Hush by Tal Bauer (4)

Chapter 22

June 29^th

Mike woke Tom gently at four AM. “We need to go soon. We need to leave early.” He handed Tom a cup of coffee, brewed from his coffeemaker he’d moved to the bathroom, resting it on the little shelf above the toilet.

Tom groaned but got up, moving through his shower and morning routine in silence. Mike laid out his miserable breakfast choices at the end of the bed: a Pop-Tart, a protein bar, an apple, and a banana. Tom grunted and grabbed the Pop-Tart and banana. Mike took the protein bar. Etta Mae watched them with wide eyes, her tail drooping as they left her behind.

He drove them straight north, into Maryland, and spent two hours winding through Silver Spring, University Park, and Glenarden before sweeping down to Route 214, south of Fed-Ex Field. He took 214 until it turned into East Capitol Street and followed that all the way into downtown DC. They arrived at the courthouse from the exact opposite direction they both normally came from.

They didn’t say much on the drive in. Tom was quiet, subdued, and Mike kept the soft bubble of stillness intact. The morning radio spoke for them. 

Overnight, the protest outside the U.S. embassy in Moscow had turned into a dangerous riot. Molotov cocktails flew and burned down trees on the embassy grounds. Russian police forces were extremely slow to respond and did little to quell the furious mob. By dawn, most of the dangerous rioters had fled, leaving only the chanting protesters screaming for the U.S. to be evicted from their country. “Most predict another long night of siege against the beleaguered U.S. embassy in Moscow,” the softly accented voice of the radio newscaster said.

When they arrived, Mike took Tom up to the fourth floor in the Annex through the internal secured elevator. Already, the beefed-up security was clearly evident at the courthouse. Heavily-armed marshals in black fatigues stood post outside and in, covering all the entrances and exits. Plainclothes court security officers, contractors the marshals hired to help with the routine security procedures at every courthouse, were in all the hallways, at every door, and in the elevators. Their radios squawked with coded signals, units checking in and reporting every fifteen minutes.

He walked Tom to his chambers and watched him sit at his desk, power up his machine. Then, he dashed back downstairs, bullied his way to the front of the coffee line and ordered Tom’s coffee, extra-large, extra-fast, and a scone to go. He took the main spiral staircase two at a time and hurried back to Tom’s office.

When he got there, the door was closed and raised voices echoed within.

Shit. He’d been gone four minutes and already there was trouble. Maybe not the kind of trouble that he was good at solving. He was good for bare-knuckle fights and chest-pounding, not political catfights and turf wars. Was this Ballard, coming to grate on Tom so early?

Listening closely, he picked out the slow honey-drawl of Chief Judge Fink, his raised voice almost hoarse-sounding. Shit, shit.

Should he interrupt? There was no one higher in the courthouse than Chief Judge Fink. Even Winters, the U.S. Marshal for the court, answered to him. If Fink was hollering at Tom, Mike’s professional place was far, far away.

But his personal place was supporting Tom. And besides, Tom needed more caffeine if he was going to be fighting duels this early in the morning. This clearly was an emergency.

Mike strode in, keeping his eyes fixed on Tom. Chief Judge Fink kept yelling, his flappy neck shaking with each shouted word. “Damn it, Brewer, this is not some joke trial! A seasoned hand is needed here! We have to make sure this case goes the way it needs to go!”

“The way it needs to go?” Tom’s jaw dropped, incredulity straining his voice. “The way it needs to go is after the truth! And to follow the letter of the law!”

“This isn’t the place for your puritanical Superman beliefs, Brewer. Ballard is concerned you’ll use this trial as a platform for your liberal values. And frankly, so am I. You have a history of being a soft judge.”

“I didn’t realize respect for the truth and rule of law were liberal values.”

“This isn’t the place, Brewer,” Fink growled. “We need to send a message to the Russians that we mean business. Putting the screws to this cell is exactly what we need to do. Throw the book at them with maximum sentences. Prove to the world that if we get a bloody nose, we give two black eyes back.”

“I intend to show the world that our justice system is fair. That we live by laws and due process, not a firing squad. And nothing is decided before the facts are presented.”

“In this case, everything is already decided.” Fink sighed, leaning against Tom’s small conference table. “If you bow out now, no one will blame you. We can say that your trial calendar was too full of cases that couldn’t be moved around. It won’t look like anything.”

Tom swallowed. Mike hovered, watching him. Even though he’d barged in, neither man had noticed him. They were that caught up in their argument.

Would Tom pass on the trial? Give it up to another judge? The heat would be off him if he did. No more looking over his shoulder, no more fears that eviscerated him day and night. He’d be back to normal, dodging the massive sniper bullet of this trial.

But, would true justice be served? Fink’s words hung in the air like noxious fumes, swamp gas that stung the eyes and choked the back of the throat. Tom had different ideas about justice, Mike knew, than what Fink was proposing. Deciding guilt and a sentence before the facts were heard? Who knew where the DC Sniper case would go? Signing his name to a commitment to vengeance would go against everything that Tom was. It would go against his bones.

“I am not recusing myself from this case,” Tom growled. “Especially not so you and Ballard can handpick a judge who will do this administration’s bidding. We aren’t jury and executioner for a reason!”

“The White House is watching you closely, Brewer.” Fink shook his head. “Very damn closely. You grandstand or showboat a single inch, and hellfire will rain down on you.”

“Sticking to the law isn’t grandstanding.”

Fink threw up his arms and stormed out, almost colliding with Mike. He’d had the sense, at least, to close the door behind him. The entire fourth floor could have heard that.

After Fink’s sloped shoulders and hunched back disappeared down the hall, Tom slumped against his desk, exhaling hard and squeezing his eyes closed. Mike set Tom’s coffee and scone by his keyboard. “What an asshole.”

“He’s the chief judge of the DC federal circuit.”

“He’s still an asshole. He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

Tom was quiet. “Am I making a mistake? Should I just wash my hands of this?”

Mike blew air out of his ballooning cheeks. “I think if you passed it off you’d be upset with yourself. You’d regret it, maybe for the rest of your life.”

“You know me pretty well.”

“You let me know you. And, that comes with the territory. You get to know the person you’re dating.”

“It’s good to be known.”

Half an hour before nine AM, Ballard breezed into Tom’s office.

“Desheriyev has turned. He’s helping us find the rest of the cell, starting with who paid him for the hit. We don’t want to tip off that he’s working with us. He’s going to plead not guilty in the arraignment, but we’ve worked out a deal.”

“It’s the judge who signs off on any deal. We’re not just told about it like we’re not involved.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not involved in this, Brewer. This comes from way, way above you. The White House. So just go in there and do your song and dance with the gavel, and then let us get back to the real work.”

Tom’s soul stung, singed by Ballard’s slap to his position. “What makes you think his handler and the rest of the cell are even still around?”

“We’ve found evidence that someone was directing his actions, and he’s backing the evidence up with his statement. Look, Desheriyev is major league. Forensics from his rifle match a dozen unsolved murders across Europe. Major hits, clean. Professional. Interpol’s been searching for this guy for years. They thought he was a ghost.”

“Why is he talking to you? You’re not that special.”

“Cute. He thinks he’s been set up. Desheriyev wants his handler to pay. We put a tail on the handler. He’s acting completely fucking normal. Thinks he’ll get away clean, and the anvil will fall on Desheriyev.” Ballard grinned. “So you need to play your part. Go along with the script. Be a good boy. And sign this. It’s the arrest warrant for his handler.”

Tom read through every page, making Ballard wait. He took in the criminal complaint, the charges alleged against Desheriyev’s handler, backed up by hard evidence and Desheriyev’s confession, just as Ballard said. It was a decent case. He scrawled his looping signature on the bottom.

“Get out, Ballard. Knock before you enter a judge’s chambers next time.”

The arraignment began precisely at nine AM. Mike escorted Tom from his chambers, and they stood together outside the rear doors behind his courtroom, behind Tom’s bench. For the moment, they were alone.

And then, the bailiff’s booming voice shouted, “All rise!” and it was time. Mike followed Tom and took up his post as close to Tom as he could get.

Ballard stood at the prosecutor’s table, arrogance leaching from his every pore. He looked stunning in his three-piece suit, a dark navy pinstripe with a blazing white pocket square poking out. He wanted to be on camera, wanted the world to see him. Cast him as the hero in the media movie the news channels were spinning in real time.

Desheriyev stood at the defense table, alone. As if he was representing himself. He stared Tom down, never blinking, like he was committing Tom to memory.

The front row of the courthouse gallery, just behind the wooden bar separating the courtroom floor from the audience seats, was reserved for the media. Reporters clutched paper pads and recorders in their sweaty palms, fingering the play/pause buttons and shuffling their feet. No still photos were allowed, and there were no flashes, no clicks and whirs of motors. Video cameras recorded everything from the back row, silent sentinels hanging like vultures over the proceedings. Marshals, on loan from headquarters, lined the walls, watching both Desheriyev and the audience with wary suspicion. Mike stayed rooted by Tom’s bench.

The media’s judgment of Tom’s worth began now. He would be hailed as an arbiter of the law, fair and impartial, or cast down as a failure, jumped on and slaughtered on the media’s altar of sacrifice. It was always the notorious cases that showed a judge’s true colors. Strengths and weaknesses, biases and predilections, exposed to the world. Fink had revealed his earlier. Bending to pressure, following the political winds blustering from the White House. Ballard’s were likewise on full display: arrogance and vanity in droves.

Tom was sending his own signal—to Chief Judge Fink, to the White House, to everyone—by managing the arraignment himself and not kicking it to a magistrate. He was in control. This was his trial and his courtroom. He blew over for no man, not even the president. His own internal compass would guide him through this.

Mike, for one, believed wholeheartedly in him.

“You may be seated.” Tom’s voice rang out, clear and strong. “The matter before us is the United States of America versus Bulat Desheriyev. Counselors, please enter your appearances.”

“Dylan Ballard, United States Attorney, for the United States.”

Silence, from Desheriyev.

