Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

Thursday (Three days later)


Ian was still sitting in front of his computer when Phoebe went downstairs.

“Morning,” she said.

He barely glanced up, his full focus on the screen. “It’s afternoon.”

He was right. It was.

“Have you slept?” Phoebe asked. “Like, at all, since we got here?”

He was still wearing the clothes he’d had on when she’d finally gone up to bed at dawn.

It was day three of this little locked-in, cabin-fever-inducing safe house adventure. And ever since they’d arrived here in Miami, Ian had been avoiding her. Not only was he taking care to never be alone with her, but he evaded any and all of her attempts to have a real conversation.

At least not one that didn’t start with Will you check out this file for me? and end with Thanks.

Phoebe now knew way too much about the Kazak tribe, and how international law dealt—poorly—with outliers who refused to acknowledge the existence of any law other than their own.

She’d also spent a significant amount of her downtime researching the Dellarosa “tribe.” She’d discovered that both Manny and Davio seemed to be Teflon when it came to deflecting criminal cases. Prosecutors could never find anyone willing to testify against them. Even convicts facing decades in prison couldn’t be flipped. Whatever system the Dellarosas had in place for ensuring that kind of lasting loyalty and silence—it was rock solid.

As Ian now finally looked up, both at her and around the room, Phoebe saw him register the fact that they were alone. The uh-oh that flared in his eyes was quickly covered by the detached, too-polite smile that she’d come to despise.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he pointed back at the computer. “I’m right in the middle of …”

“Of course,” she said, going into the kitchen to get some coffee. Time of day didn’t matter for that—the pot was always fresh. “Sorry. Carry on.”

She couldn’t really complain. She was the one who’d pushed to keep their relationship as mere friends. And Ian certainly wasn’t being unfriendly.

He was just using his intense focus on the job at hand to keep her at a safe distance.

Safe distance, safe house.

Phoebe was pretty certain, after nearly three days of confinement, that staying in an FBI safe house in Miami was exactly the same as staying in an FBI safe house anywhere else in the world.

The house itself was comfortable enough, with plenty of beds, a kitchen to cook in, and a large combined dining and living room that Ian had turned into his war room.

The place was well stocked with both food and computers—plus they had access to the full arsenal of weaponry and equipment that Ian had brought with them from Zebra.

The blinds and curtains were all tightly drawn, so the house was lit with electric light rather than sunshine—which gave the place a vaguely Vegas casino feel. Miami’s legendary humidity and heat weren’t a problem since the house was climate controlled. In fact, the AC was up so high, Phoebe kept a sweatshirt close at hand.

Thankfully, she had a sweatshirt. In fact, she had an armload of clothing in her size—jeans, T-shirts, Bermuda shorts, underwear!—plus a pair of flip-flops.

And if she needed anything else, Yashi would get it for her.

The FBI agent was their conduit to the outside world. Yashi, and Yashi alone, went and picked up anything that anyone added to a list that lived on the counter in the kitchen. Not only had he gotten them clothing and food, but he’d also procured two pristine white cargo vans and an array of expensive-looking surveillance equipment.

And even though today Phoebe was tempted to put diamond bracelet or perhaps Ryan Gosling at the bottom of the list to see what Yashi might bring back, she’d settled for less problematic and easier to obtain items like deodorant, laundry detergent, and last but not least, a bit of makeup.

Because, truth be told, sharing a house with Francine’s flawless perfection was daunting. Even Deb made the effort to put on lipstick whenever the blonde came into the war room.

Which, thankfully, wasn’t often. Francie didn’t spend much time in the main part of the house. Ever since their late-night arrival, she and her computer-genius brother, Sheldon, spent every waking moment in the huge five-bay garage, transforming those two newly purchased vans into high-tech surveillance vehicles, complete with an array of cameras—some infrared—and supposedly super-accurate long-distance mics.

Shel and Francine were installing those fancy microphones because Ian flatly refused to wear a wire when he contacted the Dutchman. That had set off some fireworks as he’d argued with Deb.

“Best way to get killed,” Ian said. “Number one, top of the list: Go undercover wearing a wire. Jesus, just shoot me now.”

“Technology has advanced considerably,” Deb argued, “with the miniaturization of microphones—”

“I’m not worried about Vanderzee seeing the fricking mic,” Ian shot back. “I’m worried about electronic detection devices. Bug sweepers. He’ll use one, and I’m dead.”

