by Amy Lane
“You lie,” Ellery chided. “You would have taken me home for a night and then tried to let me be a pretty memory.”
“You would have been a beautiful memory,” Jackson insisted.
“Right up until I made you take me home again.”
Jackson chuckled, barely awake. “I said that at the very beginning. You were a forever kind of guy.”
“So were you,” Ellery said, standing and giving Jackson a kiss on the forehead. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
Jackson’s shoulders shook once, and then his eyes closed. Ellery went into the bathroom to wash his hands, and by the time he came back, Jackson was fast asleep. Ellery turned off the light and set his phone for twenty minutes to take the ice packs off before closing his eyes.
He took a moment in the darkness to listen to Jackson’s even breathing before giving a prayer of thanks.
The Early Morning Coffee Swim
FIVE THIRTY in the slutty crotch of dawn found them gulping coffee from thermoses as Ellery drove to the courthouse, and Jackson fielded a call from Andre Christie.
“Adele Fetzer says hi,” he said as soon as Jackson picked up. “She and Hardison are both a little bloody but still standing.”
Jackson let out a breath. He’d dropped them both off where the EMTs were waiting before driving off into the night. Hardison had sustained a through-and-through in his calf, and Fetzer had some cuts along her face and arms from the exploding door.
“That’s good to hear,” he said carefully. “How about you?”
“Really fucking grateful for Kevlar,” Christie said, sounding pained. “Doc says the ribs will heal. I’ll live. How about you?”
“Spent the night in,” Jackson lied cheerfully. “Nothing to report.”
“You,” Christie barked, “are a worse liar than my twelve-year-old son, who says he’s passing all his classes. You are aware there’s news footage of you helping two little old people out of that meat grinder and into a whatever-the-fuck model SUV that actually was.”
“Which station?” Jackson asked, playing for time. His back throbbed—though much less than it would have without Ellery’s ministrations—and he’d had to wash down some extra ibuprofen for the sleep headache and sore muscles that morning. To say he wasn’t thinking at optimum was an understatement.
“No, seriously, what in the fuck were you driving? They got a clear shot of your face, but that vehicle, that was really something.”
“An Infiniti-QX,” he said, giving up because it wasn’t worth the trouble. “Some friends tricked it out—bulletproof.” Or, more, bullet resistant. There were little round dents in the side panels now, but no penetration. The glass had held too—only a couple of nicks. Jackson felt like the car should have had its own residence and naked sports cars to rub it in oil.
“Fucking nice,” Christie muttered. “And since I saw the footage, I’m glad your Kevlar held. How’s your back?”
“Hurts like a motherfucker, but functional,” Jackson told him, slumping awkwardly in the passenger seat. Next to him Ellery grunted, and Jackson would have shrugged if it wouldn’t have hurt.
“Functional is all we can ask,” Christie conceded without judgment. “Can’t say the same for the bad guys.”
Oh damn. “Tell me,” Jackson ordered, putting the phone on speaker so Ellery could hear.
Christie’s account—terse and militarily precise—was both harrowing and grim.
“Well, to begin with, not sure if you saw this, but SWAT got to the apartment complex just as the first shots were fired,” Christie said. “And believe me, that was the thing that saved everybody’s life.”
Based on Jackson’s tip—and with Christie’s lieutenant’s backing—Christie had gotten a midnight search warrant for Dima Siderov’s apartment. Since shots were being fired as they arrived, the SWAT team was able to enter apartments that housed the gunmen and not just Siderov’s rooms.
About twenty minutes after Jackson had gotten the Dobrevks out of the complex, SWAT, with Christie riding point, had managed to round up three of Siderov’s lieutenants and three guys who’d been gunning for Siderov’s apartment.
Neither Siderov nor Ziggy Ivanov were in the numbers of those arrested, but there’d been zero civilian fatalities, so Christie was calling it a win.
“Both of them?” Jackson muttered. “Both of them got away? Were they even there in the first place?”
