Hush by Tal Bauer (5)

Chapter 29

July 6^th

“Lucciano. Come with me.” Winters stood outside the door to Tom’s chambers when they arrived in the morning. He’d clearly been waiting for them.

Mike shifted his laptop bag and tried to stall. He caught Tom’s gaze, shooting him a slight frown as he turned away from Winters.

“I’ll talk to you later about the plans for the pre-trial hearing tomorrow.” Tom tried to stake his claim on Mike, as if he and Winters were in a game of tug-of-war. “I want to make sure we’re on the same page and everything goes smoothly when Ballard and Renner are here.”

“Yes, Judge Brewer. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

Winters watched silently, his eyes flicking from Tom to Mike and back again. His expression betrayed nothing. Not a hint of emotion crossed his stern face.

Mike followed Winters down to his command office. Winters didn’t say anything, not a single word, until they were shut in. “Have a seat, Inspector Lucciano.”

He clutched his coffee cup and set his laptop bag down, waiting while Winters unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat behind his desk.

“How many days off have you had since full-time protection on Judge Brewer began, Lucciano?”

Shit. “Sir, I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Sir—”

“Judge Brewer has never stayed in the suite at the Hyatt you set up for him. We’ve rotated the agents assigned there down to one, and they’re just on-call. Have you been providing round-the-clock protection, Inspector?”

“I… have, yes, sir. Judge Brewer wanted to keep a lower profile. He asked to go to a friend’s house, and I’ve been staying there with him.” Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth either.

“So in all this time, you have had no days off. No nights off. Full time protection with no relief.”

“It’s fine, sir. Judge Brewer and I work well together. I’m doing great.”

“You’re well outside of regulations, Lucciano. You know that. Protective agents need relief and rest, or they are not effective.”

Silence.

“The trial is fast approaching, and Judge Brewer needs you to be on your A-game. You need a break.”

“Sir—”

“You’re done, Lucciano! Go home. Get some rest. Villegas will take over for you.”

“For how long?” He shouldn’t let that tone creep into his voice, but damn it! He couldn’t lose Tom, couldn’t pass his protection off to Villegas. Not now, not after everything.

“Twenty-four hours to start. Report to me tomorrow morning.” Winters eyeballed him, glaring. “Understood?”

Fuck. “Yes, sir.”

“Where is Judge Brewer staying now? You’ve kept him on the move and have redacted his specific location from your reports. Villegas will need a handover from you. Brief him before you leave.” Winters’s eyes narrowed. “I want you out of the building in thirty minutes. Asleep within the hour.”

Fat chance. “Yes, sir. Is Villegas here?”

“Waiting for you in his office.”

Villegas was sitting on his desk, smirking, when Mike walked in. “Whoa, someone got a tan.” He had a folder open with all of Mike’s daily reports. Some of them—every report filed from their weekend at the beach—were outright fiction. “These are pretty lean, Lucciano. You don’t even detail Brewer’s location. This is why we couldn’t find him when we needed to.”

“I’m being extra cautious.”

“Keeping vital data from us? Your teammates?” Villegas snorted. “Sounds like you’re hiding something. From us.”

He grabbed the folder out of Villegas’s hands and scrawled Kris’s address on the inside flap. “He’s staying here. With one of his friends.”

“Do you have the keys?”

“No.” Yes. He did. But he was going up to Tom’s chambers and giving them straight to him. He’d be damned if Villegas was going to have total access to Kris’s place. “Judge Brewer has the keys.”

Villegas glared at him. “What about routes into DC? What have you driven?”

He sketched out his routes around the north and east of DC. “I get him into the courthouse at six AM each day.” He hesitated, but scribbled another note. “Here’s the kind of coffee he likes.”

Villegas’s eyebrows rose. “You’re pulling out all the stops for this guy.” He smirked again. “Gotta crush, Lucciano? You like your guys older, don’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t have to take this shit from you.”

“Whoa! Jesus! Can’t take a joke? This is why I don’t fucking like you. You’re impossible to talk to!”

Mike ground his teeth together. He and Villegas were like oil and vinegar, or two pieces of sandpaper rubbing against each other. They never came together right. “Whatever. Try not to be an asshole to Judge Brewer. Just keep your mouth shut around him.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Villegas took the folder back and stood, standing right in Mike’s personal space. He stared Mike down. “Look. You’re acting shifty. I know you’re covering something up. Whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going to find out.”

“Back up, Villegas. Before I make you back up.”

Villegas kept staring, not moving, before he finally stepped to the side.

Mike turned and stormed out, fleeing, really. He felt Villegas’s eyeballs pierce his shoulder blades with every step.

He raced up to the fourth floor, praying he wouldn’t run into Winters. Meeting up with Tom when he’d been ordered to leave wouldn’t look good. Luckily, he only saw Danny, Tom’s clerk, flipping through a law book and scribbling in notepad that he leaned against the wall. “Hey, Mike,” Danny called out, not looking up. “Judge Brewer is in chambers. Said to tell you to come right in.”

Mike slipped in and shut the door behind him. Tom looked up, wide-eyed. “Everything okay?”

“Kind of. I’m being sent home.”

Tom paled. “What? Why? Did they—”

“It’s regulations. Winters thinks I haven’t had a night off in over a week. That I’m spending too much on-duty time with you.” He shrugged, a helpless smile on his lips. “He doesn’t know that off-duty or on, I’d still choose to be with you. That I want to be with you.”