“And I’m worried about being unable to monitor you.”

“You’ll have to trust me,” Ian said.

“I’m worried about not being able to protect you.”

“I can protect myself, as long as I’m not wearing a freaking wire.” Ian then threw her own words back at her. “Technology has advanced considerably. The microphones we’ll use are extremely sensitive. They’re directional mics, that means you point them at the subject—me—and pick up my conversation. It works.”


Deb was unconvinced. “So the team in the van—from out in the parking lot—they just randomly aim their mics at a noisy bar and magically pick you up?”

Ian’s plan, as of right now, was to “bump into” the Dutchman at Henrietta’s, a local strip club he was known to frequent. And Deb was right. It would be noisy in there, with music playing and the drooling patrons hooting and howling. Assuming, that is, that a real-life strip club was similar to those Phoebe had seen on TV.

Sheldon spoke up, telling Deb, “It won’t be magic. We’ll use FLIR thermal imaging technology—special cameras that detect human body heat.”

“I know what FLIR is,” Deb said, annoyed. “But if the club’s busy, there’ll be a lot of bodies in there, generating heat.”

“I’ll carry a hand warmer,” Ian explained. “A little chemical device, they sell ’em at camping stores. Yashi’s already picked some up for us. When I’m inside, I’ll crack open the package, that’ll activate it. Stick it in my pocket. The infrared sensors on the cameras’ll pick up that pop in temperature. From that, Shelly’ll know exactly where to aim the long-distance mics.”

At which point, they’d be able to listen to and record his conversations.

It all seemed very sci-fi to Phoebe, but Ian assured Deb that they’d do a test run—be certain that the equipment worked exactly the way it was supposed to work.

If it didn’t, Deb warned, then Ian would have to give in and wear a wire.

Phoebe had smiled when Deb had said that. If the FBI agent really thought she’d win that fight, she was woefully underin-formed. Give in was not in Ian’s vocabulary.

As she added milk to a bowl of cornflakes, Phoebe heard Martell come downstairs. She could see him through the pass-through that connected the kitchen to the dining part of the main room, leaning to look over Ian’s shoulder.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

“Photos of the K-stani consulate staff,” Ian replied.

“Including the janitorial crew?” Martell sounded incredulous. “Seriously?”

Ian gave him his full attention. “Seriously. I’ve spent some significant time in Kazbekistan. If I’m going to run into someone who recognizes me from a previous mission, I want to know about it in advance.”

Aaron had come downstairs, too, and as he headed for the kitchen he chimed in. “Hot tip: The janitors at the consulate aren’t really janitors.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Sheldon said. Phoebe looked up to see that he’d come in from the garage. “We’re ready to do that dry run with the surveillance vans.” He took off his work gloves, and mopped his brow with the sleeve of his grimy T-shirt. The garage was not air-conditioned, but neither Francine nor Shel had complained once about the heat.

“Time to test our technology?” Ian asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Aaron smiled at Shelly on his way to the coffeepot. “You don’t need to call him sir,” he teased as he poured himself a mug.

“Did I really?” Shel asked. “Wow. Old habits die hard.” He looked back at Ian. “Sorry, sir. Crap!” Laughing, he added, “Whenever you’re ready. Ian.”

“Thanks,” Ian said, still distracted by the photos on his computer. “It’s going to be just … a sec …” He interrupted himself to add, “Longer than a second. Look, why don’t you get something to eat. And a shower, while you’re at it. Let me know when you’re ready after that.”

“So what’s your official plan?” Martell asked Ian, as Shel and Aaron explored the depths of the fridge.

Phoebe took her cereal bowl and coffee out to the table and sat down to eat, even as Deb came downstairs, her hair still wet from a shower.

“Test the equipment this afternoon,” Ian said, already refocused on his computer screen. “Try to connect with Vanderzee tonight.”

There was a clatter from the kitchen as a frying pan was dug out from a cabinet. “Anyone want in on an omelet?” Aaron called.

“Ooh, me!” Phoebe said.

“And me,” Deb called. She met Phoebe’s eyes and widened her own. They were in total agreement. Both Martell and Aaron had a magic touch in the kitchen, and over the past few days, whenever either of them offered food, the default answer was oh, yes. And when they cooked together …

Phoebe turned to look hopefully at Martell at the same time that Deb did, but he was waving Aaron off, focusing on Ian.

