Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

“There’re no towels out,” Phoebe reported to Ian in a whisper, as she handed him what looked like a cushion from a deck chair. “I figured this was better than nothing.”

She held one, too, hugging it against herself like a shield. It was striped—white and red—and made of waterproof material that gave it a plastic shine that caught and reflected the light from the neighbor’s dock.

“What, there were no giant flags to wave to make sure people notice us as we attempt to borrow someone’s car?” Ian asked.

She got defensive. “Hey, it was the best I could do. And if anyone sees us, they’ll think it’s some kind of beach chair. If you hold it right, they’ll think you’re wearing a Speedo, and that we’re walking back from the beach—”

“It freaking glows in the dark.”

“Your ass glows in the dark,” she retorted sharply, her frustration getting the better of her. “Speaking of giant flags.”

He wanted to kiss her. Now more than ever. “Magnificent,” he reminded her. “Giant and magnificent.”

She sighed heavily. She was not amused. “Look, I’ll just go next door, where they are home, and do the woman-with-the-ass-hat-for-a-boyfriend act—”

Ian caught her arm, keeping her from walking away. “No, you’re right. This’ll do. We’ve already been out of contact with Aaron and the feds for too long. We have to connect with them. ASAP.”

She leaned in slightly, squinting a bit as she looked at him in the shadows. “Finally. You’re serious. Thank you. About damn time. FYI, the house is empty. No one’s home. There’s an alarm system, but it looks rudimentary. Piece of cake for an international jewel thief.”

Ian shook his head, avoiding dangerous territory by simply saying, “We need to get out of this area. Davio Dellarosa is a persistent SOB. We’ve already been here too long.”

Phoebe solemnly nodded her understanding. “Well, maybe this’ll help. There’s a car parked in the driveway. The very secluded driveway.”

“There we go,” Ian said. “I knew our luck was changing.”

He let her lead the way across the lawn and toward the house, where indeed there was an older-model car in the shadow of the house, hidden from the waterfront, the street, and the next-door neighbors. It was, perhaps, the perfect car in the perfect location. He dropped his deck chair cushion and got to work unlocking the driver’s side door, while Phoebe stood guard.

She carefully kept her gaze everywhere and anywhere but on him. Although, considering her earlier reference, she apparently had looked, at least long enough to make note of the fact that it had been impossible for him to maintain his all-over tan while in prison.

As Ian popped the lock and opened the car door, he turned to Phoebe. “Can you do me a huge favor?”

She immediately stepped toward him, fully embracing their new mature relationship. “Of course.”

Ian looked pointedly over his own shoulder, and said, “Tell me the truth. Does this car make my glowing ass look fat?”

She’d naturally followed the direction of his gaze, but now she looked up, hard, into his eyes. And she smiled back at him despite herself. She even laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“When things get too serious, I get a rash.”

She pointedly looked back down at his nether regions, despite the fact that doing so made her blush. Still, she spoke coolly, dryly. “Not on your ass.”

If Ian believed in love, that would’ve been it for him. Instantly. Enthrallingly. Eternally. Instead, he just laughed. “Thank God for that. See if there’s anything remotely clothinglike in the backseat or the trunk.” He popped it open. “ETD’s in about thirty.”

“Minutes?” she asked.

“Seconds.”

“Seriously?”

He glanced up at her. “Now she’s impressed. Note to self: Steal more cars.”

“Borrow,” she reminded him. “These people are much too tidy. There’s nothing in the trunk. At all. Or on the backseat.”

Of course there wasn’t. It had been that kind of day. As Phoebe closed the trunk—remembering to do it quietly, which now impressed Ian in return—he started the car with a sputter that he nursed into a smooth purr. He climbed in behind the wheel—the seats were vinyl and his still-damp skin stuck, oh joy—as she got in on the passenger side. She was still holding her cushion, and she’d grabbed the one he’d dropped as well.

“In case we need it,” she said.

Ian took it from her. Put it on his lap. And pulled out of the driveway.

* * *

When Shelly came out of the safe house bathroom, Berto was puttering around in the kitchen, opening cabinets and clinking various dishware, looking for God knows what.

He’d turned the TV on in the living room, and a sports newscast was blaring.

Shel found the remote and hit mute—to make things easier for whoever was watching and listening in. He sat down on the ancient La-Z-Boy sofa right in front of the main camera, which was hidden in a dusty fake pony palm tree. Whoever had planted it there without disturbing any of the dust was a true artist. He hoped he’d get a chance to meet him or her. But not even half as much as he hoped he’d soon be back with Aaron and Rory.

Berto came out of the kitchen with a bowl of pretzels tucked into his elbow, and a beer in each hand. In cans. Because in the thuggery business, you never gave a bottle—a potential weapon made from broken glass—to an adversary. Even if that adversary was your half brother.

“Thanks,” Shel said as he reached for one of the beers.

