Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Villegas held up his hands, a silent surrender.

  “You’re taking the lead on courthouse security. Coordinate with the backup deputy marshals headquarters is sending over. Make sure we have all our bases covered.” Winters passed a second manila folder to Villegas.

  “Yes sir.”

  “And, come back to me if you find something solid about Lucciano and Judge Brewer.”

  Hours later, Mike burst back into Winters’s command office. “Sir, I’ve completed the preliminary security protocols.”

  Winters stared at him from behind his desk, not saying a word.

  “Headquarters has set up a suite at the Hyatt and they’ve booked the rooms along the hallway for our use. The whole wing is secured for Judge Brewer and our uses. Teams will rotate through the hotel, one providing constant protection, with two additional on standby. Brewer will rotate between the suite and friends’ residences. I don’t want to establish a pattern or give away his location. We’ll move him covertly between several different locations and the courthouse. And we’ll keep knowledge of his actual location limited to his direct security team.”

  Friends’ houses. Namely, his own apartment, and possibly Kris’s, if he could twist Kris’s arm into letting them crash there. But Winters didn’t need to know that. And, his direct security team, if Mike had his way, was going to be him and him alone.

  “I’d like to clear my schedule, sir, and focus all my effort on this trial. I feel Judge Brewer will need close, personal protection. I’ve discussed my concerns with him already, and he says he feels comfortable having me provide body protection.” The marshals weren’t bodyguard types—that was more the Secret Service’s lane—but as JSIs, they acted as bodyguards when things got majorly hairy. It was a worst-case scenario play, and he was playing it a little early, but…

  Mike watched Winters carefully. Would Winters call him out on his protection plan? Press him on the heavy-handedness? What if he wasn’t allowed to be the man to protect Tom? Jesus, how could he let someone else take that? He’d go insane. He’d lose his mind, frantically worrying about Tom and his safety every second.

  Winters blinked. “You discussed your concerns with Judge Brewer already?”

  His ace. If a judge requested personal protection, the marshals were obliged to respond. He’d teed up Winters for the approval, but he’d done it in a sneaky, shitty way. “Yes sir.”

  Winters’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you want to tell me about you and Judge Brewer, Inspector Lucciano?”

  Mike swallowed. “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He clenched his teeth. Ground his molars together. “I want to make sure Judge Brewer has the best security we can provide, sir. He’s a new judge. This trial will be huge. He needs to spend all his time focusing on the trial, not worrying about his security or his safety. That’s our job.”

  Winters didn’t look convinced. Granted, he never looked convinced of anything, but Mike was gambling everything here.

  “Judge Brewer and I have developed a solid working relationship, sir. He trusts me. And I respect him. I want to do this for him.”

  Silence filled the command office. He wanted to babble more, fill the air with reasons and justifications for why he had to be the one to protect Tom. He had to be the man. But sometimes silence was the best choice. He kept his lips sealed and held Winters’s gaze.

  Winters leaned back in his leather chair and laced his hands together. “I transferred your trial schedule to Villegas to detail to the backup marshals coming over from headquarters. Confirm your security procedures for each high-risk trial you have scheduled for the next eight weeks. Sign off on the plans and then forward them to Villegas. He will assign each trial to a backup marshal.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I want your security procedures for Judge Brewer’s personal protection written out and documented. And, you will provide me with daily reports, Lucciano. I want to know everything you’re doing.” Winters pointed one finger at him, his eyes narrowing. “If there’s anything you need to tell me, you need to hurry up and spit it out. Before your professionalism and your judgment are called into question, and you find yourself before a review board.”

  He closed his eyes. What the hell did he do? Say something? Reveal what he and Tom had become? No, he’d be ripped away from Tom’s side, removed from protection, possibly removed from the Judicial Security branch of the Marshals. He couldn’t leave Tom now, not like this.

  And… what if they didn’t make it? Was he going to end his career because he jumped the gun on their relationship? His career, his life, deserved just as much consideration as anything else. He couldn’t throw everything away on a gamble.

