Chapter 16
He got the text Thursday morning.
The target.
The location.
The time.
The text came from a new number, but that was normal. His handler used burner cell phones, impossible-to-trace throwaways paid for in cash. This was another DC number, a long line of DC numbers, meaningless digits on the screen.
He knew it was authentic, and from his contact, the man who had hired him for this hit, because of the code: 621. Added to the end of all texts and communications, it was an easy way to validate the authenticity of the message, and the sender.
If 621 was in the message, it was legitimate. If not…
Time to pack up and get out of town.
But, finally. After months. From the first phone call, all the way back in Ukraine until now, after all the waiting, the bullshit in DC, living like an immigrant just learning how to bumble his way around bananas and the Metro—
He finally had everything. The who, where, and when.
Only a few days to go.
Chapter 17
June 27th
After an indolent, languorous Saturday morning, Mike and Tom dragged themselves out of bed and took Etta Mae to Georgetown for a late brunch. Etta Mae napped in the shade beneath the patio table as they shared a plate of French toast and held hands beneath the tabletop. It was a budding routine, two weeks in a row. Something they’d begun together, which made it ten times as special.
Nervousness, though, crept up Tom’s throat, strangling his voice. His memories kept skipping back to the little rainbow pyramid advertisement, the one he’d played with the night he thought Mike had ditched him for a date. A date he now knew was just Kris—and, now he knew Kris, too. Could call Kris a friend, albeit a new friend. But still, a friend.
“The, uh…” He swallowed. Mike watched him, frown lines appearing on his face around the edges of his sunglasses. He squeezed Tom’s hand beneath the table. “Pride Month ends this weekend. There’s a march over by the Mall today. This afternoon.”
“I know.”
“Have you ever been?”
“I have. I marched my first year here in DC. Kris and I went together for a while, and then I would go with whoever I was dating at the time.”
Tom inhaled sharply. He chewed on his upper lip.
“Do you want to go?”
“I do. I don’t know if I’m ready to march yet.” He looked down. “The last march I was in was in 1987. It was hard. Things… weren’t great.”
Mike squeezed his hand, hard. “It’s different now. I swear.”
“I know. Everything is so, so different. It’s amazing. It’s just…” He trailed off. “It’s hard to let go of the past. The fear.”
“You lived something I’ll never know. Never fully understand. I never faced that kind of hate, from individuals or from society. I hate that you experienced all that.” Mike’s face screwed up, like he was fighting back his bad temper, a rage that wanted to let loose. His frustration melted a moment later and he laced their fingers together on top of Tom’s thigh. “I’m just happy you’re taking this second chance. On us.”
“This is worth it.”
Another squeeze, and Mike’s slow smile. “So, we’re going to go to the National Mall? Watch the march? It gets real lively in front of the Capitol.”
“Yes. We’re going.” He smiled, and Mike squeezed his hand again. “I don’t think Etta Mae can last all day in the sun.” It was already ninety degrees and only getting hotter.
“Let’s take her home and then head down.”
Home. Mike casually referred to his place as home. It was too early for that, but still… Tom couldn’t stop the smile breaking over his face.
The Pride March was everything and nothing he’d expected.
It was a celebration, like the day on the National Mall when he’d played frisbee with Mike and Kris. Bucket drums banged, cheers roared, songs sang out. Laughter floated on sunbeams, smiles traveled on the wind. Rainbow streamers and balloons and body paint created a moving canvas of light and pride, buoyed by hope, and every happy step of the march was another earthshaking accomplishment on the long, long road of their history.
It was a memorial, a somber reflection on lives loved and lost. Marchers carried posters with blown-up pictures of the faces of loved ones lost too early in life. Men and women, taken too soon by disease or violence. Twenty-six marchers in black, wreathed in white, pink, and blue striped ribbons, carried individual posters with pictures of the trans men and women murdered the year before in the U.S.
Tears flowed in the same space as cheers, as smiles. Wet faces turned up to the sun, people wreathed in rainbows and light doubling over and sobbing, lost in the combined anguish and joy.
It was a moment in time in which everything could be felt: the pride, the joy, the surge of exultation, rage, relief, and empowerment, hand in hand with the loss, the crushing pain of burying too many friends and the million tiny defeats they all felt every day. The curled lips, the snide looks. The sneers. The everyday hate that turned into normalcy, set against the dry victories of legal protections that were supposed to stop all of that, and sometimes actually did.
In 1991, he’d died a thousand different deaths, had seen a million different ways the world could hate him and his people.
Today, he saw a thousand and one dreams that had come true for them all, and a million and one ways in which they had all fought back, and the world had changed for them. Was still changing for them.
And… perhaps the biggest dream he ever dared imagine was standing beside him. He and Mike weren’t holding hands anymore, but Mike stood close enough to press his body against Tom’s shoulder, the curve of his back. Close enough to be there, really be there. He leaned back into Mike’s touch, just a bit.
Tom wanted to clap and he wanted to sob, scream at the top of his lungs in pride, in relief, in crazed, delirious happiness. Look at this! Look at what changed! And, he wanted to sob, collapse to his knees, cling to the grass—the same grass where he’d watched the AIDS quilt be unfolded for the very first time—and try to pull the ghosts of those men from the dirt, rip them back from dead like he could pull up the sun-warmed blades of grass. Do you believe this? he wanted to ask. Do you believe that this is happening, when all the world gave you was silence?
Where were the men who’d chased him and Peter with baseball bats? They hadn’t just disappeared in a cloud of smoke. They didn’t just fade away, a Hollywood movie where the bad guys get what’s coming, and the threads are neatly tied up in the end.
A hand landed on the small of his back, big and warm, even through his t-shirt. Mike shifted, stood behind him, hiding his touch. “It’s hard. I know,” Mike murmured.
“These are our museums. This is our living history. Everything, tangled together.” Tears rolled down Tom’s cheeks, sliding from beneath his sunglasses.
“I’d like to know more about your past. What you saw. What you experienced.” Mike was still speaking quietly into his ear, over his shoulder. “If you want to talk about it.”
“I do. With you.” Tom reached behind his back and covered Mike’s hand with his own. It was a risk, touching Mike so intimately out in the open, but he craved Mike’s touch, everything about him. He took a breath, and then another. “Maybe… next year we can march together?”
Mike squeezed his hand hard, until his own hand trembled. “When you’re ready.”