Tom peered down at him. “Mr. Desheriyev, do you understand the charges brought against you?”

All eyes snapped to the defendant’s table. “Yes,” Desheriyev growled.

“You are being charged with four counts of violating 18 USC 1111, felony murder, and one count of violating 18 USC 1116, the attempted murder of a foreign official within the United States. You are also being charged under chapter 113b, which governs acts of terrorism. Are you prepared to enter a plea?”

Reporters leaned forward, and Mike could practically hear the lenses in the video cameras zooming in, irises narrowing as they focused on the next words.

“Not. Guilty.”

The reports murmured, a hush going through the gallery. Pencils scratched on paper.

Tom should move on to recording Desheriyev’s plea. Mike knew the script by heart after watching so many trials from over his judges’ shoulders. After that, bail should be discussed. But, Ballard had squashed all thoughts of bail in private through his plea deal with Desheriyev.

The whole arraignment was just a show, a cover for the execution of triple warrants occurring that very moment. Warrants against the man Desheriyev named as his handler, their dead drop location, and the handler’s home. This entire arraignment was phony, a way to fix the world’s attention while the FBI brought down the hammer on Desheriyev’s unsuspecting handler. 

It was the next arraignment, that of Desheriyev’s handler, or the man above him, or the man above him, that mattered. That was the real trial.

Ballard looked at his watch. He nodded to Tom.

That was the signal.

“No bail is set for Mr. Desheriyev. Pre-trial hearings are to be scheduled at a further time.” He rose and the courtroom followed, thundering feet scuffing over the carpet and tile. Tom descended from the bench, disappearing out the back door ahead of Mike, leaving behind the rising din of confused voices, reporters questioning each other and trying to reach out to Ballard for comment, and Desheriyev being led away.

By the time they reached Tom’s office, the breaking news alert was on screen.

Desheriyev’s handler had been arrested.

Ballard appeared on TV, standing this time in front of the courthouse.

“This morning, at nine AM, agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation served an arrest warrant for Mr. Vadim Kryukov. The three-count criminal complaint alleges that Vadim Kryukov planned the assassination attempt of Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev, and hired Bulat Desheriyev to carry out that assassination. This plan resulted in the deaths of three decorated Secret Service agents and one Russian presidential security officer.” Ballard looked up, squinting into the sea of cameras. FBI agents stood behind him, a show of America’s strength.

“First, we, the United States government, allege that Mr. Kryukov had political and personal reasons for planning the assassination of President Vasiliev, and that Mr. Kryukov was a member of a Russian anarchist group dedicated to the overthrow of the Russian state. Second, Mr. Kryukov hired and financed Mr. Desheriyev, paying him to travel to the United States, establish himself in DC, and pay a lump sum amount for the assassination of President Vasiliev. Third, in pursuit of the assassination, Mr. Kryukov communicated via cell phone and text to Mr. Desheriyev, providing him with the information and guidance needed to carry out this plot. While our investigation remains ongoing, the world should rest assured that the United States will commit its full resources to apprehending and prosecuting Mr. Kryukov, Mr. Desheriyev, and their conspirators.”

Ballard folded his notes and tucked them into his suit jacket. “This is America’s promise to the world. Our criminal justice system works. We have moved quickly to find and apprehend the vicious terrorists responsible for this heinous act. They will likewise be swiftly prosecuted as well. Thank you.” He strode away, not answering any of the shouted questions from the horde of reporters crowding the courthouse steps.

They were back in Tom’s courtroom for Kryukov’s arraignment at three PM.

It happened much like the first time, except the reporters were buzzed on adrenaline and pumped from being deceived before. They’d crawled all over the city, chasing the FBI as they served search warrants for Kryukov’s property. They each practically vibrated as they held their pens and pencils over their notepads, voraciously hungry for the story about to unfold.

Ballard was still smug, even smugger now. He acted like he’d orchestrated the entire operation, and it was his face that was on every TV. He was the man of the hour, the hero of the people. Hell, with this publicity, he didn’t need to chase a judgeship. He could sail into the Senate.

Beside him, Lucas Barnes, the FBI’s counterterrorism number one, stood. He’d be helping the prosecution. And, another man introduced himself, a tall, reedy man with thinning brown hair and a beaten-in look to his face. He looked like a pug that had run into a door a few hundred times. He growled that he was a “special advisor” from the Russian embassy, sent to assist the United States in this trial. Ballard never looked at him.

Kryukov came in, shackled and restrained between four marshals. His defense attorney, Richard Renner looked like as happy as a criminal defense attorney could. His eyes raked over Kryukov, and Tom could practically see dollar signs in his pupils. Renner had the smarmy look of a high-priced criminal defense attorney—salt-and-pepper hair slicked back on the sides, gelled on top. He wore a double-breasted suit and tied a full Windsor. He had a gold tie bar and gold cuff links, and his shoes shone like glass.

Vadim Kryukov stood beside him, hunched over in his shackles, long, straggly blond hair hanging half in his face. He wore the dark red jumpsuit of the federal detention center’s most dangerous inmates, those charged with the most heinous crimes.

“Mr. Kryukov, do you understand the charges brought against you?”

Kryukov looked up, finally. His eyes were dark, darting around the courtroom before landing on Tom. “Yes,” he said, his voice breathy.

Tom stared back. He’d seen Kryukov before. He was the man on the megaphone that Saturday, at Union Square Park outside the Capitol. He’d been bellowing at the Russian president, screaming the names of gay Russians jailed or killed. He’d shouted something in Russian, spitting fury into his megaphone. Had he been there to watch Desheriyev’s handiwork? Watch his plan unfold?

“Are you prepared to enter a plea, Mr. Kryukov?”

“I did not do it!”

“The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Renner smoothly interrupted Kryukov, speaking over him and placing a hand on his shackled wrist.

“Mr. Kryukov’s plea is entered.” Tom laced his fingers together, staring Kryukov down. That Saturday kept replaying in his mind, the shouts of the protestors, the bucket drums. The sun, the heat. Bellowing Russian, his heart galloping in his chest. Kryukov in the center, next to the Russian president’s effigy in a tutu and holding a rainbow flag. “Do you wish to discuss bail?”

“Mr. Kryukov is here on a refugee visa, Your Honor. He is unable to travel outside of the United States. He’s not going anywhere, Your Honor.”

Ballard jumped in. “Mr. Kryukov flagrantly flouted our laws in planning this crime, Your Honor. There’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t flagrantly violate our laws again and attempt to leave the country illegally. Mr. Kryukov is connected to the Russian mafiya, the Bratva, all along the eastern seaboard. They help him move drugs, which he then turns around and deals on the streets. He will run right back to their arms if you let him out of jail.”

“That is a libelous accusation—”

“Furthermore,” Ballard said, his voice rising over Renner’s, “Mr. Kryukov knows more about this conspiracy—”

“I do not! I know nothing!” Renner gripped Kryukov’s arm, silencing him.

“—and the United States will not allow bail to be granted to a defendant who has been charged with a crime of this magnitude. Mr. Kryukov has information to provide, Your Honor, and huge incentive to attempt an escape. We are, in fact, seeking the death penalty here.”

The reporters in the courtroom buzzed, hushed whispers and pens scribbling furiously. Kryukov’s eyes closed as he pitched forward, almost collapsing. His lips moved, muttering something in whispered Russian.

Incentive, indeed, for Kryukov to cooperate. Tom understood Ballard’s move. He just didn’t have to showboat so brazenly.

“I will remind you, counselor, that it is the judge who decides whether to allow or not allow bail.” He raised one eyebrow at Ballard.

Ballard smirked, spreading his hands wide, a fake conciliatory gesture for the media’s benefit only. His eyes smoldered.

“However, I agree with the state’s argument. Bail is denied. This court will hold its first pre-trial hearing in two weeks. Defense, be ready with your discovery request for the government.”

Tom lifted his gavel, ready to adjourn the arraignment and escape. The video cameras in the back were crawling on his skin.

“Your Honor,” Renner said, interrupting everything. “If it pleases the court, may I request that you hold the next hearing in chambers?”

Ballard arched both eyebrows across the divide at his defense counterpart.

“Counselor…” Tom swallowed. “This case requires, and demands, both national and international oversight. I intend to run a transparent trial, for everyone’s benefit.”

“Your Honor, my discovery requests may involve national security matters and touch on classified information. My requests may prove embarrassing to both the United States and to Russia. Keeping such requests private is in everyone’s best interest, and for everyone’s benefit.”

Tom flicked his eyes toward Ballard. Ballard, for once, looked concerned. He hadn’t been given instructions from his masters on this.

“Counselor, file your discovery request under seal in one week. Mr. Ballard, you will respond within three days. I will review both your motions and make a determination at that time.” He lifted his gavel and let it fall. “Thank you.”

Mike walked him down the private hallway and into his chambers. He took the billowing black robe out of Tom’s hands and hung it on the hook for him, and then turned and cupped his cheeks. He kissed him, sweetly. “Great job.”

“I saw Kryukov there. At the Capitol on Saturday.” So far, no one knew they had been there, either apart or together. They’d slipped out before the FBI sealed the scene. “I saw him on the megaphone shouting at President Vasiliev.”

“Think he was watching, making sure the hit happened? Or there to gloat?”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t think about it, either.”

Hard knocks broke the stillness of his chambers, a beating that rattled the door in its frame. Tom jumped away from Mike. “What the hell?”

It was Ballard. He blew in, ignoring Mike, and plopped himself at Tom’s conference table. “What the hell is Renner playing at?”

“Hello, Ballard. It’s not nice to see you. Why are you here?”

Ballard scowled at him and flipped open his padfolio. He glanced at Mike. “Get us some coffees, will you, Lucciano?”

Tom saw Mike’s shoulders stiffen, his spine straighten. Mike’s jaw clenched, and a vein throbbed out of his temple.

He pulled out his wallet. “Mike, if you please?” He tried to apologize with his gaze.

Mike held it together, but he refused Tom’s money. “Happy to help you, Judge Brewer.”

