Bobbie
“How is he?”
US Marshal Harvey looks up, startled, when he walks through the door of the penthouse condo in downtown Denver.
It’s been three days since Dag’s partner, Bruce, pulled me from the snow after I thought I’d taken my last breath. The graze the bullet left behind just above my ear was stitched up, but I’d been kept overnight at the hospital in Aspen under close guard by the FBI. The next morning I was discharged, and the agents whisked me back to Denver to this high-rise condo building.
I hadn’t been allowed to see Dag, nor are they volunteering any information on his condition. Finally yesterday, I had enough and told them I’d refuse to testify in the upcoming trial—complicating their life and risking the judge’s wrath—unless they’d let me talk to US Marshal Bruce Harvey. I wasn’t given a chance to thank him and I trust him to give me an update on Dag.
It was quite the rant—if I say so myself—which may have involved tears and a broken coffee cup, but I got what I wanted, as evidenced by the slightly confounded US marshal in front of me.
“Dag, Marshal Toland, how is he?” I repeat, walking up to him.
“The bullet shattered his left femur and he lost a lot of blood. They stabilized him and he was transported here to UCHealth. He’s undergoing surgery this morning to fix his leg. He’ll be okay.”
I bend over, letting out a shaky breath of relief before I straighten up again. Harvey eyes me speculatively, his head slightly tilted as his mouth twists into a bit of a smirk.
“Ah. Now I get it,” he mumbles.
I don’t know what he’s talking about so I ignore the comment.
“And Mike Cooke? He’ll be okay too?”
“Sent home yesterday,” he reports.
Thank God. I don’t think I could’ve handled any other outcome.
SAC Acampora, the agent who showed Bruce in, puts a hand on the US marshal’s shoulder.
“Well, if that’s all?”
The guy pisses me off. He’s the one who didn’t want to be bothered checking up on Dag and refused to tell me what the hell happened in Aspen. To top it off, he wouldn’t get me the ingredients I need to put together a proper Christmas dinner for tomorrow, something my frayed nerves need right now.
Ignoring him, I focus my attention on Bruce.
“What happened out there? How did they find us?”
But before Bruce can answer, Acampora jumps in.
“We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
I swing around and pin him with a glare.
“Really? That’s the line you’re using? For your information, I’m not some journalist trying to get a soundbite from you, I’m the person whose life was on the line after giving you…” I poke my finger at him for emphasis, “…what you needed to put your case together. Since I was the target, I think I’m entitled to know how the hell US Marshals Cooke and Toland, as well as yours truly, almost died.”
A deep, unexpected chuckle comes from Bruce, who is shaking his head.
“Yup, I get it,” he repeats his earlier comment before he turns serious. “The shooter was one of Zola Gurin’s henchmen. He’s in custody.”
“Fuck, Harvey…” Agent Acampora growls, but Bruce ignores him.
“Unfortunately, as it turns out, Gurin’s people managed to get hold of your location.”
“How is that even possible?”
I direct the question at Bruce.
“You’d have to ask him,” he answers, cocking his thumb at Acampora.
The agent groans, closing his eyes before he turns to me.
“We’re still investigating how it happened.”
“I don’t even know what happened,” I point out insistently.
He blows out an annoyed sigh and throws a glare at the US marshal, who appears to take it as a prompt.
“After Dag called me with your location, I immediately updated Acampora, as head of the task force, since the FBI has more resources available. That information somehow got out.”
“Somehow?”
I raise an eyebrow and turn to the agent.
“According to Nikolai Zima, they were able to listen in. Turns out they may have had a source within our office. A rookie agent who apparently wasn’t vetted sufficiently. We’ve taken care of it.”
“Who is Nikolai Zima?”
“The man who shot at you,” Acampora responds.
The pieces are coming together but I still have questions.
“So, wait…if the man who is after me is in custody, am I still in danger?”
“With only eight days until Zola Gurin’s trial, we don’t want to take any chances. It’s always possible she has others out there looking for you.”
Eight more days. Of course I won’t be called to testify on the first day, but it’s a relief this’ll all be over soon.
Only thing is, I’ll likely have nothing to return to. My house, all my things, burned to the ground. Someone new will have been hired on at The Olive Press, so I probably won’t have a job.
Middle-aged, no family, no roof over my head, and no source of income. My future is a massive black hole. I’ll need to build myself from the ground back up.
Until then, memories will have to do me.
* * *
Dag
“No, kiddo. I don’t want you to hop on the first plane. There’s no need. I’ll be fine.”
I toss a glare at Bruce but he has his back turned, staring out the window, giving me the illusion of privacy. He’s the one who tracked down Britt in Costa Rica and told her I was in the hospital. I would’ve told him not to, I don’t want my girls worried unnecessarily and I certainly don’t want them rushing home when they have a life to live.
But he did, and now my youngest is making her way back home and Ella is crying on the phone after Britt called her.
“But, Dad, Britt says you’ll need help when you get home. You’ll need to go for physical therapy for God knows how long and you can’t drive. How are you gonna manage that? We live up in the mountains.”
I hear her blow her nose and take the opportunity the put her mind at ease.
“Britt’s already on her way home. You don’t need to come home as well.”
“Yeah, but Britt has to go back to school in a week or so. What then?”
“Honey, I’ll figure it out,” I placate her. “I’ll find a physical therapist who does house visits. I can get grocery delivery. I’m not helpless, and you don’t have to worry about me.”
She makes a dismissive sound.
“Are you serious? I always worry about you, Dad. Britt does too.”
The dead air on the line indicates my daughter is done talking to me.
Fuck. The pain from the surgery dulls in comparison to that lethal blow.
I’ve tried to protect my girls, shield them the best I can from the work I do. They lost their mother in a violent way and the last thing they needed was to live with the risk they’d lose their father as well. It kills me to think they’ve worried about me this whole time.
“You’re an asshole, Harvey,” I snarl at Bruce, who came to stand beside my bed.
“I’d do it again without hesitation. Those girls deserve to know,” he declares with a shrug. “Besides, you’re gonna need the help. I’m sure as hell not planning to play nursemaid to you when they kick you out of here.”
“And thank fuck for that.”
I’m in a foul mood. I’ve just been told some of the femur had been so badly shattered the surgeon had to remove a piece altogether, leaving me with a left leg shorter than the right and as a result a limp. Recovery is projected to take a lot longer than I anticipated, and therefore, it looks like retirement came two years too soon. On top of that, it’s Christmas Day and I’m in a damn hospital bed and sore as hell.
But what probably pisses me off more than anything is I’ve not been able to talk to or see Bobbie since Bruce pulled her from the snow. Just a week ago that would’ve been a relief, not having to be around her, struggling to resist the temptation she’s represented for months, but things have changed.
I’m not so sure I could stop myself from touching her.
Even though it doesn’t look like my job will be an obstacle anymore, my life is a mess right now. Fuck, I’m a mess, with a future full of question marks. Her life has been uprooted as well. Maybe it’s not a good idea to try and build something on unstable ground.
Heck, I don’t know.
I rub a hand over my face.
“I’ll let you get some rest,” Bruce announces, getting ready to leave.
“Hang on,” I stop him. “Are you gonna be talking to her again?”
He saw her yesterday, mentioned that she’d asked about me like I’d been asking for updates on her.
He knows exactly who I’m referring to and is wearing a smirk when he turns back to the bed.
“Not likely. Feds are keeping her under close wraps for now. But the trial starts soon.”
Yeah, but that won’t be over in a day or even a week.
“She’s a ball of fire, isn’t she?” he comments.
He has no fucking idea.
Roberta Strada is combustive.