Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

“Wait until I give the signal that we’re clear before you let anyone take Berto out of the trunk,” Francine told Martell as he pulled his car into the FBI safe house garage.

He nodded, his eyes kind as he glanced over at her. “I got it. Take your time.”

Fahking great. Confirmation of her worst fears—that she still looked like shit on a stick. Francine did not cry beautifully. She knew that. Her nose got red and her eyes got puffy. And the whole mess took way too long to fade.

And Martell understood that Francine did not want Berto seeing her like this.

The surveillance van pulled in alongside them, and the nanosecond that the garage doors closed behind both vehicles, Francine got out of the car and headed quickly for the door into the house, hoping to make it into the privacy of the bathroom before having to talk to anyone.


She’d purposely waited to send Ian a text saying 10 until they were only two minutes away so that she’d have the chance to splash cool water on her face before seeing him.

But he’d apparently heard the mechanism for the automatic doors going up and then down, and had leapt into action. He was waiting just inside the door.

He’d obviously been resting while they were out. His feet were bare and his hair was messy, but his gaze was sharp, and he was immediately alert to the fact that she’d been crying.

“F*ck you,” she told him—a preemptive strike, when he started to open his mouth to comment as she pushed past him.

Martell was right behind her, and she heard him tell Ian in a low voice, “She needs a couple minutes. That was harder for all of us than we thought it would be.”

And great, the door to the first floor half bath was closed. Francine headed for it anyway, even as she sharply told Martell, “Why don’t you do something useful instead of speaking for me? Like move our stuff into that empty bedroom.”

“It’s not empty anymore,” Ian said. “Phoebe’s in there.”

Of course she was. “Well, she’ll have to get her big ass out.” As Francie tried the knob anyway, it turned beneath her hand and the door opened to reveal who else but the owner of the big ass of which Francine had just loudly spoken. Loudly enough for Phoebe to have heard her through the door.

But the look of annoyance that the taller woman wore morphed into one of sisterhood and sympathy as she saw Francie’s mottled face.

But Francine had time for neither, even as Phoebe quickly surrendered the bathroom.

“You’re going to have to move your things out of that bedroom,” she told Phoebe as she went inside and started to close the door.

“No,” Ian said from across the room. “She won’t.”

“Berto’s really not going to believe—” Francine started to argue, but then she stopped as she looked from Ian to Phoebe and back. Ian’s T-shirt was on inside out, and Phoebe was also barefoot and disheveled, as if she’d dressed hurriedly, too. She was also actually blushing, a faint line of pink beneath those smart-girl glasses. It wasn’t hard to do the math. Especially since anyone with eyes had seen it coming from miles away. “Oh, how cute. An op romance. That’ll last.”

“It’s not …” Phoebe trailed off, probably because she wasn’t quite sure yet what it was, let alone what it was not. Ian had that kind of power over women. All that charm, focused in a deadly beam, could leave a path of pure and total destruction. She cleared her throat as she lowered her voice and told Francine, “If we’re going to make the Dutchman believe we’re together, we need to, um …”

Now it was Francine shooting a look of pity at Phoebe. “Is that what Ian said? Oh, honey. And you fell for his bullshit?”

“No,” she said. “That’s not what he … He didn’t—” But she cut herself off, because across the room, Ian was talking to Yashi, who’d come in from the surveillance van.

“No, you know, I think I’m going to talk to him out in the garage first,” Ian was saying, about Berto. “Just the two of us.”

“That’s not okay,” Francine said, even as Phoebe asked, “Is that really a good idea?” Phoebe headed for Ian’s side—caught once again in his charismatic tractor beam.

“Yeah, I’m not comfortable with that either,” Martell chimed in, even as he came toward Francie, clearly wondering why she was still standing there, letting everyone see her shame. “You okay?”

He was serious. His concern was sincere.

It was possible she’d misjudged him on her first impression, and he really was that rare breed of men—a truly nice guy. Yes, he had a certain arrogance and male-know-it-all-ness that came, in part, from being good-looking and having access to a mirror. But maybe what she’d seen as him working hard to get into her pants had merely been an attempt to be a team player. He used we and us all the time, when he was talking to Ian and Yashi, too. He’d used it again when he’d first come into the house tonight—That was harder for all of us than we thought it would be—sharing in the distress instead of throwing it all on her.

Even though it was hers to own.

Ever since Martell had picked Francine up at the coffee shop, he’d been nothing but respectful and kind.

He could’ve taken advantage in the car, when she’d started to cry.

She’d expected him to.

But he hadn’t.

Across the room, Francine could see that Little Debbie FBI had come into the kitchen and was watching them. But she quickly looked away when she caught Francine’s eye.

“You have enough towels in there?” Martell asked.

She glanced in and saw that there were plenty, in a pile on the back of the toilet. “I’m good,” she told him. “I’m okay.”

The way he was looking at her, she knew that he didn’t believe her. And the truth was, she didn’t quite believe herself. But he nodded and accepted her version of reality. “You need anything, just let me know.”

Again, those weren’t just words. He meant what he said.

“Make Berto believe it,” Francine said. “You and me? I need him to believe it.”

Martell nodded, as serious and determined as if she’d asked him to find and bring her the Holy Grail. “Consider it done.”

“You can start by adding condoms to Yashi’s list,” she said.

“Good idea,” he said. “Hashtag extra large.” He smiled back at her. “Trust me, I got this.”

“Thank you,” Francine said, and finally closed the door. When she looked into the mirror, she was still smiling—and even though her eyes were still red, she didn’t look half as awful as she’d imagined.

* * *

Ian opened the trunk carefully. For all he knew, Francine and Martell had missed a weapon, but the man in there was cuffed and had been stripped down to his underwear. The only thing he threw at Ian was a baleful look.

“I feel like I should say something pithy here,” Ian said. “Like, Monsieur Dellarosa, so we meet at last.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” Berto said.

