Interlude- First Noel

by Tal Bauer

  “Unfortunately no. She’s still a Jane Doe. Nothing in our system on her prints or her DNA. Whatever she’s been doing, she’s been under the radar. Until now.”

  Ethan stared down at her, tracing with his eyes the discoloration on her right cheek, the scrapes on her face, the harsh angle of her jaw. Broken, the report had said. Jaw broken.

  “Reichenbach…” Becker strained voice over Ethan’s shoulder finally shook him free.

  “Yeah. We’re done here. Let’s go.” Nodding his thanks to the medical examiner, Ethan strode out after Becker, pushing through the double swing doors of the basement morgue and thundering up the stairs to the main lobby. Becker took them two at a time, his trench coat flaring behind him, practically running for freedom. He didn’t stop at the lobby, just stormed on, shoving open the doors to police headquarters and almost jogging around the side of the building.

  Ethan followed and found Becker doubled over, hands braced on his knees, heaving sour yogurt into the dirty snowdrift shoveled off the sidewalk.

  He stood at Becker’s side, silent, and waited for him to spit and stand.

  Becker avoided his gaze. “Got an email. The bills are the same counterfeits from the bust last week. Maybe there’s a connection.” He tried to shoulder past Ethan.

  Ethan grabbed him at the elbow. “It happens to everyone.”

  Becker’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, Ethan thought Becker would shove him away. Then he chuffed out a single laugh, shaking his head. “You shot and killed fourteen guys mid-coup in the Oval Office and then saved the president from a nuke strapped to his chest. I don’t think anything shakes you, Reichenbach.”

  He tried to smile, but it was brittle. “Ethiopia did.”

  Becker frowned. Recognition flooded his gaze. “You were a hostage.”

  “I mean before. I really thought we wouldn’t make it out of there. That Jack would die no matter what I did to try to save him.”

  “You guys were together then, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I mean, from what the president said, yeah, but―” Becker shook his head, looking away.

  Ethan could tell there was more he wanted to say, more he wanted to ask. The clenching of his jaw, the muscles twitching in his neck.

  “Let’s go. We’ve got to work this. Figure out why those counterfeit bills are shoved into some murdered girl’s throat. We should question those perps again. See if they can ID her.” Becker took off, fast-walking away from Ethan down the salt-strewn sidewalk.

  “Hey.”

  Becker stopped but didn’t turn.

  “Let’s grab lunch first, okay? I’d like to talk through the evidence. Figure out what to ask.” Becker needed to level out. Calm his head. Let the adrenaline go.

  Becker arched his eyebrows, a tiny smile curling his lips. “Going out to lunch in public with a male agent? You don’t think the media wouldn’t be all over that? Shepherd’s head would explode.”

  Ethan shrugged. “Maybe we can swing through a drive-through.”

  Becker tossed him the keys. “You’re driving. Pick someplace good.”

  Doreen took one look at the picture of the murdered girl’s face and heaved, vomiting all over the front of her orange prison jumpsuit.

  “What the fuck?” She spat vomit to the ground between her shackled legs and slammed her fists on the steel table. “You can’t fucking do that!”

  Becker stared. “I take it you know this woman?”

  Doreen’s eyes narrowed to slits. She slammed her fists on the table again. “Fuck you!”

  “All right.” Ethan stepped up, coming out of the corner and resting his hand on Becker’s shoulder. “Why don’t I take it from here?”

  Becker snorted and pushed away from the table, but when he turned his back on Doreen, he sent Ethan a quick wink. “She’s all yours,” he snapped, shoving the folder of crime scene pics against Ethan’s chest. He walked out, slamming the door to the interrogation room behind him.

  “Fucking asshole!” Doreen shouted after him. Her dark, stringy hair shivered, ratty ends brushing the top of the table. She plucked at her hair, fingers running over the ends, over and over again.

  Ethan sat and pulled out one of the autopsy photos, one showing just the left side of the girl’s face. Her jaw was closed with a gloved finger, and if he wanted, he could pretend she was just sleeping.