Berto put the bowl on the coffee table, and complied by sitting in an easy chair that was safely in the frame of any reputable wide-angle lens.

Shel grabbed some pretzels and pretended to drink his beer, while Berto didn’t. Pretend, that is. To drink.

“They gonna call you soon?” Berto made it half question, half not.

It was safe to assume that Ian or Francine had the number of the landline here. And yes, Sheldon expected them to make contact sooner or later. “If you’re expecting Aaron to show up so that you can kill him, you’re going to be disappointed,” he said.

Berto exhaled, part laughter, part frustration. “I don’t want to kill Aaron.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Shel countered.

“That was Davio who sent that guy to kill him,” Berto said. “Not me. I was at peace with the whole gay thing by then.”

Shel put down his beer. “Wait. Are you saying that wasn’t about Aaron being a witness—”

“To what?” Berto asked.

“You know exactly to what,” Shelly countered. It was actually kind of amazing how quickly they’d slipped back into their teenaged-brother speech patterns. It had been years since they’d seen each other. A full decade.


“Aaron didn’t see shit that night,” Berto said.

The night that their lives changed. The night that Francine told their father that she was in that video, having sex with Aaron. The night that Berto had believed her, and gone after Aaron with a loaded gun—and killed someone else.

Aaron had told Shel that he hadn’t seen what happened. He’d been locked in the trunk of Berto’s car, parked outside of a supposedly deserted warehouse, when Berto had fired his weapon—twice—and killed a homeless man. Whether the shooting was intentional—in a spasm of murderous rage—or accidental, Sheldon still didn’t know.

It didn’t really matter, because instead of taking responsibility, Berto had called his father for help. And Davio had made the body and all of the evidence disappear.

“Does Davio know,” Shel asked, “that Aaron was in the trunk of your car?”

“The body’s long gone,” Berto said dismissively, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Thunk and thunk. “Trust me when I say that Davio hasn’t thought about that shit in years.”

But Berto clearly had.

Shel didn’t want to argue about why his half brother had made the choices that he had, so he changed the subject. “It’s kind of weird, isn’t it, that we call him Davio. Instead of Dad.”

“Not really,” Berto said. “I mean, biologically, yeah, sure, he’s our father but … He’s my boss. My owner. My lord and master.” He laughed, but it was devoid of humor, then took another long slug of his beer, before toasting Shelly with the can. “Worst choice of my life—doing what I did that night. Taking my handgun out of the lockbox before going after Aaron. You know, I’ve thought about turning myself in. Full confession, guilty plea. If only to get Davio off your back. Because he’d go to jail, too. Aiding and abetting, coverup of a murder, conspiracy … I’m sure there’s something I’m leaving out.” He laughed then. “But sorry, I’m not going to jail for the rest of my pathetic life. It’d be different if I knew for a fact that I’d get the death penalty, because the needles would make it all finally f*cking end.”

Sheldon had to laugh his disbelief. “You don’t mean that.”

“Not all the time.” Berto finished off his beer. “But sometimes … I kinda do.” He gestured with his chin toward Shel’s can. “You ready for another?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m almost done,” Shelly lied. “Thanks.” He tried to hold the can as if it were lighter instead of still nearly full. “So are you saying that Davio tried to kill Aaron only because of …?”

“The gay thing,” Berto confirmed. “After you got out of the Marines, and you didn’t have to hide it anymore, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know, so …” He shrugged.

Shelly realized that the timing was right. He and Aaron had just left the military. They’d just gotten back to the States when Francine called to warn them that Davio had put a price on Aaron’s head.

Berto got up and went into the kitchen, raising his voice to say, “His latest thing is that you couldn’t possibly be his kid. No son of mine blah blah blah. Your mother must’ve screwed around on him.”

Shel could barely remember his mother, who’d died when he was little. When he closed his eyes, he got a flash of someone blond and beautiful. Like Francie, only more outwardly feminine, and less emotionally stable. Always wearing dresses and high heels. Always smelling good. Almost always crying. “I wish,” he said as he set his can on the back of an end table, behind a framed picture of a palm tree.

“I feel you. You know, you might want to fake a paternity test that proves that, I don’t know, Bruce Springsteen is your real father, send a copy to D. Prove his delusions.” Berto laughed, coming back with two more cans, and handing one to Shel before flopping back into his seat.

It was crazy. Davio Dellarosa had two sons. One was gay; the other was a murderer. And the gay one was the embarrassment.

Sheldon cleared his throat, and took another pretend sip of his new can of beer.

“So you and Aaron actually got married, huh? What’s it been, five years now?”

“Almost six,” Shel said, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“What’d you do, go up to Massachusetts to do it?” Berto asked.

“Canada,” Shel said. “I was in Iraq, Aaron was in Afghanistan. We met in London and flew to Montreal. Ian couldn’t make it, but Francine was there. It was nice.”