The march stopped in front of Capitol Hill, turning into a rally. People swarmed into Union Square in front of the U.S. Capitol and surrounded the smaller reflecting pool at the base of the Capitol steps. Maryland and Pennsylvania Ave were closed to traffic, and the marchers turned into street partiers, chanting, beating on their drums, and clapping in time to raucous chants. Tom and Mike followed on the edges and clung to Pennsylvania Ave, watching from the northern edge of the reflecting pool.
“What’s… going on?” Mike shifted, moving from relaxed and at ease to his law enforcement stance, assuming the hypervigilance that his lawman senses demanded. Tom felt it, the shift in Mike behind him, the way the air around him charged. “Why do the marchers all have Russian flags all of a sudden?”
The march had turned into a street rally, and then shifted into a protest in the space of minutes. Russian flags streaked with rainbows, posters of jailed Russian dissidents, chants decrying the Russian political stance against LGBT people. Everyone faced the Capitol, shouting, screaming, beating their drums and waving their flags as loud and proud as they could.
“Oh my God,” Mike breathed. “The Russian president. He’s here in DC. He’s here at the Capitol.”
“Jesus…”
First Street, between Union Square and the Capitol, was permanently closed to civilian traffic, but was used for dignitary travel and VIP motorcades. A line of slick black SUVs sat in front of the Capitol steps, and in the center, two of the SUVs had little Russian flags waving from the front corners of the hood. Men in dark suits stood at posts around the motorcade, glaring at the crowd across the street in Union Square. Uniformed Capitol police and DC Metro police lined the edge of the square, keeping the protestors away from the Russian motorcade. Men and women in FBI jackets waited on the steps, and more men in dark suits with coiled wires leading from their ear kept a tight perimeter around the motorcade.
And then, the crowd erupted, protestors going wild, bellowing at the tops of their lungs. A group of men stood at the top of the Capitol steps, the Speaker of the House of Representatives and the Senate Majority Leader. The minority leaders and the right-hand men and women of the leadership clustered in the background. In the center of the group, the Russian president stood, flanked by a joint team of Secret Service agents and Russian security personnel. Even from a distance, the Secret Service and Russian security personnel looked about as pleased to be working together as two bitterly hateful rivals could be.
“I want to see this.” Mike led Tom through the crowd, getting them closer to the Peace Monument at the northwest corner of the base of the grand steps to the Capitol. White marble seemed to stretch forever, steps to the sky it seemed, a deep, cloudless blue sky painted off the edges of the world behind the Capitol dome. “They’re probably going to pass right by us. Head up Pennsylvania to Constitution and then over to Blair House. Usually foreign dignitaries stay at Blair House, across the street from the White House.” Mike made space for Tom near the planters at the water’s edge of the Peace Monument. Above them, marble statues draped in classical robes hid their faces and sobbed. Grief, one of the women, leaned against the shoulder of History. History, the marble statue staring down the National Mall and over the crowd of Pride protesters, held a stone tablet, inscribed: They died that their country might live.
Tom’s blood ran cold, and a shiver tip-tapped down his spine, the patter of a thousand spiders’ feet sliding down his skin.
The Russian president strode down the long Capitol steps, his security team flanking him in a wide V formation. Secret Service, FBI, Russian security. The U.S. congressional leaders stayed at the top, watching him stride away.
The shouts of the protestors grew louder, rose on the furious beats of the bucket drums and the clap-clap-clap of their chants. A megaphone wielded by a slender man with long blond hair bellowed out the names of gay Russians who had been killed, and others wallowing in prison. An effigy of the Russian president rose on a pole, dressed in a tutu, covered in lipstick kisses and holding a rainbow flag in both of his puppet hands. The crowd roared. Tom’s molars vibrated, even through his clenched teeth.
Police sirens whined, chirping on and belting out the harsh warning beep-beep-beep. DC Metro police on motorcycles revved their engines, waiting for the Russian president to enter the motorcade and be hurried away. The frenzy, the roar of the crowd, the strain of the motorcade—the passion in the air was thick as lead. Only a diamond blade could cut through this tension.
As if mocking them, the Russian president stopped a third of the way from the base of the Capitol steps and waved to the protestors, a political kind of fuck you. He waved and waved, and the protestors roared. Bellowed. Held up their rainbow flags and signs and posters, saying fuck you right back. The man on the megaphone screeched in blistering Russian. Men in the Russian president’s security team all shifted, heads swiveling, and stared the protestor down.
A crack split the air.
The effigy of the Russian president fell, as if his string had been cut from the pole holding him aloft. Stunned silence covered the protestors for a half-second.
A second crack, like a far-off cannon, somewhere to the north.
The Russian president crumpled to the steps of the Capitol.
Instantly, a tight circle formed around the Russian president, collapsed, not moving. Russian security threw themselves over him as Secret Service agents stood shoulder to shoulder with their Russian counterparts. FBI agents ducked low and formed a wagon wheel around the inner circle. Everyone had their weapons out, up, ready to fire. Above, the U.S. congressional leadership had already been hustled back into the Capitol.
Another crack, and then another. A fifth. Sixth. Seventh.
A Secret Service agent fell. A Russian security man. Another Secret Service agent, landing face first and sliding down the steps, limp and boneless.
Screams rose, different than the protest chants. Shouts of horror, of shock.
The cluster of agents around the fallen Russian president hefted him into their arms, folded over his body, and raced for the motorcade. They looked like a horde of barbarians running with a battering ram, except the battering ram was the Russian president, shot on U.S. soil on the steps of the Capitol, and the barbarians were being picked off one by one. Another Secret Service agent fell, staggering, tripping and falling, blood pouring from his neck and down the steps. The rest of the agents stepped over his body, racing the Russian president down to the SUV.
A line of blood, a crimson ribbon, appeared behind them, a stream that trailed behind the Russian president all the way to the motorcade.
The motorcade roared, burning rubber and screeching away as the protestors fled, scrambling and shrieking as the reality of what was happening sank in.
Blood stained the Capitol steps, and the bodies of four men lay in the sun, pools of ruby growing beneath their still forms. FBI agents raced to their fallen comrades, hustled down the steps, moved to close off the Capitol, the park, the square. Sirens rose all over the city.
