Free All Kinds of Tied Down by Mary Calmes Page A

me, got my hand on the back of his overcoat, and hung on as he hit the railing and sailed over.
    Flipping backward, I saw everything in a slow-motion arch: the dark night, the snow falling gently through it, the lights of other buildings and street lamps, and finally, thankfully, the fire escape.
    When we went over the side, we switched places so I was falling first, propelled through the icy air. Grabbing for anything with my one good hand attached to the working arm, I reached out and caught the ladder as Roland slammed into the railing and then tumbled over onto the platform, winded and gasping for breath.
    The way I was hanging was bad: all my weight held only by my right hand, but that was why we practiced those damn dead lifts. Pulling myself up, I got a foot on the railing, pushed, twisted, let go of the ladder, and flung myself forward onto a slow-rising Roland. There was no air left in his body after I crashed on top of him, driving him facedown under me. It was loud and bracing, everything shook and rattled, and if I didn’t wake up the people in the apartment I faced as well as those directly below, I would have been surprised.
    As if on cue, a light went on in the apartment and I had a shotgun pointed at my head through the glass.
    “Federal marshal,” I yelled, both hands held high, chest heaving.
    The man lifted his head, which was a good sign because it meant he wasn’t aiming anymore, not that he had to, as close as he was with the weapon in his possession. “Show me your badge.”
    “I can have my partner bring it up,” I offered.
    He squinted and then leaned close to the window and glanced down at the man unconscious under my knees. “That’s Roland Morris.”
    “I just arrested him for drug possession,” I explained.
    The man studied my face as I began shivering with cold and my quickly ebbing adrenaline.
    “You have a broken wrist.”
    And I did, but it was a strange time to notice. “Yes.”
    “You carrying?”
    “No sir.”
    He scrutinized me a second before leaving suddenly.
    When my phone rang a second later, I answered. “Hey,” I said before I coughed. “Everything all right up there?”
    “The fuck should I know, I’m in the elevator!”
    “Why’re you mad?”
    “Why am I mad?” he yelled. “You jumped off a fucking building!”
    “Ian—”
    “What the fuck?!”
    “C’mon, what’s the big deal? You jumped off a balcony the other day.”
    “That was different and you were right behind me!” He was indignant and really loud.
    “Technically—”
    “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
    He was furious, and I was starting to worry. Normally I could tease him out of any mood. “Ian, it’s—”
    “Jesus Christ, Miro!”
    “Listen, if I’d had my gun, I would have let you do the jumping.”
    “I wouldn’t have done it!” he barked.
    “The hell you say,” I retorted. “You would have done it in a heartbeat.”
    “Fuck you, Miro. I’m not that reckless!”
    I scoffed. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
    The line went dead as a window opening caught my attention. Shotgun man was back, but this time he had the gun under his arm and he was holding out a blanket for me. He then flipped open a badge and I saw a Chicago PD shield.
    I took the chenille throw and wrapped it around me in relief. “Miro Jones, US Marshal.”
    “Henry Bridger, narcotics.”
    “Oh,” I sighed, chuckling. “Can I interest you in a drug dealer, Detective, and all the paperwork that goes with it?”
    “Yes,” he said, grinning at me. “You most certainly can.”
    “I’ll go to the precinct with you.”
    “Lemme get changed.”
    “Okay.”
    “Does your partner have your coat, too, or you wanna borrow one of mine?”
    “He’ll bring it down with him.”
    “Where the hell were you?”
    I pointed up.
    “I thought marshals only put people into protective custody or chased down fugitives.”
    “Oh, no, Detective, we’re full service.”
    “I’d have you come in, but—”
    “He could