And that was an understatement. Sheldon could still picture Aaron, resplendent in his tux, smiling into Shel’s eyes as they held hands and promised to love one another forever. Love, honor, respect, trust, be honest with, always …

“You didn’t invite me,” Berto said.

“Nope.” Shel took a larger sip of his beer, wishing he could wash the taste of dread from his mouth, knowing that Aaron was going to be angry and hurt when he found out the truth—that Shelly had known, for months now, that Francine had been in contact with Ian, who was in prison.

Shel had known, but not told Aaron.

“Hurt my feelings when I heard,” Berto said.

That was bullshit and they both knew it, so Sheldon didn’t respond. He just pretended to drink more, hoping that seeing that beer can at his mouth would prompt Berto to do the same.

But Berto just sat there, looking at Shel.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” he finally said. “You and Aaron. What you have is really special. I envy you, bro. And now, with the baby? Rory? I meant to say congratulations about that, so … congratuf*cking-lations.”

Sheldon felt himself go very, very still. “How do you know his name?”

Berto toasted him again with his beer. “Oops. I guess I might as well tell you that I know where you work, too, Junior—and that the company just moved. I know they pay you under the table, which is convenient when you’re living under an assumed name, isn’t it? I know your address, your home phone, and your cell. I haven’t managed to hack your current email. I don’t think that’s gonna happen, your security’s too tight. But I do know you sometimes go to church at the touchy-feely UCC with that rainbow flag, over by the YMCA; that a guy named Robert, from Hamilton-Ladieu on Main Street, cuts your hair—”

“Enough,” Shel said. His head was spinning. “Jesus Christ, B., all this time, Davio’s actually been—”

“Not Davio,” Berto said. “No, no. Up until today, he thought you and Aaron split up about six months ago. That you’re in California. Silicon Valley, working for some dot-com. And that Aaron, at last sighting, was in Manchester, New Hampshire. Working at a Radio Shack. I thought that was a nice embellishment. Radio Shack, right?”

“Why does he think …” Shelly couldn’t finish his question because he suspected the answer, and it was too unbelievable. But then he remembered the way Berto had punched him in the stomach, pulling the blow so that he wasn’t really hurt.

Berto, meanwhile, said it anyway. “Because that’s what I told him. I take an extra three thousand dollars from petty cash each month to pay”—he made air quotes with his fingers—“some fictional detective agency to track you guys down. But you always f*cking elude us, you crazy gay bastards. Turns out you were paying off the detective to give us that cockamamie madeup bullshit while, holy shit, you were in Sarasota the entire time. Good thing the guy’s fictional, or I’d have to kill him.” Berto leaned forward. “I’m your f*cking guardian angel, Sheldon. Who do you think tipped off Francine all those years ago, when Davio set up that hit on Aaron, huh?”


* * *

Francine couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Aaron obviously couldn’t either. He’d managed to get the baby to fall asleep, and he now stood behind Francie, along with Martell and FBI Deb, watching the conversation between Sheldon and Berto playing out on the computer screen. They’d enlarged the picture from that one camera—the one in the living room—so that it dominated the screen. The quality was unbelievably good. They could see every scrape and bruise on Shel’s face.

As for Berto …

The past decade hadn’t been kind to him. While he was still powerfully built, his bulk wasn’t all muscle. He needed to be more careful with his diet. Maybe not drink quite as much.

Maybe not drink, period.

“Is that true?” Aaron asked, lightly touching Francie’s shoulder as Berto claimed to be behind the anonymous email that had warned her about the hit.

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I never knew who sent it, but …”

“But what?”

She said it. “I thought it might’ve been. Him.”

At first, Francine had thought it was an attempt to get her to emerge from the woodwork where she’d been hiding, which was near Chicago at that time. Make her take a trip over to Boston where Shel and Aaron were living after being discharged from the Marines, where Berto would be waiting so that he could … what? Apologize? Kill her? Kidnap her and bring her back to his f*ck-wad of a father …?

Any of it was possible.

But she’d dug deeper, getting in touch with an old family friend, and she’d come up with some very convincing evidence that Davio had ordered a hit on Aaron. At which point she’d taken the warning seriously.

“And who do you think,” Berto said, after waiting a good long time for Shel to answer his first question, and getting no response, “sent that email to Francie, just last year, letting her know where to find Pauline?” He turned his head then, and looked directly into the hidden camera.

And Francie realized that he’d known, all along, that the surveillance equipment was there, and that she was probably watching.

“Who the hell is Pauline?” Martell murmured, and Aaron quickly and quietly gave both him and the FBI girl a bullet-point list of basics:

1) Pauline was Francie’s much-older sister, also adopted by Davio when he’d married their mother.

2) Decades earlier, she’d run away from private school, where she’d been sent for bad behavior, and Francine had been searching for her for years, hoping to reconnect.