Mike pulled Tom close, ducking them down as low as he could beside a planter filled with summer flowers. “Shooter.” His voice was hard, taut. “Sniper.”
“From where?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know.” He shifted, putting himself in front of Tom and pressing Tom almost into the planter, as if he could merge him with the concrete and hide Tom in the stone. “Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. I have to get you out of here.”
“The Russian president? Is he…”
Again, Mike shook his head. “Dunno. Looks fucking bad.”
Tom tried to look over the planter, tried to look back at the Capitol, but Mike grabbed him and turned him away. “Don’t look, Tom. You don’t need to see that.” Mike’s voice shook, trembling. His hands were warm where he grabbed Tom’s face, held him a little roughly.
But he had, he’d already seen. A kaleidoscope of death, of nightmares, of terror. Dead bodies sprawled in the sun, blood on the Capitol steps, rivers of it running down the marble like Slinkys racing for the bottom.
Tom turned his face into Mike’s shoulder and screamed.
Chapter 18
Mike walked Tom into the house and led him to the kitchen, physically putting him into one of his kitchen chairs. Etta Mae, oblivious to the tectonic shift in reality, scampered to them both, leaping up and putting her front paws in Tom’s lap.
Tom buried his face in Etta Mae’s neck.
The TV winked on, news blaring. Every channel was covering the shooting, the attack on the Capitol. News anchors stammered through what they knew, tried to interview bystanders and witnesses. Cameras panned over the Capitol steps, the bloodstains, the FBI agents scurrying like ants over every square inch. DC Metro police units raced up and down DC streets. Manhunt for shooter, the crawl screamed in capital letters. Search for DC Capitol Sniper Ongoing.
A glass of water appeared on the table in front of him. Mike crouched between his knees, beside Etta Mae. He reached for Tom, cupping his cheek. “I have to go. I’m getting called in. All-hands-on-deck for this search.”
Tom nodded. “I know.” His voice didn’t shake, and he was absurdly proud of that. He leaned into Mike’s touch and closed his eyes. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” Mike didn’t hesitate. “Promise me you will stay inside. Lock all the doors. All the windows. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
“Except you.”
“Stay inside. Stay safe. Whoever did this is on the run or in hiding, and as we close in on them, they might try to flee. Escape and hide. Take a hostage.” Mike’s thumb ran over Tom’s cheek. “Stay here with Etta Mae. Go upstairs. Watch the news in bed.”
Tom nodded again. “I will. Will you let me know you’re okay? When you can?”
“We’ll be moving fast, but I’ll text you. I promise.” Mike leaned in, kissed him hard, holding his face gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he breathed against Tom’s lips. “We’ll get this asshole.”
Tom pulled out his keys from his pocket and removed his house key from the ring. He had a spare he’d thought about giving Mike, but now he’d just put that one on his own ring. Tom pressed it into Mike’s hands. “Go get him and them come back to me.” Tom kissed him once, twice. “Go. They need you.”
Mike palmed the key, kissed his forehead, lingered, and then rose. There was nothing more to say, and he hustled out of Tom’s house as he pulled out his cell. He dialed as he shut the door, and Tom heard the heavy slide of the deadbolt a second after he left.
And then Tom was alone, left with the blaring TV, the shaking voices of the anchors, and the images that played on an endless loop. White marble, red blood, blue sky.
And when he closed his eyes, he saw the fallen bodies, their limbs sprawled across the steps like broken rag dolls.
He did what Mike said, went upstairs with Etta Mae and crawled into bed. His sheets smelled like Mike.
The TV in his bedroom played the news as he held the pillow Mike had slept on to his chest. Mike’s scent calmed him, and he buried his nose in the pillow as he watched the cascading news reports. A battalion of news organizations camped outside George Washington University Hospital, waiting for any update on the Russian president, rushed into surgery. The hospital might have been a vault for all the news that leaked out.
Mike texted throughout the afternoon, the evening.
[Search closing in on Penn Quarter and Federal Triangle]
[Forensics suggest Penn quarter. Bullet from one of fallen USSS agents shows trajectory.]
[Gearing up for house-to-house search.]
Stay safe he texted back. God, stay safe, Mike.
President McDonough addressed the nation, speaking about the fallen Secret Service agents, and the fallen Russian security man. “We have lost great men today, men who gave their lives in service of their country. Men who represent the greatest values of the American spirit: bravery, fidelity, and a commitment to their fellow man.”
Noticeably absent was any mention of the Russian president.
At six-thirty-three PM, the Russian ambassador called a press conference on the steps of George Washington University Hospital.
“I can confirm,” he said in his slow, rumbling voice, his accent grating, “that Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev has survived this horrific assassination attempt. He is in critical condition, but will recover. Our president is too strong to die.”
He swallowed and glared into the cameras. “The Russian Federation immediately demands a full investigation into this heinous crime. How has the Russian president been attacked on United States soil, on the steps of the United States Capitol? This supposed shining beacon of freedom has brought about the world’s greatest political crime. We demand an international investigation into this incident, before the United States covers up what truly occurred today.” He took no questions, and strode back into the hospital.
Tom exhaled slowly and clutched Mike’s pillow tighter.
News broke an hour later that cordons of joint task team members had surrounded a neighborhood in Penn Quarter. Residents in their condos had been evacuated, and SWAT teams from DC Metro, HRT from the FBI, and Special Operations teams from the U.S. Marshals, Secret Service, ATF, and others were swooping in from all sides. The news anchors hedged their reporting, not wanting to reveal the exact specifics of the operation.
Tom squeezed his phone, buried his chin in the pillow, and stopped blinking. His eyes watered, but he couldn’t look away.
Just before nine PM, the breaking news alert blared, and the screen violently shifted, veering to a helicopter’s perspective hovering over DC’s downtown, Penn Quarter. Law enforcement agents, geared up in full tactical gear, swarmed up and down an alley between a tall condominium building and a bank.
DC Sniper Caught.
The anchors stumbled over themselves, trying to blurt out the news first. The DC sniper had been penned in, an anonymous tip coming in just after the shooting that pinpointed the source of the shots. DC Metro police blockaded the neighborhood, cutting off his escape as the task force built a perimeter. The sniper tried to flee through connected buildings, but was cut off at all exits. He tried to disappear down the side of a building into a dark alley and was confronted by a phalanx of avenging law enforcement officials.
