to return and give him the news that he was a single f*cking minute too late.

But Martell was not the only one who was standing there with his weapon trained on him. Other FBI agents—women and men who didn’t know Ian from Adam—had come in and were trying to figure out what-the-f*ck.

So when Ian pushed himself up off the floor, there was a lot of yelling and posturing. “Get down, get back down! Right now, right f*cking now!”

Ian kept his hands up, but really, the only reason that he wasn’t instantly shot was due to the fact that Martell and Francine and Aaron and Sheldon, and even Berto—where had he come from?—were there, surrounding him. Protecting him.

But even that didn’t really matter. Let them f*cking shoot him.

Ian moved, down the hall, faster and faster, still surrounded by his team, which was surrounded by the FBI and the K-stani guards. Everyone was shouting—everyone but Ian.

The hallway turned to the left, and he remembered Shel telling him that Phoebe was in the room at the very end.

There was a man on the floor—it was Vanderzee’s guard Hitler Junior. He was on his stomach and his hands were on his head. Yashi was kneeling on his back, cuffing him, and saying something, but Ian couldn’t hear him over the yelling that surrounded him.

“If you’re going to shoot me, then just f*cking shoot me and get it over with!” Ian roared, louder than all of them, and it stunned them into silence as he pushed open the door, where, Jesus, Deb was kneeling next to a bloody body. God, she was covering the face with a jacket or a sweater, but it wasn’t a woman, it wasn’t …

Phoebe …?

Phoebe was sitting up a few yards away, eyes open, alive.

Ian ran to her, which started the yelling all over again, but this time, he let Deb shout over it. “It’s all right! It’s all right! He’s my prisoner, he’s in my custody, will everyone just step back, into the hall! Move it, now, move!”


As Ian hit the floor, Phoebe reached for him, and then, God, she was in his arms.

“I got here as fast as I could,” he told her, even as she said, “I kind of killed Georg, but that’s okay, right, because he was going to kill me? He was choking me, and his gun was right there, and I guess he didn’t realize that I’d gotten my hands free.”

“You did great,” he told her, as he held her face between his hands, as he realized what that gunshot had been. She’d killed the Dutchman.

And she was really all right. Her voice was raspy and her throat sounded sore. Her lip was bleeding and swollen, and God, her neck was abraded, as if she’d been throttled—which she had. She had a scratch—a deep one—on the part of her chest exposed by the plunging neckline of her shirt, and he could tell from the way she winced that the son of a bitch had bruised if not broken at least one of her ribs.

But she was alive.

“Deb said we saved the kids,” she said as her eyes brimmed with tears.

“We did,” he told her as he felt his do the same.

“Ian, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t’ve gone with him, in his car, but … I had to.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s okay.”

“Was anyone hurt?” she asked.

Ian shook his head. “Just you.”

“I’m all right,” she said. “Although that motherf*cker lost my glasses.”

Ian laughed. And he probably shouldn’t have kissed her, but he did. He hated the idea of hurting her poor battered mouth, but he couldn’t not do it, and she didn’t seem to mind as she passionately kissed him back.

And the emotion that filled him was soul-shaking. Ian felt his chest tighten and he struggled to breathe. And when he pulled back to look at her, he couldn’t speak. Instead he just rested his forehead against hers as this time she held his face, her fingers cool against him, soothing in his hair.

But he had to tell her, and in a voice that was embarrassingly shaky, Ian said, “You didn’t believe me when I said it, but it’s true.” He lifted his head to look into her eyes. “I love you. Madly. Passionately. Deeply. Honestly—”

Phoebe smiled then, cutting him off with “I know.”

Ian laughed again, but before he could get in her face about her Han Solo imitation, Deb was back, contrite and overwhelmed.

“Ian, I’m sorry. If we’re going to get away with this whole charade, I really do need to get you cuffed, and bring you in.”

Ian nodded and looked back at Phoebe. “I think I’m gonna need a good lawyer,” he said.