Smiling, Tom visibly relaxed. “So, he doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Don’t think so.” Mike pulled out Kris’s keys and the badge to his parking garage. “Villegas’s taking over for today and tonight. He’ll stay with you at Kris’s place. I told him you had the keys and everything.”

“He’ll see your stuff there.”

“He won’t know what’s mine or what’s Kris’s. If you see anything out, tuck it away, but he won’t be able to tell my boxers or toothpaste from Kris’s stuff. It’ll be okay.”

“You’re right. But… I won’t see you until tomorrow?”

Mike shook his head. “I have to prove to Winters that I’m rested and can take you back. And I will. I’ll be here for the pre-trial hearing tomorrow. I swear.”

“I’m going to miss you.” Tom reached for him, grabbing his fingers. “We haven’t been apart for…”

“We kind of rushed in, yeah.” Mike grinned. “Spending every day and night together.”

“I like it. And I needed it. Needed you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He sighed, huffing. “Text me. I’m going to be a mess. I’m not going to rest at all. All I’ll be doing is pacing and thinking of you.”

“Don’t do that. I will be okay.” Tom squeezed Mike’s hand and let go. “I will be. And I’ll text you.”

“See you tomorrow.” Mike leaned across the desk and kissed Tom, gently.

Tom spent the rest of the day researching every angle he could possibly imagine that Ballard would try to use. The pre-trial hearing the next day promised to be a bitter, acrimonious battle between Renner, Ballard, and himself. Renner’s requests for information were targeted to hurt, playing, clearly, on the Russian documents.

How would Ballard respond?

What were the rules of evidence, to the atomized level? What could he allow into the trial?

What would he allow into the trial?

How could this entire thing be fair, if it had been a sanctioned black op from the start? And now the government was trying to point the finger and avoid their reflection in the mirror?

He wished Mike were still there. He’d like to go back to Kris’s place and relax on the couch, kick back with Chinese take-out and watch something on TV, just let his mind go as Mike held him close.

But, Villegas walked into his office at five PM, not Mike. “Judge Brewer? What time would you like to head out?”

His brain hurt. “Now is fine. I think I’ll make it an early night.” He tried to smile.

Villegas gave him a wan grin in return. They headed down to the garage in silence, and he spotted Mike’s empty parking space near Villegas’s blacked-out SUV.

“You look tanned, Judge Brewer. Spend some time at the beach?”

“Yeah. This past weekend.” He stared out the rear passenger window.

The rest of the ride to Crystal City was long and silent. Tom watched DC, Maryland, and then Virginia streak by outside his windows. They took a new route, a loop north before heading south to Kris’s home. He fumbled the key card when Villegas asked for it, but took them to the right floor at least, once they were inside.

Etta Mae bounded across the apartment to greet him, tail wagging a mile a minute. She sniffed him, and then cocked her head at Villegas. She looked back at Tom, as if asking, Where’s my playmate? Where’s Mike?

Villegas, though, dropped to his knees and reached for her, smiling wide. “Hey girl. You’re beautiful. What’s her name?”

“Etta Mae.” Etta Mae, the little traitor, rolled right over for Villegas, stretching her short legs and begging for a belly rub. Villegas beamed as he petted her.

Tom saw his opportunity. He ducked into Kris’s screened-off bedroom area and snatched up Mike’s clothes, then dropped them into Mike’s duffel and tucked both his and Mike’s into Kris’s closet off the master bath. He pushed Mike’s things into Kris’s on the counter, hiding them in plain sight. Hopefully.

“What do you want for dinner?” Villegas poked his head into the open bathroom door. “I can order a pizza.”

“Sounds great.”

Awkward silence descended after they negotiated pizza toppings. Tom escaped to Kris’s patio, sitting outside and watching DC descend into dusk and then twilight. Villegas stayed indoors, flipping through files he’d brought from the courthouse as he sat in the kitchen, facing Tom on the patio, as if watching his every move.

Hey you. :) Hope you got some sleep.

Mike texted back almost immediately. [I did, actually. Not that I needed any. But I took a nap.]

Good. And I’m jealous. No naps for me today.

[What are you doing now?]

Avoiding the great Inspector Villegas. He’s in the kitchen. I’m on the patio. Waiting for pizza to show up.

[Pizza sounds yummy.]

Won’t be as good as what you BBQ’d this weekend. :)

[ :) ]

The pizza arrived, and they ate in silence at the kitchen bar top, trying not to stare at each other. Tom retreated to the patio with a full glass of wine and Etta Mae. She rested beneath his feet as the stars came out, one by one.

[I miss you.]

I miss you too. Villegas is not good company.

[Well, he shouldn’t be. Don’t want him replacing me!]

No danger of that. :)

[I miss Etta Mae too. Miss hearing her walking around. Miss her cold nose in my ribs.]

Tom smiled stupidly down at his phone. Etta Mae had hunted for Mike during dinner, sniffing the door and all the corners of Kris’s apartment, as if he’d magically turn up just for her.

It was only twenty-four hours, and yet, the minutes seemed to drag on and on. Had it been only last week when he’d worried that if he spent a moment away from Mike, his tether to his soul would snap and he’d freefall back into his closet? His newfound identity, his fledgling pride, the way he’d finally assembled the puzzle pieces of himself into place? Humpty Dumpty had been put back together again.

And, it seemed, was staying together. He didn’t feel the frantic need to run, barricade himself in his—or Kris’s—closet. Not tonight, at least. For the moment, if the big bomb dropped and his secret came out over the airwaves, the only thing he’d feel was relief. It would all be out in the open, and then he—and Mike—could get on with everything.

