Six

SIX

I would have kissed him forever, but at that moment someone came around the corner and clipped us. Not hard, more like they were taking the turn to come around the alley, had stopped, maybe even leaned back a moment, and then when they moved to take off, having not seen us, got tangled up.

"Sorry, sorry," a young woman said frantically, trying to get by. She couldn't have been more than sixteen.

"Wait," Lang said, sounding hoarse, taking hold of her arms. "What's wrong?"

As she tried to pull free of his grip, I stepped in close to him and asked her, using my slowest drawl, who she was running from, at the same time showing her my badge.

Since she didn't look relieved, I was worried.

Lang cleared his throat. "We're federal marshals," he explained. "You have nothing to be worried about. Let us help you."

"My grandmother…we are working on getting her citizenship."

He nodded. "We're not interested in her status, just helping you."

She glanced at me, then back to Lang.

"The men said if we told anyone what happens in our building, ICE would come and take everyone away."

"That's a lie," he declared, brows furrowed. "But again, we're marshals. We don't do that. We don't ever do that unless your grandmother is a very bad person."

"She's a wonderful person."

He smiled then, and I saw her calm. Everyone did when Lang was looking at them like that. "I have no doubt."

Looking relieved, she took a deep breath in, and then exhaled, a shudder making her entire body tremble for a moment and then met Lang's gaze. "There is a gang in our building, and they're after me."

"First off," I soothed her, "what's your name?"

"Carmen. Carmen Maria Torrado Rodríguez."

"That's lovely," I told her. "Now, how many men are chasin' you?"

"Four," she replied shakily. "They were initiating a new member tonight, and he was supposed to"—quick glance up at Lang, then me—"you know."

That fast I felt the anger in the pit of my stomach. "And they did what? Came to the door?"

She nodded. "They knocked, and when I talked to them with the chain on, they said if I didn't come out, they would come in for my sister."

Lang cleared his throat. "How old is your sister?"

"She's eleven."

"So you went out," Lang said, prodding her for the rest of the story as he pulled his phone from his back pocket and slid open the screen.

"Yes. My grandmother was asleep. She wouldn't have opened the door, but I didn't want them to hurt her or my sister or my brothers."

"Where are your parents?" I asked as Lang called the office and asked to speak to Wes Ching. We needed backup again.

"They work until two at the store on Friday and Saturday nights."

"Okay," I said, smiling at her, easing her away from Lang because he had to step away to give whoever was on the other end of the line, probably Ching by now if he'd been transferred, more information than I wanted the teenager to hear. "Tell me what happened when you got downstairs."

"They told me to run."

She had been given a head start. That was why she was running in sweats, slippers, and a tank top.

"Okay," Lang said, returning to us. "Backup's on the way. Ching wants us to sit tight here."

"How old are you?" I asked, making conversation as Lang pulled his gun, guarding us, checking both the entrance to the alley and turning his head back and forth to keep an eye on the sidewalk in front of us.

"Fourteen."

"I promise you," I stressed, as I had her crouch down beside the brick wall, "everythin' is gonna be okay."

"But what if they went back for Imelda when they couldn't find me?"

"That's unlikely. I'm sure they're still lookin' for you."

She was nodding as the tears slipped down her face.

"Now I wish I hadn't left my jacket at work," Lang said, still checking both sides of the street. "I could have given it to her."

"She's not cold." I was certain. "She's scared."

He nodded as his phone chirped, and he answered, "Yes, our witness says they've taken over her building. And that plays, as we got the background on that Venezuelan gang that had taken over different buildings last week, remember?"

I listened to Lang talk even as I crouched next to Carmen, ready to shield her with my body at a moment's notice.

"They have," Lang continued. "They run drugs out of it, prey on the girls who live there, prostitute them, and it's a one-stop shop."

He was quiet, and I knew he was listening.

"How far did you run?" I asked Carmen.

"Maybe six blocks."

That was a surprise. "Are you kiddin'?"

Her soft laughter was good to hear. "I run track. I'm the anchor on the 4x400, the 4x800, and I also run the 1500 and the 5K."

I could only stare.

"That means five kilometers," she explained, since I clearly didn't understand.

I stood up from my crouch, and Lang looked at me, still talking to Ching.

"What?" he asked me.

"She ditched those guys chasin' her. No way they have any idea where she is."

"How?"

"This kid runs track for both speed and distance. She smoked them."

Lang smiled at her, and her smile for him back was nice to see. "You're a badass."

His praise lit her up for a moment, so when she suddenly gasped, I sank back down in front of her.

"What's wrong?"

"They were getting Marta too. She lives one floor up."

"We have to find Marta," I told Lang.