“Still nothing figured out for after that?” Martell had been an extra-unhappy camper ever since Ian had made the decision to not make a decision about the best way to rescue those kids. Ian wanted to connect with the Dutchman first. He’d told them that his best plans were organic—whatever that meant.

Martell was clearly convinced that Ian was clueless, and wasting their time.

“Yup,” Ian said now. “Still in wait-and-see mode.”

“You know we all hate that,” Martell told him. “Right? Except maybe Yashi, who is too zen to hate anything. But I’m the only one here brave enough to say it aloud. That, and tick tock, bitch. I’m starting to wonder why you just don’t grab a ski mask and climb in a window at the consulate, get this over with. You’ve had the FBI’s files for days now.”

Ian didn’t glance at Phoebe, or even anywhere near Phoebe, as he finally looked up at Martell. “Their security is too tight,” he said. “And last time I checked, I don’t have a license to kill innocent people, which is what I’d have to do if I went in like that. All of our intel shows that most of the guards don’t know those kids are there. Do we really have to rehash this?”

“Can’t you use, I don’t know, trank darts on ’em or—”

“Trank darts,” Ian repeated flatly. He raised his voice. “Will someone please explain the obvious flaws in that plan, so I can finish what I’m doing before we go out to test the equipment?”

Deb pulled Martell away from Ian’s part of the table. “The biggest problem is that any guards in the consulate would be firing real bullets at Ian. Trank guns are an option when the target’s an unarmed mountain lion.”

“Trank guns are also single-shot weapons,” Phoebe pointed out. “Reloading is a whole big thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Martell said. “I was just being a dick and—”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

They all turned—Phoebe, Martell, Deb, Ian, and even Yashi, who’d just come back from a shopping run—to see Aaron aiming not just his loudly spoken words, but his full-on incredulity at Shel, who was gazing back at him, stricken, as he clutched a carton of eggs.

Francine had just joined them in the kitchen, coming in from the garage, but she now looked as if she wished she were anywhere else on earth.

“You knew?” Aaron shouted at his husband, only half-asking. He turned to Ian. “You let Shel know you were in prison, that whole f*cking time, but not me?”

“I didn’t know the whole time,” Shel said. “I found out in June.”

“Well, shit,” Aaron said. “Since you’ve only been lying to me for eight months instead of nine—”

“I didn’t lie,” Sheldon insisted. “I just … didn’t … tell you—I couldn’t tell you. Aaron, God, I swear. I promised Francie.”


Francine held up both hands and backed away. “Hey, don’t lay this on me. I was following Eee’s stupid-ass orders.”

Aaron was beyond furious. “What’s up, Air, you okay? You seem a little down. Yeah, Shel, I don’t know, I guess I’m just worried about Ian. I wish he would call me. I just can’t shake the feeling that he might be dead. I mean, it’s been so long since I heard from him. I mean, other than those postcards. Anyone could’ve sent them. Well, no, Aaron, I happen to know for a fact that Ian’s not dead because Francie told me he’s in prison.” He got loud again. “Things you f*cking didn’t say! It’s called lying by omission. How many times did we talk about Ian in the past eight months? Huh? How many?”

“I promised her,” Sheldon whispered.

“Yeah, well, you’re married to me! Jesus! F*ck, Shel!”

Ian turned and aimed his words at the rest of them. “Let’s give the guys the house. We’ll go out and test that equipment.”

But from the upstairs bedroom, Rory awoke from his nap and let out a thin wail.

Francine ducked around her brother and crossed the room, clearly heading to the stairs, to deal with the crying baby.

Ian stood, intercepting her. “Can you stay here, watch Rory?”

Her answer was to grab one of the laptops and take it with her upstairs, so that she could work while locked in with the baby—while his parents talked out this issue.

“Don’t bother.” Aaron’s voice was harsh. “It’s not going to change a f*cking thing.”

Phoebe grabbed her sweatshirt—a white zippered hoodie that spelled out the words Siesta Key in pink letters across its chest—and quickly followed Deb, Martell, and Yashi out the door.

* * *

Ian needed sleep.

He’d intended to take a combat nap—quick but revitalizing—after he went through the files of the K-stani consulate staff one more time. He’d figured he could get in a solid half hour while Sheldon ate and showered.