“Are you f*cking kidding me works,” Ian told him, reaching in to unlock the cuffs. “It sums it up just about perfectly, from my end, too. The FBI and their crazy brothers and sisters who are closer to A on the alphabet agency scale pulled me out of jail in a Hail Mary move, to help them find some very important missing kids. I didn’t want it, I didn’t ask for it, and I certainly didn’t make a deal for it, but there it is. My unexpected freedom has nothing to do with you or your family. How’s Manny, by the way?”

Berto blinked at his sudden change of subject. “He’s fine.”

“Is he? Because if he’s on life support, with a priest standing by, that would be good to know. My deal was with Manny, not Davio.”

“No, he’s really okay,” Berto said, rubbing his wrists. “He’s in the hospital for tests.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” Ian said. “I’ll ask you about him again, after we agree to a detente.”

“My agreement—to anything—depends on your terms.” Berto said.

Ian gave him a hand, helping him out of the trunk. “My terms are pretty simple. You help me with this job, earn some cash, and gain a few good karma points in the process. When it’s over, we push the reset button, and I go back to prison and finish serving my time, according to my deal with Manny.”


He had yet to arrange that detail with the FBI, but he was certain that that esteemed organization would have no trouble coming up with a feasible reason for him to go back to Northport, when everything was said and done.

It had come to him, a few hours ago. Manny and Berto had no idea why Ian was out of prison. And since they didn’t know that his release was permanent, it didn’t have to be.

If the FBI could pull him out of jail, they could certainly put him back inside. Doing so would reactivate his deal with the Dellarosas. Manny and Berto would keep Davio in line.

He hoped.

“I know you’ve been working closely with Manny,” Ian told Berto, “and that you and your uncle have both been juggling furiously, to counterbalance your father’s … bad choices, shall we say.”

Berto didn’t respond, but Ian knew he was listening.

He handed Berto his shoes and clothes as he quickly outlined the FBI’s assignment to steal back the kidnapped children from the Dutchman.

“I know you have both a fleet of trucks and a series of warehouses across the state,” Ian told Berto as the man got dressed. “I want to pay you, for use of both. Plus, your presence adds a certain authenticity. The Dutchman already knows Davio’s after me.”

“And how do you know I’m not just going to kill your brother?” Berto asked. “When I have the chance?”

“I don’t,” Ian admitted. “But I suspect you’re not a threat since you’ve risked your father’s wrath many times these past years, to save Aaron and Sheldon—although really, it’s always been about Francine, hasn’t it?”

Berto didn’t so much as blink. But then he asked the question Ian was hoping he’d ask. “How much are you going to pay me?”

“Enough to make you shake my hand,” Ian said, and indeed, when he told Berto the dollar amount, they then shook. With their hands still clasped, he asked again, “How’s Manny?”

“He’s fine,” Berto said again. “I went into the hospital see him just this morning. He’s up and around. He’s old, but he’s tough.”

“Good,” Ian said.

And with that done, the rest was easy.

At least it should have been. It would’ve been.

Before funny, quirky, perfect Phoebe Kruger had walked into Ian’s life, and made him long for the impossible.

* * *

“I need a high-speed luxury yacht,” Ian said, “with at least three private bedrooms, and enough space down below to hold cargo. It’s gotta have a cruising speed of at least 35 knots. I need a secluded, private dock, south of Miami, with access for an eighteen-wheeler. Oh, and I’m gonna need both the TSA and the Coast Guard to make themselves scarce for around twelve hours.”

Yashi actually laughed out loud.

Phoebe was in the living room in the Miami safe house, one of a diverse group that included an ex-con Navy SEAL, two FBI agents, two lawyers, and a mobster. It almost felt like the setup to some terrible joke. Walked into a bar … Except these eclectic nine individuals were working together, as Ian put it, on a “short-term, relatively low-risk, high-yield con” that would result in the return of the two kidnapped children. No joke. No breaking in, no clandestine rescue, no violence, no gunfire, either.

At least none that was real. Or so Ian promised.

His plan was to convince Georg Vanderzee, AKA the Dutchman, that Ian had a quick, easy, foolproof way to smuggle contraband—of any type, human included—out of the country. At which point, at least according to theory, the Dutchman would enlist Ian’s aid in moving those children. He would, quite literally, hand them over.

But the con wouldn’t work unless they made it look real. All of it. Down to the minute details.

Because of that need for accuracy and precision, they were all present at this meeting, despite the late hour.

Even Sheldon had been woken up and dragged from his bed. He sat on the sofa wearing only a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. His hair was standing straight up, and his arms were folded across his movie-star-worthy pecs.

Francine was next to him, sitting so close to Martell that she was almost on the man’s lap, his arm around her shoulders, their legs intertwined. Apparently, they’d made a connection. Or maybe it was for show, for Berto’s sake. Phoebe wasn’t sure. But the softness in Martell’s eyes as he smiled at Francine didn’t seem make-believe.

She herself sat on Martell’s other side, with Aaron sprawled in the easy chair next to her, intentionally and grimly not looking at his half-naked husband. And that was a clue that, despite their private time together, nothing had been resolved.

Yashi and Deb were sharing the love seat—ever the consummate professionals.

Berto—who’d been given back his clothes after he’d done his little one-on-one with Ian and apparently struck a deal to help them with this mission—was across from them and on edge, because of his proximity to the FBI.

Ian was next to Berto, but he’d pulled over one of the stools from the kitchen counter, which, as he sat on it, put him up on a higher level than the rest of them.

Phoebe was certain that that was not by mistake.

Ian was undaunted by Yashi’s laughter. “I know you can do it, so don’t pretend that you can’t.” He looked at Sheldon. “It takes approximately four hours, by boat, to get from south Florida to certain parts of Cuba. But of course we’re not going to go there, we’re only going to make Vanderzee think that we did. So, we’ll need a mapped-out nautical route, heading south, but then turning back toward a second, even more secluded dock, somewhere else in Florida—within easy driving range of Miami for those in the surveillance van. But we’ll want to be on the open sea for nearly four full hours.”