3) A year ago, Francine found her sister, eight months pregnant and addicted to heroin. Pauline gave birth to Rory, then died.

Back in the safe house, Berto still looked right at the lens—looked right at Francie, into her eyes, and said, “It was me, France. Pauline came to see Davio, hoping for some get-the-f*ck-outta-here money, or maybe some genuine help, I don’t really know. But he wasn’t home—I was. I got her out of there, fast, because I knew he’d kill her if he could—he hated her that much. And it was me who told you where she was, that she was pregnant, and that she was using again.”

“Is that true?” Francine heard Aaron murmur from behind her, as back in the safe house, Berto looked at Sheldon.

She’d never told Shel and Airie exactly how she’d found her long-missing and troubled older sister. “It is,” she told Aaron now. “I got an anonymous email, just like he said.”

Francine had, at great risk, followed the email’s instructions and had finally found her sister. With Shel and Aaron’s help, and with Ian’s connections, they got her to a facility where she went on methadone for the remainder of her pregnancy. But getting that kind of medical care meant that Pauline’s whereabouts were made public. Davio would be able to find her. And, like Francine, he’d been searching for her for years.

Berto was right about that—Davio hated Pauline with a passion. He blamed her for everything that had gone wrong with his life, including—irrationally—the untimely death of Francie, Pauline, and Shelly’s mother.

“Rory was born addicted to methadone?” Martell asked Aaron quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You got Rory thanks to me,” Berto told Sheldon now. “So yeah, I know his name. You’re welcome.” He finished off his second beer. “All kidding aside, at the time I didn’t know you wanted a kid. All I knew was that France always talked about finding her sister. And here I was with info that could make that happen. So …”

He put his feet back on the floor and his beer can down on the coffee table with a thunk before pushing himself up and out of his chair. Still, he was careful to stand so that the camera caught most of his face, even as he spoke to Sheldon.

“These are the keys to the car.” He tossed a set over, and Shelly fumbled before catching them. “I know you probably think otherwise”—a glance to the camera—“but there’s no tracking device, no GPS on the vehicle. It’s clean. You are, too. Nothing on your clothes, nothing, well, whatever. I know you’re going to take that info with a mountain of salt. So be it. Do whatever you have to do, bro. But here’s the truth: I’m walking out of here. I’m not going to follow you, and no one else is gonna, either. There’s no one watching this place—no one knows about it. Like I told you before, I didn’t say anything to Davio, and the two men who found you were mine. They won’t talk.

“I’m gonna walk over to that bar by the harbor—the Pelican Deck—where they have that stupid website ‘fun-cam,’ and I’m going to sit my ass down in front of it.” He looked at the camera again, steadily this time. “So you know where I am. So you know you can meet Shel or pick him up or whatever you want to do without any interference from me.”

He stepped closer, looked right into the lens, right into Francine’s soul. “I know we’re not close to even. I know we’ll never be. But maybe this helps. Maybe just a little bit.”

And with that, he walked away.

Francine activated the keyboard and the mouse, tripping over herself to bring the other cameras back to the computer screen and, yes, there was Shelly on his feet in the living room as Berto walked through the kitchen and out the back door.

“Lock this bolt behind me,” Berto called.

Sheldon followed him into the kitchen to do just that, as a camera outside of the house picked up Berto, now a shadowy shape walking around the side of the house and down the driveway to the street.

Sheldon looked into the camera that was hidden there in the kitchen. “I think he was serious. I think he’s really gone,” he said.

Aaron looked down at Francine, disbelief on his face. “What the hell just happened?” he asked. “Is this real?”

His questions were echoed in both Martell and FBI-Debbie’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Francie had to admit. “God, I don’t trust him.”

Sheldon said it at almost exactly the same time, via the camera and microphone. “I don’t trust him. Look, I’m going to take the car, and I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to go and pick up some new clothes, in case the ones I’m wearing are somehow tagged, and then I’m going to shower and change.” He paused, then added, “Aaron, I’m so sorry for … everything. I love you.”


And with that he, too, was out the door.

“What do we do now? Intercept him or …?”

Francine looked up to find that Martell was looking at her to answer his question, not Deb.

Of course, Rory chose that exact moment to wake up and start to cry.

Aaron immediately headed toward the bedroom, but was stopped by the sound of a car pulling off the road and into the gravel parking lot. And sure enough, the surveillance cameras here at Zebra—there was one out front, one out back of this building—picked up the blurry image of a car. A four-door sedan. Older model. With what looked like two people in the front seat.

“That’s not Yashi,” Deb said. She’d already drawn her handgun. “Couldn’t be. Not yet.”

Francine reached for her weapon, too, checking to make sure she was locked and loaded.

“Ian’s still not answering the burner phone,” Martell reported. “I’d think he’d call to warn us, if it was him.”