Right now, he just wanted Mike back, sitting beside him. If he were here, they’d sit on the patio together. Hold hands. Mike would make him laugh. He’d try to make Mike laugh. Etta Mae would shift between them, greedy for attention from them both. And later, he’d put the moves on Mike—the few, fumbling moves he had—and pull Mike into bed. Another night of lovemaking, of Mike gazing at him like he was the sun, and his body singing the ecstasy hymns.

She was looking for you earlier. She adores you.

[ :( Now I feel worse. She doesn’t think I abandoned her, does she?]

He couldn’t stop his smile, or his gentle laugh. Mike, for all his bluster about being just a meathead with a gun, was such a gentle soul. A puppy, when it came right down to it. She doesn’t. She’ll be super excited to see you again.

[Soon. This exile won’t last long.]

As long as you show up bright-eyed and rested, you’ll be back on, right?

[Hope so. I’ll throw a fit if I’m not.]

He took another sip of his wine, and then a larger gulp. So… what are you wearing?

[Tom!]

What?

[Isn’t Villegas right there? I mean… Kris’s place isn’t huge…]

I’m saving the visual for later. ;)

[Well… in that case…] Mike sent a picture over, himself lying on his side in bed in just his tiny yellow briefs and hugging a pillow to his chest. [This is your pillow.]

Should he be aroused or melting in adoration? Both? Miles and miles of tanned skin, burnished from their weekend at the beach, and a tiny stretch of banana yellow briefs. A bulge that made his cock twitch, made his mouth water. He rubbed his thumb over the screen, over Mike’s face, his tiny smile and shining eyes.

This was who he was. A gay man. A man who adored this other man. A man who craved Mike’s touch and kiss, his texts and his handholds, and whose soul bloomed whenever Mike looked at him in exactly this way.

He sent back a heart emoji. You are perfect.

[No I’m not. I’m just crazy about you. :) ]

Inside, Villegas had turned on the TV, and CNN blared over Kris’s surround sound speakers. The anchor droned alongside dramatic music, beats signaling rising tension and breaking news. As if every hour didn’t bring a new breaking news alert. Russian troops on the move, massing near the Estonian border. The Baltic states are readying their own defenses and calling out for NATO assistance.

Tom ducked back into Kris’s apartment. Images played on screen, shaky cell phone cameras from Estonian border towns looking across the river to Russia. Tanks and troops massed on the Russian side of the river, next to brand new helicopter pads cleared out and marked with spray paint in the packed dirt. Frantic Estonian flew in the background, mixed with gasps and curses. The images repeated, from Narva to Karoli to Kuningakula, and down to Saatse, Koidula, and Maasi. A map appeared, the entire border of Estonia—a NATO country—covered by Russian tanks and troops, poised and ready to invade.

Gunshots snapped and cracked over the TV and the cell phone cameras. The Russians were practicing on their side of the border, live-fire exercises yards away from NATO land. Intimidation at its finest.

Villegas sat on the edge of Kris’s couch, his wide eyes glued to the screen, jaw hanging open.

The anchor popped back on screen, reading a just-released statement from the White House. “This sudden act of aggression by the Russian military and President Dimitry Vasiliev is exactly what the world does not need at this moment. We need calm, forthright peacefulness, and a willingness to compromise and come to the table with open arms. This aggression will be met with the full force of NATO, should one Russian toe or bullet cross the Estonian border.”

“Well,” the anchor said, his eyes wide as he turned to his colleague at the CNN news table. “Does this sound like we’re headed to war?”

“Most definitely. Most definitely. How this plays into the DC Sniper trial, which is set to begin very soon, is anybody’s guess.”

They stayed up to watch CNN for the next three hours, until Tom’s queasy stomach forced him to turn away. He and Mike texted throughout, Mike’s tension throttling sky high with each new revelation on the news. His texts were shorter, with more exclamation points. Villegas seemed transfixed by the news, and he never once asked who Tom was texting.

Tom caught him side-eying the phone a few times, though, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen.

He brushed his teeth and grunted goodnight to Villegas, and then crawled into bed. Villegas turned down the TV. He was sleeping on the couch. Etta Mae grumbled about losing her spot, but Tom lifted her onto Kris’s bed and she happily stole one of the many pillows for herself.

In bed now. You?

[Same. It’s too big and empty without you in it, though.]

Etta Mae is not as good a cuddler as you are. :)

[I’m going to dream about you tonight. :) ]

Oh yeah? :)

[Yep. I’ve dreamed about you every night, actually.]

And there went his heart, again. His toes curled in the sheets as he beamed. He wanted to say something ridiculous, something like ‘when this trial is over, let’s run away to Europe for three weeks,’ or ‘move in with me, I never want to be without you,’ or even, ‘I’m falling in love with you.’

[Seven hours until I see you again.]

You’ll be there at 6?

[Waiting for you with your diabetic nightmare. I mean, your coffee. :) ]

He sent four hearts, all in a row. He didn’t know what else to say. He heard Villegas moving around, heading for the bathroom. Brush his teeth behind the closed door and change into sleep clothes. Head back out to the couch. “Good night, Judge Brewer.”

“Night.”

Night, Mike. See you in seven hours.