  He slid the photo across the table. “Who is she?”

  Doreen blinked and looked away. Her foot jiggled, bouncing up and down beneath the table, squishing in her vomit.

  “She was murdered last week. And she was found with your counterfeit hundreds shoved in her mouth.”

  Doreen froze. Her eyes went wide, wild, and she flicked a single panicked glance his way. She snarled and looked away a moment later, wiping at a line of tears that had slipped from the corner of one eye.

  “Why did she have the money you counterfeited, Doreen?”

  She shook her head, closing her eyes. Her foot jiggled faster, sending warm vomit across the cold floor.

  “Did you guys have anything to do with her death?” Doreen and Aaron and Aaron’s goon had been locked up at the time of the girl’s killing, but maybe something else had happened.

  Doreen’s hands slammed down on the table. Her wrists strained in her cuffs, and her face twisted, fury and disgust tearing her apart. And something else. Guilt, a cresting wave of guilt in the depths of her eyes swallowing her whole. “I’d never hurt any of them! This shouldn’t have happened!”

  “Who was she?” Ethan pushed the picture closer, right between Doreen’s hands. “And who are they? Who are you talking about?”

  Doreen’s face fell. Her head hung between her shoulders. She breathed in, a ragged inhale, and her thin shoulders shook inside her prison jumpsuit. Slowly, she leaned back, hands sliding on the tabletop until she was slouching in her seat. Vomit had dried to her jumpsuit, flaking off in chunks.

  She bit her lip. Shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I can’t. I can’t turn against Mother.”

  His milk had gone sour and his cupboards were empty. The last of his sandwich bread was gone, and he had only a bottle of ketchup and two beers in his fridge. Grumbling, Ethan grabbed his cell and his keys and headed for his car as he sent a quick text. When he drove out of his complex, two sedans pulled out from a side street to tail him. He glared at his rearview, as if he could transfer that glare to his stalkers.

  He knew they were snapping pictures of his car. Of the back of his head.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the grocery store parking lot. More photographers had arrived, parking at the same time he did and hurrying out of their cars, not even bothering to shut their doors as they raced to him, snapping picture after picture and shouting question after question.

  “What’s going on with you and the president? Are you guys fighting?”

  “What are your arguments about?”

  “Why are you and the president breaking up?”

  “What will you do after you and the president break up?”

  Ethan kept his head down and shouldered his way through the crowd until he got to the sliding doors of the grocery.

  The manager stood outside, his arms crossed, glowering at the photographers. He gave Ethan a quick nod. Ethan skirted him, ducking into the store.

  “You know the rules!” the manager shouted at the restless photographers left behind. “Not a one of you is allowed in my store. If I see a hint of any one of you pricks, I’ll call the cops. Got it?” He waited, glaring, as the photographers grumbled back at him.

  Ethan grabbed a basket and moved fast, picking up milk and bread and eggs, sandwich meat and apples. A few vegetables. Another case of beer.

  Done, he headed for the registers, ignoring the stares of the other shoppers and the conversations about him that no one even tried to hide.

  “That’s him. That’s the guy who turned the president gay.”

  “Such a shame. I really li
ked President Spiers before. I can’t believe he’d throw everything away for a man.”

  His teeth ground together and his fingers flexed on the handles of his basket.

  Finally, it was his turn to check out. He waited as the bored college girl scanned his items, staring at him while she mechanically moved through the motions of bagging.

  His eyes caught on a glossy magazine behind her head. One of the trashy ones, weekly celebrity gossip and outright lies.

  Across the front cover, a picture of him at the airport in DC from just this past Sunday. Grumpy, anguished over leaving Jack, and fed up with the press, he’d pushed through the photographers with a dark scowl on his face. Someone had gotten a picture of that moment, and it was all there, on every checkout aisle, every newsstand. Him, looking furious and wounded and struggling to keep it all together.

