by Tal Bauer
But keeping Tom safe wasn’t supposed to come at the expense of Mike. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all.
The tears came swiftly, searing rivers that melted from his eyes. He wailed into Mike’s shirt, trying to huff his scent, as Etta Mae licked every one of his tears from his cheeks.
The trial did not resume on Monday, and a nervous public watched and waited. Speculation about the events in West Virginia and the death of an FBI agent and the wounding of a federal judge sent the media into a frenzy.
True to his word, Winters called Tom every day with an update from the hospital. Mike went from critical to serious, and his vitals were slowly improving. He’d had multiple surgeries patching up internal hemorrhages from the envenomation of the multiple snake bites, as well as Barnes’s stab wounds. He was still in a coma, though, and his blood pressure was still too low.
On Wednesday, Winters and Ballard came back to his house.
“We need to talk to you about Pasha Baryshnikov.”
Ballard and Winters sat outside with Tom on his deck, watching as Etta Mae strolled in the yard. His rose bushes were dead and the flower beds overgrown, but he’d hired a gardener to tame the savannah that had sprouted in his absence.
Tom squinted at Ballard. “What do you want to know?”
“It’s not that. Your business with the man is all in the past, right?”
“Ancient history. A different geological epoch.”
Ballard smiled. “We wanted to know if you were open to helping the investigation. Baryshnikov has given us information on Barnes in order to spare his ass a one-way ticket to Guantanamo, but he’s not saying anything else. He says he’ll only talk if he gets to see you again. Talk to you.”
Tom turned away, watching Etta Mae root around in his dead planters. Circles within circles within circles. His past, roaring back in every which way, every possible way imaginable. Freedom and incarceration, choices made and unmade and remade.
The last time he’d seen Pasha, Pasha had threatened to attack him and kill him. And the time before that, twenty-five years ago, Pasha had cradled his face and told him he loved him, loved everything about him, and wanted to be with him forever. The same man, a lifetime apart. Circles within circles within circles.
But he was a different man than the Tom Brewer who’d been there for both of those memories. Different from twenty-five years ago, and different from just a few days ago.
“No. Pasha is completely free. Free to talk, free to deal, free to make up his own mind. He’s capable of deciding whether he speaks up to save his own neck without me. I won’t be blackmailed into seeing him again. He has no power over me. Nothing and no one has any power over me. Not anymore. I have no obligation to the man. If he wants to condemn himself over his stubbornness, that is his free choice.”
On Thursday, Tom watched Dylan Ballard on TV, giving an address from the steps of the courthouse.
“The United States government has come into new evidence which changes the course and focus of our investigation. At this time, the government is declining to continue the prosecution of Mr. Vadim Kryukov. Mr. Bulat Desheriyev, who has already pleaded guilty to four counts of homicide and attempting to assassinate the Russian president, will be sentenced at a later date.”
He did not take questions. The media frenzy tripled.
Russian President Vasiliev exploded in a press briefing after, accusing the United States of covering up their own conspiracy and trying to get away with murder, as well as his own attempted murder. He vowed that the Russian people would not stand for this abject degradation of the international order, and the international rule of law, and he put, officially, the United States “on notice”.
In the new light of understanding, Tom saw his words for what they were: the bluster of a buffoon, the railings of a man trying too hard to sell his outrage. He ranted and roared, and the media gobbled the outrage up, utterly convinced the world was tipping over into the chasm of the next global conflagration, a war that would devastate millions, perhaps billions. Russia would react over this, the news assured Tom. They would seriously react over this. What on earth was the U.S. government thinking?
Still, every nation on the planet was locked and loaded, ready for war. Sides were already being called, alliances drawn up. Military exercises ramped up in the South China Sea, the Norwegian Sea, and off the Baltics and Kaliningrad.
Chapter 41
August 7th
Friday morning, President McDonough sat with his Secretary of State, his National Security Advisor, his close staff, and Dylan Ballard in the Situation Room at the White House. They all listened to Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev, his booming voice echoing out of the speakerphone embedded in the long conference table.
“Mr. President, you cannot expect that we will allow this travesty to stand. You know we know the truth. You know we know what you and your CIA ordered. This, Mr. President, is an act of war.”
“Actually, Mr. President, you and I both know what really happened here in DC. It was an act of war. An act of war against America, by Russia.”
“How dare you—”
“An act of war perpetrated by you, President Vasiliev. We know all about it.”
“First you attempt to kill me and now you threaten me with—”
“We have Pasha Baryshnikov. I understand he’s an old friend of yours? At least, that is what he’s telling us. He’s also telling us all about the plot you two concocted. How you planned this entire operation, not just to frame America for the attempted assassination, but wipe out two troublesome dissidents as well: Bulat Desheriyev and Vadim Kryukov. Kryukov has been a thorn in your side for some time now, hasn’t he? Wasn’t he the man who exposed the sexual abuse going on in Russian prisons? He kicked off that investigation by Amnesty International, right? And wasn’t Russia accused of gross human rights violations? Wait, I have the report here. Let me refresh my memory. Yes, that’s right. ‘Gross human rights violations’.”