Sheldon sat up, engaged. “We’ll need the yacht’s computer compass to say we’re heading south for the entire trip. I can definitely do that. And north for the return. I’m assuming there’ll be a return …?”

“There will be,” Ian confirmed. “We’re going to fool Vanderzee into believing that we took him to Cuba, and then back to the original dock south of Miami.”

“We’ll need smartphones with doctored GPS, too,” Sheldon said.

Yashi was making a procurement list, and he looked to Ian for confirmation.

Ian nodded. “You can get that info from Shel—what he wants to work with,” he told the FBI agent.

“If we’re just going to be out on the ocean for four hours,” Yashi pointed out, “twice, neither the Coast Guard or TSA’s gonna care.” He made a note on his pad. “But I’ll make sure we’re left alone.”

“But when we’re at the second dock,” Ian said. “The one that’s going to be our fake Cuba …”

“We won’t want any U.S. agencies nearby,” Yashi said. “Got it. No signage, nothing that says we’re still in the States, either. I’ll also clear the airspace, so we don’t have some Cessna pulling a sign advertising Miami Jack’s Shrimp Shack flying overhead.”

“Hopefully, we’ll have this timed so we’re only there at oh dark hundred,” Ian said. “Both when we arrive and depart. But yes. It’s good to be prepared.” He kept going. “We’ll need a cargo van or truck, possibly two, beat-up, with Cuban plates.” He looked around at them, as if counting heads. “I need black clothes for everyone on Team Ian, which is going to be me, Phoebe, Aaron.”


Aaron sat up. “Holy shit. I get to play?”

“Yeah,” Ian told his brother. “I hate it, but since Pheeb’s playing, too …” He glanced at her. “With Berto’s help, this mission is going to be as low-risk as possible. No one is going to be alone with the Dutchman—not even for a second. We’ll be working in groups. And you’ll stay with your group, you’ll stay on script, no improvising, no coloring outside of the lines.” He looked at Phoebe again. “Since you’re the least experienced person here, you and I will go over your role, extensively, later tonight.”

Francine noisily cleared her throat, and Phoebe shot her a look, feeling heat rising in her face. Ian’s eyes narrowed—he didn’t know that Francine had done the Ian-plus-Phoebe-equals-hot-hookup math. Or … maybe he did. It was hard to imagine anything getting past him. But he’d already turned back to Yashi and continued with his list.

“Black clothes for me, Phoebe, Aaron,” Ian said again. “They’ve gotta be lightweight, including masks. I don’t want anyone overheating—we’re going to be moving boxes and it’s going to get hot. Phoebe and I will also need a variety of other clothing, including yachting wear, whatever that is—head to toe, nothing too fancy, but do make us shine—and a nice overnight bag to put it in. Leather. Remember, my character”—another glance at Phoebe—“has money.”

“Check,” Yashi said.

“I need rent-a-cop security guard uniforms for Martell and for you, Yash. And a coupla burlap sacks to put over your heads.”

“Oh, that’s gonna be fun,” Martell murmured. “I can’t wait to find out why.”

“We’re going to need ammo—and blanks,” Ian continued. “Along with special-effect blood packs, and the blood to go in ’em.”

Francine perked up at that. “Please tell me we’re killing Phoebe.”

“What?” Phoebe asked, half laughing, half perplexed.

“Not for real,” Francine explained with her usual disdain. “But we can use plastic bags of fake blood to make it look—realistically—as if someone’s been killed. And since Ian doesn’t want you participating in this job, and I agree—your lack of experience could get us all really killed—I thought …”

But Ian was shaking his head. “I thought about that, too, but no. If Phoebe were dead, my character would have no reason not to stay in Cuba. We have to maintain a balance. Create urgency, but not cross into tragedy.

“So here’s what’s going to happen: Berto’s going to be already badly injured when Phoebe, Aaron, and I arrive at the warehouse with the Dutchman. We’ll be coming to pick up the contraband, but we’ll discover that Berto interrupted a robbery attempt—which emphasizes the fact that this shipment is hot, that we need to get it out of Miami, now, or it’ll be taken from us. Two of Berto’s guards will be tied up—one will already be dead, killed by the robbers who’ve made their escape, but they might be coming back with reinforcements, so go, go, go, load those boxes into the truck. It’s the reason we need to move fast. I’ll kill the surviving guard over his failure to protect Berto—proof that I’m both serious and deadly, plus this makes Vanderzee an accomplice to murder, simply by being in the room. For someone with his psychological makeup, the fact that blood’s been spilled makes him less likely to bail. So. We leave with the goods—drugs or guns—head for the dock and the yacht and our trip to Cuba, while Berto stays behind to get medical aid. After we return to the States, I’ll receive the terrible news that he died of his injuries. Which now means that Davio’s going to come after me even harder. And that provides the urgency we’ll need to convince Vanderzee that if he wants to move those kids, he’ll have to do it right away—now or never—because Phoebe and I have decided it’s time to flee the country, that we’re taking our yacht, and this time we’ll stay in Cuba.”

“So we’re essentially putting on a show, a play, for Georg Vanderzee,” Phoebe realized.

“You could say that,” Ian told her, turning back to Yashi. “Martell will need tropical wear,” he continued. “Casual clothes, but don’t make it cheap—Hawaiian shirt, linen pants. And military garb for the rest of Team Martell.”

“Ooh, I get a team, too,” Martell said. “And that’s why I wear a bag on my head as the security guard—so Vanderzee doesn’t recognize me when we get to Faux Cuba.”

