Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

Monday


Ian Dunn was not what she’d expected from reading his file.

Phoebe glanced at Martell Griffin, who was sitting beside her at the interview table. Even though he nodded very slightly to acknowledge her silent surprise, his eyes never left Ian and the guard who was escorting him into the little room. It was a reminder that this man—the prisoner—was dangerous.

On paper, Dunn had come across as the unscrupulous love child of Captain America and James Bond, capable of damn near anything. He was a former Navy SEAL turned international jewel thief—alleged international jewel thief, because he’d never been charged for that particular crime.

Still, after skimming the file that she’d been handed just this morning, Phoebe had imagined someone who looked more like Cary Grant. Someone slender and light on his feet. Someone capable of becoming invisible when wearing cat burglar black.


But this man in prison garb was built like a boxer. He was Mack truck huge. Piano mover massive.

His only hope at achieving invisibility would be if he tried disguising himself as a small planet or maybe a large moon. Provided it was a very dark night and everyone looking for him was drunk.

He was bigger than Martell, which was saying something, since the African American former-cop-turned-lawyer was tall enough to tower over Phoebe—remarkable since she’d been Amazonian herself since fifth grade.

But Ian Dunn made Martell look nearly undernourished, and Phoebe feel practically petite.

Along with being huge, Dunn was also sweaty. His prison-issue T-shirt was soaked around his collar, down his chest and beneath his arms, too, and it clung to his powerful upper body. The array of tattoos on his massive biceps gleamed as they stretched the edges of the fraying and faded orange sleeves.

His too-long dark brown hair was dripping onto his face, and as Phoebe watched he used the bottom hem of his shirt in an attempt to mop himself dry. As he did so, he displayed an impressive, glistening set of hard-cut abs along with the waistband of a pair of dull orange athletic shorts that he wore dangerously, precariously low on his hips.

And great, he’d lowered his shirt to find her staring at his crotch—her gaze had inadvertently traveled south, following the arrowlike trail of dark hair that pointed the way down from his near-perfect belly button as if it were a flashing neon sign.

Phoebe pushed her glasses up her nose, aimed her eyes at his face, and forced what she hoped was a polite, professional smile, even as he grinned down at her. His blue eyes were twinkling in a face that was broad and cheerful and big-boned with a nose that was too large and a brow that should have been much too heavy for him to be called handsome.

Should have been, but wasn’t.

Still, despite the fact that his winsome smile had the power to make the hearts of half the population flutter, Ian Dunn looked more like a man who threw oxen at the local county fair.

More, that is, than the criminal mastermind he allegedly was.

Except that wasn’t just a mix of good humor and wry appreciation gleaming now in his eyes as he continued to aim his amusement at her. As he pulled out the chair and flopped down into it, his entire manner was easygoing and relaxed, as if they were meeting at the picnic area of the local softball field where he was taking a break from the game—instead of in an interview room in a Florida state prison where he was halfway through an eighteen-month sentence.

But there was sharp intelligence in Dunn’s eyes, too.

Phoebe watched while he turned and nodded reassuringly at the guard, whose movements were almost apologetic as he used a short plastic restraint to lock the band around Dunn’s left ankle to a metal anchor in the floor.

The prisoner’s hands were cuffed, too, Phoebe realized, but he rested them on the table as if he barely noticed or maybe just didn’t give a damn.

“Nice to meet you in person, finally,” Dunn said in an evenly modulated, accent-free voice. His words were odd, because neither Phoebe nor Martell had so much as sent him a letter, let alone spoken to him on the phone. There hadn’t been time. She herself hadn’t known she was coming here until a short, chaotic hour ago. “But you know, if you’d called ahead, I would’ve showered and dressed for the occasion.”

He smiled as he turned slightly to glance over his broad shoulder at the door that closed behind the guard with a solid-sounding thunk.

It was then that his face almost imperceptibly hardened as he looked from Martell to Phoebe and then back to Martell as if he’d used his criminal mastermind to detect that, yes, Martell was in charge of this little meeting. His smile was still securely in place, though, as he leaned in and lowered his voice and asked, “Are you a friend of Conrad’s?”

Phoebe glanced at Martell, who narrowed his dark brown eyes slightly at Dunn as he asked, “Who’s Conrad?”

