Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“How did you know I was running?”
The look I got, like I was stupid, was not one of my favorites.
“You’re saying I’m predictable?” I teased him.
“I’m saying you’re suicidal,” he growled, leaning down and then straightening up with a Glock 26 in his hand. “Did you miss the shoulder holster on this asshole?”
I had. Yes. “No,” I lied. “But it doesn’t matter. He would’ve had to stop to pull it.”
There were sirens then, and our Special Operations Group, SOG—the marshals’ version of SWAT—was there to take custody of Loginov. Normally, for criminals wanted for anything less than murder, we put them in the back of whatever car we were using at the time. But Loginov had worked for the Lenkov crime family and was wanted, along with others like Adrian Sergeev, whom Bodhi and his temporary partner, Sen Yamane, had picked up last week. He needed to be secured with more than just a seat belt. On the orders of Grigory Lenkov, Loginov had killed many. As I understood it, at least when Lenkov’s son Maksim was giving the orders, the bloodshed had been minimal. But the son had turned on the family, and when everything came to light, it became clear that Loginov and Sergeev had done more for the father than the son ever knew about. This had been Loginov’s last run, ever, as a free man.
Once Bodhi stepped away from Loginov, the SOG guys took him. Wes Ching, who was in charge, collected the gun and the amazing number of small blades the man had on his person.
“How did you get the Firebird?” I asked Bodhi as I got in the passenger side and he slid in behind the wheel.
“Again, Pazzi was sitting there, waiting to hear from you, and when I asked where you were, and he had no answer, I yanked him out of the car, got in, and came to save you.”
“Save me? Really?”
I got another deadpan look.
“Clearly, you’re not in a good mood,” I grumbled.
“Oh, I wonder why,” he muttered.
What was impressive was that he’d found me based solely on our history and vague directions. As law enforcement, we couldn’t use any app to find our phones—nothing based on location was allowed, as that could place us in danger. Our phones could be pinged, but only from our office in an emergency. So really, all Bodhi knew from Pazzi was where I’d gone, a general idea of where I’d started, and from there, it had all been guesswork. I thought I’d been shouting information to Pazzi the whole time I was running, but nothing at all had gone through. My expectation was that my partner would be there, offering me backup, and he was, but only because it was Bodhi. Anyone else, I’d probably be dead. Or at least shot and left bleeding on the sidewalk. It was not one of my better moments.
Bodhi said, “I’m gonna have someone’s ass for letting you go out with a busted earpiece.”
I reached over and patted his thigh. “Thank you.”
“I’m done with this, you understand?”
He meant us, apart. So was I.
“It’s time to talk to Doyle,” he said simply.
Ian Doyle being the deputy director, the guy who decided who we worked with and for how long.
“Why’s that?”
“You know why.”
I was fishing and we both knew it, but I didn’t give a damn. I wanted to hear him say he missed me, because that was how needy I was lately.
“Clearly, Pazzi is good to be back on duty,” Bodhi explained, indulging me. “And he and Yamane are either going to do well as partners going forward or not. But the only person who can absolutely make sure you’re not dead is—”
“Stop, go back,” I cut him off, having seen someone I knew out of the corner of my eye.
Checking behind him, he threw the car into reverse and came to a dead stop in the middle of the right lane. From there we could see between two apartment buildings to a parking lot, where someone was being beat up by two very large men.
“Tell me that’s not Terry Washington,” I said to Bodhi, then turned to look at him.
He squinted.
“It’s not him, right?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure it was. I went back to staring down the alley.
“No, it can’t be,” he said slowly, as if in pain, “because he’s in MCC for six more months.”
“Fuck,” I groaned, sure now it was Terry, and then hit the dash. “Go as far as the dumpster.”
Whipping the car into a hard right, Bodhi gunned the engine, and we flew down the alley. The two guys took off, leaving Washington to slide down the wall he’d been held against. Braking with a squeal of tires, we were out of the car in seconds, and I ran by Washington, slowed, made sure he was breathing, then sped up after Bodhi, who was yelling at the guys to stop. The good news was, someone in the apartments above must have seen Washington getting pummeled, because there were cops at the opposite end of the parking lot. The bad news was, they drew on all of us.