by Tal Bauer
Finally, the FBI search teams called it quits for the day and promised to reconvene early Tuesday. Becker and Ethan shared a few words in the parking lot, but Becker kept looking down at his phone. Ethan knew what surreptitious texting looked like. He sent his young partner away and slid into his car.
When he’d gotten back the day before, his cupboards were empty, and his milk had gone sour again. He’d known as soon as he’d opened his refrigerator. The smell had slammed into him, and he’d shut the door quickly, coughing. An hour later, he took out the trash. He was left with some beer, ketchup, and an old packet of hot sauce.
He needed more food.
A quick text to the grocery store manager, and he turned his car toward the store by his apartment. He’d ditched the media following him that morning, leaving too early for them to show up outside his apartment. Blissfully, he was alone for the evening, not being stalked, not being followed. Like he was normal again.
The assistant manager was at the store, and he stood at the doors glaring at the parking lot when Ethan pulled in. He seemed shocked when it was just Ethan striding across the lot all alone, unmolested by photographers.
Ethan went through the store quickly, grabbing the essentials and making his way to the checkout. It was late and thankfully there was no one there to make snide comments or stare at him as he burned with frustration under their criticism. He dumped his basket on the checkout belt and pulled out his wallet as the checker scanned his groceries.
He could feel her eyes on him, though.
He looked up.
It was the same college girl from before, still chewing her gum. This time, though, she grinned at him.
He frowned. His gaze slid beyond her, to the magazines dotting the checkout lane and the newspapers in wire holders. On every cover, every front page, a picture of his and Jack’s kiss at the airport burst from the sheets. On the gossip rags, shout lines clamored for attention beside the kiss. Reconciliation! True Love Wins! Nothing Will Come Between Them!
And on a newspaper, above the photo of their kiss, the bold headline declared: “Invasion’s Good Luck Kiss.”
He couldn’t have kept in his smile if his life depended on it. He tried and ended up wrestling with his own lips, pursing and chewing on them as the college girl grinned. Ethan gave up and just smiled back.
“Twenty-four fifteen,” she said, bagging his groceries. He slid his card and grabbed his bags. “Glad it’s working out.” She handed over the receipt and winked.
His cell buzzed on the way back to his car, and he fumbled the plastic bags around until he could pull it out.
Finally done for the day. Heading home. You up for a call?
[Always. Give me fifteen to get home from the store.]
Need to hear your voice. Talk to you soon, love.
Ethan sped a bit heading home, dumping his groceries as fast as he could, throwing lunch meat and vegetables into the fridge before heading for his computer. In moments, he was dialing Jack, and his lover answered with a haggard smile and messy hair, his tie undone as he leaned back on the bed. Weariness lined his gaze.
But he had Ethan’s bear in his hands, held in his lap, and his smile grew brighter and less fatigued as they talked back and forth, well past midnight and into the early hours of the morning.
20
White House
Jack’s heart was ready to burst, beating out a terrible rhythm in his chest, a mixture of war drums and funeral lamentations, the wails of mourners and cries of rage and fury. Like an army of galloping horses or the clenching sobs of aching loss. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. It just ached, deeper than he’d ever ached before.
Jack breathed in and out, sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, listening to the silence. Silence was a rare thing as president. He had so few moments of true quiet. Moments where he tried to listen to himself think. Listen to his own thoughts and his own heart.
Were they doing the right thing?
Ethan believed in him and in what they were doing. He clung to that, to Ethan’s certainty, and built his fragile house upon it.
He breathed in and out, again.
The phone rang. He dragged it close and picked up the handset, swallowing as he tried to force a lightness to his voice he just didn’t feel. “Mr. President.”
“Mr. President.” Sergey Puchkov’s rolling voice echoed over the phone line. “Are you ready to make history today? The first united American and Russian military engagement since World War II.”
“I am ready to get this done.”
Puchkov was quiet. “We are doing the right thing. Righting a wrong that has been allowed to fester for too long. Too many have suffered for too long under the Caliphate. Iraq, and Syria… almost destroyed. The people there…” Puchkov’s sigh was ragged and tinged with sorrow.
He took a deep breath. “I know. In my heart, I know. If for nothing else than we’re helping the people.”
“And stopping the spread of terror that is infecting the globe.”
“Yes.” His hand pressed against the desktop, fingers flattening. “There will be a cost, though.”
“There always is. I do not think I have to tell you that.” Puchkov fell silent.
“No.” Jack let out his breath, and the air crackled over the phone. “You don’t.”
“We are in this together, Mr. President,” Puchkov rumbled. “We’ve joined in this, and our fates as presidents are now intertwined, for better or for worse.”
“You’ll be watching the invasion kickoff? Online and connected to our Situation Room?”
“Of course. Our intelligence will be shared. Pick up the phone if you need me, Jack. For anything.”
“You as well, Sergey. Good luck tonight. To you and your soldiers.”
“And to yours.”
21
Des Moines
Phones ringing at the secured FBI site were a normal, common occurrence. Desk phones rang all day long, and the low murmur of conversations buzzing in the bullpen filled the air.