Instead, this had happened.

He was in the front passenger seat of surveillance van one, with Joe Hirabayashi driving and Phoebe strapped into the passenger seat in the back. Deb was driving van two, with Martell beside her.

It may have been a mistake to leave the safe house. Ian couldn’t stop thinking of Aaron, and how angry he’d been. Jesus, maybe he shouldn’t have asked Francine to stay behind. With Air knowing that Francie was watching Rory, he might do something stupid—like storm out of the house—and put his ass in danger. Although without Francie there to watch the kid, there was no way Aaron and Shel would have had a real chance to talk, at least not openly and loudly and …

Something icy brushed his arm, and he jumped and turned to find that Phoebe had leaned forward from her seat in the back. Had she really just touched him? Was it possible that her fingers were that cold? He caught her hand, and yes, she was freezing. She was wearing her sweatshirt zipped up to the neck because the air conditioning in the van was blasting, and had been for a while.

“Sorry,” he said, and let her go so that he could adjust the dial up from the coldest setting.

But that wasn’t why she’d gotten his attention. “Yashi needs you to tell him where you want to go,” she said, her dark eyes somber in her pretty face, and he knew that this was not the first time the question had been asked. “We didn’t want to guess.”

“Shit, right, sorry,” he said—it was becoming his new refrain—then turned to address the FBI agent, who’d left their safe house’s neighborhood and was driving them north on the main drag. “Let’s go to Henrietta’s. It’s over by the airport.”

The FBI had been following the Dutchman, and the intel reports made note of the strip club that the suspect frequented in the evenings. He didn’t hang out there every night, but he showed up often enough to make it a good place for Ian to encounter him seemingly by chance.

The full name of the club was Henrietta’s Wild West Emporium, and from what Ian had read from the file, the women who waited the tables there wore cowboy hats and boots, and little else.

Yashi nodded and pulled into the left lane to do a youie, get them turned around. He must’ve been connected to Deb via Bluetooth, because he passed along the info even as he consulted a GPS. He quietly arranged for the two vans to take two different routes so they wouldn’t arrive at the club together, in a suspicious-looking convoy. Instead, Yashi would approach from the south, and Deb would approach from the west.

“We might as well do an actual dry run,” Ian announced, and the federal agent passed that along, too. “Identify any dead zones or locations that might be too noisy for the directional mics. I’ll go in, order a drink, walk around, talk to myself, make sure you can hear me.”

“I could go in with you,” Phoebe volunteered.

He laughed. Right. He turned to look at her. In her jeans and that touristy sweatshirt, plastic thongs on her feet, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked like an adorably bespectacled college girl on vacation. In a dive like Henrietta’s, she couldn’t stand out more, even if she held a flashing neon sign that read I don’t belong here, with an arrow pointing down at her.

But she was serious, so he responded, “That’s not a good idea.” And wasn’t that an understatement.

“So that you have someone to talk to,” she persisted. “So no one thinks you’re crazy …?”

“No. You’re staying in the van. You wouldn’t be out of the house if my brother wasn’t a spoiled child.”

“Oh, I’m really glad he didn’t hear you say that,” she said.

“Yeah, me, too.” Ian sighed, his own anger suddenly deflated. This was his fault. He’d had no idea that Sheldon had somehow gotten the truth out of Francine months ago. And maybe what was messing him up the most was that, even in hindsight, he had no idea how he would’ve or should’ve handled that if he’d known.

But even as relationship-challenged as Ian was, he recognized that withholding the truth from an intimate life partner for nearly a year could seriously damage even the strongest of union  s.

Phoebe touched him again, on the shoulder this time, as if she knew exactly where his thoughts had gone. “They’re going to be okay. Aaron is smart enough to recognize that Shelly’s not perfect, either. Mistakes get made. Forgiveness is given. It’s part of life. You know. Growing and learning and getting stronger?”

“The irony is that I was doing it for him. For them.” The words escaped before Ian could stop them.

“I know,” she said quietly. “And I’m pretty sure Aaron knows that, too.”

What was he doing? Talking to her like this was exactly what he didn’t want to do. This feeling of closeness, this spark of connection wasn’t anything that could help him. In fact, he knew from past experience that it could only hamper and hinder and slow him down.

Or get him killed.