[Goodnight, babe. <3 ]

Babe. Him, being called “babe” by Mike. He was dreaming. He was absolutely dreaming. His toes curled again, squeezing the sheets as lightning raced through his body, fireworks going off at the ends of his neurons. He swiped the screen and pulled up the picture Mike had sent earlier, his golden skin and tiny yellow briefs, his soulful, electric-blue eyes and his pouty, just-smiling lips. Tom propped his phone up beside him, laying it against the pillow’s edge. He blew a kiss at the screen.

After a few minutes, he powered it down and plugged it in, and then rolled over to go to sleep.

Villegas slipped into the bathroom, holding his toiletries bag. He’d gone home in the middle of the day to grab clothes and what he needed for the overnight, and then went straight to Winters.

“Put this in Judge Brewer’s belongings,” Winters had said.

Villegas fingered the GPS transmitter, a tiny tracker that could easily get lost in Brewer’s duffel or bag. Brewer would never see it, if Villegas did his job right.

Brewer’s toiletries bag was open on the counter, everything inside arranged neatly in rows and stacks. His toothbrush rested a perfect right angle to the sink, drip drying. Okay. So Brewer was neater than average. Villegas turned to the closet and spotted two duffels tucked just inside the door.

Perfect.

He pulled them both out. One was unzipped, and he flipped the top. Bunched up shirts, suit pants, a balled-up tie… and spare ammo clips. A spare shoulder holster.

This wasn’t Judge Brewer’s bag. It was Lucciano’s.

He rifled through everything, through Lucciano’s socks and ridiculously tiny underwear. There were shorts and a swimsuit, still flecked with sand. Shirts that smelled like salt and sunscreen. And, at the very bottom, a half-full bottle of lube.

Villegas’s eyes rolled up, as if he could stare through the closet wall, right to where Judge Brewer was lying in bed and texting. Texting who? Lucciano? Could they really be…

He shoved it all back into Lucciano’s bag and flipped open the second. Brewer’s bag was neater, everything folded and in its place. Dirty shirts that smelled like sunscreen and sand, a swimsuit, flip-flops.

They’d obviously gone to the beach together.

Villegas tucked the transmitter into the bottom of Brewer’s bag, hidden by a seam. He slipped out of the closet and back to the bathroom, and then changed and brushed his teeth.

Mission accomplished.

“Good night, Judge Brewer,” he said, heading back for the couch.

“Night.”

Chapter 30

July 7^th

Tom waited in his silent chambers, listening to footsteps clap and snap down the hall. Mike leaned against his desk beside him, their hands tangled together. Mike couldn’t offer any advice, but he could hold Tom’s hand, be there, and that meant more than anything.

Winters had let Mike back onto Tom’s protective detail, but growled that Mike would be sharing the load from now on. Tom was expected to spend some time in the Hyatt for Mike’s relief. Mike agreed quickly, and then he delivered the good news to Tom.

Knocks sounded on Tom’s door, delicate raps from Peggy’s gentle fist. “Judge Brewer, your ten o’clock is here.”

His ten o’clock. The pre-trial hearing to decide discovery, what was admissible and inadmissible in trial. Knives would be out, and blood would be shed. He squeezed Mike’s hand and stood. “Send them in.”

Mike stepped aside, straightening his suit jacket. He’d brought Tom a new cup of sugared-up coffee, and now he watched Ballard and Renner and the court reporter file into Tom’s chambers, giving both attorneys the hairy eyeball. No coffee for either of these men.

“Thank you, Mike.” Tom smiled. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re done.”

Ballard watched Mike nod and stride out of Tom’s chambers. Peggy shut the door. “You know, I don’t have round the clock U.S. marshal protection.”

“You crave the spotlight, Ballard. You couldn’t be private if your life depended on it. My face plastered across the internet is a different matter entirely.”

Renner’s eyes darted from Ballard to Tom and back.

“Please, gentleman, have a seat.” Tom unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat at the head of his conference table. Mike had cleared his workspace clutter, hiding his stuff mostly beneath Tom’s desk.

Tension thrummed, as if a tuning fork were about to start singing. The court reporter finished setting up her tiny tripod stand and stool in the corner and nodded to Tom.

“All right. We’re meeting today in chambers to discuss the discovery process and admissible evidence in this trial. I will remind you: these proceedings are under seal. Your motions, the transcript, and any response are being kept from the public.”

Renner nodded. He held a fountain pen in his hand, one eyebrow delicately arched. He was ready.

Ballard stared at Tom, an almost-sneer curling his upper lip.

“Before we begin, let’s discuss extradition. Mr. Ballard, is Russia planning on filing for extradition?”

“No.”

Renner smirked. “I wouldn’t think so. Recent revelations are proving wonderfully embarrassing for the government and the government’s case. Russia wants to keep you twisting in the wind.”

“Russia knows that the United States has the death penalty and they do not. Russia wants your client to die, Mr. Renner.” Ballard grinned, cold and lifeless. “Which he will. After he is convicted.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“You could spare your client a lot of trauma and trouble by cutting a deal—”

“You can’t cut a deal if you are innocent—”

“All right, that’s enough!” Tom held up his hand, silencing the room. The court reporter’s keyboard click-clacked, but Ballard and Renner fell gratifyingly silent. “We’re moving on. Mr. Renner. You filed an extraordinary request for discovery. You’re asking for information that goes directly into our intelligence community and their operations. Information for which sources and methods for gathering intelligence and critical information may be exposed or put in harm’s way. Mr. Ballard is asking me to reject your requests. I want to hear your arguments.” He glared at Ballard as Ballard opened his mouth, preparing to jump in. “Mr. Renner, you go first.”