The intensity—if that was, in fact, what it was, and not merely her overactive imagination—vanished from Dunn’s eyes and face as quickly as it had appeared.

“Apparently not,” he said with a shrug as he sat back in his chair. “No big, just an acquaintance I thought might be mutual.” He folded his hands across his stomach, his movement limited by those cuffs. “So. What are you here to sell me? Although it’s probably best if you start with your names, so I can stop thinking of you as Diverse Lawyer One and”—he looked at Phoebe with another of those sunny smiles—“Diverse Lawyer Two.”

“I’m Martell Griffin,” Martell said. “And yes, Ms. Kruger and I are lawyers, but only she is here as your lawyer. She works for Bryant, Hill, and Stoneham.”

“Whoa, wait, really?” Dunn laughed but then frowned slightly as he asked Phoebe, “Is that …? That’s not …” He stopped himself and started over. “Where’s Uncle Jerry?”

Uncle who …? The question was as cryptic as the one about Conrad. Phoebe quickly glanced at Martell, but he shook his head in a silent I don’t know.

“J. Quincy Bryant. The B in B, H, and S,” Dunn explained, even though her silence hadn’t dragged on for that long. As easygoing as he pretended to be, this was not a patient man. “The J is for Jerry, at least for those of us whose granddads knew him before he was a total soulless douchebag.” His warm smile softened the potential edge of his words.

In fact, this man could announce I’m here to rob your house, and if he accompanied his words with one of those smiles, most people’s first reaction would be Oh, how nice. Do come in.

Phoebe looked down at her file in dismay, wondering how she’d failed to make note of the fact that one of the senior partners was this man’s uncle, although that certainly explained the reason the elite firm represented him. She wished someone had told her that she was going to have to deliver some very bad news to a family member.

“He’s not a real uncle, we’re not actually blood relations.” Dunn saw her face and again was quick with the explanation. “Don’t worry, you didn’t miss it, it’s not in there.”

Okay, that was good, except now what was she supposed to tell him? Anything? Or nothing?

“The relationship was more of a my-grandfather-died-saving-his-life-in-Vietnam thing,” Dunn continued almost cheerfully. “Uncle Jerry felt indebted. Although it would’ve been nice if the support had been more proactive. Grocery deliveries and rent assistance while I was still a kid instead of criminal defense after I’d crossed the line, you know what I mean? But hey. Better late than never, right?”

Phoebe knew, from a brief family history, that Dunn’s grandfather, John, had been KIA in Vietnam when Ian’s father, George, was just a boy. George, who had died from hepatitis four years ago, had been a lifer in prison in Concord, Massachusetts, locked up for his part in a robbery in which a security guard had been killed, albeit accidentally. And although it had never been proven, it was believed that Ian had learned at least some of his mad breaking-and-entering and burglary skills at an early age, from Dunn Senior, who’d learned it in turn from an uncle. A real one. That info was in her file, along with a long list of other allegedlies. Some of them pretty impressively crazy.

But the present-and-living Dunn had asked her a question. Where’s Uncle Jerry? She cleared her throat and decided it was best to be vague. “Mr. Bryant is currently unavailable.”


“No offense,” Dunn said easily, “and I’m sure you’re equally douche-tastic as a lawyer—and I mean that in a good way. But whatever you’re here for, Ms. Kruger, I’d prefer to wait until Unca Jer gets back from his vaca. Or you can ask the firm to send over his son-in-law, Bob-the-incompetent—if it really can’t wait.”

And now they were both looking at her.

Martell Griffin, too, had been surprised when Phoebe had been waiting for him outside the prison’s gates this morning. He clearly hadn’t expected Dunn to have representation present at this meeting—or maybe his surprise was that she wasn’t Mr. Bryant or his son-in-law, Bob Middleworth. Especially considering the magnitude of his offer.

And so Phoebe changed her mind. Both men needed an explanation, and outside the prison walls, the news had probably gone public anyway. “Mr. Bryant and Mr. Middleworth were injured in a car accident last night, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but Maureen Middleworth—Mr. Bryant’s daughter—was killed in the crash.”

“Oh, shit,” Dunn said.