“Yes. You’re my Cuban partner,” Ian told him. “American expat, so don’t try to fake an accent—that never works. Like me, you’re richer than God. You’ve got an infallible connection to your new country’s government, and everyone looks the other way when American yachts—and their cargos—arrive and depart from your private dock. Your minions are Francine, Sheldon, Yashi.” He pointed at them. “France, you’re his kickass security chief”—he turned back to Yashi—“so extra heavy with the weaponry for her, although I do want everyone armed.”

Ian smiled at the other FBI agent. “Deb, sorry, but I want you with us on the yacht, in case there’s trouble with the Coast Guard. You’re our stewardess.”

“Of course I am,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t be the captain?”

“Sorry, no. When you’re getting her clothes, think high-class hooker,” Ian told Yashi, and when Deb made an exasperated sound, he added, “Vanderzee won’t expect you to be a black belt if you’re wearing heels.”

“I know, I know.” Deb looked over at Yashi’s extensive notes and made a disbelieving face at him. “Did you really just write sideboob?”

“I did,” he admitted, looking back at Ian. “What else?”

“Cash,” Ian said. “A twenty-K packet, a ten-K packet, and a briefcase with five million—obviously that can be mostly newspaper. But I want it to weigh what it needs to weigh, so don’t take shortcuts. Dollars or Euros, doesn’t matter which. I’ll let that be your choice. And drugs or guns for our contraband. I’d prefer drugs—specifically meth—it’s hot, and there’s a market for U.S. product in Eastern Europe. Plus, it doesn’t weigh as much as AKs or ARs. Remember, we’re going to have to lift this shit—and it’ll slow our speedboat down. Also, if it’s guns, I’m going to need them crated and moved into Berto’s warehouse before tomorrow night, which could be problematic.”

“You think?” Berto said.

“If it’s drugs,” Ian continued, “we’ll be hiding them inside of electronics—desktop computer towers—which are already in the Dellarosa warehouse. So all I’ll need is a big enough bag of meth for show-and-tell with the Dutchman. But again, your choice. Oxycontin works, too. However, I will need to know in advance—by tomorrow morning—exactly what our contraband is going to be.”

“Yeah,” Yashi said. “And I kinda caught that tomorrow night that you mentioned, too?”

“This has to go down tomorrow night,” Ian told them. “Davio—Berto’s father—is gonna be up in Sarasota, at the hospital, at a meeting with Manny that he is not going to miss. I don’t want him anywhere near this, so we’re doing it then. Plus, I want this job over and done ASAP—and I’m sure those kids want to be back with their mother sooner rather than later, too.”


“We can do this,” Deb said confidently. “And I’m sure we can get you the drugs—so let’s make it drugs, not guns.” She frowned down at Yashi’s notepad. “How about a truck or some kind of vehicle on this end? To get the illegal goods from Berto’s warehouse to the departing airfield?”

“The electronics are not illegal,” Berto was quick to say. “I purchased, legally, an overstock from a regional chain of stores being downsized—”

“But the Dutchman’s not going to know that,” Francie said. “Will you just relax? We’re all on the same side here. No one’s going to arrest you.”

“I’m renting a truck from Berto,” Ian told them. “He’s got a fleet of semis—”

“All legal,” Berto pointed out, and Francine rolled her eyes.

“I want the truck for the Miami warehouse pickup to be big—an eighteen-wheeler,” Ian told them. “I want it to be more than just a van or a rinky-dink U-Haul. This truck is part of what we’re selling to the Dutchman.”

What they were “selling” to the Dutchman was a sure thing. A foolproof way to transport those kidnapped kids out of the Miami consulate, and out of the U.S.

If they did this right, Phoebe realized, Georg Vanderzee was actually going to pay Ian to take those kids, to put them into one of Berto’s very big, very safe-looking trucks, believing that the truck would carry the children to a boat, which would then transport them to Cuba. At that point, Vanderzee or his agents would pick them up and charter a flight to Kazbekistan, where they’d be delivered to their father, in exchange for some millions of dollars in payment.

In truth, the truck would drive those children safely to their mother’s waiting arms, while Vanderzee’s men searched Cuba for them, in vain.

It was brilliant.

But it started tomorrow night, with the Dutchman seeing—up close and personal—exactly how Ian’s smuggling operation worked.

“And that,” Ian said, “brings us to the Dutchman.”

He glanced at Phoebe, and her stomach clenched. She knew he was going to tell them, now, about his past experience with Georg Vanderzee. She also knew that this was going to be bad.

“Our mark,” Ian told them, his eyes deadly serious, “is a sociopath.”

* * *

Ian felt Phoebe watching him, her eyes somber behind those glasses that he’d come to love.

“Georg Vanderzee. His father was a tulip farmer from Holland, his mother was a woman’s rights activist and the only daughter of a wealthy Kazbekistani man, who was and still is the right hand of a powerful warlord. She somehow escaped and fled to Paris, where she met his dad, who was much older, and was on some kind of midlife-crisis walkabout. Georg was their only child.

“When he was six years old, armed militants attacked a crowded marketplace in Yemen, and his parents were killed. He was with them at the time, but his life was spared.”

“Oh, God,” Phoebe breathed.

“He went to live with his maternal grandfather in Kazbekistan, which would not have been his parents’ wish. In fact, prior to that, he’d never so much as met his K-stani relatives—his mother had been hiding from them, all that time. He’s now convinced the attack in Yemen was carried out by men in the employ of his grandfather—and he seems to view the brutal murder of his parents as an acceptable expression of familial love.”

Francine spoke. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” Ian said. “He’s not a religious man, but he’s almost ridiculously superstitious. I never did figure out the cause of that, but there it is. I’ve used it in the past to my advantage. He walks the line between his country and the West—he looks European, but he’s fully embraced his grandfather’s tribal customs. By age fifteen, he was already married with two wives—and apparently, in his part of K-stan, teen grooms acquire preteen brides. However, this is something he’s continued to do, well into his forties. His most recent wife just turned twelve.”