Ballard completely ignored them and flipped through his notes, waiting until the door clicked shut behind Mike. “We need to get on the same page. The White House has sent instructions.”

“Like I told Chief Judge Fink this morning, I’m not on anyone’s page. I respect the rule of law. This will be a fair and impartial trial. I’m not sentencing anyone before this has even begun.”

“Did you even read the criminal complaint? The arrest warrant you signed this morning? This case is already decided! The evidence against Kryukov is insurmountable! This is an open-and-shut case. We should be waiting for the phone to ring from Renner, begging for a plea!”

“Aren’t you trying to work over Kryukov? Don’t you want to know what he knows? Get the next higher up in the chain?”

“Of course. We’re letting him sweat a bit first.” Ballard jammed one long finger into the center of his notes. “But we have to talk about Renner’s possible defense. National security? What the fuck?”

Tom sat down slowly, sighing. “There’s a couple of ways to approach this defense.”

“I don’t need a lesson in criminal defense theory from you. A year ago, I was your boss.”

“And now you’re not.” Tom’s voice was hard, harsh. “If the evidence is as locked up as you say it is, then Renner has to get creative with his defense. The usual strategy would be to cast doubt on your case. Say the evidence isn’t enough. But by invoking the specter of national security, it certainly sounds like Renner is fishing for classified information, information that would come from the government. What does he know that you don’t, Ballard?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you absolutely sure? You need to check the scope of your evidence against Kryukov. In discovery, you will need to turn over everything to Renner and the defense. Everything you have. If you don’t give up what you have for your case, for any reason, then Kryukov won’t get a fair trial. If the defense can’t be guaranteed a fair trial, then Renner can move for a dismissal of charges. If there’s something going on, and you hold it back for national security concerns, he can use that as grounds to move for a mistrial. At the very least, it’s a loaded double-barrel shotgun for appealing the verdict.” Tom squinted at Ballard. “What exactly do you have on Kryukov? Is everything legitimate?”

Ballard leaped to his feet. “Are you accusing me—”

“I will slap you with prosecutorial misconduct in a heartbeat, Ballard. You’ve always played a little rough. A little too close to the line. This time, you might have crossed it, and right now, only you know for sure. But it will come out. It always comes out.”

“Fuck you,” Ballard hissed. His face turned purple as his teeth clenched. He stormed out, throwing Tom’s door wide open. It crashed against the wall, reverberating with a bang down the fourth-floor corridor.

Peggy poked her head around the doorframe, her eyebrows raised, and Danny padded in behind her, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Everything okay, Judge Brewer?”

“We just need to get through this trial. Hopefully with the world still in one piece.”

Chapter 23

Richard Renner sat across from Vadim Kryukov in a tiny, windowless room in the federal detention center. Thick, rubber-coated wire mesh stretched between them, barricading Kryukov to one side of the room. The prisoner’s side. A camera watched them from the corner, obviously recording everything.

Kryukov hunched on his side of the table, his hands faintly scratching at the steel surface. His blond hair was stringy, hanging in his face, a curtain that needed to be pulled back.

“Are you being treated well?”

Kryukov flinched. Slowly, he looked up and eyeballed Renner, big, blue Slavic eyes staring at him like icebergs. “I am in solitary,” he said softly. “But it is better than the last time I was in prison.”

Shit. “When were you last in prison?” Renner flipped through his papers. He didn’t have a record of Kryukov being incarcerated before. Had that been left off? What the hell—

“In Russia. I was jailed because I am pidor.” He held Renner’s stare. “Because I am gay.”

Renner blinked. He stopped shuffling his papers. Laced his fingers together, and regarded Kryukov carefully. “You are being charged as a terrorist, which means that, though we do have attorney-client privilege, there will also be a team of counterterrorism agents monitoring all your conversations. They’re looking for any information you might inadvertently admit.”

Kryukov nodded. Somewhere, a counterterrorism agent was cursing his name bitterly.

“You are a suspected terrorist. The government claims you are an anarchist, and specifically that you want to bring about the end of the Russian state.”

“Of course I want the end of the Russian state. They criminalized my existence. Threw me in jail for who I am. I escaped to America for a new life. For freedom.” He lifted his wrists, handcuffed together. “Why would I throw that away?”

Renner never asked his clients if they did “it” or not. Whatever crime they were accused of, whatever charges were brought. He never wanted to know. He never asked, and he made it a point to never let them admit their guilt, even if they desperately, desperately wanted to. “I could understand,” he said carefully, “someone in your shoes wanting to make a statement. President Vasiliev was shot in front of a gay pride march. That’s one hell of a statement.”

“And I wish he had died.” Kryukov spat on the concrete floor. “But I had nothing to do with this.”

Russians, more than any others, always protested their innocence. They could be holding the bloody knife in front of a still-warm body and blame the victim, claim they were only defending themselves. Was that what Kryukov was going to say? He was only defending himself and other gay men like him? “You don’t have to convince me of anything.” Best to get that out of the way. “Let’s talk about your defense. There are a few options we can look at. First, the technical evidence. We play the government’s rulebook and prove to the jury that the evidence is weak and the state can’t actually prove you were involved.”

“I was not involved.”

Renner held up his hand, his lips quirked up in a placating smirk. “Like I said, no need to work hard to convince me.”

“What evidence do they claim they have?”

“Well…” Renner pulled out the criminal complaint and the arrest warrant, filed by the United States attorney himself and signed by Judge Tom Brewer. “They have a text from your cell phone to Desheriyev’s cell phone identifying President Vasiliev as the target of the shooting.”

“I did not send that text. I do not know this Desheriyev.”

“They also have Desheriyev picking out your voice as the voice that spoke to him over the phone. Desheriyev identified you, conclusively.”

“Impossible.”

“Does the number six-two-one mean anything to you?”

Kryukov froze. Renner knew a yes when he saw one. “And, they also have a bag of cocaine that Desheriyev says you provided to him. It has his fingerprints… and yours.” He peered at Kryukov, who was now looking hard at the wall to his left. “Are you a cocaine user, Mr. Kryukov? A dealer, even?”

Silence. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Kryukov finally growled.

“Just answer that one question truthfully. It will help me.”

“I am a businessman. I sell a product. I have many customers. Happy customers.”

The famous Russian doublespeak and protestation. He hadn’t so much as said the words, but he’d confirmed it. “Did you sell your product to Desheriyev?”

“No!” Kryukov slammed his hand on the steel table. “I tell you already! I do not know this man! I have never seen him! Spoken to him! Never did I text him! Never!” His icy eyes burned with anger, now more gray than blue.

“The physical evidence is harder to overcome, but not impossible. I’ll be going through the warrants, making sure everything was obtained in a perfectly legal manner. If there’s any reason to get something thrown out, I will find it. We can go after Desheriyev’s testimony against you, too. The word of a mercenary for hire? Please. He has zero credibility. Altogether, is the evidence enough to point to conspiracy? Enough to convict a man to death? I can make a case to the jury that this is way, way too low a threshold. It’s a good argument, and will win over the bleeding hearts.”

“If you cannot get the evidence thrown away?”

Renner blew air out of his ballooning cheeks. “Well, there’s another defense we can run. You ever been to Texas?”

Kryukov glared at him. He said nothing.

“Texas is one of the states where this defense works real well. It’s a modification of lex talonis. You know what that is?”

Kryukov shook his head.

“An eye for an eye.” Renner grinned. “Justifiable homicide. In Texas, they say it like this: sometimes, a man just needs killin’.”

Kryukov’s eyes flashed. Not with anger, not this time. Something else. Something hungrier. He leaned in, no longer hunching, no longer afraid. His eyes narrowed, and even his hair seemed edgier, no longer meek and stringy, but framing a face cut from a glacier. “Vasiliev needs killing.”

“So, to run that as a defense, we’d expose all of Vasiliev’s dirty laundry. All of Russia’s dirty laundry. Vasiliev was one of Putin’s thugs, yes? Well, we paint the picture for the world. Russia, a totalitarian state. You, little David, fighting for your life and your rights against the Goliath that imprisoned you—”

“Tortured me.”

“—and tortured you because you are gay. You’re a refugee, so, bam. Even the U.S. government thought you were suffering, and they airlifted you out of Russia and brought you to the land of equality.” Renner smiled, like a shark might. “We paint that picture in Technicolor three-D. I bet you more than a few jurors will wish Desheriyev had been a little better with his aim and Vasiliev was a smear inside a wooden box, instead of a pain in the ass on CNN.”

“How will you do this? How will you expose Vasiliev? I have worked against Putin and Vasiliev my whole life. Now you say you can do this, no problem. How?” Kryukov leaned forward again, punctuating his questions with raps to the steel tabletop.

“I file a discovery motion that asks for everything. You see, in America, we don’t do show trials, and we don’t do monkey shitshows either. This judge? Brewer? He gives defendants a judicial hand job. He loves overindulging defense attorneys, making sure everything is fair, fair, fair. We can play that like an electric guitar. We’re entitled to everything that is material to our defense. So I want it all. The government’s position on Vasiliev. Human rights abuse the government knows about. Public denouncements from Amnesty International and every other bleeding-heart organization.” Renner hesitated. “There is a big risk with this defense. I need to be straight with you.”

Kryukov frowned.

“I’m essentially putting your motive under the microscope. Ballard, the U.S. Attorney, could turn around and say that we made his case for him. We’re pulling jurors from the DC federal district. That’s DC, all of DC. Gangbangers in the northeast, rich conservatives in the northwest and Georgetown, and green party equality-loving progressives by the river. This case is internationally notorious, so there’s no hope of getting a change of venue. Some of the jurors will have their minds made up before the trial, and it’s a Sisyphean effort to change their minds.” He held his breath. “And, there are the three dead Secret Service agents. Ballard will try and stir hearts with patriotic fervor, and he’ll win a lot of points playing the heartbroken, grieving families and stricken nation card. Their funerals are coming up, and that will be a masturbatory experience for Ballard and his prosecution team.”