Silence, from Vasiliev.
“Let me be perfectly fucking clear, Dimitry. We know everything. We know that you cloned Kryukov’s voice and hired Desheriyev. You used Pasha Baryshnikov as your footman, planting evidence against Kryukov. The cocaine. The text from his phone. You even had Baryshnikov order Desheriyev to shoot you in the chest instead of the head. You were wearing a vest, weren’t you? A level four vest to catch rifle rounds. But that doesn’t cover the head, does it? No wonder the Secret Service thought you were a heavy fat ass when they carried you to your motorcade, thinking they were saving your life. With a rifle that powerful, you’re lucky all you walked away with was a shattered shoulder.”
More silence.
“You tried to frame an innocent man, the CIA, and plunge the world into war. Your plan cost the lives of three Americans, three brave men who were doing their duty. You, Dimitry Vasiliev, are a murderer. You murdered Americans, and that is an act of war. You have also used this entire conspiracy to invade NATO allied countries. I will say this once, and only once: get your fucking troops out of the Baltics, or we will force them out.”
Vasiliev hummed, a combination grumble and hiss. “Estonia has experienced… internal secession problems, of late. That is entirely an internal matter. We do not care about such things.”
“I expect every single Russian soldier to be gone, out of NATO lands, in twenty-four hours. Or our missiles will take care of any stragglers.”
Vasiliev snorted.
“The American diplomats you have illegally arrested will also be released. Immediately. Have I made myself perfectly fucking clear, Dimitry?”
Vasiliev hung up.
Chapter 42
August 8th
Mike had been dreading this moment, this very moment. Winters hovered outside his hospital door, finishing a call. He was about to walk in, face Mike, and read him the riot act. Probably hand over his termination papers. Flush him from the marshals.
He
“I have something to live for,” he’d told her. “Someone.”
She’d thought that was the dreamiest thing she’d ever heard, and she batted her eyelashes at him every time she came in to help him to the bathroom or help him hobble up and down the halls. She’d rushed in and given him an early warning, that the whole ward had been alerted that Marshal Winters was on his way.
Mike picked at his sheet, pulling fibers from the scratchy hospital cotton. At least he was in clothes. His nurse had gotten him a pack of boxers and some t-shirts. He wasn’t going to be talking to his boss in a flimsy gown with his ass hanging out.
Finally, Winters hung up. He hesitated before walking in, and Mike didn’t know how to read that. He straightened, squaring his shoulders, and tried to look respectful, professional, as Winters marched to his bedside. “Sir.”
Winters held out his hand. “Drop the sir, Mike. You’re back from the dead. You can relax.”
He smiled and shook Winters’s hand, and then leaned back, just slightly. “Thank you, sir.”
Winters sent him a droll look, but pulled up a hospital chair and sat down. He peered at Mike.
The moment stretched like a rubber band, pulling and pulling until Mike thought he was going to snap. “Sir, I know—”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your relationship with Judge Brewer?”
He hunted for words, the right thing to say. “It… was brand new at the time. When you asked if I had anything to share. I didn’t know if it was going to last the rest of that day, much less the week. The month. We’d only gone on our first date.”
“And after that? You didn’t come back to update me?”
Mike hung his head. “I didn’t want to be pulled off his protective detail. I’d have gone crazy, not being able to be there for him during this trial.”
“You could have worked command staff. On my team. Not off the detail, but not the point man. And you wouldn’t have had to hide where you were every night, either.”
Mike peeked up at Winters. “A marshal and a judge have never, ever hooked up. I know. I checked. There are procedures in place for AUSAs, defense attorneys, other agents, and witnesses—”
“First time for everything.” Winters arched one eyebrow. “As you might have realized, the marshals are more of a cowboy kind of organization. We circle the wagons. We protect our own, sometimes to the wrong ends. For good or for bad. But we never cut a marshal loose, or hang them out to dry. Ever.” His eyes bored into Mike. “We’re also flexible. We adapt to new situations. No one ever thought a judge would want anything to do with a marshal because most judges are ancient. Or married. Or otherwise undesirable.” A glint appeared in his eyes. “But you happened to find the one judge who was the exception to all that.”
Silence.
“What happens now?” Mike croaked.
“Now, you heal. You’re coming back from the dead. Take time to recover.”
“And after?”
“After, you’ll report to the courthouse, where you and Villegas will switch court loads. You can’t date Judge Brewer and manage his security. But you don’t have to be escorted out of the building because of it, either.”
He didn’t know what to say. The sheet he’d been mangling was a mess, ripped threads, balled-up sections, torn fabric and knots in the strings. He shifted, stared, opened his mouth. Closed it. “Can I see him? Judge Brewer?”