“From what we can gather, Siderov had an exit strategy, and his guys are loyal. The basic gist of all our questioning was ‘Good luck catching him—he’s got people everywhere.’”
“What about Ziggy?”
Christie’s noise over the phone was unpleasant. “Well, from Siderov’s people we got ‘That little rat bastard better not show his face in this state again!’”
Jackson grunted. “That’s promising. I’d be happy to find his body in a river somewhere, and I’m not gonna apologize. What about the guys he was running with?”
Christie made a sound like he was sucking air through his teeth. “That’s a little more complicated. Like you said, their boss got blown up this afternoon. They’re counting on Ziggy to lead them to the promised land. They were like, ‘Ziggy who? We don’t know any Ziggy, but if we did, we’d guess he was far away from here.’”
Jackson let out a low grown. “Which probably means he is still in the city, waiting to see what Dima’s going to do.”
“It’s worse than that,” Christie said grimly. “One of the guys—you might know him—was maybe sixteen and was lying in a room with a shattered door and a doctored leg wound. Ringing any bells?”
“None whatsoever,” Jackson said flatly.
“Yeah. Fetzer said she and Hardison took him down. I showed that woman the fucking news footage, and she said she and Hardison took him down. Son, I am not sure what you do to inspire such loyalty, but we wrote in the report that Fetzer and Hardison took down an armed intruder in the Dobrevks’ house before the SWAT team launched its assault, and that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Jackson let out a breath. “Good. Fetzer and Hardison are good cops. The Dobrevks were primed to be either used as pawns or shot in revenge, depending on who was winning. I didn’t want to get in the way, but….”
“But you wanted to get them out of there.” Christie blew out a breath. “I get it. I mean, zero civilian casualties and theirs was the only apartment with innocent people in it that had been breached. I just wish you would have trusted us to—”
“I did!” Jackson protested. “I got help. I stayed out of most of it. I swear, I was being good like I promised.”
Christie chuckled mirthlessly. “You sound about six. I hope you’re going to bed later.”
“If by later you mean tonight, yes,” Jackson said on a yawn. “But tell me about the kid.”
Christie grunted. “Sure. And then you need to tell me what you’re doing now because you seem to have access to the best parties. Anyway, the kid. He was scared shitless, and…. God, Jackson. I don’t even want to know what his life was like. He said, ‘Nobody’s safe from Ivanov. Not even Dima’s product.’”
“Product?” Jackson sucked in a breath. “That was his exact word?”
“Yeah,” Christie replied. “It was sort of weird. Do you know what that means?”
“Product is the word people have been using for trafficked children,” Jackson said, his chest like ice. “We’ve got someone bringing in a busload of kids that Ziggy tried to ship to Dima Siderov’s late boss-slash-enemy. Two of them might have incriminating evidence against Ziggy himself, and even if they don’t, their deaths would be a big signal to anyone who wants to write Ziggy Ivanov off as just another flunky.”
“Oh no. When’s this bus getting to town?”
Jackson looked at the readout on his phone. “Anytime in the next hour, but I think he was aiming for 6:00 a.m. so he knows we’re ready for him.”
Christie grunted. “So, ten minutes? That’s where you’re going? Where’s
the meet?”
Jackson fell silent for a moment, sudden suspicion—and protectiveness for the children and for Burton’s CO—assailing him. Christie seemed to be a completely clean and a stand-up guy, but last night he’d run a raid on the very group of people Jackson and Ellery had been poking with a stick for the last two days. How could he be sure Christie wasn’t being followed?
“Hey, Rivers,” Christie said brusquely into the silence, “don’t chicken out on me now!”
“I’m not chickening out,” Jackson snapped. “But you just came off an all-nighter. You gonna be ready for the fallout here?”
Christie grunted. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I got sleep,” Jackson muttered defensively.
“Augh! Rivers, I swear to you, I want those kids safe—and the bad guys behind bars—as much or more than you do. Sean’s a good cop and a good friend. I won’t let you down, I promise.”