Kryukov growled, and he grabbed his head, as much as he could with his wrists shackled. “This is not good! Why do you play these games with me? Do you want to help me or not?”

“Mr. Kryukov, I will do everything I can—”

“Then find the man who did this!” Kryukov exploded. “Find the man who set me up! Who really hired Desheriyev!”

He sighed. Pressed his lips together. Smiled a tight, thin smile. “Mr. Kryukov, do you watch a lot of television? Hollywood movies? Seen a lot of set ups on screen? It’s not that easy in real life. People just don’t get set up.”

Kryukov’s stare turned frigid, wrathful.

“There’s physical evidence connecting you to this crime. Cell phone texts, verified by both cell companies and the cell tower, your fingerprint. Desheriyev’s statement backs up the hard evidence.” He held his hand out over his notes, as if he was summoning the truth from the warrant and the complaint. “I’m not asking you if you did it. And you don’t have to try and convince me you’re innocent. My job is to defend you. Not believe you.”

Lunging, Kryukov grabbed the rubber-coated wires, his fingers wrapping around the mesh screen like claws. “I did not do this,” he growled. “I am being set up.”

“By who?”

“That is your job. To defend me, you must find who truly did this. Who set me up. Who has the power to do this kind of thing? Who can change cell records? Plant fingerprints?”

His mind whirled, racing from one thought to the next. It was preposterous. It was ludicrous. It was the stuff of bad Hollywood movies, Bruce Willis flicks with too many explosions and too little sense.

But if there was one government in the world that wanted Vasiliev dead, it would have been the United States. Hadn’t Vasiliev just come from the Capitol where he’d met with congressional leaders who collectively gave him the finger? Bipartisanship, at least, in defiance of Russia’s aggression in Eastern Europe? And hadn’t President McDonough, the day before, supposedly told Vasiliev to fuck off?

Was it possible?

Honestly, probably not.

Could he build a case around it, though? At the very least, he could make it excruciating for the government. Prosecute and reveal their dirty secrets, or keep their mouths shut and let a mistrial happen when they didn’t produce information on discovery. Perhaps suffer their failure to assassinate Vasiliev, even.

“Okay…” He shifted, leaning forward. Braced his elbows on his padfolio and chewed on his lip. Thoughts tumbled, merged, coalesced. A strategy, a loose one, began to form. “Okay, here’s what we do. Forget everything I said. Our defense is that you were framed. In discovery, we’re entitled to all information that exculpates you. That says you didn’t do it. So, again, we ask for everything. Everything the government has on the assassination attempt. The forensics, the FBI investigation, any intelligence they’ve uncovered, before the attack and after, that discusses the attack. Foreign intelligence intercepts. Internal documents. NSA recordings. Human intelligence sources and their reports. What has the CIA’s top spy in Moscow said about this attack? Anything and everything the FBI, CIA, NSA, and Secret Service have on this. Our government’s investigation in total.

“Will they give you this information?” Kryukov looked dubious at best. “In Russia, they would laugh you off, all the way to Siberia.”

“They will have to give it to us, or I can move for a mistrial. Like I told you, we don’t do show trials here. Nothing is fake. And, with what I know about the judge, he’ll fall right in line. We demand the information, or we move for a mistrial.” Renner snapped his padfolio closed. “Easy as that.”

“But what about finding the man who really did this? Clearing my name?”

“If you walk out of this prison, your name is as clear as it’s ever going to be.”

Kryukov slammed his open palm against the wire mesh. “Not good enough! I did not do this!”

“One step at a time, Mr. Kryukov. We just need to make this hurt for the U.S. government. Leave that to me.”

Chapter 24

That evening, Mike turned the TV off, ending Tom’s obsessive watching of CNN. Since the case had been assigned, Tom had the TV on, either in his office or at Mike’s place, and he stared at the screen like he was waiting for the world to worsen, for the next breaking news alert to be more terrible than the last. His face kept popping up, along with commentators speculating about how he’d run the trial, or what he was like. He was painted as a demon and a saint, a defender of justice and a pansy who gave in to defense attorneys.

So far, not a word, not a whisper, about his sexuality. About Friday. About him and Mike.

He was desperately, pathetically relieved.

“I wish I could cook you dinner.” Mike wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and held him. “I’m sorry my place is such a disaster.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“You need to eat. There’s a Lebanese place a few blocks up. Let me run over there. Get some hummus, some appetizer stuff. You can pick at it, eat slowly.” He rubbed his hands over Tom’s arms. Concern hung in his eyes, deep pools of worry and care. Tom hadn’t had someone care this much about him in decades. His throat clenched, and he nodded, afraid his voice would break if he spoke.

“Can I take Etta Mae? Give her a walk?”

At the word “walk”, Etta Mae perked up, rising on the couch and staring at Mike, her head cocked all the way to the right. Her tail wagged, slapping the couch like a deranged drummer.

“She’d like that.”

“I think you should stay here, though. I don’t want to stumble on anyone, or have anyone recognize you. Or follow you back here.” Mike looked like he was telling Tom that his mother had died.

“Yeah. Yeah, I agree.” Tom shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll wait here.” He tried to smile.

Mike grabbed Etta Mae’s leash and hooked it to her harness as she bounced at his feet. His giant blue eyes, telling Tom goodbye, gave Etta Mae’s puppy-dog eyes a run for their money. “I’ll be right back.” Mike squeezed his hip and kissed him, and then headed out the door.

Silence enveloped Tom. He heard his own lungs inhale, breath fill his diaphragm, heard the dust settle in corners. Heard each chamber of his heart beat, a fast, anxious rhythm.

From silence came loneliness, slamming into him like he’d taken a belly flop off an Olympic high dive. He was alone, completely and utterly alone. The sound of the door closing, the lock turning, played over in his mind, twisting until it became evil, the final act of Mike leaving him for good. He was alone, and he’d always be alone. He deserved to be alone. Out of everything, out of the botched assassination attempt, Fink trying to railroad him off his trial, Ballard being shiftier and more ruthless than usual, out of all the ways the world had tipped sideways in the past week… he was most frantic over whether anyone had let slip to the media that he’d kissed Mike in public, out in the open, and had taken one foot out of his very deep closet.

Tom sank down, crouching as he wrapped his hands behind his neck. Breathe. Just breathe. Mike would be back. And when he came back, Tom was going to be better. Be a better man, a better partner, before he really did end up alone.

He grabbed some paper plates and plastic forks and then pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge. There were a few stubby candles on Mike’s bookshelves, and he grabbed them and set them on the coffee table in front of Mike’s couch.

And then he sat, clasping his hands together, and listened to the dust settle again.

Yes, he’d kissed Mike in public at the volleyball game. And yes, then he’d gone to their gay bar again and had been introduced as “Mike’s new man”. He’d been happy at the time, thrilled. Exuberant. Being seen, and known, and having Mike pick him, want to be with him, out of all the gay men in DC.

Now he felt like he was hammering his closet shut from the inside, shoving towels under the door crack and blocking out every speck of light that tried to shine through.

Had anything changed between them? No, not really. He was leaning on Mike more, and maybe the sharp divide in their professional positions was highlighted today, thanks to Ballard. Mike was a marshal and he was a judge. He’d heard of marshals hooking up with AUSAs before, but that was considered scandalous. A prosecutor slumming it with a marshal? The other attorneys had looked down their noses when it happened, at the attorney reaching too low in the search for love.

He didn’t care about any of that. Mike was so much more than who he was at the courthouse. He was everything, simply everything. He was quickly becoming Tom’s home base, his tree fort, his lighthouse, and his castle. He was already Tom’s lover, and cementing himself as his best friend, too. All the little ways he cared… from taking his judge’s robe to walking Etta Mae, from encouraging him, even when Tom’s mind was a thousand miles away, to making sure he ate.

The world had changed around them, making their fledgling relationship suddenly catastrophic to both their careers. What they needed, right now, was to focus on their duties, be the best they could be professionally.

But the best Tom could be was already starting to wind through how he felt for Mike. Without Mike, he was woefully incomplete, as a man and as a human being. Humans weren’t meant to be alone, and he’d been an exile from his own people for far, far too long. How did he break apart the puzzle of his soul when he’d finally put all the pieces together? Could he ever function properly again, knowing what he was missing if he walked away from this, from Mike? Humpty Dumpty had fallen twenty-five years ago, and he was finally back together again. Could he survive another collapse?

There was something inside him that wanted him to run, though. Run from Mike’s care and his smiles, his tenderness, and everything about him. He didn’t deserve Mike’s affection.

Their relationship was too risky. Coming out was wrong. It would end in disaster, sheer, epic disaster. Everyone would know about him, that he was gay, that he’d been living a lie for his whole life. The world around him would change. Everyone around him would look at him differently, and the shame he felt within, running down his bones, sliding down the inside of his skin, would suddenly be exposed, painted across his body and shown off for the whole world to see. His soul would be flayed open, spread for the masses to excoriate.

He wasn’t ready for his world to change. His closet was safe. Dark and lonely and safe.

His toes curled inside his shoes as he tried to breathe. His whole body shook, trembled. His lungs, his breath, quaked.

Mike made him feel alive, made him come alive, made him dream again. If he went back into his closet, his soul would atomize and he’d turn into a skeleton, his life bleeding away until he was nothing more than a bereft bag of bones, constantly remembering what might have been, if only. If only he was strong enough. Brave enough. Man enough, to accept both the man he was and the man he craved.

Tom heard them before they arrived, heard Etta Mae’s nails clicking on the linoleum of Mike’s building, and Mike’s voice urging her along. She was probably tired and moving slowly. Tom stood, and his whole heart quivered.

God, he wanted this, so, so much.

Mike burst in, straddling Etta Mae and hurrying through the door with a giant paper bag stuffed with Styrofoam containers. He spotted Tom, the plates, the candles, the beer, and broke into a beaming smile. “Honey, I’m home.” Holding out his hand, he pulled Tom in for a gentle kiss.