“So in other words,” Francine said, “if something goes wrong, and we find ourselves in a firefight with this piece of shit, we’re cleared to shoot-to-kill?”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” Ian said.

“How many wives does he have?” Shelly asked. “If he started getting married back in his teens? Where does he keep them all?”

“He doesn’t keep them all,” Ian told them. “By the time he was in his mid-twenties, his wives started dying mysteriously. These days it’s not so mysterious. While I was at his home, having dinner, his favorite wife—alleged favorite—knocked over a glass of wine. It didn’t touch me, I moved away, I didn’t get hit—but she did.”

Ian had to stop for a moment. God, he hated having to tell them this, but he had to. They had to know. He couldn’t look at Phoebe as he tried to focus on the facts. Just the facts.

“He backhands her, and she goes flying—she’s sixteen years old, maybe ninety pounds. Maybe. I’m trying to be a diplomat, to calm him down. My goal is to stop him from hurting her. I get him to back away and I’m pretty sure it’s going to be okay, because he finally seems calm. But it’s a little weird, because now she’s crying and cowering and I realize that she’s begging me to let him hit her and …”

“Oh, God,” Phoebe said and Ian made the mistake of looking at her.

She obviously knew where his story was going, and he had to look away.

He cleared his throat. “But he goes back to the table and sits down, and now I’m looking at her, and talking to her, like, Hey, it’s okay, when he shoots her. Just pop. Bullet in the head. It took me a second to realize what had happened—all of her noise stopped, and she hit the floor—of course, because she was dead. I was close enough so that her blood sprayed my pants. It hit the wall behind her, and … somehow it got on me. And he sees that and goes, Oops.

“I didn’t even know he was armed,” Ian continued. “And he just puts the weapon down and goes back to eating his meal. Servants come in and quickly and quietly clean up the mess. They remove the body, as if a murder in the dining room is an everyday occurrence.” He had to stop and clear his throat, before he added, “I found out later that if I’d let him beat her up, he probably wouldn’t’ve killed her. Apparently, that was his pattern. A beating or a bullet.”

“You couldn’t possibly have known that at the time,” Phoebe said, quick to defend him.

“I know it now,” Ian told her. “The bitch of it is, the day before, I’d saved his life. For real. I’d fake-saved his life, about a week before that, to get him to trust me, and he did. I got the info I needed, I’d even passed it along to the international taskforce that was … Anyway, whatever. The mission was over, and I was in that place where I was making the choice either to end or maintain the relationship. And I went for maintain and I stuck around for a few days. And I ended up killing that girl.”

Phoebe was just sitting there, looking at him with her heart in her eyes, as if they were the only ones in the room.

“So he just gets away with it?” Martell asked. “Just regularly killing his wives?”

“It’s not illegal,” Francine answered for Ian. “Not according to local law. He owns them. He can do whatever he wants with them.”


“Yeah, but you’d think he’d at least run out of girls who were willing to marry him,” Martell argued.

“The girls don’t have anything to say about it,” Francine told him. “Their fathers pick their husbands, and I’m sure Vanderzee pays well.”

“So, essentially,” Martell concluded, “we’re dealing with a pedophile serial killer. And we’re all going to play kissy face with him, and smile at him. High-five him. Shake his hand.”

“Yes,” Ian said, “we are.”

* * *

Aaron was in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, when Shelly came in from the garage.

“What were you doing out there?” Aaron asked, his curiosity overcoming his ongoing frustration and anger at his husband.

Shel stopped. His hope was suddenly palpable—simply because Aaron had asked him a faintly hostile question. “I was putting Rory’s car seat into the surveillance van,” he said. “Making sure it was safe. If you’re going out there, I want to be in the van—not back here at the house. I figured you’d want to do the same.”

Aaron nodded. He’d figured right, angry or not. “So it’s safe?”

“It is,” Sheldon said. “As long as everything goes according to plan.”

They both just stood there, then, looking at each other, letting that statement echo in the otherwise empty room.

And then they both spoke at once. “Did you see the pictures of what Yashi did to van one?” Shel asked, as Aaron said, “When, with Ian, does anything ever go according to plan? I mean, he always gets it done, brilliantly, but this Dutchman guy sounds dangerous.…”

And then, also at the same time, Shel said, “I wonder if Yashi can find us a babysitter …” as Aaron said, “I’ll talk to Eee, tell him we need to get someone in here to watch Roar.…”

“So we can both be out there.”

They said it in perfect unison.

Shelly smiled, with more of that hope brimming in his eyes, mixing with his unspoken plea for forgiveness. “Good to know we haven’t lost our ability to do that,” he said.

He was so beautiful—both inside and out. But Aaron’s love for this man, which always rang inside of him like a clean, clear bell now felt heavy and murky and burdensome, weighed down by his anger and hurt.

“I wish you’d put on a shirt,” Aaron said, turning back to his sandwich.

“I wish you’d take yours off and come to bed.”

“I’m taking the second shift,” Aaron informed him. “Guarding Berto.”

Ian’s policy was trust, but verify. And they were currently in the verify stage with Sheldon’s half brother. Berto had been assigned to the pullout couch in the den—a room right off the main living room that had French doors with glass panes. They were all taking turns watching him—making sure he wasn’t working some kind of secret agenda for Davio, with a plan to murder Aaron in his sleep.

“You shouldn’t be guarding him at all,” Shel said.

“Believe me, while I’m on guard, I’m not going to blink—let alone fall asleep.”

“Yeah, I was more concerned about B.’s safety.”

“Ha,” Aaron said, “ha. You’re the one who shouldn’t guard him.” Shel’s ongoing mistrust of his half brother was more than evident.

Mistrust and loathing.

“Yeah, well, I’m not guarding him, am I?” Shel said.