What wasn’t usual was the way Agent Tyler paled, going ghost white before flushing a deep maroon and waving his hands over his head like he was on fire. He snapped his fingers, trying to draw attention, and covered the handset with his hand, hissing, “It’s her! It’s fucking her!”
Agents tripped over chairs and their own feet, trying to get to Tyler’s desk first. He was manning the call-in line, taking tips from anyone who wanted to report what they might know about Emily Jones or the three girls’ murders.
“Ms. Jones.” Tyler cleared his throat, clenching his fist in front of his lips. “Why don’t you come in and we can talk about things?”
He put her on speaker, but kept the microphone off. Only he could speak to her through the handset.
A throaty, cigarette-stained voice laughed, low and raspy. Her words, though, were lilting, almost musical. The hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck rose. “A nice gambit, Agent Tyler,” Mother said. “I would like to speak to Agent Reichenbach, please.”
Every head turned his way. Eyes narrowed, glaring at him. Becker shuffled forward, elbowing an analyst out of the way to stand by Ethan. Even he side-eyed Ethan.
Tyler’s face was purple. “Don’t know anyone by that name.”
She laughed.
“He’s not authorized to speak on behalf of the investigation,” Tyler growled. “You can deal with me.”
“I will speak to Agent Reichenbach or I will speak to no one. I want to deal, Agent Tyler. I want to work with you. But I will speak to him and him alone.”
Silence. Tyler glared at him, fidgeting. One foot bounced, and his lips twisted as he mouthed a string of curses. Finally, he shoved the handset in Ethan’s face.
Ethan cleared his throat. “Ms. Jones? What do you want with me?”
“To talk. To meet. I will speak with you―and only you―tonight. Come to this bar―” The other agents scrambled, diving for pens and paper to scrawl down what she said. “I expect a whole t
eam of federal agents will be there with you, Agent Reichenbach. But you’ll be the only one who approaches me. And we’ll talk.”
“Why should I agree to this?” A thousand different scenarios were pouring through his mind, each more terrible than the last. Was this a setup? A hit? An attempted kidnapping? Some kind of publicity stunt, something that would hurt Jack?
“It’s the difference between cooperation and confrontation. I want to help you stop these murders. But you must give me something as well.”
Part of him wanted to snap, to say that they didn’t owe her shit. Not after three of her girls had been found dead. But she spoke before he could. “I want justice for my girls.”
He licked his lips. Glanced at Becker, who was shaking his head, his eyes wide. “How did you know I was on the investigation?” Everyone, from Smithson to Shepherd, would shit over this.
“Our friend Gabriela,” she said. There was a smile in her voice. “See you tonight.” The line cut out.
Becker lost his shit first, enough that Ethan steered him into a private conference room, away from the rest of the agents.
“You can’t go!” Becker hollered. “Are you fucking crazy? With who you are? And the president?” Scoffing, Becker threw his hands in the air, pacing. “It’s obviously a trap. A setup of some sort. Some kind of hit on you? That’s a known mob bar!”
“Let’s take it one step at a time―”
“One step at a time?” Becker wailed. “Until what? You step into a bullet?”
“I’ll wear a vest.”
“Doesn’t do jack shit if they shoot you in the head.” One finger wagged in Ethan’s face. “And I’m not going to be the one to call the Goddamn president and tell him your big stupid ass is gone.”
He chewed on the inside of his lip. Jack had more than enough to worry about with the invasion kicking off that night―still secretive knowledge, not released to the press, though the media was buzzing with anticipation. Jack had promised the operation would begin before the new year, and the days were numbered.
Should he even tell Jack about this?
Of course he had to. They didn’t keep secrets. Didn’t hide anything from one another. He wasn’t about to start now. Not even with this.
“Why don’t you go work with the teams planning site security? You can make sure the FBI actually does a halfway decent job of covering my ass.”
Becker cursed, shaking his head as he glared. “Why?” he finally asked. “Why are you doing this?”
“‘It’s the difference between cooperation and confrontation,’ she said. She wants to talk. She wants to help. She knows she’s not getting out of that bar except in handcuffs―”
“Unless she’s planning on executing you and you go down in a hail of bullets, along with her.”
“Not her M.O.” Ethan shook his head. “She’s spent her entire life rescuing people. Even with everything she’s accused of. Being part of this criminal underground. She’s the Mother. Not the murderer.”
“So say she’s being manipulated by another mob boss to take you out, or the whole investigation out―”
Ethan held up his hand. “They’re securing the premises now, unless they’re entirely incompetent in their jobs.” Ethan quirked a tiny smile. “And even though they’re the FBI, they’re not that bad. They’ll be controlling the location. Nothing but agents in the bar. It’s not like walking into a viper’s den.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“Indulging her for a moment will cost very little. And maybe gain everything. I’m meeting her.”
Becker sighed. “I’ll be on the other end of the radio.”