“The firm’s experiencing some chaos,” Phoebe continued. “As I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m sorry,” Dunn said, with regret in his eyes. “Poor Jerry. He must be devastated. Bobby, too.” He shook his head, took a deep breath, and blew it out. “Wow. I appreciate your stepping up and filling in, Ms. Kruger, but … I can certainly wait a few weeks—months even if it takes that long—for Jerry to get back.”

Martell spoke up. “I’m sorry, but this situation, however, can’t wait.”

“It’s gonna have to,” Dunn said as he turned his gaze to Martell. He obviously and visibly appraised the lawyer’s well-fitting suit, his crisp white shirt, his brightly colored tie, as well as the hard planes and angles of a stern face that screamed serious business, accompanied by a gleaming and carefully shaved head. He appraised, but then immediately dismissed. Dunn’s body language was as clear as if he’d flicked away a used tissue. “Isn’t it.” He made his words a statement, not a question, and the testosterone levels in the room rose substantially as Martell bristled, appraising him back.

Lowlife, convict, prisoner scum was the silent message Martell sent in response to Dunn’s dismissal, but the prisoner’s response was only the smallest of mournful smiles. Which served to piss off the lawyer more thoroughly.

“Mr. Dunn, I realize this isn’t the best time, considering the circumstances, but aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?” Phoebe asked, because having the two men sit there in silence, staring each other down, wasn’t helping to move this meeting forward. And she had other things to do today.

Dunn again looked over at her, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his gigantic head as he tried to figure out the best way to push her buttons. And wasn’t that interesting? He really didn’t care why they were there. This meeting was little more than a game to him.

As Phoebe watched, he went for the obvious, with an insulting term of endearment. “Honey, I’m intensely curious—but only about things that really matter.” And yes, he put the cherry on top by proceeding to undress her with his eyes.

“I prefer to be called Ms. Kruger,” she corrected him, forcing herself to remain as expressionless as humanly possible. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from swallowing—damnit—because yikes, when he set his animal magnetism on kill like that, the man was a true force of nature.

And naturally, in turn, he made note of her almost microscopic gulp. His smile broadened.

Fine. Let him think he had the power to turn her knees into Jell-O. She, however, knew better.

“And this does matter,” she informed him crisply. “The reason Mr. Griffin requested this meeting—the reason your Uncle Jerry’s firm sent me here, with him, to talk to you. Matters. Immensely. Lives are at stake—starting but not ending with two innocent children.”

He laughed his surprise. “And only I have the secret code. Or something like that, right?”

“Or something like that,” she agreed, turning to Martell. She herself knew only the basics of the situation. But one thing she did know, with certainty, was that the deal the other lawyer was offering was a gift from on high. “Mr. Griffin, I believe that’s your cue.”

But Dunn was already shaking his head as he told Martell, “Whatever you think I know, you’re mistaken.”

“Whatever you tell us,” Phoebe interjected, despite having passed the invisible talking baton to Martell, “whatever you say, regardless of its legality, will not be used against you, now or in the future. You will receive immunity. Completely. I’ve made very sure of that.”

Martell chimed in: “Play your cards right, Mr. Dunn, and you will walk out of here, with us, today. A free man.”

Dunn laughed again, but his laughter faded as he looked from Martell to Phoebe. “Whoa, wait. He’s shitting me, right?”

She shook her head.

Dunn got very still as he gazed at Martell. “Who are you?”

“I’m here on behalf of, well, the government, is what it comes down to,” Martell told him, “even though I don’t work for them directly and I can’t be specific about the organization in charge of this mission. What you need to know is that I’m here to offer you your freedom, effective immediately, in exchange for your cooperation in—”

“No,” Dunn interrupted him, turning his chair as far as he could with his tether in place. “No way. No deal. No thanks. Not interested.” He raised his voice and called toward the door, “Hey, Roger, we’re done in here!”

This time it was Martell who was so surprised that he laughed. “Are you kidding?” He looked at Phoebe as if she could help. “Is he kidding? He wants to stay in prison?”

She shook her head. She, too, was clueless.

Which was proving to be a not-unusual state for her in this, her first week of employment at the prestigious law firm. Upon her arrival, she’d been thrown into the deep end of the pool, assigned to assume the caseloads of three lawyers who’d recently been jettisoned. She’d spent most of the past week paddling desperately just to keep her head above water.