  He’d march into Winters’s office and tell him he and Tom were dating, were serious, were going all the way—hell, he’d tell Winters they were engaged, if it came to that—but he had to be sure. Certain.

  Three days into a brand-new relationship was not certainty.

  And, if he said anything, anything at all, right now… Tom would be in someone else’s hands. Probably Villegas’s. That asshole had no business being a JSI, and if Mike had his way, he’d keep Villegas far, far away from Tom.

  “There’s nothing I have to tell you at this time, sir.”

  “At this time?”

  “At this time.”

  Winters stood. Peered at him. “I expect your first daily report today, Lucciano. Give me a sitrep on what we’re facing and what we’re likely to face as the trial progresses.”

  A full situation report, and a prediction. No small task. He nodded. “Yes sir.”

  “Get out of here. As of now, you’re providing personal protection to Judge Brewer and are the lead for his security during trial. Anything you need, come directly to me. Don’t go around me to headquarters.”

  He nodded again. “I won’t, sir. And… thank you.”

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Chapter 20

  Bulat Desheriyev sat beneath a humming fluorescent light in a stainless steel and concrete cinderblock room. His ankles and wrists were shackled, and a heavy chain looped around his waist. He was secured to the steel table before him and the concrete floor, thick padlocks holding him in place.

  He hadn’t moved for hours. He stared straight ahead, looking just to the right of his reflection in the mirror he knew was actually a spies’ window. On the other side of the glass, men hovered, watching him.

  How had it come to this? His mission had been perfect, his plans airtight. Absolute. He had an egress route set in stone. He’d rehearsed the mission. The shots, the breakdown, the escape. He had it down to ninety seconds. Ninety seconds to freedom.

  Instead, he’d been hemmed in, and after almost twelve hours, had been taken down by a massive force of American police and federal agents.

  Why had his escape failed? What had gone wrong? How had police been on the scene so quickly?

  Why was the fire escape door locked? It had never been locked in all the weeks he practiced the shooting, rehearsed his ingress and egress until he could do it in his sleep.

  With the door locked, he’d been forced to improvise, reroute, go into public spaces. Carrying a case large enough to hide a sniper rifle, in front of police officers looking for a shooter, tipped off by a phone call. Or so he’d been told. The blueprints of his arrest.

  It all pointed in one direction. To one inevitable truth. An unavoidable reality.

  He’d been set up. He’d been set up by the one person who knew he was there, who knew his mission.

  After his arrest, he’d been taken to the hospital. A few broken fingers, a busted lip, fractured cheekbone. Cracked ribs. Bruises. His arrest hadn’t been gentle. In Russia, he wouldn’t have survived the arrest, and the love taps he got from the American police would have been laughed at. They were so gentle with him, in comparison.

  Ribs bandaged, fingers set, and bandages on, he was taken to the federal detention center, str
ipped, searched, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and dropped in a concrete and steel box.

  And now, the Americans wanted to cut a deal with him.

  A snotty man, all-American smug superiority and arrogance, had billowed in, staring down at him as if he were nothing, a piece of Soviet trash. “I’m Dylan Ballard, United States Attorney. I’m the man who’s going to prosecute you and send you to prison for the rest of your life. You have a choice, Mr. Desheriyev. You can go to prison for a short time, and then take a long walk to the end of a needle and die while the families of the men you murdered and the United States president watch you writhe. Or, you can spend the rest of your life in prison reading books, watching TV, even exercising. Get yourself a nice prison boyfriend. Spend fifty years of your life in there. But you’re alive. Which would you rather have?”

  He’d stared at Ballard.

  Ballard had stared right back. “You wanna live, you tell us everything you know. Who are you working for? Who gave you your instructions? How big was your cell? What was your purpose? You cooperate with us, I’m authorized to keep you alive. This comes from the top. The very top. So it’s all up to you, big shot. You wanna live or you wanna die?” He checked his watch. “You have three hours.”

  So far, he’d used two hours and forty-nine minutes of his allotted time.