  Shout lines screamed over the bottom of the photo, across the cover of the magazine. “It’s Over!” “Relationship on the Rocks.” “Keeping up appearances, but for how long?” “Sources inside the White House talk screaming matches and separate bedrooms.”

  “Thirty-six seventeen.” The college girl stared at him, chewing her gum.

  He slid his card, his cheeks burning, and refused to look up. Refused to look at the magazine again. He gritted his teeth and tapped his feet, impatience burning through him.

  The college girl moved slowly, as if she couldn’t be more bored. She smacked her gum as she passed him his receipt. He snatched it, hefted his bags in one hand and his beer in the other, and turned away.

  “Jeez. Guess I’d be grumpy too if I was getting dumped.” Her voice was soft but snide, spoken under her breath.

  He froze. Closed his eyes. Just walk away. He could feel the eyes of the entire store staring at him, their eyeballs peeling back his skin, flaying him open until he felt exposed. Raw.

  He started walking again, heading for the door where the manager still waited, glaring at the photographers and him in turn.

  Damn it, it wasn’t even true. Why did the headlines get to him? Why did he feel gut-punched every time he read about something horrible happening to him and Jack on the glossy spreads?

  Because what if one day―soon―it becomes real? What if this is your future? Beer and bread and an empty apartment, and the media hounding you until you snap? And there’s no Jack, nothing to make it all worthwhile?

  He should have schooled himself to something neutral, something better than his ferocious scowl. Hell, even Shepherd had told him to start looking better in front of the media, and if there was one person who didn’t care at all about him, it was Shepherd. But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. Couldn’t pretend that the media spotlight wasn’t wearing on him, grinding him down. The rawness of leaving Jack over and over, and the forever that seemed to stretch until they saw each other again, mixed with the ravaging frustration of having to deal with his stalkers day in and day out.

  He didn’t know what he looked like walking out of the store, but the tight clench of his jaw, the way he blinked fast, trying to stop the heat building behind his eyes, and the clamp of his lips, didn’t bode well.

  Cameras flashed, photographers hounding him to his car. He dumped his groceries in the backseat and shouldered through the mob to slide behind the wheel. Questions peppered him from everywhere, almost as fast as the strobing camera flashes. Around the parking lot, the world had come to a standstill, moms in minivans frozen while loading their trunks, little old men standing and staring in front of their shopping carts. Teens on skateboards, watching with their hands covering snickering smiles.

  He revved his engine three times, as much warning as he could give, before accelerating out of the parking lot. Even still, he nearly ran over a photographer jumping in for a last daring picture.

  The drive back to his apartment was deathly silent. He didn’t turn on the radio. Didn’t do anything except listen to the smack of his tires against the slushy streets, the hum and whine as he turned and braked and finally came to a stop in his complex.

  Sighing, he leaned back, gripping the steering wheel until his arms shook.

  When would it end? How long could this go on?

  Was he asking about the media… or about him and Jack?

  He’d endure just about anything to keep what he’d found with Jack. Keep their relationship strong and vibrant. Keep what they’d discovered together―were still discovering together. A love that had redefined his whole world. His whole life.

  For that? He’d endure it all.

  Would Jack?

  Swallowing, he hauled himself out of the car and grabbed his groceries, heading upstairs to his apartment, trying to blank out his mind.

  8

  Air Force One

  Jack stared at nothing in the conference room aboard Air Force One, idly spinning back and forth in his office chair. The room was empty, his papers spread clear across the table, and President Puchkov’s proposal lay open in front of him.

  He heaved a heavy sigh. Only a few more hours and then he’d be with President Puchkov again, trying to navigate his way through the Russian president’s tricks and games. He still didn’t know what to make of their time in Prague. Puchkov had pushed hard, but had given Jack the world’s second-most-wanted man in exchange. And then, everything after, from being called a Russian faggot to Puchkov slipping him a folder with a potentially world-altering alliance offer.