Tom sagged into his arms, for a moment.

They ate on the couch, Mike feeding Tom bites of everything he’d bought. He might have bought one of every item on the menu. Food crowded the coffee table, the end tables, and the floor. If Etta Mae weren’t snoring, she’d be stealing food for sure. For the first time since the shooting, they laughed together again, and when Mike gently pulled Tom on top of him, Tom went with a smile.

Kissing turned to necking, which turned into a slow—then fast—strip. Etta Mae ended up with Tom’s shirt over her head, and they stumbled half naked to Mike’s bedroom, kissing and trying to strip out of their briefs and crawl into bed at the same time. Mike sank into Tom, kissing every inch of his skin, wrapping his arms around Tom’s shoulders and thrusting deep into his center. Tom shouted as he came, right after Mike, gripping the headboard as he sucked in ragged breaths—

And Etta Mae bounded onto the bed, leaping up and shoving her face between them. Mike flew back, sputtering, and Tom gasped, his whole body vibrating. Etta Mae tackled him, pancaking him as she sat on his chest and stared at Mike, as if she was Tom’s guardian who had just saved her owner.

“Your bed is lower than mine.” Tom laughed, one hand on Etta Mae’s head. “She can’t jump up on mine. I have to lift her up.”

Mike breathed hard. “Jesus. I think I lost a year of my life.”

“She thought you were killing me.” He ruffled her ears. “He definitely wasn’t hurting me, girl. It was all good. I loved it.”

Etta Mae huffed and lay down, spreading out over Tom’s chest. She rested her head on his shoulder. Mine.

“I can get bed risers.” Mike tapped Etta Mae on her nose. “I can fix this. You may have won today, but tomorrow...” He grinned. Leaning over, he kissed Tom around his smile and gently pushed Etta Mae away when she tried to nose in-between them. Mike and Etta Mae wrestled, elbowing and headbutting and laughing, but eventually, Mike ended up back on top of Tom, and Etta Mae sat beside them, glaring. She turned her back, lay down on the other side of the bed, and curled up to go to sleep.

“She’s going to steal that half of the bed.”

“That’s okay.” Mike nuzzled closer, as if he could crawl inside Tom. “I like cuddling.”

Tom wrapped his arms around Mike and rolled into him, and they fell asleep sandwiched together, a tangle of arms and legs on half of Mike’s queen bed as Etta Mae snored on the other half, completely undisturbed.

Mike woke with a Basset paw in his lower back and a raging hard on. He rolled Etta Mae over first and then woke Tom. Slowly. “To the shower,” Tom gasped. “I’m not ready to have sex in the same bed as my dog.”

They stroked each other, trading blowjobs and careful fingering, and then took their time washing. Etta Mae was still snoring when they emerged, utterly oblivious. Tom fixed her breakfast while Mike made coffee and grabbed two blueberry muffins he’d picked up the day before for them.

In the car, driving their circuitous route into DC before dawn, they heard the news on the radio.

“Overnight in Moscow, riots erupted again in the streets in front of the U.S. embassy. Rioters threw Molotov cocktails over the embassy fence, sparking multiple blazes that overwhelmed the Marines and destroyed a section of the embassy. The embassy fence was breached later in the night, and rioters gained entry to the U.S. embassy grounds and clashed with Marine guards. Six people were killed, and over 180 wounded. Russian police have surrounded the embassy, keeping all rioters back, but for the moment, no one is sure whether the police are there to help or to harm.

“Statements from the Kremlin condemn the violence but place the blame squarely on the United States.  ‘Once again, the United States believes they can harm Russian citizens, this time on Russian soil. They fire indiscriminately into crowds of Russian protestors exercising their rights. The United States claims to support freedom of speech, freedom of protest, except when it is aimed against them. Their Marine forces were so overwhelmed by simple protestors that they reacted like cowards, shooting at unarmed civilians.’

“Reports from eyewitnesses on the ground suggest that the protestors who stormed the U.S. embassy were Russian special forces soldiers and FSB operatives.”

Tom grabbed Mike’s hand and held on for the entire car ride.

That afternoon, President Dimitry Vasiliev ordered all non-essential Russian personnel out of the Russian embassies and consulates in the United States. Two Russian subs were caught patrolling the edge of United States territorial waters. One off the coast of Maryland, and one inside the Gulf of Mexico.

The next day, President McDonough spoke at the funerals for the three slain Secret Service agents, laid to rest at Arlington. His speech was broadcast to the world, and he addressed President Vasiliev directly.

“These American heroes died serving their nation. Performing their duties to the limit of perfection, and beyond. These men made the ultimate sacrifice. They acted to help secure a better, safer, and freer world. True heroes act in the face of danger. True heroes rise to the occasion. True heroes ask what they can do, in that moment, to better the world. Whether that is to protect or to calm, to save a single life, or to speak and to act to save thousands, and perhaps millions more lives.

“The world hungers for peace. For unity. For freedom of all mankind. But, real, lasting peace in this world cannot come about while freedom is crushed by harsh words and savage actions made in retaliatory anger. The poet Aeschylus once wrote:

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget

falls drop by drop upon the heart

until, in our own despair, against our will,

comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

“These men, these heroes, are in the tender mercies of our Lord above today. And it is we who must endure the drop by drop of pain remembered as we live on without these great men. And it is we who must find, through all the despair of our days, the awful grace of God, and find the wisdom which these men ask of us. Their sacrifice must not be made in vain.

“The world is a difficult place. We are facing difficult times, full of uncertainty. But, together, we can create the world these men died to protect. President Vasiliev, let us tame the wilds of our countries’ hearts and turn away from the savageness of revenge. We must dedicate ourselves, together, to the pursuit of peace in honor of these brave men we lay to rest today.”

Thursday, reporters decamped from Tom’s house, figuring that he’d moved out for the trial. They still surrounded the courthouse and the Annex day in and day out, and profiles on Tom, Ballard, and Renner were nightly news staples. They scoured Tom’s past, hungry to speak with anyone who’d ever known him, who could provide insight into how he’d manage the trial. The twenty-four-hour news channels dissected his past federal cases, diving into his opinions and his motions and his papers, searching for clues as to how he might rule on a hundred possible scenarios in the trial.

Ballard, suddenly, went silent, not speaking to the cameras, not appearing on television. No leaks came from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and the news media went rabid, circling through the same information they’d already dissected a thousand different ways, looking for a new tidbit to explore.

Tom stopped watching CNN. He couldn’t take seeing his face on-screen ten times a day, or hear commentators that he’d never met discuss his life, his decisions, his choices, as if they knew him better than he knew himself. More than half the time their commentary was wrong, and the rest was so full of superiority and assuredness that Tom almost started throwing things at his office TV.

Mike moved his laptop and his files into Tom’s office and worked out of the end of Tom’s conference table. Winters raised both eyebrows when he poked his head in, checking up on how they were handling everything so far. But, he didn’t say a word.

It was good, having Mike nearby. More than good. Having him nearby, in eyeshot, in stumbling distance if he really needed him, was a balm to his sanity. As he waited for the breaking news alert to scream across his monitor, shouting his secret to the world, having Mike nearby kept him from bolting. If he was left alone, the darkness would crawl up inside him again, the fear, and his old professor’s skeleton rattling and screaming that he was a fraud, a phony, and destined to die for his sins.

It would be too easy to run from Mike, hide in that darkness, if Mike wasn’t there all the time. Mike’s constant presence, his solidity, his unwavering commitment to Tom, was becoming the anchor of his world.

Chapter 25

July 3^rd

Friday, just as the clock struck noon, Mike leaned back, stretched, and cleared his throat. He gazed at Tom, as if trying to figure out how to spit out what was inside him. Tom could practically see the gears grinding in his mind.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s the July 4^th weekend.”

Tom nodded. The whole government was shutting down and American flags dotted every square patch of grass and flapped from street corners and stoplights throughout DC. With the ratcheting tension between the U.S. and Russia, the holiday was taking on a supersized status this year. “Do you have plans?”

Mike made a face. He pulled a folder from the bottom of his stack and crossed to Tom’s desk. He held it with both hands. “I didn’t know if you wanted to do anything. I understand if you just want to go home and stay inside for three days. We can probably move you back into your own house, too.”

“Or…?”

“Or…” Mike smiled shyly. “I thought we—you and I—could get out of DC.” He passed over the folder. Inside, a few pages had been printed out, a flyer from the web for a secluded cottage on the Maryland shore, complete with a private beach. The cottage was small, just a studio, and rustic. The kind of private beach vacation that a marshal could afford. But it was very private and very secluded. Empty sand stretched for miles on either side of the cottage, the flyer promised. Uninterrupted privacy. “I put a hold on it. It’s ours for the weekend if you want it.”

“They accept dogs?”

“Of course. That was a requirement for any place I looked at.”

Tom’s heart pitter-pattered. Once, months ago, he’d dreamed about Mike on the sand, lying on a towel by the ocean, letting the sun soak into his skin. He’d played the part of the indefatigable lover, constantly pouncing on him in his daydreams. Licking off beads of sweat and running his hands over Mike’s sun-kissed body. How many times had they made love on that beach towel in his fantasies?

There wasn’t a calamitous risk of being discovered, though, in his daydreams.

Miles and miles and miles of privacy, the flyer said. Uninterrupted privacy.

It only took one pair of eyeballs to see them, one person to recognize who he was.

Into the sunlight or into the darkness. His toes curled inside his dress shoes, pressing against the firm leather of his wing tips.

He should say no to Mike, to this vacation.

He should get rid of the trial, march into Fink’s office and tell him he could have the damn thing, and the heartburn, too.

He should tell Mike they needed to cool it, be careful, at least until this was done.

But if he turned around now, he’d start running until he found the very end of his closet, and looked right back into the face of his old professor, into the empty eye sockets in his skeletal face, and his cackling, bony jaw. And he’d never come out again.

“Let’s do it,” he breathed. He nodded. “Let’s go.”

Oh, it was worth saying yes just to see that smile on Mike’s face. He grinned in return at Mike’s exuberant joy.