“We are entitled to all materials that exculpate Mr. Kryukov. Additionally, we’re entitled to all information that is material to our defense.” Renner grinned, the sly grin of a defense attorney setting up a trap. “Our defense, Your Honor, is that Mr. Kryukov has been framed—”

Ballard exploded. Snorting, he tipped his head back, rolling his eyes. “Framed? This is ridiculous!”

“Our position from day one has been that Mr. Kryukov is the victim of a far larger conspiracy—”

“And you think those Russian documents are going to help you, huh? Icing on the cake?” Ballard sneered. “They’re not getting admitted!”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Ballard fumed. He turned to Tom.

“We will discuss the Russian documents later on. Right now, we’re discussing Mr. Renner’s requests.”

Renner smoothly jumped back in. “Mr. Kryukov deserves to have a fair trial. Serious questions have been raised very recently about just what truly happened that day, questions that the government seems not interested in answering. Or, seems very interested in covering up.”

“Are you accusing—”

Tom sent Ballard a scalding look. “Mr. Ballard, if you cannot control yourself, you will be removed and held in contempt of court. This is your first warning.”

“Your Honor,” Renner’s voice was silk and velvet. “I know you care about fairness and justice for all. Mr. Kryukov needs your help.”

Tom could feel Ballard shaking in his chair, rage thundering through him. Ballard clenched his pen so hard his knuckles went white, and he stared down at the conference table, harsh breaths roaring through his nose. This was exactly what Ballard had feared, had warned Tom about. The defense angling for Tom’s sympathies, for his “liberal” application and interpretation of the law, giving them everything they wanted.

“Mr. Ballard. Your response, please.”

Ballard took a long moment to compose himself. Tom had always known Ballard was a firecracker, but seeing him now, in chambers, was something entirely different. He leaned back.

“Mr. Renner is asking for all files related to the FBI investigation of the shooting, Mr. Desheriyev, and Mr. Kryukov. All CIA files related to both men, including files from the CIA station in Moscow, and any code-name clearance documents that describe possible recruitment or handling of Mr. Kryukov as an agent for the CIA. He wants copies of our internal investigations, all communications on the trial prep between Russia and the United States, and copies of all surveillance activities being conducted in Moscow since the shooting.” He held his hands up, spreading them wide and shaking his head. “This request is ridiculous. It’s far, far too broad, and specifically asks for extremely classified information. In providing this information, we would be burning sources, methods, agents, and officers of the CIA and other intelligence organizations in Russia, all of which are absolutely vital to protecting national security.”

“Your top three CIA officers were arrested in Moscow. The Russians have published details of a CIA operation to kill the Russian president. I’d say your methods are already blown.”

“Mr. Renner.”

Renner kept his mouth shut.

“What this is is blackmail,” Ballard hissed. “He’s trying to blackmail the government into turning over everything we have or he’ll threaten to move for a mistrial. And he’s playing to a perfectly sympathetic judge.”

“What is Mr. Renner entitled to, then, in your opinion?”

“Only our evidence against Mr. Kryukov for this case and these charges. Whatever defense he wants to mount about some vast, tangled conspiracy, he still has to address our evidence in this case. This case against Mr. Kryukov is straightforward.”

“How can you even pretend that is true? The Russians have hand-delivered evidence of the conspiracy you lament, a conspiracy set up by the U.S. government!”

“I have evidence linking your client to this crime. That’s what you have to answer to. Not tangle this court up in tin-foil-hat conspiracies.”

“It’s hardly a conspiracy when there are documents to prove it.”

Ballard’s teeth scraped against one another. “Those documents haven’t even been admitted into the trial yet.” He turned to Tom, his burning eyes spitting wrath. “I don’t see how any sensible court would admit documents that haven’t been properly sourced and that come from a foreign, hostile government and are directly threatening the United States, into any trial.”

“Not admitting the Russian documents would be clear grounds for an appeal, possibly even a mistrial. I have a formal complaint ready to file if the documents are not admitted. While we do not know the sources and methods of these documents, they have been sealed by the Russian Secretary of State, which meets the standard of admissibility for foreign public documents.”

All eyes turned to Tom. The court reporter caught up with the rapid back-and-forth, her fingers clacking over the keys, until the strokes slowed and finally stopped. Tom could hear everyone breathing: Ballard’s fast, furious breaths through his nose, Renner’s measured, deep inhales.

“The documents are admissible as evidence into this trial,” he said softly. Ballard cursed, scrunching up his face and staring down at the carpet. “They represent both a critical piece of information and raise questions which need to be answered.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Renner smiled, smarmy and slick, before sighing. “The prosecutor’s conduct and behavior around these documents deeply troubles me.”

Tom spoke before Ballard could, jumping in as Ballard’s head shot up. “Mr. Renner, that’s your warning. I will not have you speak to the U.S. Attorney, or any member of his investigative team, in that manner. Mr. Ballard’s case is clear, and as he’s stated, he has the evidence to bring this to trial, and enough confidence that the U.S. government stands behind him in seeking the death penalty. Do you, Mr. Renner, feel as confident about your client?”

Both attorneys blinked at him. Renner shifted, sat back. Ballard frowned, but his jaw unclenched, just a fraction.

“I still need the items I am requesting in discovery, Your Honor. If there is information in the government’s investigations and records regarding Mr. Kryukov, then he is entitled to it. It’s not blackmail.” Renner shot a glare at Ballard. “This is fairness. Justice.”