But the hard truth was that he honestly liked this woman. And as for his physical attraction? It had moved from annoyance to full distraction.

Ian made a mental note to talk to Deb about finding a different safe location for Phoebe to stay for the remainder of the mission. Surely the feds could foot the bill for a resort hotel room and a coupla 24/7 guards for the next few days. A week tops …


“They’ll be okay,” Phoebe said, reaching out again to squeeze his shoulder.

Ian wanted her to keep her hand there. It was all he could do not to reach up and cover it with his own, maybe warm up her fingers a little bit more. But he didn’t, so she let him go and sat back in her seat.

Yeah.

If the feds wouldn’t cover the expense, he’d pay for it himself.

At this point, God help him, it was a necessity.

* * *

Expulsion from private school just a few months before graduation was significantly better than being shot and killed by his boyfriend’s brother.

Aaron had to keep reminding himself of that, especially when his own brother came striding down the hall to the Brentwood headmaster’s office. Ian had had to request emergency leave in order to deal with his now homeless little brother.

Wearing BDU pants in a desert camouflage print, he was sporting a decidedly nonmilitary haircut and a full beard—and an expression of tight anger.

Ian didn’t try to argue with the headmaster. He simply signed whatever papers he needed to sign, collected Aaron, and left. Of course, Eee thought the “sexual misconduct” that had gotten Aaron booted was due to his little brother’s orientation.

Turns out that the conservative school didn’t discriminate. A sex tape was a sex tape, and if you were in one, even inadvertently, you got kicked out.

Still, it wasn’t until after they’d loaded Aaron’s bags into Ian’s rental car that Aaron was able to tell his brother what had really happened—including the part where Francine had thrown herself on the gay grenade to save Sheldon from his crazy father’s wrath, and also the part where Berto had come damn close to killing Aaron in a jealous rage.

He told Ian that he was worried about Shelly. He hadn’t seen or heard from him in days—of course, during that time Aaron had been confined to his room, without Internet access or phone privileges.

“Berto’s as crazy as their father, and now he knows,” Aaron said, as he used Eee’s BlackBerry, fumbling in his haste to check his email to see if Shelly had sent him anything and …

There it was. An email. He opened it. It was brief, just a few lines, with no Dear Aaron or Love, Shel.

We can no longer be in contact. It’s not safe for you, or for me.

I’ve been transferred to a new school. I can’t tell you where.

Don’t call, or even email. I’m changing this address right after I send this to you. I won’t get your response.

I wish to God I never met you.

Aaron’s eyes stung. Shel didn’t mean that. He couldn’t mean that.

Ian glanced over, and correctly read the agony that was on Aaron’s face. “He dump you?”

“No,” Aaron said, blinking back his tears. “He’s just scared.”

Ian reached over and took his phone. Read the email himself. Sighed heavily. “Scared enough to dump you. Douchebag.”

“He’s not. Don’t call him that.”

Ian sighed again. “I guess you gotta do denial before you get to anger. Fair enough. I ran the gamut with Nadia, back when she f*cked me over.”

“Shel’s nothing like Nadia—”

“Except for being a human being, and human beings have sucked and done shitty things to one another since the beginning of time. You’re not the first, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. Look, we’ll go get something to eat, then head to Tampa. I know a coupla guys in the recruiting office—”

“No, I’m not going to do that,” Aaron said. “Enlist? No way. No, I’m going up to Boston. Cambridge, actually. Next fall, Shel’s going to MIT—”

“Aaron,” Ian said.

“I’ll get a job,” he said. “We figured it all out. I’ll work while he goes to school, then when he graduates, I’ll get my degree. I don’t mind waiting, I really don’t.”

“Aaron.”

“I know that apartments in Cambridge are expensive, but we could maybe find a place in Somerville, take the T. Public transportation up in Boston is really good. We did research.”

“Aarie. There’s no we. Your boyfriend bailed.” Ian held up his phone. “This kid wishes he never met you.”

“Tough shit,” Aaron said as he fought another wave of tears. “Because he did meet me.” He took a deep breath, exhaled hard. “I’m going north anyway.”

“And what? Hope to bump into him when school starts? Ten to one, he’ll be with his new girlfriend from Harvard. That’ll suck.”

Jesus, the thought of that made him sick. “I don’t have anywhere else to go!”