  If only Ethan were there with him. Ethan would distract him. Make him laugh. Hold his hand. Talk through their options again with Jack, for the seven thousandth time.

  Which way was right? What was correct? Engage with Puchkov? To what end? What were Puchkov’s motivations for reaching out to Jack? Would this help or hurt? Save lives, or lead to more pain? More suffering? Could the US and Russia actually work together? They’d done so once, almost ninety years ago, and changed the course of history. Stopped a war and the spread of terror across Europe.

  Could the same thing be done again? Halt the horrors of the Caliphate from spreading around the globe?

  Leading the world to war was bone-shakingly terrifying. His mind spun, endless scenarios and endless possibilities crowding for attention. Lives saved versus lives lost. Benefit versus cost. He didn’t want to be so cold, so matter-of-fact that he made his decisions based on charts and percentages.

  He wanted to make a difference. Make things better.

  His cell phone, buried under loose sheets from General Bradford’s most recent analysis, buzzed, clattering on the table.

  It was as if Ethan could read his mind, even so far away.

  [I believe in you.]

  His smile unfolded slowly, until his cheeks hurt. I needed that.

  [You alright?]

  He blew air out his lips, buzzing them as he slumped. I’m nervous. Not second-guessing. He wasn’t the type for second-guessing. But sitting alone, fretting over how his choices would play out? Yeah. That was all him.

  [You are, without a doubt, the best man to be doing this, Jack.]

  His heart seemed to swell, filling with all the love he had for Ethan―every smile, every daydream, every moment they had together. He was warm all over, from his fingers to his toes, awed by the confidence Ethan put in him. How had he earned that? He didn’t know, and he probably never would.

  But Ethan’s confidence helped shore up the crumbling edges of his own, beaten down by endless nights circling around and around the weight of his decision. Taking direct military action, righting a world that had gone sideways and let darkness and terror grow too large. The Caliphate had attacked Europe, attacked Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.

  Had sown devastation around the world. Shattered lives.

  There would be losses from combating the Caliphate, though. More folded flags and more marble headstones erected in Arlington.

  He knew exactly what it felt like when your soldier didn’t come home. When all you had left was a folded flag.

  And there he was, circling around his choices, over
and over again.

  Enough. Jack closed his eyes, breathing deep. He let Ethan’s words fill him, let his love and his conviction slide into his soul. If he couldn’t stand under the weight of his choices alone, then he’d stand with Ethan. On the bedrock of Ethan’s belief in him.

  You are my rock. I don’t know if I could do this without you.

  [I’m here.]

  I’m so glad you are.

  He shifted, trying to stop the downward spiral of his thoughts. Anytime his mind veered at all toward wondering how he’d manage without Ethan, thoughts of a dusty side street in Ethiopia roared to the front of his mind, and bullets cracked in his dreams, and then he was screaming, reaching for Ethan as Ethan lay in a pool of his spreading blood, his eyes cold and lifeless.

  What are you up to?

  [Still at the office. Everyone left early to grab a beer. I’m reviewing case notes.]

  It had been stupid, but when Ethan told Jack about the murdered girl who had crashed into his counterfeit investigation, Jack’s palms had slicked with sweat and his heart had thundered in his chest for the rest of the night. Ethan had been charged with diving in front of a bullet for Jack, had held his own when the world fell apart, and had saved him―and the world―when everything was on the line. But, still, the thought of a murderer so close to Ethan, of Ethan investigating financial crimes while skirting a murder investigation, sat unsteady in his heart.

  No happy hour for you?

  [Bad idea. Would turn into a media circus. And I wasn’t invited.]

  I’m sorry.

  [Don’t be. Rather be texting you anyway. :) ]

  And just like that, he was smiling again.

  Until Agent Collard poked his head into the conference room. “We’re coming up on LaGuardia, Mr. President. We land in twenty minutes.”

  He thanked Collard with a small smile and spun back to the table. Glared at his papers spread everywhere. Closed his eyes and let his head fall back when his gaze wandered to Puchkov’s proposal.