Phoebe nodded. “And a shirt,” she said. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’m thinking you might also want a shirt.”

As Ian put his hands behind his back so Deb could do the honors and perp-walk him out of there, Phoebe made him smile.

“I’ll bring you one,” she said. “When I come to bail you out.”

“Thanks,” he said.

She smiled tremulously back at him, and said what he really wanted to hear: “Ian, I love you, too.”





Aaron and Shel were sitting on the trunk of Martell’s car, parked in by the emergency vehicles that surrounded the consulate, when Berto found them.

“Hey,” he said.

Aaron looked at Shelly for direction. Did he or didn’t he want to talk to his half brother?

But Shel said, “Hey,” back, and then, “Thanks for helping. That was above and beyond.”

“Yeah, well.” Berto shrugged. “Francine called, so …”

“We owe you a truck,” Shel said.

Yes. Right. The truck that they’d blown sky high had been Berto’s. Both cab and trailer. “That might take us a little bit of time to pay back,” Aaron said.

“Forget about it,” Berto said. “It was insured. What?” he added, no doubt because Aaron had looked surprised. “You didn’t think I had insurance? Most of the business I do is legitimate. I’m not my f*cking father.” He sighed. “Which brings us to … our f*cking father. I spoke to Davio last night. He definitely killed Manny, but we’re both playing it like he didn’t. Long story short, we came to an agreement. I got him to promise to leave you the f*ck alone. Zero contact. From henceforth. He did it in front of his lieutenants, so I think we can trust he’ll keep his word.” Berto laughed. “If he doesn’t, it’ll get out that his word is for shit, and believe it or not, that means something to him. So you can tell Ian that our deal’s off. There’s no need for it. He’s all paid up. You’re safe. The two of you and Rory. Ian. Francine.”

Aaron glanced at Shelly, who couldn’t quite believe it.

“Jesus,” Shel breathed. “What did you have to promise him?”

Berto laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement. “That doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t!”

“Look,” Berto said. “It was eye-opening. The past few days. Seeing you with your kid. Seeing Francine with … I f*cking hate Martell, but he’s a good guy. He’s good to her and … That makes me … glad. All of it does. You’ve made a family, Shel, a good one—much better than the one you were born into.”

“What did you promise him?” Shel asked again.

“I pledged him my allegiance.” Berto shrugged, like it was no big deal.

“Oh, God, no,” Shel said.

“It’s okay, little brother,” Berto said, and it was clear that he meant it. “I lost everything I loved a long time ago, because I f*cked things up. It was my mistake, my fault. You reap what you sow. And I really love that you’re reaping some really good shit. Just keep doing that, okay? And I’ll be fine.”

He held out his hand to Aaron, and Aaron took it and shook. He did the same with Shel, but then pulled him down off the car and into a rough embrace.

“Take care of yourselves,” Berto said, and walked away.

Sheldon looked stunned, and Aaron grabbed his hand, pulled him back up onto Martell’s car. He kept their fingers interwoven—which was not something they usually did in this part of Miami. But it had been one hell of a day.

“Am I wrong to just let him go?” Shel asked when he finally spoke.

“No,” Aaron said.

“Do you know what this means? With your name cleared and Davio no longer hunting us?” Shelly answered for him. “We get to be normal.”

Aaron smiled at that. “As normal as we can be, considering. I’m pretty sure, knowing Ian, that he’s going to want to get the business up and running again. I mean, now that he doesn’t have to go back to jail.”

Shel nodded, so seriously. “We’ll need a nanny. And the company HQ is our house, so Rory can be around—to make up for when we’re out of town.”

“We’ll need a general contractor to fix the house.”

“And a dog,” Shel said, and when Aaron looked into his eyes, he could see their entire beautiful future stretching out in front of them.

“Two dogs,” Aaron said.

Shelly smiled and kissed him. “Works for me.”

* * *

Martell lingered outside of the FBI’s temporary command post, just down the street from the K-stani consulate.