“Which is why enlisting is the only option. You’ll get an education—”

“Newsflash, Eee! I’m gay. They don’t want me.”

“You’re wrong,” Ian said. “They do—they just don’t know it. You’re strong, you’re smart, you’re a natural leader—”

“So I’m just supposed to lie.”

“It’s not a real lie if the rules are bullshit. What if someone put a gun to your head and told you they would pull the trigger unless you told them that your favorite color was red? Even if you were into blue, you’d say red. It’s the exact same f*cking thing.” He got quiet. “We don’t have a choice. I have less than forty hours left—”

That was more than Aaron had expected. “That’s enough time to drive to Boston, find an apartment—”

“And pay for it with what? The cost of gas, alone, for a thousand-mile trip is over a hundred dollars. How much do you have saved, because this rental car is gonna bleed me dry.”

Aaron stared at his brother. “They seriously pay you that little …?”

“I was paying for you to go to school.”

What? “I had a scholarship.”

“For your tuition. It didn’t include your room and board. Or your books. Or athletic fees and equipment. School uniforms. I’ve been paying for all that shit. It costs nearly everything I earn. I have nothing saved and I won’t be paid again for a while.”

Aaron was aghast. “I didn’t ask you for any of that.”

Ian sighed. “I know.”

“I’ll get a job,” Aaron said. “In Tampa, then. I’ll earn enough to be able to move north by August.”

“And where will you stay between now and then?” Ian asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll get an apartment.”

“With what down payment?” Ian asked. “You think you just walk into an apartment building and they give you a key because you say you scored a job working the night shift at the Seven-Eleven? No. You give them first month’s rent, last month’s rent, and a security deposit—after you’ve proven to them that you have a steady job that’ll pay you enough to spend a chunk of it on their overpriced bullshit rent.”

Jesus. “Okay, so what? I didn’t know that. I’ll get a job, then, somewhere where I can camp out for a while.”

“Gee, Skippy, maybe you could be a cowboy,” Ian said. “Better yet, find a time machine so you can be a cowboy in the wild, wild west. That’ll be fun—”

“I’m doing my best here!” Aaron shouted at his brother. “I’m trying to find a solution to a f*cking no-win scenario!”

Ian jerked the wheel hard and pulled off the road into a gas station, where he slammed them to a stop far from the other parked cars.


“You already lost, D.A.,” he said, his voice both gruff and oddly gentle as a cloud of dust from the gravel rose around the car. “That’s what no-win means. It’s over and done. The only solution is to accept it and move on.”

“I can’t. I love him. And he loves me.”

“Maybe he does,” Ian gave him that. “But he doesn’t love you enough.”

It was then that Aaron felt himself break, and try as he might, he couldn’t keep from crying. And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

Ian pulled him into a rough embrace. “It’s okay, buddy. Let it out. Let it go. One of these days, I promise you, you’re going to find someone who loves you, too.”

Aaron cried and cried and cried, until he had no tears left inside of him.

I wish to God I never met you.

He sat there—exhausted, anguished, heartbroken, and completely and utterly defeated.

But grateful—and he would be, always and forever—for the time, although fleeting, that Sheldon Dellarosa had been part of his life.

He sat up to wipe his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, and Ian finally let him go and sat back, too.

“Marines,” Aaron said, after he cleared his throat, when he could finally meet his older brother’s steady gaze. Ian’s eyes were filled with kindness and even sympathy, but not pity, thank God. “F*ck the Navy. Screw the SEALs. I’m going to be a Marine.”

* * *

“Let me out here,” Ian said, and Yashi pulled into the parking lot of a tired-looking strip mall.

They were in the world of cheap motels, pawnshops, palm readers, massage parlors, and storefronts advertising Cash for Gold! Phoebe could see the signs stretching down the busy road.

“Henrietta’s is down a few blocks,” Ian continued, “on this side of the street.”

“Deb and Martell hit traffic,” the FBI agent reported. “They’re still twenty minutes away.”

“That’s okay. It’s going to take some time,” Ian pointed out, “for you to find the best vantage point for the van. There’s limited parking out front, and a bigger lot in the back—at least according to the bar’s website. I’ll go in, sit down as centrally as I can, and open the hand warmer—he held up the little orange packet—“so you can find me. I’ll sing ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat,’ and you can track me with the mics.”