Tom held his breath. Secret Service agents had been killed, members of DC’s, and the nation’s, law enforcement community. He’d seen it all in his time as AUSA, including the retribution unleashed upon a criminal who had hurt one of law enforcement’s own. Anyone who hurt a federal agent or officer had a low, low chance of coming out of a search and arrest alive.
But, the news kept coming in. DC Sniper Arrested Alive. DC Sniper Injured. Expected to Recover. Sniper Rifle Recovered. Law Enforcement Has Found the Location of Shots Fired.
At eleven PM, Dylan Ballard, the United States Attorney for the DC Federal District, Tom’s former boss, came on camera outside of FBI headquarters. There were too many production lights set up, the news crews from twenty different organizations each setting out their light boxes and trying to burn away the night. Ballard looked washed out, wan. Maybe he really was. His tie was just a bit askew, his hair cowlicked at the back. Tom had never seen him so out of sorts.
A swarm of FBI agents and DC police officers surrounded Ballard. He was the hero of DC and federal law enforcement. He’d always been their man, the United States Attorney who dug in and turned the screws on the bad guys. No mercy. Ever. Of course they would back him up, surround him for this moment. Give him all their support.
Ballard read from a sheet he held just out of sight of the cameras. He’d always prided himself on his ability to speak extemporaneously, to skewer witnesses and reporters alike. Now, he read from a statement? Tom leaned forward, unconsciously, and held his breath.
“We have, at this time, definitively identified the DC Sniper as thirty-two-year-old Bulat Desheriyev, a Chechen national and a citizen of Russia. Mr. Desheriyev entered the United States on a B-2 tourist visa approximately three months ago. He appears to have settled into the Chevy Chase neighborhood in ward three, Washington DC. He does not appear to have secured employment. At this time, we believe he came to the United States for the sole purpose of carrying out these murders.”
Ballard paused, took a careful breath. Reporters hung on his every word. Cameras snapped, and flashbulbs washed out his face, made him look like a ghost. “We consider this to be an act of terrorism.” He looked straight into the cameras. “I can confirm that Mr. Desheriyev is in stable condition following his arrest. I cannot confirm any further information at this time and I will take no questions. Thank you.”
Ballard turned away from the cameras and disappeared into the law enforcement agents and officers behind him. They formed an impenetrable wall, staring down the reporters and the cameras and the flashing lights, stalwart in the face of the media’s shouted questions. Ballard strode into FBI headquarters, tucking his speech into his suit jacket pocket.
It hit Tom all at once, a massive sledgehammer to his chest. He couldn’t breathe, and the world went sideways, blurred out as his brain suddenly clenched, pain striking him every which way.
There was going to be a trial. Jesus Christ, there was going to be a trial, held on the world’s stage in his courthouse. A quadruple homicide, an attempted assassination of a foreign leader, an act of terror in the nation’s capital. Jurisdiction was unquestionably the Department of Justice and the DC federal court. A quadruple homicide and an assassination attempt as acts of terror opened the doors for capital murder charges. The death penalty. With relations between Russia and the U.S. at an all-time low, and now the Russian president’s blood staining the Capitol steps, this trial had the potential to define U.S.-Russian relations for decades to come, and global security, global stability in the world order. The whole world would be watching the United States, and this trial, a billion eyeballs watching and weighing his court’s actions every second of every day.
And he had a one-in-fifteen chance of being the presiding judge.
Something chewed on the base of his skull, a warning, a whisper of fear wreathed in caution. The world was going to turn to his court now, the eye of the global media fixed squarely on him and his fellow judges.
What now, with him and Mike? He’d wanted to stay quiet, stay concealed, at least for a little while. Come out slowly, safely. Away from the public eye.
But the public was coming, hordes and hordes of eyeballs that were going to tear apart his closet, put him and the rest of the court under the magnifying glass, burn them away like ants in the sun.
Slowly, Tom sank into the bed, clinging to Mike’s pillow as he pitched to his side.
Mike texted just after midnight, telling him he’d be out all night working with the task force to try and chase down as many leads as they could. Desheriyev hadn’t acted alone. His cell had texts on it from a handler. They needed to keep searching for Desheriyev’s handler, his co-conspirator. Follow the trail and see how large this terror cell was.
Stay safe, Mike. Are you coming here when you leave?
[I’d like to. Is that okay?]
Please come.
[Give Etta Mae a kiss for me. Try and get some rest.]
I’ll sleep better when you’re back.
But Mike didn’t come back, and Tom fell asleep with the TV still on, just after two in the morning.
He woke with his face smashed in Mike’s pillow and his cell phone ringing. He answered before his blurry gaze focused on the caller ID.
“Mike?”
Silence. “Tom, it’s Dana Juarez.”
Shit. Judge Juarez. His fellow federal judge. “Hi, Dana. How are you?”
“As well as can be.” She sighed heavily. “I got a call from Clarence.” Chief Judge Fink, to Tom. “He wants us all to come in. We need to prepare for this.”
Prepare for this. For the trial of the millennium. It was coming, a hurricane that was bearing down on them all. “All right. I’ll get dressed and head downtown.”
“We were told DC police are providing extra security around the courthouse. Have you heard anything from the marshals?”
His stomach clenched, a fist tightening in his belly. “From the marshals?”
“You seem close to Inspector Lucciano.” Judge Juarez spoke carefully, softly.
He swallowed. “Just friendly at work.”
She was quiet again. The phone line scratched, like she had sighed away from the microphone. “I’m driving into DC in an hour, Tom. Do you want me to pick you up on the way?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He showered and dressed and fed Etta Mae, taking her out to the backyard as he texted Mike. Going to the courthouse. Fink called everyone in.
[Don’t take the Metro. I can get PD to pick you up.]
Juarez is swinging by and we’re driving in together. How are you?
[Processing his house in Chevy Chase.]
Tom exhaled slowly. Processing the scene. Building evidence. Building a case. Don’t run yourself ragged.
[I’ve got a few more hours in me.]
Tom watched Etta Mae sniff the roses, the planter bed. His cell buzzed again. [I’ll see you soon. Miss you.]
I miss you too.
No more texts. Mike must be back at work. He curled over his lap, holding his phone in both hands, the case pressed against his forehead. What had Judge Juarez meant when she said she thought he and Mike were close? Did she suspect something? Or had she just seen them going to lunch together? What did it mean? God, he was going to second-guess himself to death. Anxiety rose inside him like bile, burning his throat.