Deb had been talking to the locals, who’d been staking out the consulate ever since those kids had gone missing. But she’d just gotten a phone call from someone very high up the ladder, possibly even the head of DHS, and she was being all Yes, sir, and Thank you, sir, and Just doing my job, sir.


Martell was tempted to snatch the phone from her fingers and say, “Give this woman a promotion, bitches!” But he suspected she wouldn’t appreciate that.

Ian had been taken downtown—Yashi had been assigned to babysit him, making sure he didn’t accidentally get shipped to non-Faux-Cuba.

Martell had overheard that Deb was getting ready to escort Phoebe first to the hospital for a quick nearly-got-your-ass-killed medical check, and then to her condo to find her spare glasses before they joined Ian at FBI HQ.

As Deb finally got off the phone, Martell caught her eye, and she came toward him with a smile.

“Good job today,” she said, even as he said, “You did a really great job today.”

Then they both said, “Thanks,” like a pair of fools in seventh grade.

Martell added, “I just wanted to make sure I got a chance to say that, before I headed back to Sarasota, and you went … wherever you’re going next.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yeah. I don’t know. Probably back to Boston. Or D.C. I guess it depends on where they need me.”

“Well,” Martell said. “If you ever need cheap backup, or, you know, someone to wear a kilt who doesn’t look like a Catholic school–girl—” Ah, Christ, had he really just said that? Could he sound any more stupid? “—you know where to find me.”

She laughed, because what else was she going to do? Shout Wow, you’re a loser, and then run away, screaming?

And then, probably because he figured he couldn’t embarrass himself any further, Martell said, “I can’t stop wondering. About that situation. The other night. On the yacht. To keep the Dutchman from seeing the sunrise. Would you have really dot dot dot?”

And now she was looking at him as if he was a maroon. An offensive one, to boot.

When she spoke it was with some serious indignation. “You did. You’re seriously going to judge me for the same exact thing that—”

“Whoa,” Martell said over her, as soon as he realized where she was going. Holy shit. “Wait. No! You seriously think—”

They did the saying-the-same-thing-at-the-exact-same-time thing again, with Deb saying, “—you did with Francine?” as Martell said, “that Francine and I—”

He soloed on the ending: “—hooked up? Because we didn’t. That was just, you know. An act. Pretend. To fool Berto. That’s all it was. Really. And apparently you got fooled, too. But we didn’t, you know. Hook up. I mean, even if she wanted to, I wouldn’t have. Because. She’s seriously damaged. And that’s just not okay to take advantage of.”

Deb chewed her lip as she gazed back at him, and then said, “Well, I guess you’re better than me.”

“Okay, whoa,” Martell said. “That was not what I was implying—”

But now someone was calling her from the command post, which she pointed to with her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s really all right,” she said. “And I gotta …” She turned to leave, but then she turned back. “In case I don’t get to see you before you go …” She held out her hand to him.

He took it. Was she really saying good-bye with a handshake?

Yes, she was.

And just like that, she was gone.

“F*ck,” Martell said, and turned around to find who else standing just outside of his peripheral vision but Francine. Who’d kissed him like she’d meant it, just a short time ago. “Shit. Hi. Hey.”

“Yeah,” she said, and he instantly knew that she’d heard what he’d said to Deb. Damaged. “Look, I was thinking about … the whole dinner thing, and … it’s probably not a good idea.”

“Oh,” he said, and now, stupid him, he was disappointed. “What?”

“Yeah,” Francine said again. “Bad … timing. For me. And … I’m heading out. Aarie and Shel and I are going downtown, to make sure Eee’s okay, but, um, I just wanted to say … Thanks again for being so great.”

And then she, too, turned and walked away, leaving him close to where he’d started. A guy with a piece of shit for a car. Wondering what the f*ck had just happened.

Martell got in, started the engine, and took out his phone and gave his friend Ric a call. It went to voice mail, so he left a message: “Hey, I got your message. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’m heading for home—I’ll stop by the hospital to see you tomorrow, and tell you the whole crazy story.”