And then today had happened, creating even more chaos. Since she was one of the few lawyers who’d never met the boss’s poor deceased daughter, she’d been hurriedly handed Ian Dunn’s file, which was marked Top Priority. And the waves she’d thought were formidable turned out to be mere swells as this latest tsunami washed over her. It was part of her new normal.

And that was a total change of reality for her, since she prided herself on her ability to always—always—be one of the few people with a clue in any given room.

But now that she’d met him, it was clear that Ian Dunn’s file was incomplete. Phoebe was going to have to dig deeper to figure out what made him tick. Which she would do as soon as she found both a little time and some Internet access.

“Roger!” Dunn called again. “Where the hell are you?”

But Martell stood up and knocked on the table in front of the man. “He won’t come back in until I tell him we’re done. And we’re not done until you listen to what I have to offer, and then walk out of here with me, because that’s what sane people do when they’re handed a Get Out of Jail Free card.”


Dunn looked from Martell to Phoebe, and his eyes were no longer warm. In fact they were positively steely. “I’ve been locked up for nearly a year, so maybe things have changed out beyond these walls. Is that really legal now?” he asked her. “Forcing me to do something I’m unwilling to do?”

She cleared her throat. “This is an unusual circumstance. Not only are those children’s lives at stake, but from what I understand, this is a matter of national security. And Mr. Griffin is offering you quite a—”

“I’m not interested in what he’s offering. While I wish you luck in finding someone who can help you save the world, it’s not gonna be me. Not this time.”

Phoebe blinked at him. “As your lawyer, Mr. Dunn, I highly recommend that you—”

“You’re not my lawyer,” Dunn said evenly, almost pleasantly, “and I don’t give a shit what you recommend. No deal. Get me out of here. Now.”

* * *

Well, wasn’t this a goatf*ck of a different color?

Ian Dunn didn’t know his lawyer, Jerry Bryant, very well, and he’d never actually met the son-in-law, Bob, who was supposed to show up if Jerry couldn’t attend a jailhouse meeting—of which there had been decidedly few. The story Ian had told about his grandfather and Vietnam had been just that—a story. It was cover for why Bryant personally represented him.

And not only had Ms. Kruger failed to respond correctly to his coded inquiry about the fictional Conrad, but Ian had been told, again and again, that only Jerry or Bob would act as his conduit to his current a*shole of an employer. Somehow, in the confusion created by the fatal car accident, one of the firm’s junior lawyers had been sent here, probably also by accident.

“We’ve found the man who can save the world—and those kids,” the lawyer named Martell Griffin now told Ian as neither he nor Ms. Kruger moved to call the prison guard. “And it’s you.”

Ian silently shook his head as he glanced over at the woman who looked as if she’d graduated from law school last Tuesday—she seemed to be that freaking young. But from what he knew of Bryant, Hill, and Stoneham, they didn’t hire anyone right out of school, so she had to be older. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. The dewy freshness of her porcelain-perfect complexion was no doubt due to massive hours spent huddled in a windowless law office.

She wore her brown hair pulled up into some kind of bun thing on the top of her head, and with those dark-framed glasses and the square-cut pants suit that didn’t succeed at hiding her substantial curves, she gave off quite the hot librarian vibe.

She was pretty, but she didn’t give a shit. In fact, she worked hard to hide it—including by covering those eyes with those clunky glasses.

Ian had expected a woman with her pale skin to have blue or maybe green eyes. But hers were the richest, deepest, darkest shade of brown. Meeting her gaze was like falling backward into a warm, moonless night.

And … yesssss.

It had been way too long since Ian had had the pleasure of female companionship. And it was going to be even longer before he got some, because he wasn’t walking out of here with Julie and Linc, no matter what they offered him to become the third member of their ridiculous child-rescuing Mod Squad.

Ian’s little brother’s life depended on him staying right where he was. And the fact that Aaron was no longer actually little didn’t matter. Dead was dead, and Ian was determined to ensure that Aaron lived to a ripe old age. Besides, the kid had his own kid now. Which meant the stakes were even higher.