Judge Juarez called him when she pulled up, and he gave Etta Mae a kiss and then ran out the door, grabbing his briefcase on the way. They didn’t speak on the drive downtown. Judge Juarez had the radio on, the news continuing in an endless stream of updates and speculation on what came next.
They had to show identification blocks away from the courthouse, and then were escorted through two separate police barricades by a uniformed DC patrol car. Armed guards with automatic rifles stood post outside the courthouse.
“Welcome to the bench of the DC federal court, Tom,” Judge Juarez said as she slid her car into the underground garage. Darkness wreathed them in shadows. “As judges, we have to preside over the biggest investigations on the planet. And, we’re all on the world stage with this one.”
His heart hammered, a furious, racing rhythm. “I feel for the judge who’s going to get this case.”
“We’ll find out soon. Clarence called us all in to make the assignment.”
Everyone met in Chief Judge Clarence Fink’s chambers. As Chief Judge, he had the panoramic chambers at the top of the glass-walled silo on the southern end of the Annex. He had a picture-postcard view of the National Mall and of the Capitol. Standing in Fink’s chambers, they were only a hundred feet away from where he and Mike had watched the shooting unfold, the murder and assassination attempt. There was Grief, hiding her marble face against the stone shoulder of History, almost the exact position he’d ended up with Mike, burying his face in Mike’s shoulder as he screamed. The helplessness, the crippling fear he’d felt. What had happened? Where were the shots coming from? He still felt like he was huddled beneath the statue, but Mike wasn’t there to shield him anymore. He was adrift.
Fink’s chambers were massive, the entirety of the top floor of the south-facing rotunda. Sunlight bled into the office, casting every judge’s face into harsh angles and half shadows. He’d been on the DC federal bench for a little over a year, but he didn’t know all his colleagues. Most he knew by name only and their reputation in the papers. There was Judge Bonham, the favorite contender for the next opening on the Supreme Court. Judge Walsh, a surly, cantankerous man who was as harsh as Fink. Judge Tonya King nodded at him from her seat at Fink’s long conference table, and Judge Juarez sat beside him.
Fink, looking every one of his ninety-six years, sat hunched at the head of his table. Without the black robes, he seemed smaller, a diminutive version of the lion that presided over his courtroom and roared from the bench. He seemed no stronger than a kitten, dressed in his plaid button-down and loose khakis.
Everyone shut up as he leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. The soft chatter of the room died, instantly drying up. Fink breathed in, his breath rasping over his flypaper-thin lips. “A terrible thing has happened,” he began. “A damn terrible tragedy.”
Fink rubbed his thin lips together, looking down at the conference table and shaking his head. He seemed weary, weary of the world and the weight of history. His voice was tired, an old man’s weight in his words, wound through his southern drawl. “I’ve received word from the United States Attorney that Mr. Desheriyev will be brought for arraignment tomorrow morning.”
Silence. Tom shared a look with Judge Juarez.
“I’ve also received a call from the White House. The president is committing massive resources to this trial. He is very, very interested in this case being resolved. He impressed upon me the importance of the trial being concluded as fast as possible. Russia, and the whole world, will be watching this. Watching us.” A drop of spit flew from Fink’s lips, spattering on the mahogany table. “Somehow, this man breached our security and attacked the heart of our nation. Three of our people are dead, and one Russian security agent. The Russian president is being evacuated out of the country tonight.” Fink sighed, and it sounded like he was breathing out every breath he’d ever taken. “I don’t have to remind you that the United States and Russia haven’t been the best of friends lately. This just makes matters worse.”
Only the tick-tock of Fink’s mantel clock sounded through his chambers. Sunlight streamed behind them, illuminating the crime scene on the Capitol steps. Yellow tape fluttered on the breeze and sealed off the west Capitol, the steps, Union Square Park. FBI agents processed the scene, moving between bloodstains and yellow evidence markers.
“I called everyone here to assign this trial. It will be assigned like all trials, randomly.”
In the old days, the clerk of the court would spin a metal cage like a hamster wheel, and balls representing the ranked numbers of the judges would spin and spin. One would pop out, just like a bingo game, and that would be the judge selected. Now, everything was done electronically, bytes and bits that randomly selected each judge for each trial.
“I am recusing myself from this trial. At my age, I don’t buy green bananas.” Fink tried to smile.
No one else did.
“I can’t promise I can see this trial through to the end, and we need a stable, steady hand in this case. Someone who can keep the whole case organized. Keep the courtroom in line. Who can stand up under the intense worldwide scrutiny. This will be the case of one of your lifetimes. You won’t have a larger trial in your career. I swear to God.”
Jesus, Tom did not envy the judge who got this trial. Any of them would hate it, the exposure, the evisceration in the global media. Well, maybe not Bonham. Something like this would only increase his visibility for the Supreme Court. Tom’s palms itched and cold sweat beaded down his back. He smelled fear.
Fink rose and shuffled to the clerk of the court’s laptop sitting on his desk, and the computer program open that would randomly assign judges. All he had to do was hit enter and the program would cycle. A number would pop up, center of the screen, the ranked number for a judge. This time, it would be anyone from two to fifteen. Number one, Chief Judge Fink, wouldn’t be in the selection pool.
“Whoever gets this trial, we’re all in it together. We’ll take your cases that can be transferred so you can focus on this trial. We will all help you, you unlucky bastard. Godspeed, everyone.”
Fink hit enter.
The computer whirred.
The screen flashed.
Giant numerals appeared, screaming from the center of the screen.
15.
All eyes flicked to Tom. Judge Juarez’s thin hand reached for his, under the table.
Number fifteen—the newest judge to the DC federal bench, the baby judge—was him.
Chapter 19
“What the fuck?” Ballard burst into Chief Judge Fink’s chambers, slamming the double mahogany doors against the wooden paneling. “How the fuck did Brewer get this trial?”
Fink rose at the head of his conference table, staring Ballard down.
Ballard’s jaw snapped shut. He stormed into Fink’s chambers, dropping his briefcase beside the conference table and slamming his padfolio on the dark wooden surface as he sat. He refused to look across the table, at Tom.