“I gotta call and confirm.” Mike bounced on the balls of his feet. “Lemme go let them know.” He pulled out his wallet and ducked into the hallway, hiding the full price from Tom.

Tom breathed out slowly, closing his eyes. Miles and miles of uninterrupted sand. Privacy.

He could do this. They could do this.

Mike drove Tom to his house to grab a few things. Swimsuits, t-shirts, shorts, flip-flops. They didn’t plan on leaving the cottage, aside from hitting the sand and the surf. Tom grabbed a few toys for Etta Mae and another couple of towels for her.

Mike packed fast at his place and was ready to go in just a few minutes. As Tom was putting Etta Mae’s harness on, Mike rifled through his mail, bag already in hand. He sucked in a sharp breath. Tom turned to him, and saw him staring at an envelope with wide eyes. “Something up?”

“My last STD check.” Mike clutched the enveloped, grimacing. “Silvio was cheating on me. I caught him screwing another man without any protection. I don’t know how long that was going on, so I went and got the whole shebang. This is my three-month blood test results.” He took another breath, and exhaled slowly.

Tom frowned. “Was there anything on the other tests?” They were using condoms, but still.

“No, no, I would have told you. This is really my last major one for possible HIV. The risk is low. Silvio was on PrEP. But I just want to be absolutely certain.” Mike slid his finger into the envelope’s seam. Paper tore. He tugged out the single sheet inside, and his eyes roamed over the table, the grid of tests run and the results on the right-hand side. Tom averted his eyes.

Mike beamed. “My blood test is still negative.”

Tom smiled. “Good. I’m glad.” He hesitated, but then dove right in. “So, you weren’t using condoms with your ex?”

“No. If I’m serious about someone and we commit to monogamy, then I like to ditch the condoms. I’m kind of old school that way.” He shrugged, and his shoulders hung up by his ears. “I just like to really be with someone. And I’m old-fashioned. I don’t like to share.”

“We’re serious about each other.”

Mike blinked. “I’m very, very serious about you. Us.”

“You’re definitely the only man for me.”

“I’m not looking for anyone else. Anything else.” Mike’s voice was breathy, shaky. “Are you saying you want to…”

“I have twenty-five years of negative test results.” It was Tom’s turn to shrug. “So… if we’re both healthy, and we’re both serious, and we’re both committing to monogamy, then…”

Mike smiled and dropped his bag. Unzipped it, and rummaged around. Pulled out a box of condoms. “Guess we don’t need these this weekend.” He tossed them over his shoulder, and they bounced on the couch cushion before tumbling onto the floor. Mike pulled Tom close, kissing him slowly. He seemed to hesitate, pausing mid-kiss as if he wanted to say something.

But then, he kissed Tom again and stepped back. “Ready to go? If we get there early enough, I can pick something up to grill for you.”

“Lead the way.”

Mike grilled chicken wings on the cottage’s patio while Tom lay back on the sand and drank beer. He was under strict instructions to do nothing and enjoy himself while he did it. The sun set behind the dunes that shielded their cottage from the private road leading to the beach, casting a pink and lavender glow over the sand. Summer heat clung to the shore, but a salty breeze blowing off the gentle waves made it comfortable, relaxing instead of like being in an oven. Etta Mae sniffed every square inch of the beach and then put herself to bed, seeming to sense that this was a perfect chance to nap uninterrupted on the porch for days.

“This weekend is about you.” Mike sat next to him after dinner, feeding small logs to a fire pit in the sand. “I want to take care of you.”

“Let’s make it about us.” Tom leaned into Mike. Mike showering him in affection made his heart and soul go all squirmy, not used to this much care, and totally out of his depth on how to reciprocate. It also made his guilt swell, rise within him until he felt a dam was about to break somewhere deep inside. Every day he fought a war that Mike couldn’t see—stay or run, turn into Mike or flee to the safety of his closet. Mike was making it so damn hard for him to think.

He was at a crossroads, stuck trying to figure out where to go. His professionalism demanded one choice, and his heart and soul demanded another. And he was tired, so very, very tired of the choice. It was his life made large, the single choice that had the most meaning in his whole life, the only choice that truly mattered, now pressing in on him on all sides. And now, the choice of his lifetime came with a million extra pounds of pressure, clenching around his heart until he couldn’t breathe. In or out? Stay or go? Pride… or shame?

Later, Mike took very good care of him, and his brain fizzled out as he finally relaxed, boneless and content in Mike’s hold.

The crashing waves woke them, and Mike made love to him in time to the ocean’s swell and rumble. For the first time, there was nothing between them, and he saw in Mike’s eyes something new. Something tender and soft. Mike kissed him slowly as he thrust into Tom, pushing his hair back, cupping his face. When Mike came, inside him, he stared into Tom’s eyes as he exhaled shakily, breathing hard with his lips pressed to Tom’s.

Tom was near catatonic after, the roars of sensation undoing him completely. He was a shell tossed on the waves, a branch mired in a hurricane, and after, he just wanted to be a bottle washed ashore on an empty beach, filled with Mike and his affection. Mike prodded him out of the cottage, and they made their way to the water to wade and relax. Etta Mae joined them for a little while, but decided chasing birds was more fun before snoozing on the cottage’s porch.

And then, Mike laid out the towels, and the afternoon progressed exactly like Tom’s daydreams had spelled out. Mike was a god in the summer sun, his sandy hair catching the light and spinning threads of gold. Sweat glistened off his skin, traveled in slow drips down his chest and abdomen. Beaded in droplets on the ends of his chest hair. His toes dug into the sand and he lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, laser-focused on Tom.

Tom felt like an unwashed mutt from the rescue shelter compared to Mike, but Mike looked at him like he was something special, and damn it, he was going to try to rise to that. Be the man Mike thought he was looking at.

Mike did, in fact, taste like joy and perfection, and like freedom, and all of Tom’s dreams come true.

Mike grilled again while Tom fell asleep on the sand before dinner. Later, they watched the stars come out as they lay with their heads together.

“I think I want to retire to the beach someday,” Mike whispered. “Would you want to?”

“Live on a beach? See this every day? I could be persuaded.” Tom felt Mike’s smile. Mike had his face pressed right into Tom’s cheek, into his neck, and his arms were wrapped around Tom, their legs tangled together. Mike was a human koala bear, and Tom was happy to be his tree.

“I could be happy anywhere, I think, with you.” Mike’s voice was soft.

Tom reached for Mike’s arm, lying across his chest. “What do you see in the future? What do you want? Five, ten years? Further along?”

“I want to stay with the marshals. But… I’ll have to transfer courts. I really shouldn’t be dating you and be your JSI. Other than that… I’m a simple kind of guy. I want to do my job. Find my Prince Charming. Live a good life.” He swallowed, and again, Tom felt it through their closeness. “I want to fall in love with you. Take Etta Mae for walks together. Grill for you. Spoil you on the weekends. Travel when we can. See the world. Make love to you every night, or until my dick falls off from overuse trying to satisfy you.”

Tom laughed, curling into Mike. They were eye to eye now, nose to nose. Hope sprang from Mike’s gaze, a flood of it, enough to wrap around Tom and cocoon him, push away the outside world, push it all the way to space, to the stars above. Just him and Mike, and Mike’s simple dreams of their future. A future that Tom had imagined so many times, dreamt about until he could taste it in the tears he’d shed.

“What about you?” Mike’s words were a breath, edged in hope.

“Everything you just said. All of it.” His lips brushed Mike’s as he spoke, they were so close. “And, I want to be out. Proud. One day.”

Mike’s smile rivaled the stars. He rolled on top of Tom, burying his elbows in the sand, and rested his forehead on Tom’s. They didn’t say anything, just kissed sweetly until the fireworks started off of barges to the south, and brilliant lights lit the sky, rainbows of shimmering colors that fell like glitter. He could see joy in the shine of Mike’s eyes, in the reflection of the fireworks. The cascading colors seemed to form a rainbow, a sign in the sky behind Mike’s head, beckoning Tom forward. Yes, this was the way. He was on the right path. Stay with Mike. Hold this course. Be brave.

You can be happy.

Ringing woke them before dawn.

Mike’s marshal phone, his official one, clattered on the nightstand. Mike grabbed for it, rolling onto his back as he answered. “What?”

Villegas’s voice came over the line, loud enough in the quiet morning to hear clearly. “Morning, asshole. Where are you? More importantly, where’s Brewer?”

“None of your damn business where I am. Brewer is safe.” Mike reached for Tom, resting his hand on Tom’s thigh.

“Well, wherever you are, get in contact with Brewer. We can’t find him. He’s not answering at his house and he’s not checked into the Hyatt. We need verbal confirmation he’s good and then you need eyes on him within two hours.”

Mike sat up. Those were the procedures for an active threat. “What’s going on?”

“Russia launched a shitshow of military force overnight. They say they’re just exercises, but the president moved everyone up to DEFCON three. We got tipped off by the FBI that some Russian gangbangers are on the move, too. Could be nothing. Could be a coordinated attempt to make a hit. We need to secure Brewer.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll get in contact with him.” Mike swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll get him and take him to a secure location.”

“Maybe you can actually put him in the Hyatt. You know. Under our secure protection? At the taxpayer’s expense?”

Mike hung up on him.

Tom draped himself over Mike’s shoulder, leaning on his back. “Everything okay?”

“No.” Mike buried his face in his hands. “Something’s going on. We’ve got to get back to DC.”

Chapter 26

July 5^th

Dark, leaden clouds, brimming with heavy rain and sparking with furious lightning swirled over the Baltic states of Estonia and Latvia, and out into the Gulf of Finland. Winds tore left and right, shaking over the U.S. recon plane running a racetrack pattern from Finland to Estonia and back again, skirting the edge of Russian airspace.

They were monitoring Russian communications, or doing the best they could in the weather. For days, they’d been alternating flights with four other recon planes, vacuuming the skies and sucking up all Russian communications they could. Geeks and analysts decrypted the data and translated the lingo, forwarding everything to the big brains back stateside. Their job was to fly and collect, fly and collect. No matter what.