Aaron looked up from putting the mustard back on the door of the fridge. People didn’t normally look at Sheldon and think badass, but there was something about the way he was now standing, or maybe it was the shadows being thrown across his face, which whispered of danger. Of course it was easy to forget sometimes, that his computer-nerd high school sweetheart had also been a decorated officer in the Marines.

“I volunteered,” Shel continued, “but Ian said no. He sometimes says no to me, too, you know.”

Aaron had to give him that one, and he nodded. Grudgingly. “But he’s not your brother. You have no idea what it’s like living in the constant f*cking shadow of his almighty perfection. It’s even harder when—”

“No,” Shel said, interrupting him, stepping forward into Aaron’s personal space. “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t know hard if it kicked you in the face. There’s nothing hard about having a brother like Ian—everything he does for you, he does out of unconditional love. Hard is having a brother who’s so f*cking disgusted by you, he beats the hell out of you for months to try to turn you into something that you’re not—that you can’t be. Hard is living in fear, from his constant threats. His manipulation. His revulsion. Hard is wondering when my dear brother is going to help my f*cking crazy father kill you, Aaron, because if you’re dead, I’ll look less gay, and they’ll look less related to someone gay—forget about the fact that you are everything to me. You’re the love of my life, and I’d die to protect you.”

Sheldon so rarely lost his cool, Aaron had forgotten what it was like when he did.

Shelly wasn’t done. “So tell your brother—who loves you, and who would also die to protect you—that you’re not going to guard Berto, that you’re going to keep a safe distance between him and you throughout this job. And then come the f*ck to bed, so that if something goes wrong during this allegedly low-risk assignment, we don’t regret it for the rest of our pathetic lives.”

As much as Aaron complained when Ian ordered him around, he’d always really loved it when Sheldon did so.

A lot.

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you,” Aaron said, even though from the sudden shine of tears in Shelly’s eyes, it was clear that he absolutely thought it did.

And truth be told, Shel was probably right.

“God, I’m so sorry that I—”

“Just stop there,” Aaron said. “Can you please just say I’m sorry, and let me pretend that you’re sorry for what I want you to be sorry for?”

“I’m sorry,” Sheldon whispered. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Aaron said, offering Shel half of his sandwich. “I love you, too.”

* * *

Francine came into the bathroom while Martell was brushing his teeth.

Because this bathroom was family-style, with double sinks, a toilet that was in its own little closet, and an opaque curtain across the roomy shower stall, the safe house rule was to keep the door ajar so that their fellow campers could use it simultaneously. So he wasn’t surprised when she came in.

“ ’Sup?” he asked, and rinsed and spat, stashing his toothbrush in the mug he’d snagged from the kitchen. He then splashed water up and onto his face, drying off with the towel he’d looped around his neck.

He realized then that she’d closed the door behind her. She was still leaning back against it, her hand on the knob, where she’d pushed in the little button to lock it.

“Berto saw you come in here,” she told him, her voice low. “I thought I’d let him see me come in, too. And it’s occurred to me … Well, I was thinking …”

Uh-oh.

Crazy woman alert.

Without a doubt, Martell was a bona fide crazy-woman magnet. Somehow, they identified him as an easy target—or what was that word that Dunn had been throwing around earlier? Mark. He was, indeed, an easy mark.


And what did that say about him—that he was likewise drawn to crazy? And truth be told, crazy-woman sex was beyond hot, and it was going to be hard to turn this down, because it had been a long, cold while since he’d used his penis for its primary and yet most rewarding task.

And Francine was a beautiful, healthy young woman, with a neat little body, that beautiful, silky long hair, and that perfectly shaped angel-princess face—with those pale, crazy eyes.

Her eyes weren’t crazy right now, but probably only because she was gazing down at her boots, and at the floor—anywhere but up and into his face. She actually seemed a little embarrassed by what she was about to say. It was possible she was blushing a little, which was weirdly endearing—and that was not a good thing for him to be thinking.

Martell needed to focus on the fact that if he didn’t stay strong, if he did give in and have sex with her—right up against this wall, no, that wall would be better, or hell, maybe she could perch up on the sink counter, it was the perfect height—it would be great while it was happening, but not so great after, when she, oh, say, tried to decapitate him and eat his brains.

And even if, like most of the crazy women he’d bumped into in the past, her brand of crazy didn’t include psycho-killer violence, there was still plenty to avoid when it came to figurative brain-eating.

“I was wondering,” Francine started again, chewing her lower lip a little this time. “God, I’m bad at this.”

The lip chewing made Martell want to weep because what he wanted and what he wanted were two entirely different things. And the devil on his shoulder—or maybe it was the angel, he never could quite tell them apart. But whatever it was that whispered stupid things to him was whispering If it was Deb who’d come in and locked the door, you’d’ve already said yes. But that wasn’t going to happen. Deb wasn’t crazy enough.

So he cleared his throat, and attempted to save Francine from more embarrassment, not just by stopping her before she got any further, but by letting her save face.

“I really like you,” he said—which was not untrue. “And I’m happy to help you with Berto, but, see, it just wouldn’t feel right to do more than pretend, because I’d feel like I was taking advantage. And I … I would be.” He shook his head. “So I can’t.”

She was looking at him now, and her face was completely blank. He couldn’t read her at all.

“As much as I might want to,” he added, because someone had to say something. “But … thank you?”

Francine laughed at that, and her sudden smile transformed her, eradicating the crazy. Her eyes danced and sparkled with what looked like genuine amusement. “Did you think I …?” She laughed again. “You thought I was going to ask you to have sex with me?”

“Um,” Martell said.

“And you were saying no.” She seemed really happy about that. “God, you are ridiculously nice, aren’t you?”

“Nice isn’t really the word I’d—”

“Believe me, it’s not hard to ask for sex,” she interrupted him. “I know how to do that. It doesn’t involve much talking. I take off my shirt. I take off my bra. I take off my boots and my pants.…”

“Ah,” he said. “Yeah, I could see how that would work really well.”