Tom had his head in his hands, staring at the polished, mirrored surface. The rest of the judges had left, filing out in silence after the assignment was made. Some looked at him with pity. Others never gave him a second glance, running from Tom like they could escape the whole messy situation. Fink had collapsed into his seat at the conference table with a long, bone-rattling sigh.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t put two and two together. Could not string neurons into a coherent thought. Blind panic had replaced all higher order functions. Pure, unadulterated panic.
This was everything he’d ever feared. Exposure, media evisceration, millions of eyeballs poring over his life, his every moment, following him everywhere he went. Fears fell like drenching rain, and he tried to swim out of the rising tide before he drowned. Mike, the choices he’d started making, planning for his eventual coming out. Kissing Mike two days ago at the volleyball game. Being introduced as ‘Mike’s new man’ at the bar. Jesus, Silvio had been there, and if there was someone who would gleefully tarnish his reputation, Tom would put money on Silvio’s haughty features. Their walk in Rock Creek Park, the dinner dates, kissing in front of Eric. Choices he’d thought were measured, were careful risks, a planned, slow path to coming out.
All of that, everything he’d hoped for, everything he’d planned, every careful step he’d agonized over, was going up in smoke.
Ballard flipped open his padfolio across the table. His teeth ground together. “You know the Russians are evacuating their president out of Andrews Air Force base tonight. They are also talking about pulling out all Russian security agents and reducing their embassy staff down to essential personnel only.”
“Jesus,” Fink murmured.
“A foreign leader was nearly assassinated on our soil, and a Russian member of his security team was murdered, along with three of our Secret Service agents. The FBI, Secret Service, and CIA are reaching out to the FSB, the Russian state security service, to try and coordinate investigations. Lucas Barnes at the FBI has already set up a joint command post out of FBI HQ.”
Lucas Barnes. Tom knew that name. He’d worked with him in the past. Barnes was a solid FBI agent, and he’d moved up the ranks quickly. Last he’d heard, he was a senior agent running a counterterrorism team out of the FBI’s special operations unit at headquarters. He was a big gun, brought in for the big cases.
“Desheriyev is awake. He’s not talking at the moment. I’m getting ready to go to the hospital.”
“What are you authorized to offer?” Again, Fink spoke, asking the questions that Tom should be thinking about.
Ballard glared hard at Tom. “The White House has authorized me to offer to take the death penalty off the table. We want this son of a bitch to pay, but we want his handler and the rest of the cell even more than that. We need to know what he knows.”
Fink nodded, but said nothing.
Silence. Ballard shifted. Threw down his pen. Leaned forward, lacing his hands together on the tabletop. “So, Brewer. I assume you’re going to give this guy all the benefits in the world. Gonna agree to the defense motion that he’s insane, or too shocked and shaken by police brutality to stand trial? Roll out the feather bed for him—”
“All right, that’s enough—” Fink tried to regain control.
“This is going to be your chance to parade in front of the cameras, show off how much you despise law enforcement—”
“How dare you,” Tom hissed. His teeth clenched, and he glared back at Ballard. “I do not despise—”
“You’re a fucking bleeding-heart, Brewer! You’re a defendant’s wet dream!”
“I don’t violate the law, and I respect due process! Unlike you!”
Ballard pointed his finger at Tom. “I warned the White House about you. They are very concerned. You are the wrong judge for this trial. There’s no room for your bullshit, your bleeding heart, and the way you jerk off all your defendants.”
“I am a federal judge, Ballard. You will speak to me with respect.”
Ballard stood, slamming his chair against the conference table. “You have no fucking business being a judge. And I’m going to prove it.”
He retreated to his office after Ballard stormed out. Fink hadn’t said a word, just stared at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Ballard and Fink were close, and Ballard had a one hundred percent conviction rate in Fink’s courtroom.
If Ballard knew he’d been assigned, then the whole U.S. Attorney’s Office knew, too. Ballard would explode, venting his rage on anyone who would listen. And, in minutes, the news would leak to the press. Maybe it already had.
Swallowing, Tom turned on his computer. Opened the internet browser, and went to CNN.
It was all over the front page. His photo, the one that had been taken after his appointment to the federal bench, when he had a giant smile and thought his appointment was the most amazing, unexpected thing that could happen to him in his life. His name, right above a shout line that screamed: Judge Tom Brewer to Preside Over DC Sniper Trial. Who is Judge Brewer? Sub-headlines, bullets about his grades in law school, his nineteen years as an Assistant U.S. Attorney. The media was already starting to dig, excavate through his life.
Jesus, they were going to sit outside his house.
Where was Mike?
He fumbled for his cell phone, his thoughts coalescing to a single point. Mike. Mike. Mike.
Where are you?
[Your place. Was sleeping. Everything okay?]
Turn on the news.
He waited.
[Oh my God. Tom…]
Are reporters at the house yet?
[Let me check.]
[Shit, they are. There are two news vans outside. Fuck!]
He was going to be sick. Reporters were outside his house and Mike was in his bed. He could see it now: Judge in DC Sniper Case Hiding Gay Affair, Sleeping with U.S. Marshal.
Tom scrambled, fell to his knees, and dragged the black plastic trash bin out from under his desk. He hurled, coughing as he spat into the bin.
His cell phone, on the carpet by his knee, rang. It was Mike.
“Mike?” God, his voice was wrecked, thin and cracked through the middle. He coughed again.
“Tom… Jesus Christ…” Mike sounded no better. “Shit.”
“What do we do?”
Mike took a breath, and then another. “I’m going to stay here for a little while. You stay at the courthouse. I’ll leave, and I’ll act like I was here in an official capacity. Securing your premises. And I will. I’ll lock everything up, shutter the windows. Keep them from getting in, or seeing in.”
“Okay.” What then? Was he never going to see Mike again? Would they have to stop this, stop dating before they’d even really begun? For how long? Who knew how long a case like this would last? It could drag on for months and months. Or, go very quickly, depending on how hard Ballard pressed. “Mike… What happens now?”
“I need to make some calls. Winters, Villegas… Headquarters.” Mike was spinning through his options, Tom could tell. He could practically see Mike in his own mind, imagine him thinking out loud. Was he sitting on the edge of Tom’s bed? Was his hair rumpled, sticking up on one side? What was he wearing?
He wished, more than anything else, that he was there, right beside Mike, and all of this was just a nightmare he was going to wake up from.