“A classic,” Yashi said with approval. “And unlikely to show up on the club’s playlist or as someone’s cell phone ringtone.”

“If, for whatever reason, I can’t sing or hum it, I’ll tap it,” Ian said as he opened the door and got out.

“Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,” Yashi responded, even as he nodded to Phoebe’s quiet May I? “A pattern of four triplets’ll stand out in a world filled with shave-and-a-haircuts—intentional or accidental.”

But as Phoebe climbed up into the front, Ian said, “Shit,” and then opened the door. “Did I leave my …?” He checked the floor and around the seat before tapping the side of her leg with the back of his hand. “Lift up for a sec.”

She pressed her shoulders against the seat back and raised her butt, but there was nothing beneath her. “What did you lose?” She checked the floor on the far side of the passenger seat, but it was clear.

“I must’ve left it at the house,” Ian said. “My cell phone.” He sighed his exasperation. “While I was in prison, I got a little too used to traveling light.”

Phoebe looked at Yashi. “Is there an extra one in here?” She opened the glove box, but the only thing inside was the owner’s manual for the van, and a temporary registration card.

“Maybe Shel left an extra phone in the back?” Yashi suggested, and Phoebe went to look.

Shelves of impressive equipment were bolted down along both sides of the windowless van, including two separate wide-screen computer monitors, and the hardware and batteries necessary to run everything.

There was a tool kit that was strapped in, along with a container marked with a red cross that, indeed, held medical supplies. The only other bag held an assortment of wires—USBs, quarter inches, RCA plugs, and some that Phoebe couldn’t identify. She found an unopened packet of thumb drives at the bottom of that bag, but no spare cell phone.

“Nothing here,” she announced.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Ian was saying. “I’ve been on plenty of assignments without one.”

Including, according to Phoebe’s theory, his most recent assignment at Northport prison. He’d been up to something in there, besides simply serving out the sentence for a crime he didn’t do. He’d been in far more danger there than he’d be in a Western-saloon-themed strip club in Miami, in the middle of a sunny weekday afternoon.

Yashi was not happy. “We should do this another time. Or at least wait until Deb and Martell get here.” He touched his earpiece. “Yes, Deb says wait. She says you can go in with Martell’s phone.”

“Tell them when they finally catch up that Martell can bring it inside to me.” Ian backed away from the van as Phoebe returned to the front seat.

“Oh, fine,” she said. “He can go in, but I can’t.” As she was speaking, she realized that, of course, Ian’s decision had nothing to do with discrimination based on gender. So she added, “Which makes sense, seeing that he’s a former police detective, and I was a Girl Scout for about fifteen minutes in sixth grade.”

Ian actually smiled at her. “And that’s how we work in a team,” he said.

“We need any cookies sold, I’m on point,” she told him.

That one he actually laughed at—before he remembered that he wasn’t letting himself laugh at her jokes anymore. At least not with a genuine smile like that one, with his teeth flashing, complete with an almost unbearably attractive crinkling around his too-blue eyes.

He sobered up much too quickly. “Tell Martell no cloak and dagger. I want this to be an overt drop and go. Hi, how are you, shake my hand, You left your phone on my desk or whatever, and then back out, but not to the van. Have him go get coffee or lunch and plan to pick him up later.”

Phoebe nodded, but then realized he was talking to Yashi.

When Ian looked back at her, something shifted in his eyes and she knew that having her there worried him.

“I’ll stay in the van,” she promised, as Yashi put it in gear and they rolled past him.

Ian didn’t respond, and as they pulled out into the traffic, she could see him in the side mirror, watching her, until he vanished from sight.

* * *

“Will you let me at least try to explain why I did what I did?”

Aaron opened his eyes to see Shel, fresh from the shower, his hair dripping onto his bare shoulders, towel wrapped around his waist.

“F*ck you,” he said. “You’re not going to fix this with sex. Not this time.”

Shel’s smile was wan as he came further into the room, where his go-bag was on a chair, unzipped. “That’s not what I was doing. I’m sorry.” He grabbed a clean pair of briefs and did something Aaron had never before seen him do. He pulled them on underneath his towel.

“I owe her, Aarie,” Shel said as he put on cargo shorts, too—still doing the summer camp beneath-the-towel thing. “Francine.” He yanked a clean T-shirt over his head, and used the towel to mop the rest of the wet from his hair. Only then did he meet Aaron’s eyes. “We both owe her. Too much to ever really repay.”


