by Tal Bauer
Mike’s smile could have blinded the sun, and said more to Tom than Mike ever could. He cradled Mike’s face, trying to show him how he felt, trying to pour every dream, every hope, every moment of happiness Mike had given him, into his touch.
He loved Mike, in every single way. Would love him, for every single day. “I will never stop loving you.”
Chapter 38
July 31st
Tom woke to the sounds of birds chirping in the trees and fluttering behind the cabin. He opened his eyes, and saw Mike already awake, watching him with a soft smile.
“Hey. Morning.”
“Morning.” Mike ran his finger down the side of Tom’s face, a featherlight touch. “How’d you sleep?’
“Perfectly.” Tom scooted closer and reached for Mike’s hand. “You?”
“Pretty good.” He kissed Tom’s hand, his knuckles. “About last night…”
Tom frowned.
“I meant it. I really love you.” Mike licked his lips and tried to hide his crimson cheeks. “I didn’t just say that because we’d been drinking and were—”
“Neither did I.” Tom pushed Mike back and rolled on top of him, straddling Mike’s hips. Their naked bodies pressed together, warm and hard. “I love you, Mike Lucciano.” Tom kissed him sweetly, and felt Mike smile. He pulled back, a half-inch. “Question.”
“Answer.” Mike grinned as he held Tom’s hips, stroked his back.
“Why did you say ‘shit’ the first time we kissed?”
Mike chuckled, and his flush deepened. He looked away, for a moment. “Because I knew that I wanted that to be my last first kiss. I knew it like… I knew I was gay, or that I wanted to serve my country. It was just… there. True.”
His heart melted at that, and he kissed Mike again, and then again, and then Mike’s arms were around him and the rest of his thoughts fled.
It was afternoon by the time they clambered out of bed, weak-legged and sated, but beaming. They dressed casually, ate, and headed out, hiking down to the creek and following different trails from the day before. Mike threaded their hands together and stopped to kiss Tom every half-mile. Etta Mae trotted along, darting off to check scent trails and then crashing through the brush and back to their sides.
Mike broached the topic they’d been avoiding since leaving DC. “What do you think is really going on? With the trial?”
Tom sighed. “I’m not supposed to be thinking about it. I’m supposed to be impartial, and only judge the merits of the case.”
“Is that possible here? Between the Russians, the CIA, and, hell, even Ballard. What’s going on with him? How is he involved?”
“Do you think the CIA did it? Do you think Kris might be involved?”
It was Mike’s turn to sigh. “I’ve learned to never underestimate Kris. Or what he’s capable of.”
Tom squinted at Mike, but Mike didn’t elaborate. His mind was churning, his lawyer’s brain hunting for the logical sequence, the path through this conspiracy. “Ballard is getting his orders from main justice. The DOJ, and through them, the White House. For this to truly be a government-sanctioned CIA hit, it would need to come from the top.”
“All the players who could have ordered it, and ordered the cover up, are right there.”
“I know.”
“Why? What would the motive be? Why risk this confrontation, upset the international order?”
“If President Vasiliev had been killed, there could have been a real chance for true regime change in Russia. If the CIA was willing to assassinate Vasiliev, then they had to have a plan for after.”
“Okay, so what about Kryukov? Why isn’t he screaming about being hired by the CIA? Why is he insisting he is innocent, and that the CIA wasn’t involved?”
Tom’s mind spun, possibilities darker than the one before rising in his mind. “I want to check the timeline for his arrest. Was he ever alone with Ballard? Was there an opportunity for Ballard, or anyone else, to make him an offer?”
“What, he denies the CIA involvement and they’ll… prosecute him for the death penalty anyway?”
“Something like that. He never mentions the CIA. Or, he goes even further, muddying the water by denying anything at all. He’s derailed his own defense. Renner looked defeated when he said he wanted to call Kryukov to the stand.”
“But he agrees to go down publicly for this?”