Mike kept talking. “We need to go into emergency operations. Provide personal protection for you. Maybe even relocate you for a little while. Get the media off your back. And we need to do a threat assessment. This is a terrorism trial, and we haven’t found everyone in the cell. What about retribution? What about—”
He was going to be sick again. Tom dropped the phone and clutched the trash bin, coughing up nothing but bile. He heard Mike shouting his name from the phone, small and tinny, like he was a million miles away.
“I’m okay.” He coughed.
“Tom…”
“Are you coming to the courthouse?”
“Yes. Stay there. I’ll call Winters and we’ll both come in. I’ll find you.”
He nodded, swallowing. “Mike… Do you think… Do you think anyone will find out about Friday?” The volleyball game, his kiss to Mike’s lips in public. The bar afterward, so many men saying hello to him. Him being shown off like a gay debutante being introduced to the world.
Mike sighed. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I… don’t think so. We protect our own. You’re not the only closeted politician in this town.”
He closed his eyes. “I need you.”
“I’m here. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you, Tom.” Mike sniffed. “Let me make some calls. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Mike practically vibrated as he blew into Winters’s command office on the first floor of the old courthouse. He and Villegas had offices in the Annex, and Winters officed in the marshals’ command post in the Prettyman Courthouse proper, between the FISA courtrooms and the grand opulence of the main justice hall.
Villegas had beaten him in, and he sat in one of the leather club chairs before Winters’s desk, leaning back in jeans and his polo with his legs crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Mike, fresh from Tom’s shower, wearing clothes he thought he would be wearing with Tom on a hike around Teddy Roosevelt Island, went from zero to sixty in a half-heartbeat. “What the fuck are you so chill about, Villegas?”
Villegas scowled, his eyebrows shooting sky-high. “What the fuck?”
Winters eyeballed them both, his deep eyes glaring holes in both men. Winters was a big man, tall and powerfully built. He was a man of a thousand words ever spoken in his life, someone who said as much with his weighty silence as he did with his deep, rumbling voice. He was one of the first black men to lead a team of judicial security inspectors, and rumor put him as being the next name on the list for being the head of their agency. “Lucciano. Take a seat.”
“We need to get To—Judge Brewer into personal protection right away.”
Winters’s eyebrows rose, slowly.
“Tom? Are you on a first name basis with this guy now?” Villegas sneered.
“His name is all over the internet. The media is camping outside his house already.” Mike ignored Villegas. “We don’t even have the full cell captured. The fucking media is throwing his name around. Goddamn irresponsible assholes.”
“You’re pretty worked up about this—”
“Yeah, I’m fucking worked up! I protect my judges!” Mike turned to Villegas, squaring his shoulders.
“Your judges?” Villegas dropped his nonchalant attitude and rose, facing Mike. “All right, what the fuck is going on? First you demand to take Brewer’s case from me and now this? Have you crossed the line, Lucciano?”
“Crossed the line?”
“You’re gay. You’re attracted to men, and now you’re all up in this judge’s business! Are you going after his dick?”
“You motherfucker—” Mike lunged. Villegas sidestepped, falling back and bringing his fists up.
“Enough!” Winters’s bellow was loud enough to shake the walls. Mike and Villegas froze. “This is not the behavior I expect from my JSIs. Both of you are way out of line.”
Villegas and Mike faced Winters stiffly, almost at attention.
“Lucciano. I’ve spoken with headquarters. We concur with your assessment that Judge Brewer will need extra protection, beginning immediately.” He handed over a manila folder, but didn’t let go when Mike reached for it. “I expect you to conduct yourself above reproach, Inspector Lucciano.”
“Yes. Sir.” Mike let a little daylight between the two words, a pause that was just a half beat off disrespectful. He stormed out of the office, glaring at Villegas.
“Inspector Villegas,” Winters growled. “That was uncalled for.”
“Sir, there’s something fucked-up going on.” Villegas pointed at the door, and Mike’s exit. “He’s hiding something. I swear to God.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“My gut tells me it’s true.”
“Your gut isn’t good enough here, Villegas. You know that, better than anyone. Don’t make accusations you can’t back up with solid evidence. You’re already asking for a write-up and a visit from HR.”
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, stripped, 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.
Tom unclipped Etta Mae’s leash as the door opened. She trotted inside, her tail wagging, and made a beeline for the living room and the piles of boxes, his kitchen crap still strewn everywhere. His kitchen was bare concrete flooring and stripped walls, a tarp-covered sink and fridge. He had ducked under the tarp to the fridge enough times that there was a permanent cave opening to it. A stack of paper plates and plastic forks sat on his end table.
“Sorry for the mess. The kitchen is still a disaster zone.” Tom smiled weakly. “Let me show you to the bedroom.”
He took Tom back to his bedroom, setting the duffels in a line by the door and hanging Tom’s garment bag next to his own suits in his cramped walk-in closet. His place was smaller than Tom’s, much, much smaller, and older. He’d done what he could with it, adding trim and drapes and painting the walls, but it still looked like a cheap condo next to Tom’s stately Victorian. His bed took up most of the master bedroom. He didn’t have a stylish sitting area and a chaise lounge beneath a window in his bedroom. He had a cheap full-length mirror from Ikea and two cherry nightstands beside his sleigh bed. A simple chest along the wall, with blankets for winter and a few toys tucked deep in the bottom. “It’s not much.”
Tom sat on the edge of his bed and leaned over, scrubbing his face. The garnet bedspread made his pale skin glow against the rich fabric.
“I can sleep on the couch. We don’t have to—”
“Mike. Please.” Tom’s voice pleaded with him, pulled at his heart. “I’m trying to hold it together. Please. Just…”
“Just what? Anything, Tom. Whatever you need. I’ll give it to you.”
Tom closed his eyes and held his hands up, as if he was praying. He pressed his lips to the sides of his fingers. “I am being shredded apart.” He barely spoke, practically whispered. “As a judge, my entire professional life, my career, will be in this trial. I will be on trial just as much as Desheriyev. Every word I speak, every decision I make, every moment of the trial that I direct will be dissected around the world. My history, my legal philosophy, every choice I’ve ever made. All of it, under the microscope. My obituary will start, ‘The judge who presided over the DC Sniper trial’.” His eyes opened, and he stared at Mike’s floor, at the hardwood and the throw rug he’d bought last year. “I have to pour everything I am into this. I need to be above reproach. I need to evict all the skeletons in my closet. I need to be a paragon of justice. They’re going to dig and dig and dig into me. If they find anything, any scrap of untoward behavior, any suggestion of scandal, my entire character will be tossed in the garbage. You have one chance in the media. They will brand you for life if they dig something up. And now, with these stakes? The world may hang in the balance. The United States and Russia. God, this could lead to war.”