"We're going now," Lang said even as I heard the sound of the BearCats rolling up on us. That brrp-brrp was loud, and the lights, the size, and just the intimidating look of the heavy- duty vehicles was enough to cause instant alarm in people. What made Carmen start to immediately shake was probably the sheer number of them.

Ching wasn't screwing around. He'd called in everyone for the breach at the apartment complex, and once Carmen was in the passenger seat, belted in like she was going to go parachute jumping—there were a lot of belts holding whoever sat there—we were off. It made sense. If they were ramming into something, you didn't want to go flying through the windshield. With all the straps and buckles, no way was Carmen going anywhere.

And she'd been very pleased to see Stowe, who was driving, and I understood. As good as Lang and I had been, a woman was better. As soon as Stowe had exited the massive utility vehicle and approached us, Carmen immediately went to her.

Our caravan made it to the apartment in minutes, and already CPD, SWAT, Homeland, and ICE were on the scene.

"You promised ICE would not be here," Carmen choked out the words, looking at me with what I read as both sadness and betrayal.

"Oh no," Stowe assured her. "That's for the gang, sweetheart. No one living in the building will be touched. You have our word."

She broke down sobbing then. It had to be so scary to want help but be afraid of the ramifications of that aid.

"You ran from here to where we picked you up?" Stowe asked Carmen once she'd calmed a bit, and when the young woman confirmed that she had, she was praised by Ching's second-in-command. "That is kick-ass, kid."

"So," Ching began, glancing from me to Lang. "You two don't need sleep?"

Lang shrugged. "No, sir. We run on adrenaline."

Ching scoffed. "Okay, so you two don't come in unless absolutely necessary. There are tactical vests under your seats. Put them on, but unless I give the call, stay in the vehicle with the girl."

He didn't have to tell me twice.

We did as we were told, watching as six groups of four men, with SWAT backing them up, swarmed the front stoop of the building, leaving a phalanx of Kevlar-clad CPD officers on the front, and others on the rear and both sides of the building to catch anyone trying to escape.

Easy to see that CPD had been first on site, cordoning off the building, creating the perimeter.

"They are going to take all the gang members from the building?" Carmen asked me.

"Yep. They certainly are."

"But my father went to the police many times to report the gang members. Why were they not taken any of those times?"

"You have to catch them in the act or, like this, have a credible threat to safety."

She nodded. "My uncle, he is coming from Bogotá next week, to help my father take care of the men."

"You're not from Venezuela?"

She shook her head. "No. We're from Colombia. We came three years ago. I am a citizen, so are my brothers and sister and my mother, but my father and grandmother, we are still working on those. Hopefully within the next six months. It helps that the rest of us are already citizens."

Lang nodded.

"But if my grandmother and father are asked for?—"

"They won't be. We won't let that happen."

"What about Marta and her family? They are from Venezuela and arrived here not too long ago."

"No again. They're evacuatin' the buildin', but no one is gonna get taken away who isn't part of the gang."

As I looked out the window, I saw the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents walking the perimeter along with Homeland Security. But I was relieved when I saw our boss, Ian Doyle, get out of a Chevy Suburban with his boss, Chris Becker, both outfitted in helmets and Kevlar. Their presence meant that the marshals were in charge and that everyone else, including the DEA I now saw joining the team, had to follow our lead.

Ian jogged up the front stoop and into the building. Moments later, when the first people started to be led from the building, I realized there were two lines, one going to the right, to CPD, and the other to the left, to Homeland and ICE. That quickly after Ian had gone into the building, he was sorting people as they came down the stairs. It was easier to evacuate the whole building than try and figure out who should be there and who should not, and I explained that to Carmen so she wouldn't be scared.

An ICE agent crossed to the side where a man was holding a baby, and instantly a CPD officer intercepted him, shaking her head, pointing back the other way. When he took hold of the man's bicep anyway, Dorsey walked over, doing exactly what the officer had, shaking his head and pointing away. When the ICE agent stood his ground—Dorsey was, after all, only a deputy US marshal like the rest of us—our supervisory deputy, Chris Becker, crossed the area with that stride he had, like Kage, where everyone scurried out of the way so they didn't get eviscerated. Dorsey tipped his head that way, and the moment the ICE guy saw Becker, he lifted his hands and walked away.

"That man must be scary," Carmen commented to me.

"You have no idea," I replied.

"That's good," she said, smiling.

Becker went over to the man with the baby, whom Dorsey was protecting, and said something to which there was a lot of nodding and even a slight smile. Then Becker stepped back and, with his arms out, addressed the group. You could see it, on everyone's face, the sense of relief. Homeland and ICE were there for the bad guys, no one else. Chicago was a sanctuary city, after all.

"There they are," Carmen yelled excitedly.