“Mr. Ballard.” Tom tried to soften his gaze as he looked to his old boss. “How is the government prepared to compromise here?”

Ballard ground his teeth. “We are prepared to ask the intelligence community for any information exculpatory to Mr. Kryukov.”

“You’re prepared to offer the minimum that the law requires?”

Ballard glared back. “That’s all we have to do.”

“How do you know what is exculpatory to my client if you haven’t investigated the possibility of a conspiracy, or, as the case may be, are actively engaged in perpetuating a cover-up of said conspiracy?”

Ballard jumped to his feet. His chair skittered back, across the rug. Tom reached for him, grabbing his wrist. “Sit down, Mr. Ballard! Mr. Renner, that is your second warning.”

Renner shook his head, sighing.

“Mr. Ballard.” Tom squeezed Ballard’s wrist, gently. Hopefully, it came across as kind. Ballard didn’t rip his wrist away, so that was a start. “We—the United States government—are on uncertain ground here. The entire world is watching us, and decisions made in these chambers and in our courtroom can lead the world toward peace… or toward war.” Tom swallowed. “Sit down.”

Ballard sat. He stared at Tom.

“While you are within the letter of the law in providing only the minimum required to the defense, it is my decision that we, the United States government, are going to go above and beyond that threshold.” Tom watched as Ballard started turning red, then deep purple, a human bomb about to explode. “If you withhold information that then becomes material to the defense, or even might completely exculpate Mr. Kryukov, then any conviction that you work so diligently for would be thrown out, Dylan. It’s not just the physical threats that we have to watch out for, terrorists and international attacks and war. We can’t lose the soul of American justice. Any injustice perpetrated by your office or this court would irreparably damage America, both here and abroad. I won’t let you stumble into that mistake, Mr. Ballard. We will proceed with an abundance of caution, and give the defense all the prep they need to string together this theory of theirs.” He turned to Renner. “If it exists.”

Silence, save for the clicking of the court reporter’s typing. Ballard shook, his eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at Tom.

“The government, through Mr. Ballard, will produce to the defense any and all information that may exculpate Mr. Kryukov and any information on Mr. Kryukov that the intelligence community may currently have, or be in the process of collecting. Files on Mr. Kryukov from the FBI, CIA, and NSA. All sources and methods will be redacted. All information that is classified or can in any way impact national security will be reviewed only within a secured facility at FBI headquarters. Only Mr. Renner can review the information.” He leveled a flat glare at Renner. “You cannot remove any documents, discuss their content, or reveal their information. To anyone.”

“Then what’s the point, Your Honor?”

“If you want to use anything that is classified and produced through discovery in court, you will notify me. File a request under seal, and I will ensure that the information is reclassed for trial.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I expect the information to be provided within the week, Mr. Ballard. Trial is fast approaching. The defense needs time to review and confirm or discard their chosen strategy.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Ballard spoke through clenched teeth.

“Lastly, we need to discuss both parties’ communication with the media about this trial. Mr. Ballard, you have complained about Mr. Renner’s appearances in the media?”

“The defense has come out in force on all the cable news channels, throwing around wild accusations of a conspiracy and insisting that their client is innocent, absent of any actual evidence—”

“The Russian documents are solid evidence.”

Tom sent Renner a hot glare. He pressed his lips together.

“He is actively working to taint the jury pool with crazed speculations and conspiracy allegations. The jury will expect to hear salacious stories, and that is not at all what this trial is about. He is poisoning the well before we’ve even begun. He needs to be immediately barred from all further public comment. If he’s this damaging with just his wild theories, then what kind of insinuations will he throw out there after he’s viewed the documents you have so graciously given over?”

Tom eyed Ballard, staring him down as Ballard spoke his last sentence with dripping condescension. “Are you insinuating that Mr. Renner will flout my order barring public disclosure or comment on the classified materials he is legally entitled to view to craft a competent defense for his client?”

“I think he’ll behave like a two-dollar hooker on a Sunday afternoon. Skin here, flash of tit there, maybe a quick rub in the dark. Enough to make you feel dirty and need a wash. He’ll play for the media, tantalizing them.”

Tom scowled as Renner guffawed. “That is quite enough, Mr. Ballard. And incredibly tasteless. Mr. Renner?”

“I suppose I’m not surprised that Mr. Ballard wants to accuse me, try me, and sentence me to a crime I have not yet committed. Seems to be par for the course with this U.S. Attorney.”

Ballard gnashed his teeth. Tom shifted. While Renner wasn’t wrong, he couldn’t let a blatant attack against the U.S. Attorney go unanswered. “Mr. Renner. If you continue to attack the U.S. Attorney, I will bar you from my courtroom and this trial. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly, Your Honor.” No apology, though. “And all I can say is that the prosecution has done a fabulous job deciding this case in the public media already. Hundreds upon hundreds of hours of media coverage, news analysis, statements by the U.S Attorney himself, the White House, the Department of Justice, the FBI, and others, all of which have come out strongly against my client. Through their words, they have all but convicted him in absence of a judge and jury. All I have been attempting is to even the playing field and ensure that the public has a reasonably fair view of events, and that everyone knows that nothing is established outside of your courtroom. Guilt and innocence are not decided in the court of public opinion.”

“You’re trying to set the bar for reasonable doubt at a level of conspiracy that we can’t possibly address!”