And here it is. Mike nodded slowly. Goodbye. The end. Life was cruel. Maybe if they survived this trial they could try again. If he played it cool. If he didn’t make Tom feel like shit. If he sacrificed his heart and put the world and the trial and everything else first, like Tom was going to have to do.
Tom kept speaking, shaking his head behind his clasped hands. “But, as a man, I finally found what I’ve been yearning for my whole life.” His eyes flicked to Mike’s, wet and shining. “I found you, and everything in my life seemed to click into place. I want that, Mike. I want volleyball and Rock Creek Park, and I want to hold hands with you on the street. I want to live. I want to be me.” He sniffed deeply, inhaling, trying to stop the trembles that settled over his body. He bowed his shoulders, and his spine stuck out of his shirt, knobs that paraded down his back. “Why does one half of me always have to be sacrificed for the other?”
Mike moved, ripping free from the freeze that had settled over him. He sat beside Tom, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other around Tom’s clasped hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you, through this whole thing. I support you, and I get it. I don’t like it, I hate it, and I hate that the world does this. But I get it. And… Tom, I swear, I’m here for the long haul. Through it all. So I’ll wait for you, and this trial.”
“I don’t want to wait.” Tom turned into him, reaching for him. “I don’t want to sacrifice. I don’t want to give in, again, to the world. I don’t want to be an arm’s length away from you through this. I want you by my side. You and me—us—who we are, what we’re building? That’s not less important than this trial. It’s the other half of my life, Mike.”
Jesus. No one had ever said Mike was worth so much to him. His throat clenched, and he blinked fast, struggling for control. “Anything you want. Anything you need,” he choked out.
“That’s one and the same: you.” Tom’s control fell at the same moment Mike’s did, and they met in the middle, a kiss stained by falling tears, salty lips pressing together over and over again. Mike held him close, cupping his face, kissing every millimeter of his lips. Tom held his wrists, thumbs stroking over his pulse. They fell back, crawling into each other’s arms as their tears mixed and merged and their kiss stretched on and on.
Mike ordered Thai for delivery and got Tom set up on his WiFi. They sat side by side in Mike’s bed, leaning against his headboard, and worked on their laptops as the TV on the wall murmured softly, tuned to CNN.
“I have to send in daily reports to Winters. Some parts are vaguer than others.”
Tom stared at him. “You’re risking a lot having me here.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me to come out and tell Winters we were dating. And there was no way I was letting Villegas run lead on this.”
“I’m being selfish, telling you we’re staying together through the trial.” Tom frowned. “I didn’t even ask what you wanted.”
“You. Safe, happy, smiling. And in my arms every night.”
Tom finally smiled, and he rested his head against Mike’s, his forehead on Mike’s temple.
The breaking news jingle burbled over Mike’s bedroom, and they both looked up at the vivid splash of color and the smear of red blazing from the flat screen. “Breaking news from Moscow,” the anchor droned. “President Dimitry Vasiliev has landed in Russia and is addressing the nation.”
It wasn’t even dawn yet in Moscow, still the bitter early hours of the morning, but Muscovites had flooded the streets, thronged around the airport and the walls of the Kremlin, waving Russian flags and chanting Vasiliev’s name. The crowd around the U.S. embassy had also steadily grown. Bricks were starting to fly at the gates, and at the Marine guards.
The camera feed cut to Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev. He stood tall, though his face was wan, skeletally pale. One arm was in a sling, and massive bandages were wrapped around his shoulder and down to his elbow. He had on a button-down, but clearly, one arm had been cut away, the edges tucked into the bandages encasing his right shoulder and slung arm. Dark circles smudged the deep canyons beneath his eyes.
“My friends!” President Vasiliev cried in Russian. A translator spoke over his rumbling voice. “I am so glad to return to my homeland in one piece. To land here and see all your smiling faces is the best gift that a president can ever receive.” He stopped, taking in a slow breath. Vasiliev was pulling a Reagan, making a speech to his people to soothe their nerves, even though he was barely able to stand. “The American devils, those demons of the West, tried their best to strike me down. But their dogs were not strong enough to touch Russia’s beating heart.”
Cheers rose, wails and bellows from the crowd around Vasiliev, speaking from a hastily-erected podium at the base of his presidential jet.
“It wasn’t an American who shot him,” Tom murmured. “Does he not know that we have the shooter? And that he’s Russian?”
“Chechen.”
“Still. This looks like an internal dog fight, not an American one.”
Vasiliev continued speaking, drowning out whatever Mike was going to say in response. “The Americans think they can be rid of Russia so easily! That they can strike me down on the steps of their Capitol! That they can destroy the heart of Russia, cut off the head of her mighty dragon! Their arrogance knows no bounds!”
More roars. More thunderous shouts.
“For years, they have tried to attack us, provoke us into defending ourselves. For years they have tried to destroy us, turn the world against us. Well, I say this. America, and President McDonough, you have crossed the line. Your actions have roused the great Russian dragon, and we will defend ourselves! The whole world watched your cowardly acts, your failures that lead to the deaths of a great Russian man, my security agent. The whole world watched as you tried—and failed—to assassinate me.”
Mike whistled.
“The whole world is watching, President McDonough. The whole world is watching your next moves. Your unchecked aggression against Russia will not go unanswered! And, my friends, I make you this promise tonight.” Vasiliev took another shaky breath, pausing as he stared over the crowd, and then into the lens of the camera. “Russia will not accept silence and American excuses. We will demand answers. We will demand justice. Even if we must seek that justice ourselves.”
President Vasiliev stepped away from the podium and climbed carefully into a waiting limo, shielded by his security team as the crowds went crazy. The anchor broke in, and the bellowing Russian cheers faded away. “Strong words from President Dimitry Vasiliev in Moscow today as the world waits and watches Washington DC and the arraignment of DC Sniper Bulat Desheriyev tomorrow morning.”
Tom rested his head against Mike’s headboard and squeezed his eyes closed.