“He might’ve had to ditch the phone.” Aaron held out his weapon to the former police detective, before swiftly going to quiet the baby.

Outside, the car stopped directly under the security cam, as if on purpose. And the driver opened the door and …

“What the hell?” Martell put voice to what they all were thinking.

“It’s Ian,” Francie called to Aaron. “It’s okay. We’re good.”

Martell didn’t sound sure about that. “What the hell …?”

Ian was naked, save for some kind of … something beachy-looking that he modestly used as a fig-leaf substitute, which was a very non-Ian thing to do.

Still, as Ian looked up at the camera, he signaled that everything was okay—something he’d never have done if he were under duress. Francine knew for a fact that he’d die before putting them in danger.

A woman was with him, and Francie leaned closer to the monitor to get a better look at what had to be Phoebe—who may or may not have been working for Davio Dellarosa.

She was tall, with thick, wavy hair that spilled down around her T-shirt clad shoulders. But that was all she was wearing. Her long legs and her feet were bare. She clutched a similar beachy-something to her generous bosom. Light bounced off the lenses of a pair of intentionally nerdly glasses that kept Francie from clearly seeing her face. Was she pretty? Francie couldn’t tell, but the way Ian looked at the woman was certainly interesting.

Martell had moved over to the door, but he hadn’t opened it, and Francine realized he was looking at her, waiting for her go-ahead.

So she gave it. “Let them in,” she said as she went to the supply lockup to find Ian a pair of pants.

* * *

Ian had promised Phoebe that there would be clothing for them to put on at this place he called “Contact Point Zebra,” and indeed there was.

Jeans—again too big, but she wasn’t complaining—and an overshirt that was too warm but at least helped hide the fact that she was without a bra.

Ian’s brother Aaron, along with Martell and the goth-costumed FBI agent named Deb, had been joined by what was possibly the cutest baby in the world, and a petite blue-eyed blonde who looked simultaneously kickass and gorgeous, as if she were ready to join the cast of whatever postapocalyptic show was currently popular on TV. She was stunningly beautiful but fiercely makeup-free, and had long, glistening hair that didn’t require much besides a rubber band to keep it sleekly controlled. She wore hiphugging jeans and a tank top that showed off the svelte muscles in her arms, and clunky, jungle-worthy boots on her feet.

Upon welcoming them inside a cozy and well-equipped two-bedroom apartment, the blonde had greeted Ian with a kiss on the mouth and a slap on his bare butt, which had made him laugh.

Introductions were quickly made—as she’d guessed, the blonde was Sheldon’s sister Francine—but Phoebe focused on pulling on the clothes that Martell handed her, and thus didn’t have to directly face the woman’s challenging, proprietary, I’m the only one here who gets to slap Ian’s bare butt glare.

Everyone was talking to Ian at once.

Francine: “So what the hell happened?”

Ian: “Long story. Short version, bottom line: we survived an encounter with Davio’s goon squad.”

Francine: “Or you brought one of his crack hoes back here, with you.” And yes, that was a hostile look she was aiming at Phoebe.

And Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She laughed as the conversation swirled around her. She’d been called a lot of things in her life, but crack ho was a new one.

Ian (to Francine): “Don’t be stupid. Any word from Shel?”

Aaron: “He’s safe, no thanks to you. Effin’ Berto got him away from Davio.”

Francine: “We sent them to the safe house, where Berto just left Shelly. He walked away, leaving Shel his car. We have surveillance tape of their conversation. You’ll want to see it.”

Ian (to Francine): “You know Berto best. Is this a trap?”

Francine: “I don’t think so. No.”

Aaron: “I wanna go pick him up. I think he’ll be at the Y, showering and changing his clothes.” He had to be talking about his husband, Sheldon, not Berto.

Martell: “After you catch your breath, Dunn, I want to talk about your previous contact with the man known as the Dutchman.”

Ian (to Aaron, ignoring Martell): “Yeah, no, you’re not going anywhere.” (to Francine) “You’re certain Zebra’s secure?”

Francine: “So far.”

Aaron: “So, what? I’m supposed to just wait here?”

Ian (to Francine): “No one followed you out here? You’re sure about that?”

Francine: “Absolutely.”

Aaron: “While you send, who? Deb? Shel’s never met her. That’s not gonna go well. He’ll think she works for Davio.”

Deb: “No, I’m not leaving. Not when Dunn just got back here. Nuh-uh. At the very least I need to be part of that conversation about the Dutchman.”

Ian (over Deb): “Will someone please get Phoebe some water? And something to eat while you’re at it …?”

Martell: “There’re cold cuts for sandwiches in the kitchen. And breakfast cereal and milk, some fresh fruit …”

Francine (over Martell): “We got one more federal agent, guy named Yashi, had to go up to Tampa. Since we left the safe house, we’ve been communicating with him through a scrambled connection. He doesn’t know where we are.”