“I’m going to count to ten, Julie,” he now told Ms. Kruger, whose first name probably wasn’t Julie, but he could file that fact, too, under things about which he didn’t give a damn. “If you don’t fetch Roger and get me the f*ck out of here, I’m going to spend the afternoon writing a letter of complaint about you to the Board of Bar Overseers, which I know won’t do much—except submerge you, hipdeep, in bureaucratic bullshit that you’ll have to wade through for months to come. You look, to me, like a girl who has better things to do.”

She didn’t flinch. In fact, his fighting words made her raise her chin. “First of all, I haven’t been a girl in years. Second, I can and will argue that it’s in your best interest to listen to Mr. Griffin’s proposal. And third, it’s Phoebe, not Julie, and I still prefer Ms. Kruger, thank you very much, Mr. Dunn.”

“One,” Ian responded as he met her steady gaze and held it. And held it. Phoebe, huh? The name suited her, although she probably wished it was something easily shortened and crisp, like Kate or Jenn or Meg. On the other hand, maybe she liked having a name that matched the softness of her appearance so that her not-a-pushover personality could be used as a secret weapon, to catch her opponents off guard.

“Two,” he said, and added the tiniest of smiles to their staring match, just to make her think that he was picturing her naked. Which he now, of course, was, since doing so made this SNAFU slightly less of an ordeal.

On the other end of the table, Martell Griffin heavily exhaled his frustration.

Phoebe took the opportunity to end their stare-down game by looking over at Griffin as the other lawyer said, “Let’s talk about the Kazbekistani embassy heist,” he started. “In Istanbul, on August the twenty-ninth—”

“Oh, here we go.” Ian rolled his eyes. This again. Was this really what this was about? Jesus Christ, that had gone down years ago, and he’d never been formally charged, thanks to Shelly’s quick work with the embassy’s security camera files. “Three,” he told Phoebe before telling Griffin, “Believe it or not, even I’m not crazy enough to scale a four-story building and climb in a window—during an embassy dinner party—for only a three-million-dollar payout. How many times, on record, do I need to say that?”

“As many as you want,” Griffin countered, “but we all know that you’re lying.”

“I don’t know that he’s lying,” Phoebe spoke up. “I mean, I’m not one hundred percent convinced that he is. The facts—”

“Put him in Istanbul at the time of the burglary,” Griffin finished for her.

“That’s circumstantial evidence at best,” she argued.

“Look,” Ian interrupted her. “Sweetheart, if you really want to help me, go get Roger and—”

“The Kazbekistani consulate, in Miami this time,” Phoebe interrupted him, “is where Mr. Griffin’s clients believe the children are being held. And they and Mr. Griffin seem to think that makes you uniquely qualified to help them out. They claim you’re familiar with the consulate’s methods of security.”

“Allegedly familiar,” he told her, adding, “Four, five, and six, for believing their fairytale shite.”

“What I believe,” she continued, unflinchingly direct, “without a doubt, is that Leo Vaszko, age seven, and Katrina Vaszko, age thirteen, are being held, against their will, in the Miami consulate. If they’re not rescued, they’ll be spirited out of the country and returned to their father—a notorious and dangerous Kazbekistani warlord. They’ll never see their mother again.”

Ian narrowed his eyes as he looked back at her. “Since when does the federal government get involved—to this extent—with the rescue of kidnapped children?”


Phoebe glanced at Griffin, because, yes, that was a good question, wasn’t it? The lawyer cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

“So who’s their mother?” Ian asked, because there was definitely more to this situation than met the eye.

“Dr. Lusa Vaszko,” Griffin said.

Ian didn’t know the name. “Doctor of what?” he asked.

Another round of throat clearing. “She’s, um, a nuclear physicist.”

Ah.

“My client,” Griffin continued, “wants to ensure that Dr. Vaszko is not forced to return to Kazbekistan, where she could be pressured into heading their budding nuclear program.”

Yes. That was more like it. Ian nodded. “So I’m supposed to, what? Provide you with a detailed report on K-stani embassy and consulate security procedures? Even if I’d had access to that information all those years ago—it was all those years ago. Their entire security system has been revamped, and the ambassador’s new—the position’s turned over at least twice since then. You don’t need me. Any team of Navy SEALs worth their billion-dollar training can insert, covertly, into that consulate and save those kids.” Even as he said it, he recognized the flaw in that plan.