“I want to kill him,” Aaron said. “Davio. I just want to …” He couldn’t keep tears from filling his eyes as he thought—again—about that email Sheldon had sent him all those years ago—in an attempt to keep Aaron far away from Shel’s father, to keep him alive and safe.

An attempt that had worked a little too well, since it had succeeded at separating them for too many years.

I wish to God I never met you.

“It happened on June eighteenth,” Sheldon said. “My finding out that Ian was in prison. It was twelve minutes after eight in the morning—in case you were thinking I didn’t mark it as momentous. I went to pick Rory up from Francie’s after we took that night off. Remember?”

Aaron did. It was the first night in months that one of them hadn’t been on call for Rory 24/7. They were supposed to go out, to the movies, have dinner …

But instead, they’d stayed home. Made love. Slept. Together. For the first time in what felt like forever.

Yes, Aaron remembered. And because Aaron had been Rory’s primary caregiver throughout the worst of the baby’s detox and recovery, Shel had gifted him with those extra few moments of blessed alone time, and had gone to Francie’s to pick up the baby and bring him back home.

“So I’m in France’s apartment. I let myself in with the key, and she’s asleep on the sofa, with the baby on top of her and … There’s this cell phone on the table, and it’s set on silent, but it starts to vibrate and buzz, and I’m afraid it’s going to wake them both, so I answer it. But there’s this weird silence, and suddenly the connection is cut. And I look at it, and there’s a number there, so I hit redial, and I get this odd message. From Northport prison. And everything suddenly jelled. And I just knew. Where Ian had gone. And when Francine woke up, I held up that phone and I said, Ian called, and I knew I was right, just from the look on her face.

“When she knew she was busted, she asked me not to tell you. She begged me.”

“Francine?” Aaron asked. “Begged you.”

“I know. It was intense. She said she didn’t know what was going on—only that Eee spoke to her by phone, every other week, to make sure that we were all right. She didn’t say it, and I sure as hell didn’t ask, but I pretty much assumed that it had something to do with Davio. And after that, I swear to you, we never spoke of it again. It wasn’t like, every time we were together we whispered about Ian when you were out of the room,” Sheldon said, shaking his head. “I know that’s what you think, but it was just that one time. That one conversation.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” Aaron asked. “You shouldn’t have lied to me, and Francine sure as hell should not have asked you to.”

“I know,” Shel said, tears in his eyes. “But she did. What was I supposed to do?”

“Tell me anyway,” Aaron said. “That’s what you were supposed to do.”

It was the perfect exit line, but Sheldon blocked the door. “It’s always so black and white for you, isn’t it?” he said, his voice shaking; he was that upset. “Francine died for us, Aaron. Maybe you can’t possibly understand this, because you never knew her before. You don’t know what she was like, who she was. She was happy. She was … goofy. She was nothing like she is now, so hard and cold and angry.”

Shel had told him all of that many times before—that his beloved older sister had changed on that terrible day when Berto believed she’d betrayed him. But he’d never used those words: She died for us.

“I’m so sorry,” Sheldon said now, “that I lied to you. And you’re right. Omission is still lying, and I remember each awful time I did it, and I hated myself. But Francie saved my life that day. And your life. Davio would’ve killed you, too. Or maybe he would’ve only killed you. Maybe he would’ve spared me. But a world without you in it is not a world I could live in.”

Sheldon left the room with that, closing the door behind him.

As far as exit lines went, he won.

But then he blew it, by coming right back in. Except he now had Rory in his arms, and Francine was with him.

“I just got another email from Berto,” she said. “I was online, thank God, and it popped up onscreen. Apparently, Davio’s put a million-dollar bounty out on Ian, so everyone and their stripper girlfriend is looking for him, all across the state. And someone just saw him walking into Henrietta’s, out by the airport. Berto said Davio’s called in a team of shooters from Oakland Park—they’re heading over there to take him out.”

“Where the hell’s Oakland Park?” Aaron asked.

“Just north of Fort Lauderdale,” Francie said. “About twenty minutes from Henrietta’s. Depending on traffic.”

Please God, let there be traffic.

“I just tried calling Eee, and then Deb, and then Yashi,” Francie continued. “No one’s picking up.”