Jackson took a deep breath. “Fine. We’ll be at the courthouse in ten. But remember, the guy driving the freedom bus is military covert ops, and he’s gonna have friends in the bleachers.”
“Ooh.” Christie’s sound was a cross between seeing Superman and getting kneed in the balls. “I’m starting to see why Sean’s such a fan. You and Cramer really do hang out with the most interesting people.”
Jackson grunted; he couldn’t argue with that. “Just remember to ducking fuck,” he said, and Christie’s snort on the other end told him the joke was appreciated.
“And try not to fuck the wrong duck. Got it. Courthouse. Fifteen minutes. I’ll keep my eyes open for sparkly lights in the wrong windows.”
“And your tactical gear on!”
“Amen.”
Jackson hit End Call and leaned his head back against the seat. “This is going to be a hell of a party.”
“I don’t remember you telling me Burton was going to be there,” Ellery said.
“I think he’ll have Ace and Jai with him. They were, uh, blowing shit up when I called.”
Ellery grunted. “This makes me happy. Can you see how happy I am?”
The temperature in the Tank had dropped about twenty degrees.
“That’s a sweater full of happiness right there,” Jackson responded. And then, “Shit!” Without even explaining to Ellery, he pulled out his phone and dialed Henry.
“This had better be important.” Henry sounded mildly out of breath and not like Jackson had woken him up at all.
“Is Lance off today?”
“No, but he was going to be,” Henry snarled.
Oh! “Well, apologize to him for me.”
“No.”
“Fine. But we’ve got a bus full of kids showing up at the courthouse in five minutes, and a driver who may or may not be injured and is deliberately disobeying orders to get these kids home. Think Lance can help doctor him up if I get him clearance from the DA’s office?”
“I don’t know,” Henry mumbled. “Does it work that way?”
“I have no idea,” Jackson said frankly. “But I’ll ask. Anyway, this guy is going to need a place to hide where nobody would think about looking for him and some guys to watch his back. We have a cabin in Tahoe lined up for later, but I’m talking today. You, uh, got any ideas?”
The silence coming across Henry’s line wasn’t reassuring.
“Yes…?”
More silence.
“Just, you know, be ready for my text,” Jackson said. “I’ll let you know if we’ve got incoming.”
And that silence changed to brooding anger. “Because where will you be?” Henry snapped.
“Uhm….”
“Goddammit, Jackson.”
“Hey, I went home and rested yesterday.”
There was an ominous sound on the other end of the line. “Do you think we don’t watch the news here?”
“Good for you!”
“How you moving today?” Henry asked sweetly.
“Like buttah. I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Then you and me are gonna talk.”
“How do you even know where I’ll be?” Jackson asked, gaping.
“You’re going to tell me right now, or I’m going to pound your back like an asshole the next time I see you. Now pony up. Where the fuck am I going.”
Jackson leaned his head back and groaned. “Courthouse. There will be snipers and military assholes there. Not including you, of course.”
“I have tactical gear too,” Henry snapped, rustling sounds in the background indicating he was putting some on at that very moment. “Ellery bought it for me while you were in the hospital. It was like Christmas came early.”
“I’m sure it was,” Jackson said sourly. “Look, we’re pulling up to the courthouse now. If you could, I don’t know, park around the block so maybe out of sight from us here, that would be aces. I’d love that.”
“No,” Henry said, and Jackson was amused to hear he wasn’t the only one who’d regressed twenty years in age.
“Look, Junior, our guy is getting here soon. Whatever fireworks happen, they’re going to start before you get here. That way you can scope out the situation before you get your ass shot off.”
Henry grunted. “I actually did have other plans for my ass this morning, this is true.”
Oh God. The mental images—they burned!
“I hate you. Fuck off. I’m not even kidding.”
“Which is exactly what I was doing before you called and fucked up my morning. Blame yourself, geezer. I’ll be there in ten if you shut up and let me kiss my boyfriend goodbye.”
“Stay home.”
“See you there. Stay alive.”