As he pulled away from the curb, he adjusted his sun visor, and a manila envelope fell into his lap, so he braked to a stop.

Holy shit.

It was the twenty K that Ian had given to Vanderzee as a fake finder’s fee. Someone had found it, either on his person or in his car or somewhere in the consulate. They’d written on the outside, For your POS replacement fund and/or your nephew. And they’d drawn a smiley face.

Martell didn’t know it for sure, but he suspected that handwriting was Francine’s.

And as he drove away, he smiled, because he knew he couldn’t keep it.

* * *

Ian was sitting in the interview room at Miami’s FBI headquarters when Phoebe arrived.

He did a double take when he saw her, because she’d decided that as long as she was going home, she’d take a shower. And as long as she was clean, she’d change her clothes. And as long as she was coming here in her official status as his lawyer, she’d put on a suit and wear heels.

Ever since she’d passed the bar, Phoebe had learned that lawyers who dressed down didn’t get the same respect as those who dressed up. It shouldn’t’ve been that way, but there it was.

Truth be told, she’d considered wearing what she thought of as her sexy lawyer outfit, which had a skirt that ended well above her knees. One of which was still skinned and raw. The other sported a bruise that might’ve passed for a tattoo of an oddly shaped turtle, but probably not.

So she’d covered her legs with pants, and settled for higher than usual heels.

As she went into the room, she handed Ian the T-shirt that she’d promised to bring—Aaron had gotten it from the safe house when he’d gone to check on Rory.

Someone had found Ian a shirt in the meantime, but it was a little small. Still, he kept it on, putting down the shirt she’d brought him as she headed for the chair that was on the opposite side of the table.

“Yashi’s arranging for your release,” she told him as she sat. “He’s also making sure that the government fulfills its end of the deal that you made with them. When you walk out of here, you’re free and clear. And Aaron and the others are, too.”

Ian nodded. “Good.”

“It seems they won’t require four days of high-intensity debriefs,” she said. “Particularly since that’s really not standard operating procedure.”

“Apparently not for this branch of the FBI.” He smiled at her. “Nice glasses.”

They were frameless and barely there—a contrast to her favorites with their clunky frame.

“I assume the looters left them behind,” he continued, “along with the hot lawyer outfit?”

“My apartment was in good shape,” she told him. “Someone already replaced the door and it was locked. I don’t think anything was stolen.”

“As soon as I have some time, I’ll fix your screen, too.”


When he said that, Phoebe felt a rush of relief. Part of her still didn’t quite believe he wasn’t going to simply vanish into the night after she got him released. Part of the reason she’d dressed up was because she thought it possible that his words of love had been uttered in the heat of the moment. Now that time had passed, reality would kick back in.

She’d been prepared to offer him an out. I know you really didn’t mean love-love when you said what you said.…

But now, with the way that he was smiling at her. “I gotta confess,” he said, “These are nice, but I like the other ones better. Your glasses,” he added at her blank look.

“Yes,” she said as her eyes suddenly welled with tears. “Me, too.”

“You okay?” he asked, holding out his hand to her, interlacing their fingers when she took it. “You know, I’ve been doing it, too. Wrestling with the waves of emotion. It happens, after. Particularly when you go to extremes to defend yourself.” He met her gaze squarely. “I wish I got there sooner. I would’ve been okay with killing him.”

Phoebe nodded. “I’m kind of okay with killing him, too.”

“It helps to talk about it,” Ian said. “And I’ll be here, whenever you want to. Talk.”

He meant it, and the tears welled again. Damnit. She laughed as she wiped them away.

“Shit,” Ian said. “Come here. I’d come to you, but I’m cuffed to this chair.”

“What?” Phoebe stood up. “Are you seriously …?”

He was. His left hand was attached, via plastic restraint, to the base of the chair, which was, in turn, attached to the floor. No wonder he hadn’t changed his shirt.

“I’ll get someone to unlock you, immediately,” she said, heading for the door.