Martell (over Francine as he handed Phoebe a bottle of water): “And some kind of microwavable meals in the freezer …”

Phoebe said, “Thanks.”

Deb: “But we’re going to have to give Yashi our location. He’s part of this op, and you’re seriously undermanned. May I remind you that the agreement we made was that the rescue mission would start as soon as Sheldon was free. And he appears to be free.”

Francine: “Appears isn’t good enough.”

Aaron: “The deal was that we get him back. He’s not back.”

Ian was now fully dressed—he’d had boots in his extra-large size waiting for him in this little apartment’s copious and well-stocked closets. He held up one hand, even as he took a long drink from a bottle of water that Martell had given to him as well.

It was actually kind of amazing that he’d followed all of that. He not only had, but was more than ready to take over in his role of commander.


“Aaron’s right,” Ian told Deb. “The deal was that we get Shel back, and he’s not back. Not yet.” He looked at Aaron. “But you’re not going anywhere. Francine’ll pick him up.” He turned his focus to Francine, ignoring Aaron’s outraged sputtering of dissent. “After you apologize to Phoebe for calling her a crack whore. I’m gonna need a new phone, so make sure you have that new number, because I want a call as soon as Shel is secured.”

Francine rolled her eyes at the idea of an apology to anyone, but grimly nodded.

“Oh, and don’t hate me too much, France—I realize that’s an impossibility—but I want someone riding shotgun. Eyes open wide, because I don’t trust Berto.” Ian turned to Martell. “And it looks like France’s wingman is going to be you, because here’s all you need to know about the Dutchman: He’s a douchebag—a very dangerous one—but he likes me. He thinks I saved his life a few years back.” Now he ignored Martell and Francine, both bristling for different reasons as he turned back to Deb. “What I need from you is the complete intel from the team that’s watching the Miami consulate, where these missing kids are allegedly being held.”

“Not allegedly,” Deb interjected.

“Yeah, well, I’ll need proof of that. I also want all the info available on everyone involved—not just the kids and the captors and every staff member working at the consulate, but on the mother and father, too. And when I say complete, I mean complete. I want to know everything. No surprises. But first, before you hit me with video footage and e-files, I want a sandwich—and I need to meet my nephew.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Do it,” Ian ordered. “Now.”

Francine was the first to put herself into motion. She stomped past Phoebe, muttering a very insincere “Sorry,” as she headed for the closets to grab that new phone Ian had demanded.

Martell followed. “I’ma need firepower if I’m truly riding shotgun,” he said to Francine.

Deb, too, faded back toward a simple wooden table, where a computer had been set up, her phone to her ear.

And that left Ian, Aaron, Rory, and Phoebe.

Ian turned to his brother, who was holding that candidate for world’s cutest baby, and held out his hands. “May I?”

Phoebe realized that Ian hadn’t asked his question of Aaron, but instead had been talking directly to the baby, who gave his answer with a drool-filled smile.

As Phoebe watched she tried to move back and away, suddenly hyperaware that she was witnessing something that should’ve been private. But this place was so small, there was really nowhere for her to go as Rory went easily into Ian’s arms.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered with an expression on his face that, on any other man, she would have described as awe. “Wow, you are a big guy, aren’t you? I’m your Uncle Eee. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

Ian laughed as the baby reached for him—maybe for his hair or his nose—and ended up smacking him in the face. “Why am I not surprised that he packs a punch,” he told his brother, who had clearly forgotten his own anger for a moment, as he smiled, too.

It was then that Ian glanced over at Phoebe. And the smile he gave her was a mix of amusement and embarrassment, probably because he was unable to hide his absolute, softhearted, fully human pleasure.

And idiot that she was, that shared smile—probably because it was accessorized by that very, very cute baby who looked completely at home in his massive arms—made her stomach go into freefall and her treacherous heart skip a beat.

God help her.

“Maybe you should at least pretend that you’re not already madly in love with him.”

Phoebe looked up to find Francine standing beside her, holding out a cell phone with unconcealed hostility.

“Give this to Eee for me,” the blond woman continued. “I’ve got the number and I’ll call him when I connect with Shel.” She started for the door, but then stopped. “It’s locked with his usual code, so you can’t use it to call out,” she added. “So don’t bother trying. And for the love of Christ, don’t sneak away again. You know, you really f*cked things up before by leaving the way you did.”

The nasty-ass attitude had gone on long enough. Phoebe got up in Francine’s face to say, “It was a mistake, and I apologize. I won’t make it again, so you can stop with the hating. FYI, I’m not a threat—of any kind.”

Francine blinked her surprise, apparently unused to being challenged, but then she laughed. “Is it possible that you’re really that stupid?” she asked, leaving Phoebe no chance to retort because she swept out of the apartment.

Martell followed her, shooting Phoebe a what the hell have we gotten ourselves into look before he closed the door behind him.