Jack wasn’t thrilled with the news, but he didn’t try to stop Ethan either. He asked question after question about the security plans, trying to understand exactly how Ethan would be protected. Wanted to know more about Mother and why she was worth him going to speak to her. They hadn’t spoken much about Ethan’s case over Christmas, and now he gave Jack a rundown of how he’d sneaked off and chatted with Smithson and how they had the key to possibly breaking open a huge criminal underground in the Midwest.
“Just be careful, Ethan,” Jack breathed. “I trust your judgment. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I will be careful. And I’ll still be here for you. During the―” He shrugged. “You know.”
A heavy exhale was all he heard.
Hours later, he waited in the back of the tactical undercover minivan, wearing jeans and his bulletproof vest under a sweatshirt Becker had picked up for him that afternoon, something bulky from Iowa State University. He had a mic taped below his collarbone and the battery pack secured to the inside of his waistband.
Becker had flushed when he’d helped Ethan tape the mic to his chest and found the fading remnants of a kiss bruise Jack had left during their last morning together.
A few agents were sitting around the empty bar, wearing plainclothes and sipping sodas. The regular bartender was sitting in a jail cell, cooling his heels and thinking about a bench warrant issued last year. An FBI agent had taken his place. The bar was theirs, as was the parking lot, filled with cars stuffed full of agents trying to surreptitiously stare at tablets and cell phones in the dark.
Close to ten PM, a ratty sedan pulled in, and a middle-aged woman headed for the door. Her hair was dark and cut in a bob. She had a long, worn coat on and jeans tucked into boots that crunched through the snow, the sound echoing through the silent parking lot.
Everyone waited until she was inside the bar. Becker clapped him on the shoulder, holding Ethan’s gaze. “Good luck.” He tapped his ear. “I’m online.”
Ethan smiled at his partner. “See you soon.”
He hopped out of the minivan and into the frigid December night. They’d parked farther from the door than Mother had, and he skidded a bit on snow that had frozen over, a slick sheen of ice underfoot. He blew on his hands before he opened the door to the bar and pulled back his hoodie as he ducked inside.
Scattered around the room, the undercover agents obsessively didn’t look his way.
The one woman at the bar, however, did.
Mother smiled wide. She tapped the bar top, beckoning him over, and then shrugged out of her coat. “Right on time.”
He joined her. The FBI agent behind the bar stared at them both as he wiped down glassware that was already clean and dry.
“Mother?”
“Emily Jones.” She held her hand out, and he shook it. “But you already know that.”
“From our friend Gabriela.”
She smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. She offered one to Ethan and lit her own when he declined. “She’s a sweet one. Got mixed up bad with that dumbass with the mullet, but there’s no stopping young hearts when they think they’ve found love.”
“You taught her how to counterfeit, right? She brought the know-how to his little gang?”
“She’s a smart cookie. I had her help out once or twice. She learned how to put two and two together, and when she left, she took a few things from me to set up her own operation.” A long drag on the cigarette. “Kids, you know.” She winked.
Despite himself, Ethan chuckled.
The bartender glared.
“But she was cutting into someone else’s turf and they didn’t like that. Someone new. Someone who wanted to make a statement.” Spinning toward the bar top, Mother rested her elbows on the polished wood. “She caught the attention of these people. It’s good she’s in jail.” Mother nodded slowly. “She’ll be safer there. And—” she leaned into Ethan’s shoulder. “She’s going to cooperate fully with your investigation now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. I spoke to her about it.”
Ethan’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead. “Spoke to her?”
“Honey, please.” Mother sucked another deep inhale of her cigarette. “How do you think I knew you were all looking for me? And you in particular.”
“What
’s this about?” He leveled a flat stare her way. “Why are we here?”
She blew her smoke in his face. He didn’t move.
“It’s funny. You can’t spit these days without hitting some mention of you somewhere. You’re famous, Reichenbach.”
He blinked.
“For your choices. What you chose to do. What was right, what was wrong, and how you navigated in between.” Another long drag, and ash fell from the end of her crackling cigarette. “You come off as a hard piece of shit, and I haven’t seen you smile once. Until this past weekend.” She grinned.
“We’re not here to talk about me. If you just want to stare, you should have gone to the zoo.”
“You get it,” she said. One hand landed on his arm, warm through his sweatshirt. “You get hard choices. You understand how those are made.”
The air seemed to vibrate a little differently, the lights dimmer around the edges as he tried to swallow past his clenching throat.
“You helped Gabi come to the right decision, even though it cut out her heart to give you my name. And you cared for her through it. I know it doesn’t mean much, the admiration of a prostitute and a criminal, but you’ve got a fan in her, Reichenbach. You’re a real Prince Charming to that little lady.”
His mind stuck on her words. His eyes narrowed. “The right decision?”
“Mm.” She waved to the bartender, sucking down the last of her cigarette. “Two beers please. Something dark.”
The bartender stared. He didn’t move.
Sighing, she stared at Ethan. “How do you think this is going to end tonight, Reichenbach? Another shoot-out like the one in the Oval Office? A raging car chase through the slums? Holding a bullet wound tight as you imagine your lover calling your name?”