Marshal On A Mission. Ryshia Kennie

had no idea who he was, but she knew what he looked like. The authorities would soon have his face on file. Everything had looked grim until he’d remembered the card he’d picked up when her belongings had scattered on the sidewalk. He wasn’t sure why he had done it—it might have been instinct. What it turned out was to be a bit of good luck. He had the witness’s identity and her address. He’d had to wait until dark and even beyond that. It was around eleven, late enough that if the neighborhood wasn’t asleep, it had mostly settled in for the night.

      “Slow,” he hissed in Spanish to the driver of the vehicle as they took the turn into the crescent where she lived.

      “Here,” he said a minute later. “Stop.” They were half a block from her house.

      He paused on the sidewalk. The few streetlights left the street shadowy and the houses in darkness. Despite that, he knew what the area was—he’d learned that immediately after finding her identity. It consisted of a middle-class group of mixed ethnicities, he thought with disdain. Some day he would buy and sell an area like this. Small cozy houses and neatly kept lawns as if the residents had nothing better to do than to monitor grass.

      His hand dropped to his gun. It was there and ready. He hated being in this position. The only good thing was that they’d waited until dark. Most people had settled down for the night. No one would get a good look at them and if they did, they’d see Chen. Lucas was sending him in first.

      He felt good about none of this. The only thing that was going to make him feel better was a bullet between the witness’s pretty brown eyes. With that thought leading the way, he followed Chen. They’d go in through the back door. The alarm-warning sticker on her door meant nothing. The cheap door frame cracked when Chen shouldered it the first time and broke after the second. Nothing worried Lucas, not even the lights that he flicked recklessly on. They were masked and, as far as the alarm, by the time any monitoring agency reacted, they would be long gone.

      But within minutes he knew one thing—she wasn’t there. There was no vehicle in the driveway and the toiletries in her bathroom—the essentials anyway, like toothpaste and toothbrush—were missing.

      He spewed a string of curses in Spanish. He always resorted to his native tongue when his emotions got the best of him. Time was running short. He sent his accomplice to check the living area while he moved to the kitchen. There, he saw his first sign of hope, a notepad on her kitchen counter. He went over and couldn’t believe his luck. She’d written down flight information and it told him exactly what he needed to know. Two minutes later they’d left her neighborhood behind. Ten minutes after that, he was on the phone to his brother.

      He explained the situation to him. “Are you in?” he asked and knew what the answer would be. His brother would do anything for money. That was why he was involved in one of the smaller Mexican drug cartels. He was counting on Yago’s ties and his greed. He needed someone on her tail immediately. He needed someone in charge of catching her in Mexico and that someone was his brother, Yago.

      “She won’t get far. I know people who know people, if you know what I mean.”

      He did. He knew how the cartels worked and how they could find anyone. Or at least the bigger ones could. He had his doubts about the men his brother was linked with. They were brutal, but he wasn’t too sure about their intel. What he did know was that right now, his brother and his connections were all he had. One way or another, she’d be found. He rolled the beads he always carried between the fingers of his right hand. They were lucky beads stolen from the hand of a dying woman.

      He dropped the beads into his pocket. He hoped she’d savor her freedom, or for that matter, her life. Soon, all that would end.

       Chapter Two

      “What do you mean, you’ve lost her?” United States Marshal Trent Nielsen couldn’t contain his frustration. Despite the fact that there’d been some interesting and complicated cases in his career that spanned a decade, this case was different. He knew the witness. It mattered like no case had mattered before. And he’d admit that to no one, not even to Jackson, a man he called friend. Going in, he’d been anxious to keep her safe—now it appeared she was far from that.

      “Damn it, I should have been notified sooner.” His impatience wasn’t so much for the obvious reasons but something far more personal. Something that had had him volunteering for this assignment.

      “Or what, this wouldn’t have happened?” asked Jackson Vidal, federal agent. “No one could have predicted this.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or is it something else that has your back up?”

      “Having witness protection in place would have stopped her. You know it. This one’s on you,” Trent said. He took a breath. Anger couldn’t change any of what had happened. He needed info and he needed to get on the road after her. What was done couldn’t be undone.

      Jackson leaned forward, his look dark, his eyebrows drawn together. “She disappeared before we could get her properly interviewed. At the time of the incident, she was in a state of panic and could remember little. If I’d been asked, I wouldn’t have disagreed with the course of action. In hindsight, you’re right, it was a screwup.”

      “More than a screwup. We have a witness who actually saw one of the thieves’ faces unmasked.” Trent shook his head. “What’s the body count now for this gang?”

      “Ten,” Jackson said grimly. “Across two states and over as many months as there are bodies. But initially, the witness couldn’t remember squat, she was so scared. That was the reason we put off getting her report until this morning. But when the deputy arrived with the sketch artist, the house had been broken into. Further investigation determined that she’d been gone before the break-in. She literally packed her bag and fled.” He eyed Trent. “But you, you’ve got an inside scoop on the witness.”

      “Do I?” Trent asked but he knew exactly what Jackson meant. Still, he didn’t want to reveal his true connection to Tara. He wanted Jackson to know as little as possible. The fact that they’d once been a couple might have him punted from the case as quickly as a slight connection had given him his in. His slight connection to the witness—they’d gone to the same high school. It was enough to give him an edge and be considered advantageous. Any more, and it might be considered trouble. Clearly, the fact that he’d once dated her had not come to light, for if it had, he would never have been assigned the case. And if it came to light, it would be considered detrimental and he could be pulled from the case. He hoped that never happened.

      “You can’t put much past me, Nielsen.”

      Trent met his dark gaze with one of his own. He wasn’t sure how much Jackson knew.

      “You went to high school together in Pueblo. At least for a year. And I’m guessing that’s why you volunteered. You don’t do much witness protection anymore. I was under the impression you dodged it when you could. So why this case over any other?” Jackson frowned and looked closely at Trent. “Is it all because you know her?”

      “Partly,” Trent agreed. It was true, he knew Tara or at least he’d known her as a girl. One thing was certain, he’d never forgotten her.

      “Is she a friend?” Jackson asked.

      “No,” Trent said, knowing that kind of relationship could have him pulled from the case. But they weren’t friends. They hadn’t been in touch for years. “It’s complicated.”

      “Uncomplicate me,” Jackson said.

      “I took her out a few times and then it fizzled,” he admitted, knowing it was safer to reveal a scaled-down version of their relationship rather than try to get it all past Jackson.

      “But you dated her?”

      “Like I said, a few dates in high school.” Tara. She’d caught his eye from the beginning. She’d been more mature for her years, at least to his seventeen-year-old