“For obvious reasons, we can’t use Navy SEALs,” Griffin confirmed. “Or even former SEALs. At least not any who haven’t spent time in prison.”

Because a team of SEALs covertly entering a foreign consulate would put the U.S. into a diplomatic shitstorm if something went wrong and they got caught. It might even be misconstrued as an act of war.

“Likewise, we can’t use the FBI or CIA—or even the local police,” Griffin continued.

But since Ian’s résumé now included convicted felon and alleged international jewel thief along with former Navy SEAL … He realized exactly where this meeting was going. “You want more than information from me,” he said, looking from Phoebe to Griffin and back. “That’s what this is about. Oh, no. No, no. I can’t do this. Besides, you do know that if there’s proof that the ambassador’s committed a crime, you can go into a consulate and kick his ass—”

“We believe the ambassador is purposely being kept in the dark,” Griffin said. “And our current relationship with Kazbekistan is so fragile, we can’t take any risks whatsoever. Kicking down doors isn’t an option. The rescue must be done with stealth.”

Ian just kept shaking his head. “I can’t help you.”

“There’s more,” Griffin said. “The FBI has identified one of the men responsible for the kidnapping as an alleged acquaintance of yours. George Vanderzee. Nicknamed—”

“The Dutchman,” Ian finished for him with a laugh. Jee-zus. He knew Vanderzee well. Half K-stani and half Dutch, he looked European, but embraced his Kazak mother’s traditions and culture. He also made his money from others’ misfortunes. Ian had used him in a gun-running sting back in ’09, not long after he’d left the Navy. “Fantastic. He’s a f*cking lunatic. And FYI, he pronounces Georg the German way: Gay-org. It’s spelled without the final E.”

“Not in my file, it’s not,” Griffin said.

“Your file is wrong,” Ian informed him. “You do know that his involvement makes the job harder, not easier?”

“Mr. Griffin’s client believes that his involvement makes you the right man for this job,” Phoebe pointed out. “You’ll win your immediate freedom, as well as your complete and total immunity—”

“I don’t want it. I’m not taking this deal, regardless of what’s offered,” Ian informed her, adding, “Seven, eight, nine …”

Phoebe ignored him, her full attention on Griffin, who’d closed his file and almost violently pushed it back into his briefcase as he stood up.

“This meeting is over,” the lawyer said. “I’m done wasting time. I got blood in this game. My dearest friend on this planet is in the hospital, clinging to life as we speak, having nearly died defending those children. Who I am now going to help find. So no more bullshit—I’m going straight to Plan B.”

Whatever he was planning, Phoebe clearly wasn’t in on it. She stood up, obviously startled as she watched Griffin cross the room while she echoed, “Plan B …?”

Griffin picked up the phone that would connect him with the guards, even as he rapped impatiently on the door. “Hello! We’re done here.”

Ian moved his chair as far as he could, given his restraints, straining his neck to watch as pretty Phoebe joined Griffin at that door.

“Plan B?” she asked again, lowering her voice. “We didn’t discuss any Plan B, Martell.”

“I’ma get Dunn the hell out of here despite the lack of any agreement,” Griffin said, interrupting himself to speak into the phone. “Yeah, open the door. Now.” He hung up and told Phoebe, “We’ll make this deal after he’s free.”

“With what leverage?” Phoebe put voice to Ian’s own amazement.

“The threat to put his sorry ass right back here after he gets a taste of that freedom he says he doesn’t want,” Griffin said. “Along with a shitload of money. Everybody has a price. Dunn’s got his, and with stakes this high, my employer will be willing to pay.”

“You’re going to just check me out of a maximum security prison,” Ian protested, “like it’s some kind of spa or resort hotel?” He laughed. “You do that, and there’s no one on this planet who won’t know that I’m now working for the FBI or the Agency, or whoever the hell you bow to as your evil overlord. Which makes me immediately unusable. Hello.”

Martell Griffin smiled, but his eyes were ice. “We know a lot about you, Mr. Dunn. We’ll spin it like you made a deal on the local level.”

Ian laughed. “That’s crazy.”