"Lang," the radio in the BearCat chirped at the same time. Lang moved from where he was, on the other side of Carmen at the window, over to the dash.

"Go ahead, Ching."

"Your girl's family should be coming down the stairs now. I informed them that she was safe. Don't have her join them, though. She's a witness now, and depending on what happens here, we?—"

We all heard it then—machine-gun fire. Everyone dropped to the ground, and no one moved as the firing continued.

Five men ran out of the building, all running and turning and firing at the building as they went, with their AK-47s. I covered Carmen as they fired at the crowd, crossing the street and running toward the park there. I could hear screams and cries as they continued to fire, the rat-tat-tat-tat , before the first guy went down, shot in the right shoulder and leg. Then the next and the next, all hit in the same exact place. The last two men were hit, one in the left leg, the other, again, in the right shoulder. It was impressive shooting. No one was dead, but they were all immobilized. Not one of them moved.

Once there was no more shooting, Dorsey was running with Ryan right behind him, followed by a whole group of CPD officers. I heard sirens then and knew the EMTs would be arriving shortly.

Once the all-clear was given, people started rising slowly, many of them wounded, but everyone stood, no casualties on the ground. Ian came out of the building, carrying his helmet in one hand and a Remington 700 rifle in the other.

"Holy shit," I said softly, moving my hands to Carmen's ears. "He made all those shots."

"He's a Green Beret, right?" Lang stated, mindful of Carmen. "A ranger and black-ops guy. It's not surprising he can do that."

Still, it was both impressive and terrifying. He'd saved lives, and in the midst of bullets flying, had the clarity of vision not to kill the men he was shooting at. I was amazed.

As I watched, Ian passed the rifle and helmet to Ching, who had exited with him, and they were followed by Cho and Lopez, whom I hadn't even seen arrive, and eleven men, all with their hands zip-tied behind their backs, then members of SWAT.

Ian pulled a baseball cap from a pocket in his cargo pants, slipped it on backwards, then started directing people.

"Lang," came the call over the radio from the dash of the BearCat.

"Ching," he answered.

"Your girl is free to rejoin her family."

Meaning that her being a witness, her testimony to what happened, was no longer vital. The men in the building had fired on law enforcement, and that was enough to make arrests. We had all the corroboration we needed.

Escorting Carmen to her family, she ran to her grandmother, who hugged her tight. I saw a woman running from the street, heard her yelling, and saw Carmen turn and hold out her arms. This was, of course, her mother. I looked for her father, saw a man lingering by the parked cars, and jogged over to him.

"Sir, are you Carmen's father?"

He didn't answer, and I asked again in Spanish.

Still no answer.

"I'm a federal marshal," I explained. "ICE and Homeland are here only for the gang members, not for anyone else."

The way he searched my face was heartbreaking.

"You see, sir," I said, pointing. "ICE and Homeland are taking charge of the cuffed men, over there. All the families are on the other side."

That's when he saw Carmen smiling and waving. He waved back. She then pointed at me and gave the thumbs-up.

As he passed me, he gave me a quick pat on my arm before running toward his family. Several officers ran toward him because they had no idea who he was, but Lang was there to tell them not to worry, that this was one of the fathers, and to let him through. He gave Lang a pat on the arm as well.

When we reached them, Carmen grabbed hold of my hand and squeezed tight.

"It's okay, sweetie. You're all safe now."

"I know," she whispered, "I trust you. But the man next to Marta, that's not her brother. That's a member of the gang."

"Which one is Marta?"

"The one with the Wonder Woman T-shirt."

I saw them, bumped Lang, and started over.

He followed for a moment, then veered toward the edge of the crowd, moving fast, coming around behind the guy as I approached from the front.

"Marta, hi." As she turned to me, the man, maybe in his early thirties, kept an iron grip on her shoulder. "It's Mr. McCabe. From school."

She nodded. "How are you?"

"What's goin' on here?" I asked her, moving closer, smiling like a simpleton the whole way. "This is all so excitin'."

"It was a fire drill," she told me, "like at school."

"That's crazy," I said, reaching them, seeing the gun now that he was holding in his right hand, under his jacket, gripping her shoulder with his left. "Is this your brother you told me all about?" I asked, holding out my hand to him.

Her eyes filled then at the same time I saw Lang behind him.

"You're not the brother, are you?" I grabbed Marta's arm, yanking her forward, into me.

He whipped the gun out, but it was too late. As Marta and I stepped sideways, he went down hard onto the grass under my partner.

Becker was there suddenly, his foot on the guy's wrist, and then Lang pulled the man's hands behind his back and put zip ties on him that a police officer passed him.