Still on the phone, Deb drifted across the room like a goth-flavored ghost, and locked the many deadbolts on that door.

Meanwhile, Ian remained enthralled by Rory. “I have heard a lot about you,” he told the little boy, as Phoebe tried her best not to watch.

But it was right then that Aaron’s smile vanished. “Have you really?” he asked his older brother, instantly antagonistic again.

Phoebe tried to be as invisible as Deb as she headed for the corner of the room that was set up as the kitchen. She opened the cabinets and found several loaves of bread and a package of deli rolls.

But Aaron didn’t lower his voice, so it was impossible not to overhear him as Phoebe found a plate and opened the refrigerator, searching for the cold cuts. “Because none of whatever you heard came from me.” He was trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, for Rory’s sake.

Still, a quick glance in their direction was all it took to know that the baby was thinking about crying.

“Apparently it was decided that I should be left in the dark, as clueless as Rory, as to what the hell was going on with you,” Aaron continued. He took Rory from Ian’s arms as Phoebe found the sliced turkey and Swiss cheese. There was mustard in the fridge door. She set it all out on the counter as he took a deep breath. “Apparently I’m—What was the reasoning, Eee? I’m unable to keep a secret, or not worthy of knowing the details or—What? I’m dying to know.”

Ian sighed. “Look, Air, I had to keep it from you. It was hard enough to do, without having to face your anger and disappointment.” He aimed his next words at Phoebe. “Leave that out for me, okay?”

She looked up at him. “Oh. Sure. You want me to make you one?”

“No. Thank you. I’ll do it.”

Rory was clearly on the verge of howling, but Aaron held him close. “It’s okay, little man,” he murmured as he rocked the boy. “Daddy’s not mad at you. Daddy’s not even really mad. I’m just …” His exhale came out sounding a little too much like a sob as he rather obviously did his best not to cry, too. “Really, really upset with Uncle Eee.”

“See, I knew you’d be upset,” Ian said.

“You should have told me before you made the deal with Manny,” Aaron whispered. It was clear that his two choices for volume were whisper or shout. “Because Jesus, eighteen months in prison, Eee? That is not okay. I would’ve vetoed it. I would’ve chosen another way entirely.”


“What other way?” Ian asked almost gently. “Running and hiding, and running again?” He shook his head. “I want you to have a life.”

“And I want you to have one, too,” Aaron countered.

Ian didn’t back down. He didn’t even blink. He just stood there, gazing at his brother. “Do I look like I’m unhappy?”

Aaron didn’t hesitate. “Hell yeah.”

“Well, look again, little brother, because I’m not.”

“Not unhappy,” Aaron repeated. “That’s great, Eee. That’s something to really strive for. To be not unhappy. Brav-f*cking-o.”

He walked away, taking Rory into one of the bedrooms, where he closed the door behind him, almost impossibly quietly.

Ian watched him go, then looked back at Phoebe.

Making choices for others seems to be a chronic problem for you. Things not to say, at least not out loud.

Instead, as he came over and reached into the bread bag to build his own sandwich on the plate she’d gotten out for him, she said, “If you want, I can talk to Deb and set up full immunity for you, so that you can share what you know about the Dutchman with the feds without fear of repercussion.”

Ian laughed as he helped himself to the rest of the sliced turkey, piling it onto the bread in a single thick slab. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I’ll make sure you’re protected,” she said. “We can set the fact-gathering session up like a deposition. Cut and dried. Just you, me, Deb, Martell—”

“Nope.” He reached across her for the mustard, forcefully squeezing a small mountain onto the turkey.

“Oooh-kay,” she said. “I can make arrangements for Georg Vanderzee to receive immunity as well, if he’s a friend of yours—”

Ian put the plastic bottle of mustard onto the counter with a bang as he turned to face her. “What part of The Dutchman’s a dangerous douchebag implied that he’s any kind of friend?”

Phoebe refused to back down even though he was standing much too close. “Important business contact, then.”

“Yeah, he’s not that, either.”

And there they stood, face to face, eye to eye. And there it was again, that shifting-earth-beneath-her-feet sensation.

There hadn’t been much conversation in the car on the ride over here. Ian had been deep in thought, and Phoebe had found herself lulled by the sound of the tires on the road, and to her amazement, she’d actually dozed off.

She was still exhausted, and she longed for the comfort of her own bed.

Which was probably being carted out of her condo by looters and thieves, right this very moment. Still, that thought wasn’t as awful as the realization that had dawned when Sheldon’s perfect blond sister had slapped a very possessive hand against Ian’s bare butt.

It was more than obvious that Ian was not romantically involved with Francine. But Francine surely wanted them to be.

And even though, just a few short hours ago, Phoebe had recited the friends speech to Ian, the sight of Francine kissing him had sent a roiling wave of emotion coursing through her.

She was jealous.