  It went against everything inside him to cooperate. To speak to the police, to the Americans. To turn on his own people. He’d never betrayed a man, had never sold his secrets. He did a job and he disappeared, and the job died with his target.

  He’d never been betrayed like this, though. Sure, people tried to stiff him. Underpay him. But they always came around.

  His soul was shredded by rage, hanging in tattered rags off his angry bones. His mind roared, revenge weighed against a lifetime of silence. Did he care whether he lived or died? No.

  Did he want to see the one who betrayed him rot, suffer the full force of the American punishment machine? Yes. Oh, yes.

  At two hours and fifty-two minutes after Dylan Ballard left his room, Desheriyev sat back. He looked dead center into the two-way mirror, staring himself in the eyes. “I will speak,” he spat. “I will give you the man who paid me.”

  Almost instantly, the recessed door clicked open, an electronic lock sliding out of place. Ballard strode in. “Smart move, comrade.” He dropped his padfolio on the table and sat across from him. “Everything is being recorded. We will use everything, and I mean everything, you say in court. What you tell me will determine how sweet your deal is. I can make your life wonderful. You can have a comfortable time in prison. Or I can send your ass to Guantanamo Bay, rendition your Soviet self to a black site off the map. You’ll never see the sun again. Comprende?”

  Americans. They loved speaking Spanish, as if that made them tough. As if having Mexico on their southern border meant they owned the Spanish language. Spain was part of Europe, and Russia had always paid close attention to Europe. “Si, cabrón.” Yes, dumbass.

  Ballard grinned, a wolfish baring of his teeth. He flipped open his padfolio and lifted his pen. “Then start talking. From the beginning.”

  Chapter 21

  “Hey.” Mike slipped into Tom’s chambers, shutting the door quietly behind him. The TV was on, CNN streaming live footage of a protest hovering on the knife-edge of a riot outside the U.S. embassy in Moscow. American flags burned, and effigies of President McDonough were held aloft, puppets riddled with bullet holes and bleeding fake blood. The CNN anchors spoke about skyrocketing tensions, and worsening U.S.-Russian relations.

  Mike forced himself to look away. “I’ve got your security plan in place. I’m running the lead, and I’ll provide you with personal protection for the duration of the trial.”

  Tom exhaled, blowing air out in a sudden rush. He slumped back in his desk chair, resting his head on the cabernet-colored lambskin leather. “I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Of course it’s me.” Mike smiled softly. “I won’t let anyone else near you. I’m going to keep you safe, Tom. I swear. From everything.”

  Another shaky exhale. “What’s the plan?”

  “We have to move you and Etta Mae out of your house for the trial. Headquarters is setting up a suite at the Hyatt with twenty-four-seven security on all sides. I also told HQ that you’d be rotating between the suite and friends’ houses, and that you’d keep your movements random. Establish no pattern.”

  “Friends?” Tom frowned. “What friends?”

  “I… thought you could stay at my place for a little while. And at Kris’s.”

  Silence.

  Mike spoke fast, trying to hastily cover the hole that opened in his heart. “You don’t have to. I should have talked with you first. I’m sorry. I just thought—” He’d thought he could keep what he had going with Tom, even through this, but what if Tom didn’t want that? Jesus, what if Tom was turning around and running right back into the closet? What if this was the end of them? Do you think anyone will find out about Friday? Wasn’t that what he’d asked hours ago, sounding so scared and timid?

  Could he blame Tom? He was in the national spotlight, the international spotlight. Hiding an illicit gay love affair while the media was turning over every stick and stone in his life was possibly the dumbest decision he could make. But… selfishly, he still wanted Tom to pick him.

  “I’ll go to your house and get Etta Mae and whatever you need. Please, make a list of what you’d like me to get for you. And then we’ll go to the Hyatt. You’ll be safe there.” Mike sucked in a breath, tried to keep his face like stone. Don’t let him see you crack. “I’ll pick you up in the morning and take you to the courthouse. Arraignment is tomorrow at nine AM. Are you planning on personally presiding over the arraignment, or will you let a magistrate judge handle that?” Arraignments were procedural, and often, the lower judges, the magistrates, presided, pinch hitting for the federal judges and their overflowing court calendars.