“What I was wondering,” she said, back into serious mode, “is if, maybe, after this is over, you might want to, I don’t know, have dinner? Or maybe see a movie?”

“You want to go on a date?” Martell realized.

Francine nodded.

He looked at her, standing there, so sweetly uncertain, her crazy no longer her defining feature, but more of a distant vibe or a light sprinkling.

“There’s a really good Cajun restaurant on Hillside,” she said, and he realized that unlike the other crazy women he’d known, she’d listened when he spoke. Listened and remembered. He knew dozens of non-crazies, both male and female, who never did that. “Their jerk chicken is … Well, it’s really good, so I thought …”

Martell nodded. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” She didn’t seem to believe him. It was possible he’d been a little tentative.

So he put more into it. “Yes,” he said. “I’d love to. Have dinner. With you. That … sounds kind of great.”

Her smile was a mix of relief and pleasure, and again he was struck by the way it transformed her.

“Good, then,” she said, unlocking the door. “We’ll do that, and … Thanks.”

As she slipped out of the bathroom, Martell said, “Well, all right,” and to his surprise, it actually was.

* * *

Phoebe found Ian in the living room as everyone else in the house—except Yashi and Deb, who were already hard at work procuring everything on Ian’s list—was getting ready to go to bed.

Ian was taking the first shift guarding Berto, who had agreed to stay in the safe house overnight. Whatever Ian had said to the man when he’d first arrived, it was clear that the two now considered themselves to be at least temporary allies. Whether it was money that was behind this alliance, or Berto’s desire for redemption, or something else entirely, Phoebe didn’t know.

The lights were off in the den where Berto had been assigned to sleep, but Ian had parked himself on the sofa, a good distance away from the glass-paneled doors. It was far enough away so that they could talk without disturbing Berto, and without fear of being overheard.

Ian had pulled the coffee table close to him, and was cleaning his guns, one at a time. He was methodical and meticulous, and he seemed to welcome the familiar task.

He didn’t say What’s up? or Why are you here when you should be upstairs, sleeping? in words, but a question was clear on his face as he glanced over at her.

Phoebe sat down next to him. “Francine knows,” she told him, figuring she’d start with the easiest and work her way up to the more difficult topics of conversation. “That we’ve hooked up.”

Ian winced. “If she was rude to you, I apologize—”

“She wasn’t,” Phoebe said. “I mean, not more than usual.”

He smiled briefly at that. “Aaron figured it out, too. He says it’s just a matter of time now, before I push you away.”

His candor surprised her, but she tried to be matter-of-fact as she nodded and asked, “Is that your usual MO?”

“Pretty much.”

“Huh,” she said. “Well, since everyone knows, you shouldn’t be shy about just coming up to my room—our room—when your shift is through.”

That got her a laugh, although she could tell from his expression that she’d puzzled him a little by not jumping all over that push you away statement. “I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of being shy.”

“Reticent, then,” Phoebe said.

“A much manlier word,” Ian agreed, then said, “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Would you mind very much if I did?”

He glanced at her again before returning his full attention to his weapon. “It’s late,” he finally said. “And I know you’re tired.”

“It is late, and I am tired, but I’d like to wait up. Do you know you have this slightly annoying, although incredibly selfless habit of defining a given situation by what everyone else is feeling? Aaron’s devastated. Francine’s angry. I’m tired. How do you feel, Ian? Would you mind if I wait up for you?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Would it help if I told you that some generous soul must’ve seen the addition to the list in the kitchen, because a small pile of condoms appeared, like magic, in the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom? And that I snagged us a few?”


That got her another flash of blue from his eyes. “Then yes, wait up,” he told her. “If that’s why you’re waiting. But if you’re looking to talk, please don’t. You heard the story, you now know the facts. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Okay,” she said, and stood up.

She’d surprised him again, but then she blew it by adding, “It wasn’t your fault. When Vanderzee killed that girl in front of you. You couldn’t have known he was going to do that. And besides, if you hadn’t saved his life, we wouldn’t be this much closer to finding and rescuing those kidnapped children.”

“If I hadn’t saved his life, he wouldn’t have kidnapped them,” Ian said, but then closed his eyes, shook his head. “How hard is I don’t want to talk about it to understand?”

“If you hadn’t saved his life, someone else would’ve grabbed those kids,” Phoebe countered. “And I’m not talking about it—I’m just stating a few more facts. When you come up …” She made a classic zipping and locking motion near her mouth, tossing the imaginary key over her shoulder.

Ian laughed. “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said.

“Well, then I’ll see you upstairs, believing me completely, in just a little bit,” she told him.

He sighed. “I don’t know, Pheeb … I just don’t see how this ends happily and, um …”

“Uh-oh,” she said sitting back down. “Is this how it begins? The pushing away?”

He sighed again. But then nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“How about we break the pattern,” she suggested, “and agree right now that when it’s over, it’s over. We get the kids back, when? Day after tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan. That’s kind of soon. I mean, what? We get to spend tonight and then maybe tomorrow night together? I’m not sure that’s enough.”

He laughed at that. “It’s definitely not for me.”

“What if we hop a plane afterward,” Phoebe said. “Go to Vegas. Or anywhere, really. Just get a room and a lot of room service for three or maybe four days. Then we shake hands, say good-bye, and return to our regularly scheduled lives.”

It was a terrible idea. Even as she was suggesting it, she knew that. But it was significantly better than pretending whatever this was between them was real—while watching him start to push her away. God.

And now he was looking at her with something else entirely in his eyes. “To avoid disappointment, you may want to rework your expectations about what happens when this job ends. Usually there’s about four days, possibly a week, of debriefings with the feds. We’ll continue to be in a safe location for that, although sadly, we’ll all be separated and isolated—it’s standard procedure. But then, there’s Davio. You can’t go out into the world with him still looking to find me through you. It might take more than a week to get him to calm down.”