Once the guy was up, another officer, wearing gloves, collected the gun, pulled out the magazine, and then performed the press check to make sure the gun had no bullets in the chamber before dropping it into an evidence bag. CPD took charge of both.

Marta started hyperventilating, but before I could do anything, Carmen was there, wrapping her arms around her friend, the two of them hugging tight.

"So let me understand this," Becker began, looking from Lang to me. "Earlier this evening, you two caught Tobias Mosbach, and now have uncovered a gang in a residence here because a young woman bumped into you on the street? Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," Lang answered for both of us because that was his way.

"Well, I understand that Monday you're off to Vegas, so since we're not taking any of these men into custody, as we did Mosbach, you can write your reports at home and send them to me no later than tomorrow by five, meaning Sunday, since it's already Saturday now. Are we clear, gentlemen?"

"We are," Lang said. "We both have our laptops at home now since we passed our probationary period, so we'll get that done."

"Two reports, not one that's combined or one with an addendum. Two." He drilled into the ground in case we'd both become stupid in the last five minutes.

"Yes, sir," Lang concurred. "We completed the one for Mosbach a few hours ago, and this will be no different."

He nodded and looked at me. "Anything to add, McCabe?"

"No, sir."

"All right. You two are dismissed."

Before we left, we went to see Carmen. Lang gave her his card and told her that she could get both of us that way.

After hugging us both, she returned to her family.

It was always interesting to me that people—kids, teenagers, all ages, male and female, didn't matter—all of them had different reactions to being saved by law enforcement. Some wanted us to stay. They hung on us, felt safer with us there, while others, like Carmen, appreciated us, yes, but from how abrupt she was, I suspected the quicker we were gone, the faster that feeling of calmness, of grounding, of back to normal, could kick in. Carmen had a life, she ran track at school for goodness' sake, and tonight her usual Friday night—Saturday morning now—had been interrupted. Now, though, the bad guys were gone, not only temporarily, but forever, as her building would be watched by the CPD going forward, and so she was ready to be with her family and friends, but Lang and I could go.

"I like that," he said as we walked toward the street.

"What?"

"When they want us to go," he said, taking hold of my bicep and crossing four lanes of traffic with me, jaywalking, but it was after two in the morning at this point, so no one cared. "It's healthy. I love that Carmen is so confident in herself that we're unneeded after the emergency. She can do the rest herself."

"She should probably still talk to someone."

He shrugged. "I don't know about that. My understanding is that if something is a one-off, you can sometimes get over it on your own."

"I think that there depends on quite a few factors."

"That's probably true as well. Whatever she does, I hope she comes through this all right. I can't imagine what that must have been like for her."

I was quiet.

"But you can, can't you?"

I turned to him. "Whaddya mean?"

"Your father, he used to wake you up out of a sound sleep and beat on you before he remarried, when you were small."

It was true. He had. Over the years I realized the worst part was going from the safety of sleep, and my dreams, to the brutality of another attack and never knowing why.

"If I haven't told you lately, I think it's amazing that you're talking to someone other than me about all that. And I hope this doesn't sound weird, but I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," I rasped, choked up suddenly, the emotion swelling in my chest. "I appreciated you givin' me a push in that direction."

"I want you healthy, inside and out," he said, pulling out his phone and then glancing at the street sign to see where we were.

"And why is that?"

"You know why is that ," he said, scowling at me before returning to his screen and then putting his phone in his back pocket. "First off, for you. For your own mental health. I want you to be good, inside your head. And second, I want us to be more than friends, so I want you to be able to recognize that I'm the best thing for you."

I grinned at him. "I know that already. No therapy needed."

He took my face in his hands and eased me close for a kiss that reminded me that this was not just another night that had turned into a morning. This was, in fact, when my best friend finally saw that I was right there, loving him with all my heart. "Well, good," he said when his lips lifted from mine. "But still, having a therapist is amazing. I should go with you sometime so you can introduce me."

"You want to meet my therapist?"

"Why not? I'm sure he's dying to meet me with how much you talk about me."

"Is that right? You think I talk about you?"

"Oh, come on," he teased, easing me close, wrapping me in his arms. "You talk about me all the time. I know you do."

"You think you're that important?" I asked, putting my head on his shoulder, both arms sliding around him, my hands pressing into his back, then sliding, mapping muscle, wanting to touch him everywhere, consumed with the need to feel his skin. I desperately wanted him naked in my bed, and the idea was making it hard to breathe.

"I think I'm the most important person in your life," he murmured into the side of my neck before opening his mouth there.

I was lucky he was holding me because my knees got a bit wobbly.

"That's it," he crooned, "lean on me."

And since I'd been doing that since we first started being partners, and it had always seemed natural, I wasn't about to stop now.