  Tom stared at him, his jaw hanging open, a frown creasing his Roman features. He looked like a lost little boy, not a federal judge. Slowly, he shook his head. “Mike… Stop. Slow down. You’re going a million miles an hour and I feel like I’m stuck in slow motion.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tom closed his eyes and leaned back. The weight of the whole world seemed to bear down on his shoulders. Jesus, Mike was a prick. The whole world was watching Tom, and he was only thinking of himself.

  But, Tom grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and started listing out what he needed. Suits, ties, undershirts. Shoes. His toiletries. Dog food, and Etta Mae’s pillow. He blinked staring at the paper, and then slid it across to Mike.

  “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  As promised, Mike was back almost on the dot to an hour. He took his own marshal’s car and came back with three duffels loaded up with Tom’s clothes and supplies, Etta Mae’s dog accouterments, and Etta Mae herself, riding shotgun and hanging out the front window. Mike had sent a message before he left, asking Tom to meet him in the basement parking garage.

  Etta Mae bounded for him as soon as Mike carried her out of the car. She jumped, both paws landing on his thighs, and tried to reach for his face. She danced a bit, wiggling her butt as she wagged her tail and lolled her tongue out. For the first time that day, Mike saw Tom smile.

  Mike transferred Tom’s bags to a blacked-out SUV, catching the keys from a deputy marshal standing guard nearby. The courthouse had been flooded with deputy marshals from headquarters, everyone reporting to Villegas and backing up courthouse security. They brought all the toys, too. Bulletproof SUVs, advanced comms, personal protective gear, and an armory’s worth of weapons. In the rear of the SUV, two bulletproof vests were laid out. One in Mike’s size, one in Tom’s.

  “Judge Brewer? Can you come here?”

  Tom padded over, Etta Mae trailing at his heels.

  Mike laid his hand on Tom’s bulletproof vest. Tom paled, and his lips thinned, pressing together. “This is for you. I don’t
believe that it’s necessary to wear it while we’re moving at this time. There haven’t been any overt, actionable threats made against you yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “With a case like this, they’ll be coming. We’ll monitor every channel—internet, telephone, email, your office mail, everything. Most of them will be garbage. But we will check out every single one.”

  Tom nodded.

  “Let me show you how to put this on.”

  Tom was stiff beneath his touch, his muscles vibrating. Mike slipped the vest over his head and showed him how to wrap the cummerbund, secure the vest and how to shift the weight from his shoulders to his back. He kept his touch quick and light and stepped away as soon as he could. “Feel okay?”

  “Feels terrifying.”

  “You won’t have to wear this now.”

  “But you think I will, in the future.”

  Mike didn’t answer as he helped Tom back out of the vest. “Let’s get you to the hotel.”

  Tom hefted Etta Mae into the back seat and then followed, sitting behind the empty passenger seat. Etta Mae lay down and rested her chin on his thigh. She’d already had an exciting day, and she clearly needed a nap to recover.

  “Mike?” Tom waited until Mike shut the door and they were sealed inside. He turned, looking back. “I don’t want to go to the Hyatt.”

  Mike stared.

  “Take me to your place?”

  “Are you sure?”

  Tom sighed and stayed quiet.

  Mike put the SUV in gear and started to drive.

  An hour later, he pulled into the underground garage beneath his building. He’d taken a circuitous route, checking and double-checking and triple-checking for followers and tails. Nothing, and no media, either. For now, at least, they were off the grid. He pulled into his assigned spot and cut the engine.

  They didn’t speak as they climbed out. Tom held Etta Mae’s leash and kept her close, even though she wanted to sniff all the new smells of the garage. Mike carried all of Tom’s bags, his duffels and a garment bag stuffed with ten of Tom’s suits. He led them up the internal stairs to the second floor, and then to his unit. No one was in the halls. Mike never saw his neighbors.