It was dull, even in the weather. Until—

Lights flickered, and the plane bounced, jerking left and right, unseating crew and anything that wasn’t strapped down. Monitor banks situated in long lines, signal scanners and interceptors, fuzzed and fritzed, making their multi-million-dollar scanning equipment meaningless.

Sergeant Playa picked herself up, and, doubled-over against the turbulence, staggered to her console. There was a dizzying array of dials in front of her, switches and buttons and toggles that controlled an army of fine-tuned instrumentation, all designed to grab Russian ELINT, electronic intelligence, as best it could.

Voices rose throughout the cabin, panicked and frantic.

“Sir! My station is dead!”

“LT, I’ve got nothing!”

“We’ve lost power!”

“Shit, the whole plane has lost power!”

The plane bucked again, jerked as if it had been rear-ended, and then started to drop. Playa saw Lieutenant Hall’s eyes go saucer-wide, a full ring of white all around his irises. Alarms wailed, screaming from every console.

“It was an electromagnetic burst, sir! Someone directed a microwave burst at us! Fried everything!”

They were starting to dive, powerless.

Freefall lasted four seconds, but to Playa, it felt like a lifetime.

“This is Captain Paulson. All crew, buckle in tight and stow gear. We are breaking off course and taking evasive action.” The intercom crackled, flickering to life in fits and starts as the backup batteries powered on and the engines restarted.

“Find the bastards that did this,” Hall growled. “Find them now! This could be the start of a war!”

Playa’s hands flew over her console. “Source! Bearing…. Jesus! They’re close!”

“Sir!” Sergeant Mitchell, down the line of scanners and hovering over the rebooted radar controls, shouted, “There is a Russian ELINT jet closing on us, bearing one-five-one! Distance, less than one mile!”

Playa grabbed her console right as their plane dipped into an S-roll and banked hard, a move more accustomed to a fighter jet than their lumbering recon plane. One of the scanners leaned down and puked between his knees.

“How did they get on top of us?” Hall wound his way to Mitchell, bracing himself on the bucking deck and grabbing the handholds above him.

“They could have masked their signature in the storm, and they’re not broadcasting an identification beacon.” As Mitchell spoke, four more dots appeared on screen, flanking the Russian spy plane. “Oh, shit!” Mitchell cursed. “Sir, four Sukhoi fighter jets now on station! Distance, half a mile! They’re on an intercept course!”

“Have they painted us with radar?” Hall’s voice dropped, clinically cool. Half a mile from an attack run of Russian planes. The odds were not in their favor.

“They just did.” Mitchell looked up, meeting Hall’s gaze briefly.

Paulson’s voice broke over the intercom again. In the cockpit, he was receiving the same information from his flight crew. “Brace for impact! All crew, brace! Brace!”

Hall threw himself into a jump seat as the bulky, blocky communications and electronic surveillance plane dove, spiraling and banking hard in a wild evasive pattern. Wind shears howled against the airframe, and G-forces pinned the crew into their seats. Mitchell started reciting the Rosary.

This is it, Playa thought. The Russians are going to shoot us down. World War three is about to begin. We’ll be in all the history books… if there are any history books when this war is over.

Heavy rattling, deep and thunderous, boomed on all sides, echoing just beyond the steel hull of their jet. Someone was shooting.

Three NATO fighter jets, two from Sweden and one from the UK, zoomed past their plane, whooshes of light and sound outside their windows. Tracer rounds illuminated the dark sky, and the lightning flashed, just long enough to glimpse their harsh outlines against the storm. The trio of fighter jets roared into the wake of the American plane, barreling forward and firing warning shots over the Russians’ wings.

“Russian flight, Russian flight, you are in violation of NATO airspace.” Playa’s earpiece picked up the heavily accented voice of one of the Swedish pilots. “You are in violation of NATO airspace. Return to Russian airspace immediately, or we will take your actions as provocation and respond accordingly.”

Unfailingly polite, as always. Move, bitch, get out the way, would be how she’d say it. Or, get the fuck out of our face.

They kept diving, but the half barrel rolls stopped, and—finally—the dive tapered off, too. Playa sat back as Captain Paulson leveled their recon plane out, and all around the cabin, shaky sighs mixed with nervous prayers.

Playa kept listening over the comm unit, to the NATO fighters closing in on the Russians. “Russian flight, return to your airspace. This is your last warning.”

“They’re not turning around.”

“Do we have permission to engage?”

“Fucking start a war? Are you bloody serious?”

“They were warned!”

“Fucking Reds. They’re asking for this—”

A new voice broke into the channel. “NATO flight, you do not, repeat, do not have permission to engage. Trail fighters and rebroadcast our demands to the Russians to leave NATO airspace.”

Silence, for a moment, until the lead fighter responded. “Understood, sir.”

Muttering continued on the private channel, though. “There you go. Now the fucking Reds know they can do whatever the bloody fuck they want, and all we’ll do is be cross with them.”

“Cut the chatter!”

Playa listened until Captain Paulson flew out of range. The NATO fighters were circling and shadowing the Russian jets. Ten minutes later, Captain Paulson reported that the Russians had retreated back to their airspace, and they were on approach for landing back in the UK.

She tuned into UK frequencies, listening as they came in closer.

When the breaking news skewered the airwaves, she wished she was back in the air over Estonia.

Chapter 27

“Mr. President, we have a situation.”

President McDonough glared at his National Security Advisor, Bill Simon. A migraine had latched itself to the base of his skull the day of the DC Sniper shooting, and it was only getting worse each day.

“What is it now?”

“The Russians have launched military maneuvers around St. Petersburg, on the border of Estonia, and over the Gulf of Finland. They breached NATO airspace over Estonia and fired a microwave burst at an American surveillance plane. It hit them like an EMP and fried their equipment.”

“Jesus Christ. Is everyone all right?”

“Yes. The plane was forced to abandon its mission and return to the UK, though.”

McDonough slammed his pen down on his papers and leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked, and he propped one foot up on the lower drawer of the Resolute desk. “Goddamn it.”

“And… Mr. President, there’s this.” Bill Simon turned on his tablet and passed it over to the president. It was frozen on a live stream from CNN, the breaking news ribbon curling over the bottom of the frame. The anchor, a woman, was frozen mid-word, her eyes wide. She almost looked frightened.

McDonough looked from the frozen tablet to Bill Simon. “I’m not going to like this.”

“I’ve called everyone in. We’re assembling in the Situation Room as we speak.”

McDonough pressed play on the tablet’s screen.

“Just in, Russian government officials say that they have found conclusive evidence that the CIA was behind the attack on Russian President Vasiliev. CIA funds were reportedly transferred to Vadim Kryukov, who then used that money to pay Bulat Desheriyev, the DC Sniper.”

“Oh fuck…” McDonough grimaced, grabbing the tablet with both hands.

The screen cut to the Kremlin, and a bevy of Russian governmental officers surrounding President Dimitry Vasiliev. He looked good, strong, even though his arm was in a sling. He wore a white cast, signed by his fellow Russians and dotted with hand-drawn Russian flags. He was a walking advertisement for Russian patriotic pride and a rallying symbol for nationalistic fervor. McDonough cursed again.

Vasiliev spoke. “Today, we present to the world the findings of our own independent investigation, unencumbered by American meddling. We have discovered that the CIA funded and supported the cowardly man who perpetrated these terrorist acts upon the Russian people.” He grasped a handful of papers, no doubt their proof. “I am submitting this evidence to the American courts, for their sham trial in Washington DC. And, I am also submitting this evidence to the International Criminal Court, the arbiter of gross international law violations. Assassinating the head of a rival power is illegal, President McDonough! I had not even digested the lunch we shared that day! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

McDonough’s eyes slid closed.

“It gets worse, sir.” Bill Simon hovered, growing paler by the second.

“And, in support of a full International Criminal Court investigation, we have arrested three CIA officers who were operating illegally in Russia.” The officers around President Vasiliev held photos of three Americans, mug shots taken in a Russian prison. “CIA officers John Parker, Ellie Sands, and Hector Rodriguez are being held in a maximum security Russian prison for crimes against the state.”

“Who are they?” McDonough ended the live stream and tossed the tablet on his desk. If he could, he’d throw the damn thing through the White House windows. Bulletproof, the windows wouldn’t break, and the tablet thumping to the carpet wasn’t as satisfying.

“John Parker is the CIA Chief of Station in Moscow. Ellie Sands and Hector Rodriguez are two of his deputies.”

“Fuck. So they really did grab our people.”

Bill Simon nodded once.

“Have we had any contact with them yet?”

“None. And the Russians aren’t taking our calls at the moment. The State Department is working every angle they can.”

“Let’s go.” McDonough rose, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of the chair. “I want everyone in the Situation Room. Now.”

Chapter 28

Mike turned on his emergency lights for the drive back to DC. He gripped the wheel, kneading the leather, and Tom watched his pulse throb in his temple and the side of his neck. Twice he took calls from Villegas. Short and clipped, Mike only said that he’d made contact with “Brewer” and that he was “on the way” to securing him.

His personal phone rang as they hit the Maryland suburbs, the exburbs of DC. Mike heaved a long sigh before he answered.

“I was wondering when you would call. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Tom couldn’t hear the other person over the roar of the road. He watched Mike carefully. Saw his eyes tighten, his gaze narrow.

“Yeah. Okay. We’re on our way. Be there in an hour and a half.”

Mike hung up and turned south, skirting DC and taking the outer loop that would bring them south to Virginia. “Kris needs to see us.”

“Kris? Does he know something about what’s going on? Something from the State Department?”

“He… doesn’t work for that State Department.”

“What other State Department is th—”

Oh. Of course.

Mike said nothing. He gunned the accelerator as Tom sat back, squeezing his eyes closed.