Ian caught her by the hand. Pulled her down onto his lap. “This is what I want. Problem solved far more quickly.”

Phoebe laughed as he kissed her, but then she stopped laughing and just kissed him back.

“Crap, I keep forgetting … Is your mouth okay?” he asked, pulling back to look at her, grimacing slightly as he gently touched her lips. “You covered it up well, but …”

“I’m great,” she told him and it was true. “Although, I may not be taken too seriously as your lawyer while sitting on your lap.”

“I take you very seriously,” Ian said.

From her perch, she was finally taller than he was. As she looked down into his eyes, she said, “Just so you know, I didn’t believe it for a second—the lies you told Vanderzee. It made me think of Berto and Francine. And your brother.”

“I thought he might’ve put that call on speaker,” Ian said. He closed his eyes and rested his head against her chest as he held her close. “Jesus, that was awful.”

“But in the driveway,” Phoebe said. “When you told me you loved me …”

He looked up at her at that, but then waited, as if he knew she had more to say.

So she kept going. “I was pretty sure the only reason you said it was to keep me from going with him, almost like … a bribe. I love you, now do what I want.”

He laughed at that, but she suspected she was not far from the truth.

“Then I realized,” Phoebe continued, “that you said it as a bribe, but you also really meant it.”

Ian was nodding. “I was desperate,” he admitted. “I would have told you anything. But I did mean it—I do. Very much. Although I don’t know if I would’ve had the guts to say it, if I didn’t think it was gonna get me something tangible.” He winced. “That sounded better in my head. I’m not a total dick. I do know what I get, just from saying it.”

“Sex,” Phoebe said. “And probably a lot of it.”

He laughed at that. “I hope so. We’ll have to see. Won’t we?”

Phoebe didn’t try to hide her surprise as she looked at him, as he looked evenly back at her.

And yes, that had been his way of telling her that he’d never said I love you before, not to any other woman.

Phoebe kissed him again. She had to.

“I came here, half-expecting, I don’t know,” she admitted. “That maybe this was where the pushing-me-away part would really start. I mean, I was all inside of my head about you not telling me that Manny had died. I thought …”

“I didn’t tell you,” Ian said, “because I didn’t want to get my own hopes up. I was hoping that Berto would man up, and take the opportunity to do exactly what he did—which is reach a detente with Davio. Or kill him. Either way would’ve been okay with me, because it finally sets me free.” He smiled at her. “As far as pushing you away? I think we might be past that part. To be honest, what I really want is for you to be closer.”

“I’m on your lap,” she pointed out.

He nodded. “Yeah, I mean … not just here and now physically, but … Jesus, I just really … want you to stick around.”

Phoebe kissed him.

“Hmm,” he said. “I’m starting to see a pattern here. Let’s experiment. I love you.”

She kissed him again.

“Yup,” Ian said, “a definite pattern.” He cleared his throat. “Look, there’s a lot to talk about, and figure out. But just so you know what I’m thinking, I’m considering resurrecting my intel-gathering business, get the old team back, maybe do a little PI work to keep me more local, maybe contract out some assignments from that personal security firm that Martell’s connected to.… Bottom line, I’d love to stick around and see where this thing between us goes.”

“I would love that, too,” Phoebe said.

The door opened, and Yashi stuck his head in. “Everything’s good. You’re cleared to go. Whoops, sorry about that, you should’ve told me …” He came the rest of the way into the room, and unlocked Ian’s hand as Phoebe stood up.

“I was very comfortable,” Ian said as he quickly changed his shirt, leaving the borrowed one on the table.

“You need me to walk you out?” Yashi asked, holding open the door for them.

“Nah, that’s okay,” Ian said, as he took Phoebe’s hand and smiled into her eyes. “We’ll find our way.”





To my mother and father, Lee and Fred Brockmann, who taught me that love is the most powerful force in the world, that only with love can we build and grow and learn, and that in the ongoing epic fight against injustice, ignorance, and fear, love always triumphs.