At the vibrating summons from his BlackBerry, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Taylor clenched his hands on the steering wheel and stifled a groan. Except for the two hours of semi- restful downtime he’d enjoyed during the flight back to St. Louis from Denver, he’d been operating for almost twenty- four adrenaline-packed hours on high-alert status. His plan had been to head straight for his rented condo, ignore the boxes waiting to be unpacked, and crash.

But a quick glance at caller ID told him that plan was probably toast.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the talk button and greeted his boss. “Hi, Matt. What’s up?”

“Sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?”

“No. The flight was delayed. I’m on my way home from the airport.”

“You might want to pull over.”

Not good.

A drive-through coffee shop came into view, and Jake swung into the parking lot, grateful for the providential timing and the establishment’s late hours. Since the LED dial on his dashboard clock was inching toward midnight and he suspected sleep wouldn’t be on his agenda in the foreseeable future, a hefty dose of caffeine was in order.

“I’m stopping for some coffee as we speak.” He pulled behind the car already at the order window.

“Good idea. Everything go okay?”

“Yeah. We had it covered. He didn’t even get off a shot.” Arresting a person on the U.S. marshals’ most-wanted list was always dicey. And as Jake had expected, Ray Carlson— whose string of warrants included murder, arson, narcotics trafficking, and firearms and explosives violations—had merited the deployment of a full contingent of deputy marshals from the service’s elite Special Operations Group.

“Good. That’s the way we like arrests to go down. Listen, I hate to pull you into another tough situation before you catch your breath, but Todd just left for Beauregard for some sniper training.”

Meaning Matt thought this job warranted SOG attention. Todd was the only other St. Louis-based member of the select tactical group headquartered in Louisiana.

“What’s the problem?” Jake extracted a small notebook from his pocket and balanced it on the steering wheel, keeping an eye on the car ahead of him.

“There was an attempted murder earlier tonight at the home of a federal judge. The judge’s sister was shot. She’s alive, but it’s not looking good. Until we have a handle on what happened, I want a protective detail on the judge 24/7. I’d like you to head it up.”

Not for the first time, he wished he’d had more time to prep before his transfer to St. Louis. Jake knew few of the judges here that the Marshals Service was charged with protecting. But no sooner had he arrived in town two weeks ago than he’d been called away to work the Carlson arrest. And during his prior six-month deployment to Iraq, he’d been focused on improving that country’s judicial and witness security—and staying alive. Future assignments back home hadn’t been on his radar screen.

“Who’s the judge?” Pen poised, Jake figured he could get the basics from Matt now and fill in the rest later.

“Elizabeth Michaels.”

He stopped breathing.

Liz Michaels? Doug’s wife?

No. It couldn’t be the same person.

Could it?

Even as that question echoed in his mind, he had a sinking feeling he knew the answer.

“Jake? You there?”

“Yeah.” He took a breath. Kept his inflection neutral. “I haven’t done my homework on the Eighth District judges in this area yet, but the name is familiar. I knew an attorney years ago from Jefferson City named Liz Michaels.”

The car in front of Jake moved away from the drive-through window, and he eased forward to place his order.

“Same person. She was in private practice there for quite a while, then served as a state circuit court judge for three years. She was appointed to the federal bench four months ago.”

A muscle in Jake’s jaw clenched as he pressed the mute button on his phone and addressed the barista. “Large Americano. And throw in an extra shot of espresso.”

The silence lengthened as he dug for his wallet, and when Matt spoke again he could tell from his boss’s tone that the man was frowning.

“Is there a problem?”

Yeah. A big one.

He’d rather go back to Iraq than head Liz Michaels’s protective detail.

But there was only one response a professional could give.

“No. No problem.”

“Good. I’ll get you some relief as soon as this thing is sorted out. But I’d like you to stick close for the first twenty-four hours. I’ll send Spence over to assist.”

“Okay. Where is she?”

“St. John’s. It was the closest Level I trauma center. Two police officers are with her in the ER.

They’ll stay there until you arrive. What’s your ETA?”

Jake exited the drive-through and headed toward westbound I- 64.

“Ten, fifteen minutes tops.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead.

After slipping the BlackBerry back onto his belt, Jake reached for his cup and took a swig of the potent coffee. Then another.

It was going to be a long, unpleasant night.