“Not yet. We’re still chasing down our last leads. Judge Brewer has been put in temporary witness protection until we’re sure Pasha Baryshnikov doesn’t have any more agents, Russian or American, working for him.”
He slumped backward. Damn it.
“It’s best you keep a low profile. You and Judge Brewer are known to be close associates now. If someone wants to get at either one of you, they may strike from the side. You can best help Judge Brewer right now by lying low.” He fixed Mike with a firm glare. That wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. Mike nodded.
Winters pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. He passed it over. “These evidence photos were taken at Tom’s cabin in West Virginia. They were not pertinent to the overall investigation, so they were pulled from the file.”
He flicked through the photos: his and Tom’s duffels, their messy bed, their clothes strewn everywhere. Two pairs of men’s underwear on the floor. Lube on the nightstand. Obviously, a bedroom where two men had made love, over and over again.
The room where he’d told Tom he loved him, and where Tom had said the words back. He replayed that memory a thousand times a day, listening to Tom’s breathless whisper, watching the sparkle of his eyes as he gazed up at Mike, in the darkness behind his eyelids. Tom loved him. That would still be true, still be there, after all of this, right? He’d said he wasn’t going to go back to the closet, no matter what. That they were going to be together, hopefully forever.
The room where he’d bared his soul to Tom looked drab and lifeless in the harsh light of the evidence photos. There was a chill to his memories now, a pall that felt like death.
Would Tom cling to that conviction, now that everything was out in the open? It was easy to love in secret.
It was much, much harder to live in the sunlight and be known. Make the world your own.
“You should know…” Winters peered at him. “I call him every day with an update on your status.”
Mike closed his eyes. Tom… I miss you so damn much. I love you.
“What should I tell him when I call today?”
Mike swallowed hard. Everything that had happened, everything that was still happening, was Tom’s worst nightmare. A public outing, the spotlight of the media, the world’s gaze turned on him and his secret, painting him in shades of shame and self-hate. What would happen to them? What would they be after this? Would Tom’s fear seize him again? He said he wouldn’t, said that he wanted this, them, together. But that was before their worlds had imploded.
Was he enough? Was he, Mike, enough for Tom to change his entire life? The course of his existence?
Was their love enough to survive this?
History was a cruel mistress.
Tom had run from his first love. Would he do so again?
He shook his head, blinking fast as he fought through his clenched throat. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I can’t… I can’t pressure him. He needs to decide if he wants this. Us.” Mike swallowed hard. He didn’t want to lose it in front of his boss, Goddamnit. “I won’t push. I’ll wait for him. Wait for him to make his choice.”
His nurse bustled in, smiling. “There’s another visitor here to see you.”
Behind her, Kris appeared, his duffel slung over his shoulder, dark circles marring the skin under his eyes, and his delicate lower lip split and scabbed. He grinned. “I came straight from the airport, you big bruise.”
Winters left as Mike held out his hand for Kris, his expression cracking, the anxiety, the misery, the heartache all cresting and wrenching apart his heart. His tears started to fall as Kris sat on the edge of his bed, and he folded into Kris’s arms, letting it all out into his shoulder as Kris stroked his hair.
Chapter 43
August 12th
Tom was a nervous wreck, pacing up and down the long length of the Roosevelt Room in the White House. What was he doing there? Why had the president wanted to see him? How was Mike? Was he getting better? Was he hurting? When would they be able to see each other again?
The separation ground on his nerves, filled his brain with too many thoughts, too many neurons firing off in every direction. His anchor was gone, and he was rocking on the waves of his anxieties, lost at sea. Fears crept in, slipping in through his nightmares and his hesitations.
And, damn it, his cast still itched and his shoulder ached.
The door opened, creaking softly, and Tom whipped around.
Chief Judge Clarence Fink shuffled inside. He smiled sadly as he spotted Tom.
Tom’s mouth went dry. He tried to speak, tried to find his voice, but only managed to croak out a tiny hello.
Fink sighed. “Strange times we live in these days.”
Tom could only nod. Fink made his way to the table, pulling out one of the heavy leather chairs and sitting down slowly. He seemed older than the last time Tom had seen him, aged somehow beyond the three months it had been. The last time they had interacted, Fink and he had shouted at each other, and Fink had disparaged his judicial abilities. He’d bucked Fink’s authority, refusing to bow to his command at the court.
Fink stared at the wall, at a painting of Teddy Roosevelt. “Tom?” He didn’t look Tom’s way. “Is it true? What they’re saying at the courthouse? You and that marshal…”
He breathed in, slowly. “His name is Mike. Inspector Mike Lucciano, Deputy U.S. Marshal. And… Yes. We’re seeing each other.”
Fink’s shoulders slumped, sagging deep into his chest as he curled forward. “I’m getting too old for this world. I was born in the nineteen-twenties. I thought I had seen it all.” He shook his head and glanced at Tom. “Are you… happy?”
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