Phoebe obviously thought so, too. She tried to speak quietly, but the room was so small, Ian couldn’t help but hear her. “If Dunn was really behind the embassy heist in Istanbul,” she told Griffin, “he’s got more money in an off-shore account than either of us can imagine.”

“I wasn’t and I don’t,” Ian insisted, but neither of them so much as glanced at him.

“Maybe so,” Griffin answered Phoebe with an extra-large dose of grim. “But money’s not the only thing we have to offer.” The door opened. “Everyone has a price,” he said again, “including Ian Dunn.”

And with that, he stalked out of the room, with Phoebe right behind him.

“Shit,” Ian said into the empty room, as the door closed with a thunk. If this clown succeeded at getting him out of here, not only would nine months of hard time be flushed down the crapper, but Aaron would be in imminent danger.

Ian did have a price, but Phoebe was right. It had nothing to do with money. In fact, it had to do with only two things: the safety of his brother, Aaron, and the safety of Aaron’s family.

* * *

Aaron had just gotten Rory down for a nap when the phone rang.

“Motherfuh—” He cut himself off, in case the shrill ringtone had woken up his son. At eleven months old, Rory was starting to make word-sounding noises, and motherf*cker was not going to be part of his vocabulary. At least not until he went to school and heard it from some other kid with crappier parents.


Getting him to nap today had been a battle for the ages, with Rory sobbing as if his life was ending—which was always jarringly reminiscent of the first painful months of the baby’s life. But time had been on Aaron’s side. Tired was tired, and with the kid wearing himself out even further with all the drama, it was just a matter of when before the eyes started rolling back in that tiny, brilliant, sweet-smelling little head.

Aaron answered the phone with a whispered, “Yeah? What?” which probably wouldn’t win him any prizes if the caller were someone from that nursery school Shelly so desperately wanted Rory to attend.

Like one nursery school over another made a shit of a difference in Rory’s future as the next president of the United States, or whatever Shel had in mind.

Aaron himself hadn’t gone to nursery school or preschool or early childhood development school or whatever the f*ck it was called these days.

Which … actually argued the case in Shel’s favor, since Aaron was now a stay-at-home-dad with a warrant out for his arrest.

And oh yeah, his only living family was his douchebag of a brother, Ian, who had vanished almost a year ago—no doubt gone off to save the world. Son of a bitch.

Ian had sent some lame-ass unsigned card when Rory was born. A card, and a hundred thousand dollars in U.S. savings bonds. His generosity was a thinly veiled reminder that he’d wanted them to move far away—or at least to leave Florida. He’d wanted them all to go—Aaron, Shelly, and Shel’s older sister Francine, too. But Ian couldn’t support them forever. His funds were not limitless, and Sarasota was where Shelly had a high-paying job and part ownership of a thriving computer software firm. The hope was that in just a few years, the company would go public, and Shelly could cash out, leaving them set for life—and free to vanish for good. Besides, Sarasota was a fairly large city, well over an hour away from Clearwater. As long as they were careful and kept their heads down, they were safe enough. They’d had that argument with Ian—and won it—long before he’d disappeared. Living under assumed names in Florida was safer than using their real names in Alaska—a fact that Ian had finally conceded mere days before he’d left.

Since then, there’d been monthly postcards that all said the same thing in Ian’s crappy printing: Love you. Miss you. Stay safe. Don’t be stupid.

Right now, though, there was silence on the other end of the phone, and Aaron heard himself saying, “Ian?” because he was just that stupid. He was loaded with undying hope that would spring to life at the tiniest spark. Like, what he was actually, stupidly thinking right now was maybe—maybe—Eee was calling from some spooky overseas job, hence the flaky connection.

Yeah, right.

Whoever was on the other end didn’t say a word, and the connection was cut with a very definite click.

Aaron looked at his phone and the caller ID, of course, said private.

“F*ck you,” Aaron whispered to the phone, and to his brother, too, wherever that douchebag was. And he went down the stairs and turned on the baby monitor in the kitchen, and got to work doing the dishes and cleaning the counters so that the granite sparkled and shone. If he was lucky, it would earn him not just a grateful smile but maybe a little something extra when Shelly got home from earning the big bucks that kept their perfect little family afloat.