“You and I both know that special prisoners get lost. Or redirected. Remember Ali Mohamed, the U.S. Army Special Forces soldier and al-Qaeda double agent? He’s been ‘lost’ since he entered his guilty plea. His sentencing hearing is still TBD. It’s been nearly two decades. Where do you think he really is?”
“So Kryukov takes the bullet in public. Shields the CIA and the U.S. government. And then they spring him free after trial?”
“If the goal was to make his defense as incoherent as possible and strengthen the government’s somewhat-weak case against him, then it lines up.”
“But the Russians won’t accept Kryukov acting alone. They’re demanding the International Criminal Court look into the CIA and the attempted assassination.”
“Leaving Ballard—and the White House—stuck between a rock and a hard place. No matter what they do, Russia is going to explode.”
“Which takes me back to Kris. What’s he really doing over there?”
“Finishing the mission?”
“God…” Mike shook his head. “It really would have been better if Vasiliev were killed.”
Tom grimaced, but he had to agree.
“If we can find Pasha, though, we might be able to find a new angle on this. He could confirm whether Kryukov did or did not send that text that morning. See what Kryukov’s state of mind was. How he behaved. If he noticed anything while he was there. We need to find him.”
Mike gripped his hand, and they wound deeper into the forest, catching up to Etta Mae and her wild squirrel chase. She’d treed a group of them, and they teased her mercilessly, skittering from tree branch to tree branch, snickering down at her as she circled the trunk and barked. They let her have her fun, until the squirrels fled and Etta Mae lost interest in the lifeless tree, and all three trooped off again.
Hours later, sweaty, exhausted, but happy, they made their way up to the main gravel road circling the mountain and walked back. There was no one around, not even Willy, and they held hands on the way. Etta Mae, exhausted, trudged at their side, her tongue hanging out but her tail still wagging.
As they came around the bend, past Willy’s house, their cabin came into view.
A black SUV with blacked-out windows, the staple of federal DC, was parked on the gravel road, blocking Mike’s car in the squat driveway.
“Shit.”
Tom’s heart pounded. “Someone found us here? Who? Why?”
Mike scowled. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find us, whoever it is. Take Etta Mae inside. I’ll see what this is all about.”
Tom clipped Etta Mae’s leash onto her harness and squeezed his hand. They were in full view of the SUV, out in the open, but he still leaned in for a kiss on Mike’s cheek. “Good luck.”
Mike waited until Tom was inside before he approached the SUV. No one had come out while he and Tom were in the road, but he’d seen a shadow in the front seat. The driver was still inside.
He came up along the driver’s side and waited.
Finally, the door opened.
FBI agent Lucas Barnes stepped out. He grinned, waving, and squinted as he took off his sunglasses. “Hey, Inspector Lucciano. How’s it going?”
Mike frowned. “I’m fine. What’s going on?”
“Nice place out here. You guys really buried yourselves.”
“It’s Tom’s place. He wanted to get out of DC for the weekend.” He hesitated. “What’s up? Do you have any information on Baryshnikov?” Why had Barnes driven all the way out here?
Barnes started walking, a slow amble as they headed for the cabin. “Yes, I do. We’ve been search
ing for him. So far, we’re coming up empty. I thought I could ask Judge Brewer if he had any more information about Mr. Baryshnikov. Anything else he knew at all.”
Mike’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. Tom knew a lot, a whole lot, but would it be helpful? And, was he ready to come fully out of the closet today, right now on this summer afternoon in Lonely Pine Gulch? Mike’s thoughts swirled as they kept walking, slow steps across the gravel driveway.
“What’s up with these snakes?” Barnes jerked his chin to the warning placards, feet from them. He frowned, looking the ground over as his hands landed on his hips.
“The neighbor apparently keeps a bunch of timber rattlers in the gulch. It’s steep, maybe a fifteen-foot rocky drop. The snakes can’t get out. You’re fine.” Mike grinned. He turned toward the cabin. “Let’s go talk to Tom.”