Phoebe absolutely hadn’t thought about that. “How is that going to happen?” she asked.

“I’ll be able to reach Manny through Berto,” Ian said. “Manny’ll keep Davio in line.” It wasn’t so much the way he looked at her when he said that, as it was the way he didn’t look at her.

And Phoebe suddenly understood, at least basically, what Ian had promised Berto, while they were talking in the garage.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re going back to jail, aren’t you? Even though you don’t have to …?”

He was. She knew from the way he glanced over toward the den where Berto was sleeping, and from the tight expression on his face, that Ian had already reactivated the deal he’d originally made with Manny Dellarosa. After this rescue was over, he was going to go back into the state prison system to take up where he’d left off. Somehow or another, he’d get back in there. If the FBI didn’t help him, he’d probably hold up a liquor store and let himself get caught.

“What exactly did you promise him you’d do in there?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Manny? I mean, in addition to serving what’s-his-name—Vincent’s—time.”

She watched as Ian decided whether to tell her everything, or nothing, or something in between the two. She knew him well enough to know that he was going to go with nothing, so she pushed.

“Who does he want you to kill for him?” she asked.

That got her a solid shake of his head. “No,” Ian said. “That’s not … I wouldn’t.”

Well, that was good at least. “Then why does he need you inside?” Phoebe asked.

Ian didn’t say a word, but the way he shook his head again made her realize—with a sudden flash of understanding—that she was asking the wrong question.

“Why do you need to be in there?” she whispered as she tried to further read his mind by searching his eyes. To protect Aaron and his family. She knew that. It was Ian’s mission statement, his raison d’être. But how could he protect them from inside of a prison?

By bringing down the Dellarosas, for once and for all. “Oh my God …”

He must’ve realized that she’d figured it out and that she was not going to stop pushing, because he leaned close to explain, “There’s a sentencing hearing coming up for a man who’s believed to have worked for Manny and Davio Dellarosa. It’s a money-laundering case.”

“I read about that,” she said. “The accountant.”

Ian nodded.

She’d read and learned a lot about the Dellarosas over the past few days, but this ongoing case had stood out. She couldn’t remember the man’s name, but according to the record, there had been much excitement in the Tampa DA’s office when he was found to be laundering money. Huge amounts of money. There was believed to be a connection to the Dellarosa family, and there was a statewide Now we’ve got them sense of elation. But evidence tying the Dellarosas to the crime had never surfaced, and the accountant refused to turn against his alleged former bosses.

The accountant’s case had been lost and an appeal filed—but recently denied by a higher court. The guilty verdict would stand. The defendant had been out on bail all this time, but his sentencing was impending—after which time he would go directly to jail.

“I’ve already spoken to Deb,” Ian told Phoebe now. “She’ll make sure he’s sent to Northport, where I’ll eventually flip him.”

“Even though no one’s ever turned against the Dellarosas before this?” she asked.

“This is different,” he said, his attention back on the maintenance work in front of him. “This guy’s never been to jail before. He’s an accountant. I’m going to scare the shit out of him—tell him that Manny told me to kill him—and that’s going to flip him. It might take me a year—I might have to break someone’s arm to stay in longer—but I know that I can get him to testify, and that’ll put both Manny and Davio away for good. Now, do me a favor and pretend you never asked me about this.”

But Phoebe wasn’t done asking questions. “How long have you been planning this?” The trial had happened well over a year ago. The appeal had been in motion as soon as the guilty verdict came down.


“I’m done talking about it,” Ian said.

He may have been, but she wasn’t. She had to assume—since he wouldn’t admit it—that when Ian had first gone to prison, he’d known that this man, the accountant, would end up with him, behind bars, at some point during his eighteen-month sentence.

Talk about a long, long con.

“But we ruined it for you,” Phoebe said. “By pulling you out of Northport. You can’t just go back in.”

“Yeah, I can,” he said.

“It’s too dangerous,” she argued. “How are you going to explain why you were released, and why you’re suddenly back?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Ian …”

“Pheeb, I gotta. I know it’ll work. I need to do this. I’m sorry.”

Phoebe laughed her disbelief, because the alternative was to cry. And she realized in that moment that all of her tough talk was just that—tough talk. Sure, she’d said they’d say good-bye after three or four days, but she hadn’t really believed it. She’d expected, instead, some kind of Hollywood rom-com happy ending. With Ian, as the hero, realizing that he was wrong, and running through the airport to stop her from boarding a plane to Tibet, or pulling up in a stretch limo outside of her apartment to proclaim his love and whisk her away to his billionaire lair, where they’d live happily ever after.

“Well, damn,” she said. “I guess we don’t need to fabricate an end date.”

Ian nodded. “I am sorry. If it’s any consolation, I mean that. Very much. I don’t think I’ve ever been this sorry about anything.” He looked at her directly now, as if he wanted her to see the truth of his words in his eyes. And the stupid thing was that she did believe him—even though she knew he was a con artist, a bullshitter, a professional liar.

“I want, more than anything, to spend this time—these next few days—with you,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to make this worse, or harder for you, or, Jesus, you really want to know how I feel? Like I need to protect you from me.”

“No, you don’t,” Phoebe whispered. “I’m a grown woman, and I know what I’m doing.”

He finally looked away. “Look, I’m just gonna just sleep down here.”

“Hey,” Phoebe said, and when he turned to look at her, she kissed him. And the way he kissed her back convinced her that this was not a mistake. When she pulled back to look into his eyes, she managed, somehow to smile. “Don’t you dare. It is what it is. And I’ll take it. From now, right to the moment it ends. Don’t make choices for me.”

She left him with that, and made it all the way upstairs and into her room—their room—before she let herself start to cry.

But when Ian finally came up—and he did, closing the door behind him with such heat in his eyes—she was able to smile before she kissed him. And, as he took her to heaven, she even managed not to talk.

At least not too much.