Kris lived in a gated high rise in Crystal City, an urban neighborhood that was practically a redoubt within Arlington, Virginia. The high rises, secured office buildings, and high-end malls all had underground tunnels connecting them. A person could traverse Crystal City and never go above ground. Home to defense contractors and federal enclaves, it was a government nexus of power. Kris’s building was a stone’s throw from marshals’ headquarters and the Pentagon.

Mike had an access badge for the garage and the residents’ elevators, and he took Tom straight up to the thirty-fourth floor, and to Kris’s unit.

Kris was waiting in the hallway when they got off the elevator. Arms crossed, he leaned against his doorjamb, face tight and lips pursed. “Get inside.” He waited until all three had trooped in. Etta Mae led the way, following her nose to Kris’s white leather couch. She jumped up and flopped across his blue velvet throw and silk pillows, making herself at home.

Duffels sat open in front of Kris’s stacked laundry machines, clothes spilling across the floor. Designer threads, cargo pants, and black tactical gear. A disassembled handgun, in the middle of being cleaned, rested on the granite kitchen countertop, next to spread manila folders stuffed with papers marked Top Secret. A batch of photos was laid out, surveillance-style black and whites of what looked like people on a European street.

Mike didn’t blink and went right to the counter, rifling through the photos and papers. Tom, eyes wide, followed slowly.

“You heard the news on the way in?” Kris leaned against the counter, elbows braced on the granite. He looked the same, sounded the same—still had the perfect hair, glossy lips, and a-touch-too-dramatic eyes, like they were lined with makeup—but Tom felt like he’d landed in a different universe.

“Is it true? Did the CIA set this up?”

Sighing, Kris dropped his head. “I can’t tell. If we did, I don’t have access to that information. I’m not in the director’s trusted circle anymore. But, I can say that when this news broke, it was like a drag queen bitch fight at Langley. Everyone had their claws out, and the director and all the pertinent heads have been at the White House since.”

“Three Secret Service agents were killed.”

“I know. Which means if this was CIA-funded, something went very, very wrong.”

“The CIA can’t work on American soil. They can’t do this.” Tom finally spoke, but he stayed away from the papers and the photos. He wasn’t cleared for this. Mike wasn’t either. What were they doing?

“The CIA can’t spy on Americans. But this operation, if we funded it, started in Russia.” Kris passed over a folder. “This is what the Russians sent to the White House. The White House will send it to your U.S. Attorney after they go through it. They’ll probably redact a bunch. This is unredacted.”

“I can’t read this.” He tried to hand it back.

“Tom. If the CIA planned the killing of the Russian president. If all of this is true. Then you’re in the center of a shitstorm that could get you killed.”

Mike’s hands grasped the edge of the counter, hard enough to make his arms shake.

“I’m presiding over this trial, Kris. I can’t read this. I can’t be prejudiced before the trial starts.”

“Everyone will read this report. Everyone. It will be on CNN, MSNBC, Fox, and everywhere else in an hour. All of your jurors will have read this. You’ll be the only one who waits until it’s entered into evidence.”

“Then I’ll wait.” He pushed the papers back to Kris. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Tom! Don’t be ridiculous!” Kris huffed, flouncing. “Do you have any idea what it would take to get approval for an operation like this? The director, the president, his closest staff. This would have come from the top. A presidential order to assassinate the Russian president using a false flag assassin? Do you honestly think that you’re going to preside over a fair trial?”

Tom closed his eyes. Ballard’s frantic need to “get them on the same page”, Fink hassling him to let this trial go, give it up and walk away, and the White House breathing down Ballard’s neck. The evidence was there. It all made terrible sense.

“If you don’t want to read it, I will.” Mike held out his hand. “I have to know. I have to keep you safe.”

“Look, safe would mean getting as far from this as you possibly can.” Kris held both hands up, pushing the imaginary mess off his kitchen counter. “If the CIA paid Kryukov, who then paid Desheriyev, then who is the defendant here? Who is the prosecution? Suddenly the U.S. government is in the hot seat, but your hotshot U.S. Attorney is supposed to be the Hollywood good guy.” He sighed. “Heads are going to roll, big time. Like you said, three Secret Service agents—Americans, good guys, heroes—were killed. Was the U.S. government complicit?”

A chill tap-danced down Tom’s spine. He cursed, scrubbing his hands over his face. Mike reached for him, resting his palm on the small of his back. “All right. Walk me through it.”

Kris laid it all out for them both. The Russians had proof of money being transferred from a dummy account that was a CIA front—and surprise, surprise, they knew that—into an account set up for Kryukov, courtesy of the CIA. Video footage showed him at the bank and funds being withdrawn. Money then went to Desheriyev. Not the full amount, but similar chunks. Enough to imply that Kryukov made a profit from this endeavor.

“Kryukov is insisting he’s innocent. His attorney has been doing the news circuit tour, claiming that the U.S. government knows more than they’re letting on. Could this be what he’s referring to?”

“It doesn’t make him look innocent. But it does shift the blame.”

Tom’s cell phone buzzed. He groaned at the caller ID. “It’s Ballard.”

“Good luck.” Kris turned away, heading for the couch in the small sitting area and giving Tom a modicum of privacy. He motioned Mike over as well, and Mike reluctantly padded to the couch and Etta Mae.

Ballard spoke as soon as he answered, shouting over the line. “This is a fucking disaster, Brewer! Jesus Christ! The White House is absolutely shitting themselves.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. We need to figure out how to handle this. Squash this so it can’t be admitted into evidence. You can bounce this, Brewer.”

“You want me to bar these documents from the trial?”

“Yes!”

“Jesus, Dylan, you’re asking me to break the law! These documents are admissible—”

“Find a reason for them to be inadmissible!”

“Renner has been all over the news saying that the government is holding something back. Is this it, Ballard? Is this what you’ve been hiding? Are you trying to get me to break the law with you? You weren’t going to turn this over in discovery—”

“The U.S. Government does not have to disclose intelligence gathering operations or anything that would reveal sources and methods!”

“Something has gone very, very wrong, Dylan, and people are dead. Are you helping to find justice or are you complicit in a cover-up?”

“Fuck you,” Ballard hissed. “You’re going to ruin this whole fucking thing—”

“The documents are admissible. Federal rules of evidence state they are. They’re self-authenticating. They have a seal from a foreign government, attesting to their authenticity. If Kryukov wants to use it in his defense, he’s allowed.”

Silence. “How the fuck do you know the documents are sealed?”

“Don’t call me again, Ballard. You want to speak to me, you come to my chambers at the courthouse.” He hung up and sagged against the kitchen island.

Mike was at this side in a half-second, one hand on his back. Even Etta Mae trotted over.

“You heard all that?”

“Was kind of hard not to.”

“I should have given this trial up. I should have walked away. Every day it gets worse and worse.”

“You’re the only thing keeping this trial honest, Tom. What would happen if you quit?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t say. 

Kris came back, pulling clothes from his dryer and packing them into his duffel. He started a second load. “You two should stay here. This place is safe, and it’d be difficult for anyone to figure out where you are.”

Kris’s place was gorgeous, but it was only a studio. A large one, but still. Behind a delicate paper screen off the living room was his bedroom area. A king bed, and on the wall behind it, a mirror that ran the length of the room with soft golden light falling from recessed bulbs in the ceiling above the mirror. There were no decorations, no clutter. Nothing personal at all aside from one framed picture resting on the nightstand: a man in an Army uniform, scowling at the camera.

“I don’t think we’ll fit.”

Kris arched one eyebrow sky high. “Oh, Tom, I always like squeezing into the middle. But, not right now. I’m out of here as soon as this load is done. You have the place to yourself for a while.”

“Where are you going?”

Kris sent him another look. This one clearly said don’t ask silly questions.

Mike jumped in. “Are you involved in this at all? In any way?”

Kris hedged his answer carefully. “I’m going to help out the recovery team. We’re standing up a unit to try and get our people out of the Russian prison.”

“All options sanctioned?”

“Not yet. Right now, it’s diplomatic. But we’re prepping for everything.” He straightened, fixing Tom with a hard stare. “You’re right about one thing, Tom. This is only going to get worse from here. Every day, in every way. Are you ready for this?” He looked from Tom to Mike.

“Yes. Whatever it takes,” Mike answered instantly. “Anything. Everything.”

“It might come to everything.”

Kris, true to his word, left after the next load of laundry. He dressed in his designer threads for the plane ride to Europe—slim tan pants rolled at the ankles, a loose orange top, tan Gucci trench coat, and his shades. He redid his hair, and Tom spotted him touching up his eyeliner and glossing his lips.

He’d never, not in a million years, guess there was tactical gear and blackout fatigues in Kris’s duffel.

Maybe that was the point.

Mike listened to six minutes of CNN before turning it off. Everything was focused on the bombshell from Russia. Proof of CIA Role in Attempted Assassination screamed from the shout line beneath the anchors, who argued over their guests trying to make sense of everything.

Tom slowly read through the Russian documents, fighting against the voice in the back of his mind that screamed at him to stop, as Mike typed up his daily report for Winters and then ran back to his place to grab clothes for both of them. They turned in after that, climbing into Kris’s giant bed as Etta Mae snored on the couch. Apparently, butter-soft leather met with her approval.

“Who is he?” Tom picked up the lone picture frame, staring at the harsh Army officer glaring back at him.

“Kris’s husband, David. Before he died.”

“Did he die in the war? Overseas?”

Mike flinched. “Kind of.” He took the photo and set it down. “It’s not a good story. Not tonight.”

“Kris said he wasn’t in the director’s inner circle anymore. He used to be?”

“Yeah. Until David died.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. Kris was already a widower when I met him.”

Tom rolled into Mike’s hold, pressing his face into his neck. Mike stroked his arms, his back. They were naked, but Mike’s touches weren’t sexual. They gave and sought comfort. Tom plastered himself to Mike’s side, slid his thigh between Mike’s. He needed this, arms around him, holding him. A man who wanted to care for him.

“Tom? Whatever happens… I’m not going anywhere. I’m sticking by your side. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

Tom kissed his neck, right over his pounding pulse.