A hand grabbed the back of his neck, yanking him off-balance as a blade slid into his back. Once, twice, a third time, rapid strikes that sent fire racing through him. He felt the blade pierce his skin, slide deep. Bursts like bombs going off roared in the muscles of his right side, and he stumbled, suddenly unable to breathe. Someone grabbed his gun, tucked into a concealed holster in the small of his back, and hurled it down the gravel drive. “What—”
The hand on his neck rose, covering his mouth, his nose. He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled. Over his shoulder, he saw the blade rise in Barnes’s hand.
Jesus. Barnes was going to kill him. He was going to slit his fucking throat. Mike screamed again, the sound of a desperate, dying animal, trying to thrash, trying to move against the tidal wave of pain, a lava flow of burning agony that was searing through his right side.
“Fuck,” Barnes hissed, his feet slipping. He tugged Mike with him, but Mike pushed into Barnes, using his momentum, and spun out from under his grasp. He opened his mouth, ready to shout, to scream, to warn Tom—
Barnes kicked him, a fierce front kick right to his sternum that stole the breath from his body. He flew backward, knocked off his feet, and his heels skittered in the gravel.
And then, he tumbled over the edge.
Falling, a dark boulder, sharp, slammed into his side. A crack, and pain roared out from his ribcage. Spinning, he tumbled again, sliding against vines and ferns and wet moss as he plummeted to the bottom of the gulch.
The gulch. The rattlesnake gulch. He tried to gouge his fingertips into the stone and stop his fall, climb his way up.
He hit bottom, landing with a thud in a patch of dried leaves and scattered weeds. He froze, his right side on fire, every inhale shooting agony through his body, his heart beating a frantic, wild, primal rhythm.
He had to get to Tom. He had to save him.
He had to get away from the rattlers.
Where were they? He couldn’t see them—
The sound started slowly, a rattle like a baby’s toy. One, two, three, and then more, and more, coming from all sides. The ground in front of him wriggled. Something fell from a crack in the rock on his left. Mike scrambled back, raw panic eclipsing everything else.
Fangs sank into the back of his hand.
Roaring, Mike jerked his hand away, but another rattler was rearing up, and another. Everywhere he spun, rattlers were surrounding him, fangs bared, hissing, tails beating like a drum percussion. He was trapped at the bottom of the gulch, surrounded by venomous timber rattlesnakes, and Barnes was up there, alone with Tom.
He gritted his teeth and squared off against the snakes. Damn it, but he was going to save Tom.
All at once, the snakes struck, fangs sinking into his skin. His legs, his arms, his stomach, his back. He fell, trying to rip them off and fling them as far as he could. One sank its fangs into his cheek, just below his eyes. His flesh tore as he ripped the snake away.
His vision swam, but Mike stumbled for the gulch edge, searching for handholds, footholds, anything to escape.
The taste of metal filled his mouth.
The rattlesnakes’ venom was starting to flood his body.
Tom shut Etta Mae into the bedroom, hiding his and Mike’s duffels and their unmade, clearly-they’d-slept-together, bed. He waited, fidgeting in the kitchen.
He tucked the moonshine away, too.
A noise made him turn, a sound like a bird screeching, somewhere far away. He froze, trying to hear it again. Nothing.
The front door opened, the old hinges creaking as the heavy wood swung. “Mike?” He padded toward the front hall, crossing his arms as he peered into the shadowed hallway.
“Hey, Judge Brewer.” Lucas Barnes waved, coming out of the darkness. He smiled and put his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants. “Mike said to come in. He’s looking some stuff over in the car.”
Tom relaxed and smiled back. He’d always liked Barnes. He was warm and affable where other FBI agents had been cold and officious, or stern bruisers who liked to pretend they were in the military. Barnes was a straight shooter, passionate about his job, and he’d always been good to work with during cases when Tom was a prosecutor. “Agent Barnes. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Barnes’s grin widened. “Just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Come in.” Tom invited him into the kitchen, pulling out two chairs. “Have a seat. Is this about Pasha? Did you find him?”
“We’ve definitely made progress, Judge Brewer. We’ve got a plan now.”