Fuck. “Fine. You too.”
And then Jackson hung up because everything hurt and shit was about to go down, and he wanted two quiet minutes with Ellery before the shitshow began.
Ellery pulled up to a loading-zone-only space in front of the courthouse and turned off the ignition. The street was deserted, and the early-morning shadows stretched long over them. It was late enough in August that the mornings had a little chill, but the day was still probably going to be a scorcher. For a moment, though, they sat in the silence and breathed.
Jackson was unsurprised by Ellery reaching for his hand, or the twining of their fingers.
“You okay?” Ellery asked.
“I could sleep for a week,” he confessed.
Ellery let out a weak chuckle. “How’s your back?”
A year ago, Jackson would have shined him on. He’d done it with Christie and had just tried to do it to Henry.
But he wasn’t doing it with Ellery, not after the night before. He could remember Ellery’s hands on his skin, so tender, and the way he’d simply… accepted. He’d accepted who Jackson was. Yes, he wanted Jackson to be more careful of himself, but the part that he couldn’t change, he accepted.
Such a powerful thing, that acceptance.
It had taken them a year to get here: to the place where Jackson learned to take care of himself for Ellery’s sake and Ellery learned that there were some parts of Jackson he didn’t want to change.
So for once he didn’t play the “I’m fine,” game. He wasn’t fine. They were going out into a potentially dangerous situation, and he was not moving as fast as he usually did, and Ellery needed to know that.
And Ellery wouldn’t judge him for being hurt.
“Ow-ooh-ch.” He punctuated the extended syllables with a grimace. “I could have used a Jacuzzi and some ice and another backrub.”
“Poor baby,” Ellery said, and he was only partially teasing. “Maybe the weekend.”
Jackson gave him his best smile, the one that came up from his toes. “Count on it.”
“Still want to pick out a kitten?”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah. Maybe we’ll have some cakewalk cases so I can spend a little more time at home with it. I’d hate to bring it home and just leave it with Billy Bob. That’s no fair.”
“To anybody,” Ellery sa
id sourly. “We may want to consider separate rooms, separate cat boxes, and separate food.”
Jackson grunted. “Definitely separate food. Billy Bob’s fierce. Too much time on his own. He never got enough when he was younger. Doesn’t share. Has trouble playing well with others.”
Ellery’s smile was gentle and luminous. “Bad habits, true,” he conceded. “But I think he can learn.”
Oof. Well, yeah. “If I can, anybody can?” Jackson interpreted.
Ellery tilted his head from side to side, playing coy with the fact that Jackson had voiced his exact intention. “Well, you’ve both learned fixed animals don’t wander,” Ellery said gently.
“No, we do not. Just, you know, takes a lot of work to fix us,” Jackson apologized.
“Not so much.”
And for a moment the pain fell away, and the world was the two of them, and the gentleness they brought to their bed, to their lives, and the way sometimes, when it was only the two of them, the world could be perfect.
“Worth it?” Jackson asked, his heart suddenly pounding for the answer.
“Absolutely.”
And a breath, falling into Ellery’s eyes, and a heartbeat of knowing their love was strong.
And his phone, buzzing on his lap. They broke away reluctantly, and he picked it up.
“Rivers.”
“Burton. He just got off the freeway at J Street, and it’s not looking good. Bus is belching smoke and wobbling on a tire, and he’s driving like he’s about fucking done. Get your shit down there. Ace has a van but we need someone to drive the transpo, if we can find a safe place for him to stop, ’k?”
“’Kk,” Jackson repeated. “How will I know you?”
“When bad guys start dropping dead,” Burton replied and hung up as Ellery started the engine.
And Jackson picked up the phone and started making calls.
By the time he and Ellery hit J Street and hung a right, he had Mira, as well as Sodhi and Pasternak from the DA’s office, hauling ass for Mira’s minivan, as well as Christie in his unmarked, and Henry in Lance’s crapmobile, all headed down J Street, looking for a stuttering group transport.