Tom reached for Ballard, resting his hand on Ballard’s padfolio. He heard Ballard’s knuckles crack as his hands clenched into fists over his yellow legal pad. “I do not disagree with you, Mr. Renner, about your perception of unfair media exposure regarding Mr. Kryukov. You are also within your right to question the government’s case. However.” He fixed Renner with a firm stare. “You’re hanging your hat on these Russian documents, Mr. Renner. I think you need to ask yourself: is that to Mr. Kryukov’s best benefit?”

“We feel that it is, Your Honor.”

“You’ll have your day in court to present your theories to the jury, Mr. Renner. However, if either one of you violates my orders, I will have you put in a cell right in the federal detention center, beside Mr. Desheriyev and Mr. Kryukov. Mr. Renner, this includes attacking the U.S. Attorney in any way at any time going forward. I expect you both to comport yourselves professionally. Am I clear?”

Twin nods, and silence.

“Then we’re done here. Come directly to me with any questions and file all additional motions under seal.”

Twin, muted response of “Yes, Your Honor” chimed through his chambers.

“Mr. Renner, I will see you in court. Mr. Ballard, please stay behind for a few minutes.” Tom nodded to the court reporter, signaling that she should pack up as well. She scurried out, fleeing the room and its searing tension, a bubble about to burst and ready to catch flame.

Ballard wouldn’t look at him. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he growled as the door shut behind the court reporter and Renner.

“Dylan… This is ridiculous. What is going on?” Government conspiracy, government cover-ups. Assassinations by the CIA on American soil. It was the stuff of Hollywood, not his courtroom. Not reality. But Dylan was about to fly apart, was barely holding himself together. Tom had been an AUSA for nineteen years, most of those years beside Dylan Ballard. Never had Ballard been this wound up, this furiously agitated over a trial. What was he hiding? What kind of pressure was he under, from the White House, the Attorney General, or even the CIA? “You’re prosecuting this case awfully quickly, and you’re not looking at the conspiracy angle. Aren’t you worried about this? Or do you know more than you’re letting on? What do you really know about this case?”

Ballard’s eyes flashed. “Now you want to talk? Now? After you’ve just given everything away? After you’ve condemned the United States with your bullshit about wanting some kind of open and fair system for all? Even for terrorists, who would rather see us fall as a nation than glorify our justice system?”

Tom blinked. “An open and fair system for all is what defines America, Dylan. It defines our morality as a country. No matter what.”

Ballard slammed shut his padfolio and stood. “I hope you tell yourself that when the bombs are dropping. We are moments, breaths away from war. And you’re marching us straight into the line of fire!”

“What are you talking about?” Tom stood, frowning. “What the hell are you talking about? What is going on?”

But Ballard said nothing. He strode out of Tom’s chambers and slammed the door behind him. Tom’s diploma from Georgetown Law School rattled on its nail, and then crashed to the ground, glass shattering into a billion tiny fragments.

He and Mike escaped to Annapolis for dinner, after walking Etta Mae, secreting away for a few hours in an empty waterfront restaurant. They flirted outrageously, hidden in a corner booth, sneaking kisses and holding hands out of sight from the waitstaff. They took the 495 loop to US 1 back to Crystal City and Kris’s place, and by the time they parked, Tom had one hand on Mike’s thigh, squeezing and Mike was breathing hard. They kissed the entire elevator ride up to Kris’s floor and bounced off the walls as they kissed and spun toward Kris’s door. Mike fumbled with the lock, and then they were inside, and Mike kicked the door closed. 

Clothes flew. Tom grabbed him, pulled him close. Ran his hands over Mike’s body, until Mike shivered and curled around him. They fell into bed in a tangle, kissing wildly, stroking every inch of skin they could reach.

Tom rolled Mike over and sank down in his lap, over him, taking him inside his body. Mike shuddered, his hands grasping Tom’s hips as Tom went all the way down and started rocking. Tom drove the pace, slow and rolling turning to wild and unrestrained as breathless cries fell from his lips.

Mike held on and tried to breathe, watching Tom seize control. Tom was topping him, topping him from the bottom, and his brain was fritzing out, dribbling from his ears. He desperately tried to hold on as Tom made love to him.

Eventually, he tipped over the edge, and he reached up, grasping Tom’s face and pulling him forward, down, until they were kissing, panting, sharing breaths.

Coming inside Tom was like sharing a part of his soul with him. There was something about ditching condoms, something beyond just the hotter sensations, the slicker feel. Something that united him to Tom, a giving of himself in a primal way. He wanted Tom to keep it, keep him. Keep what he was silently offering, forever.

After, Etta Mae glared at them both from the edge of the bed, standing on her hind legs with her chin on the mattress. They rubbed her head and let her up on the foot of the bed while they cuddled. Tom spoke about the hearing while Mike stroked his hair, and eventually, Tom fell asleep.

Mike stayed up, breathing in Tom’s scent, kissing his forehead and silently promising Tom the stars and the moon, and the rest of his life.

In the morning, they came back to the world, turning on the news as they got ready together in Kris’s bathroom. Russian tanks still hovered at the border of Estonia. More were appearing at the border of Latvia. Belarus, their neighbor to the south, and a perennial ally to Russia, was silent about the Russian troops massing along their own border and trysting into and out of their country.

“The Russian people must defend ourselves from the aggressions of the West,” President Vasiliev said, speaking from the Kremlin. His arm was still in a sling. “The United States thinks they can exterminate the heart of the Russian people. Kill me, the Russian president. They and their little dogs, the countries of NATO, think they can bully Russia into submission. That Russia will meekly go away, into the shadows. No!” He pounded his fist on the podium, then pointed at the camera. “Russia will never back down from American aggression! American crimes! We will defend ourselves, and we welcome any nation who wishes to join us in standing against the American and NATO hegemony.”