Footsteps sounded down the hall, by the front door. Tom turned in his chair, smiling, waiting for Mike.
His heart stopped.
Pasha Baryshnikov stepped into the dappled sunlight streaming through the windows. His gaze swept the cabin and landed on Tom. Just like twenty-five years ago, his eyes were filled with an intensity Tom couldn’t explain, a passion that had seared through Tom’s body from the first time they’d met. He felt Pasha’s eyes strike his soul again, a bolt of lightning that hit him right in the chest. “Pasha?”
“Damn it.” Barnes glared at Pasha. “You were supposed to wait in the car.”
“I told you. I needed to see him.”
“And I told you that we needed to do this right! Needed to make it look good!”
Pasha spat something in Russian, a long string of harsh, angry words. Barnes’s mouth snapped shut. He grimaced, and his skin flushed, turning maroon, but he said nothing. Pasha snapped again, and Barnes headed for the front door.
He stopped, though, next to Pasha. “Make it quick,” he growled. “We have to go.”
Pasha didn’t look at him. Barnes snorted, stomping out of the cabin.
Slowly, Tom rose. He couldn’t think, couldn’t put two and two together. Pasha, here? With Barnes? Why? And Mike? Where was Mike?
Dread flooded his soul, his and Mike’s conversation from the creek coming back. Oh, God, they’d had it wrong. They’d had it all wrong.
“Hello, Tom.” Pasha’s voice was smooth, devoid of any accent. He smiled, looking Tom up and down. “It’s been a long time.”
The world spun, and Tom almost staggered, thrown sideways by all the many ways they’d been wrong. “Pasha… You and Barnes—” He shook his head. “You’re helping the CIA?”
Pasha laughed. “Oh, Tom. I thought, out of everyone, you might have put it all together.”
“You’re helping the CIA cover up the attempted assassination of President Vasiliev. You must be. You’ve always hated Russia. Is this how you’re striking back?”
Pasha laughed again. He stepped closer, holding his hand out. “You know, after we broke up, I went to New York, like we’d planned. I thought maybe you’d still go, and I’d find you and convince you that we could get back together.”
Tom swallowed.
“But I didn’t find you there. Instead, someone found me.”
“Who?”
“Dimitry Vasiliev, head of the New York KGB office.”
All the air fled from Tom’s lungs, ripped out of his body, his soul. “You hated Russia… They tortured you... You wanted to be free…”
Sadness stole over Pasha’s face, an echo of history, memories of the past. “There is no such thing as freedom. You found that out. You left me because you chose to be a slave to your fears. To society’s fears. I was young and dumb and thought that I could find a better way.” He shook his head. “You just learned sooner than I did: there is no freedom for men like us.”
Panic leached beneath his skin, crept over his bones. He started to breathe fast, quick pants that left him lightheaded.
“The best we can do is find others who will protect us. Who will look the other way in exchange for our utility. We can live in the shadows, in the negative spaces. If we’re not seen, and not heard, we’re not cared about.”
“Is that how Vasiliev treated you?”
“That, and much more.” Pasha smiled. He stepped forward again, close enough to touch. He reached for Tom’s hand. His skin was cold, like ice, and Tom shivered. Pasha laced their fingers together. “Do you still think I work for the CIA?”
All he could hear was the sound of his own breath, his own hyperventilating. He blinked, slowly. His brain wouldn’t work. He said nothing.
“You have all been so consumed with the thought of what went wrong that you never looked at what went right in everything. Who has benefited the most from this attack?”
Jesus. It was all there, suddenly. Blindingly obvious, staring him in the face. The one man, the one nation, that had benefited from this attack: President Dimitry Vasiliev.
“Vasiliev planned this whole thing? With you?”
“I would do anything for Vasiliev. He saved my life, and brought me back to Mother Russia.” Pasha grabbed him, held his face in both hands. His eyes burned, cobalt lit on fire, and he yanked Tom to him, aligning their bodies. Twenty-five years vanished and Tom was suddenly back in college, pressed close to Pasha, about to kiss him. He gritted his teeth. No. NO!