And stupid.

Because even though she didn’t want the complications that came from kissing Ian Dunn, she didn’t want anyone else kissing him, either.

And that was not just stupid, but freaking stupid.

That was an irrational, selfish reaction that absolutely, positively didn’t belong to a woman thinking about a man who was only a friend.

Add in the elevator-ride-like stomach flips that didn’t only happen when the man held a baby in his arms, but instead occurred at nearly all eye contact, and …

God help her.

“I am sorry,” Ian said now, quietly. “That you got dragged into this. I seem to be saying that a lot, don’t I?”

His words broke whatever stupid spell it was that he had the power to cast over her, and Phoebe turned back to her sandwich. “Yeah, well, now that I’m stuck here for some undetermined amount of time, it seems beyond foolish not to let me help.” She took a bite for emphasis. “You could at least let me make you a sandwich,” she added balefully through her mouthful.

“That was me being respectful of your law degree,” Ian said.

She gave him a very intentional side-eye and he laughed. God, she liked making him laugh.

“I can definitely use your help,” he admitted, “sifting through the dump of information I’m about to receive from the FBI. I want you to start your part of the digging with the details of how the mother originally got out of Kazbekistan and the legal standing of her divorce, as well as her custody of those kids. You know anything about international law?”

“Not much, but I know how to read and research. I’ll find what you need to know.”

“Good. Because I want to know what the father thinks his rights are. I also want to know exactly who he is. How big of an enemy am I going to be making. Because the Dutchman’s not the only person I’ll be f*cking with when I pull off this rescue mission.”

When, not if. It was possible this man’s vocabulary didn’t include the word if. Once again, Phoebe found herself admiring Ian’s conviction and resolve.

She took another bite and again spoke through it, pointing with her elbow at the cell phone on the counter. “Francine gave me that to give to you. And she managed to do it without shivving me through the heart, but just barely. You do know she’s in love with you.”

Ian laughed again at that. “Nah, she’s just messing with you. Trying to make you think that. You scare her, because she hasn’t known you for twenty-five years. She’s hypercautious.” He sighed. “She’s earned the right to be.”

“How long has she worked with you?” Phoebe asked.

“A long time,” Ian admitted.

It was his first acknowledgment that, yes, he had the crack team that she kept asking about. But Phoebe kept her Hah! I knew it! to herself. “It hasn’t occurred to you that the reason she’s stuck around for a long time is that maybe she really is in love with you?” she asked instead.

“She’s not,” Ian said as he carried his now-empty plate to the sink. Somehow he’d eaten his entire giant sandwich before she’d gotten through half of hers. “But I appreciate the fact that you think she might be. Good friend that you are.” He grabbed his phone off the counter and raised his voice. “I’m ready to see that surveillance video from the safe house.”

Deb, still on her own phone, pointed to the computer that was out on the table, and Ian headed toward it, glancing back at Phoebe. “You’ll probably want to see this, too.”

And there it was again, at even that briefest of eye contact. That whoopsie-daisy feeling that she was trying her best to deny.

Phoebe made her voice businesslike and brisk, as she carried the rest of her sandwich toward the computer. “If Berto really is an ally, he might be a way to get in touch with Manny, and convince Davio to stand down.”

“I’m pretty sure Manny’s not capable of doing any convincing right now,” Ian said. “I think his condition is worse than the Dellarosas are letting on. As for Davio—he’s completely incapable of negotiation.”

“So, then, what’s the plan?” Phoebe asked, her heart sinking as she already knew the answer. A declared, mutual truce with the Dellarosas would allow her to return to her regularly scheduled life and job. By not establishing that truce …


Ian hit play on a video that was on screen and waiting for him. “I’m going to use this feud with the Dellarosas to get me inside the K-stani consulate in Miami,” he said, as a very handsome dark-haired man—Sheldon Dellarosa—sat down on a sofa directly in front of the surveillance cameras. Shel picked up a remote and muted the booming male voices of what had to be a TV sportscast.

Not establishing that truce would require Phoebe to stick around for her own safety. And Ian knew that.

He glanced at her, pretending to be extra apologetic. “It’s the quickest way in. Quicker than setting up some bullshit cover story. Vanderzee—the Dutchman—will run a check to verify whatever I tell him. And it won’t take much for him to confirm that I am, absolutely, on the official Dellarosa shit list. You can’t buy that kind of cover.” He added a final volley. “This gets those kids rescued days, possibly an entire week, earlier. I know it’s inconvenient for you, but there you have it.”

“I’ll live,” Phoebe said shortly as, on the computer screen, another man who was heavier and older but still quite handsome—the family resemblance was obvious—carried a bowl of pretzels and a couple cans of beer into the room.

“Good.”

She glanced at Ian, who met her eyes and smiled at her.

And the world shifted, just a little. Just enough to know that she was in big, big trouble here.