Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
His scowl was dark, the furrow of his brows making the lines between them pronounced, and if his jaw was any tighter, he’d break his teeth. The muscle working in his cheek was also a very bad sign.
He reached us, stepped in front of me, and took my face in his hands with more gentleness than anyone would have ever thought a man that big and strong and powerful could possibly muster.
“It wasn’t my fault this time,” I whispered, my gaze meeting his. “I just forgot heavy whipping cream at Whole Foods.”
He surveyed the damage, lifted my chin, turned my head to the right and then left, checked my nose, my bottom lip, both wrists, and asked me if I thought anything was broken.
I shook my head.
He took a breath and turned to Becker, who pointed.
I saw men coming then, several ducking under the police tape, all with marshal stars on chains. Because I knew Miro Jones and Ian Doyle the best, I noticed them first.
“Wait,” Ferryman said sharply as the driver got out and stood next to the car, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat.
“No,” Sam replied flatly, his voice hollow and hard with that coldness in it I hated, and thankfully I’d never been on the receiving end of. “To make certain that all protocol has been followed in the apprehension of suspects, and to assure that no others will be abused while being taken into custody, the marshals service has been given the green light to take over this op with CPD.”
“But we have all the kids in––”
“Begging your pardon,” Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones said as he slipped around the car and presented a piece of paper to Ferryman, “but the kids have been remanded into Custodial WITSEC until we can find all their parents or place them in protective foster care, as many of them may be called to testify.”
“No, no, no,” Ferryman growled, shoving Miro out of his way to come around the car to face Sam.
Twisting sideways so that he faced Ferryman at an angle, his shoulder to the man, with me held protectively away, I felt the tension sparking off my husband. He was practically vibrating with anger. “Call your boss,” Sam informed him. “He already spoke to mine. If you need to wake the mayor or the governor, feel free.”
Ferryman stared at Sam and shook his head. “So because a couple of my guys roughed up your little––”
“Think,” Sam rasped, and I could tell his control was razor thin, “before you say one more word. Really ask yourself how much bigger, how much worse, how much more fallout there would be if the man two of your agents took it upon themselves to inflict what they thought was justice on was an ordinary civilian.”
I leaned forward, because I wanted to see Ferryman’s face as the precariousness of his situation sunk in.
There could have been press, and a lawsuit, and heaven knew what else if I wasn’t married to the top man in the marshals service in the city of Chicago. If they had to fuck up, I was the one to have chosen. Of course the internal fallout, months of hard work gone in an instant, that would be worse.
Ferryman appeared broken as he stared at Sam, running his hand across his forehead before it dropped, and he stared at the piece of paper Miro had handed him.
“Also,” Ian Doyle said, knocking Ferryman back into the car as he stepped in close to him, in his space, nearly nose to nose, “if you don’t want to join your guys sitting with OPR, then I suggest you don’t put your shoulder into anyone with the US Marshals Service or CPD.”
Ian didn’t enjoy seeing Miro shoved by Ferryman, and was letting him know that taking any frustration out on anyone he didn’t supervise would not be tolerated. As the deputy director, Ian was the liaison between all the other agencies and the field office in Chicago. His speaking up for another marshal, as well as the police, was part of the job description. Of course, Ferryman had no idea that he had tried to shove the man’s husband out of his way, but in this instance, that didn’t matter. Just as me being Sam’s husband didn’t really matter. His agents had made a mistake, and now they would pay for that blunder. If he continued to try and be a bull in a china shop, taking his disappointment and aggravation out on others, he could join his men as they sat down with those from the Office of Professional Responsibility.
“You’ve got my guys with OPR already?”
Ian nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t expect them back.”
The two men squared off for a moment before Ferryman leaned back against the car, slumping, and Ian took a couple steps back, turned, and headed toward the cluster of what looked like what Sam called CPD brass.