Over the next week, mayors in the Estonian towns of Narva, Kuningakula, and Saatse crossed the river and delivered letters of secession to the Russian military commanders stationed feet from their towns. Russian tanks rolled across the bridges to cheers and applause, the citizens of the border towns welcoming the Russians as liberators, and not as conquerors.

“The people of Narva, Kuningakula, and Saatse wish to rejoin the Russian Federation,” President Vasiliev crowed over the TV. “If California or Texas were to secede from the United States, would not the United States wish to help their fellow citizens in those states and bring them back into the fold of the larger nation? Did not America fight a war over this very idea? Americans belong together, they claimed. The north and the south! This is no different. Russian people belong with Russia! It is our right, and our national heritage!”

NATO jets buzzed the towns day and night, watching as the Russians entrenched their positions in and around the border towns and surrounding region. More towns fell, joining the secessionist movement. Estonian military units set up along the highways leading into the disputed region and held firm lines on the map, halting the Russian advance.

In theory.

But the Russians had already taken a bite out of Estonia, like they had before in Ukraine. They were on the move.

Chapter 31

July 26^th

Twin F-16s, one each from Poland and Norway, split the skies over Estonia.

They were part of the NATO patrol constantly testing the Russians’ mobile air defense radar system, hauled across the border and set up along the line of occupied towns the Russians held in Eastern Estonia. Just like Ukraine, the Russians had moved in and were setting up to stay. Estonia had long preached that they were not Ukraine, that they would not be run over and trampled by the Russian bear. Their armed forces trained and trained and trained to be a speedbump, a burr in the bear’s paw until the rest of NATO could arrive to back them up.

No one in Estonia had believed that their own people would turn around and give the keys to the border—to invade their own country—directly to the Russians. Invite the devil in through the backdoor. Estonia’s border region secession was a political-legal-military quagmire, one that made every NATO head hurt.

Today, NATO wanted to test the Russians’ rapid response to the implied threat of their fighter jet incursion. How fast would Russia scramble their own MiGs in response to their overflight? How many fighters would they send up? Everything was measured. Everything was tracked. NATO command in Brussels listened to the mission, piped directly to the two pilots.

Miles of thick forest spread beneath the two jets. NATO command whispered updates through their radios in heavily accented English. Echoes of the pilots’ breathing, the reverberations of oxygen whooshing through their masks, seemed overly loud in the near-silent cockpit. Sprawling pines and pristine wilderness soared beneath them, the jets screaming over the countryside with barely a whisper of sound in the cockpit. Seemingly picturesque Estonian towns, like pages from a storybook, dotted the landscape. It seemed inconceivable that there was a war brewing beneath their wings, in the silent forests and untouched wilderness below.

Hidden in the trees, though, the Russian invaders lurked.

On both jets, alarms wailed, shattering the serenity of the flight. Sensors screamed, yellow and red indicators flashing as the heads-up display showed radar lock warnings. Both jets were being painted with radar.

They had found the Russians.

And the Russians weren’t playing games. No scrambling of MiGs across the border. Not this time.

The Russians had secretly planted mobile anti-aircraft missile batteries in the dense canopy of alpine trees. Launch platforms stuffed with enough missiles, enough firepower, to down multiple fighter jets.

“Kurwa!” The Polish pilot cursed and banked hard. His Norwegian counterpart went full throttle, veering away. The radar kept pinging, faster and faster until it turned into one long tone. Missile lock.

“Birdhouse, we are being painted with radar. SAM spike at four o’clock.” Surface-to-air missile threat, down and to their right. “Tally one SAM platform, on the deck. Obscured by trees.”

“Hawk Two, copy. Attempt to locate fixed position and RTB.”

“Birdhouse, request permission to engage.”

Silence.

“Hawk two, permission denied. RTB.” Return to Base.

The Polish pilot cursed again, banking and rolling before spinning into a wingover, trying to slip the radar lock. They should just bug out of there, disappear over the horizon. But, they needed to find that platform, put it on the map. And, even though Brussels didn’t want to blow the Russians’ missiles away, damnit, he did.

He dropped down, opening up his engines and going full throttle. His afterburner kicked on, and he screamed toward the deck, the ground and the trees. His radar pinged back the source of the missile lock, the platform obscured in the forest. Thick pines bowed beneath his jet wash as he kept roaring for the site, only a few hundred meters away.

He ignored the shouts in his ear, Brussels ordering him to veer off. Instead, he armed his rockets. One of the Sidewinder short-range anti-radar missiles under his wing hummed to life, primed and ready to launch. The damn Russians were always pushing, pushing, pushing. They wanted to rebuild their empire, draw Eastern Europe back behind the Iron Curtain. Put his country back under the thumb of Moscow. If Estonia fell, would Latvia? Lithuania? Poland? They were all in a line, dominoes primed to tip over. When would the world stop this?

He could put a chink in the Russians right here, right now. They’d never fire first. They were on Estonian land, on borrowed time, pointing their noses at NATO as they pretended to be a peaceful liberator, assisting a country’s internal civil conflict. They’d never risk firing on a NATO jet. Never.

A streak of white light nearly blinded him, a blast that shot up from the forest.

His jet wailed, alarms screaming in double volume. Brussels shouted in his ears. His Norwegian partner pilot bellowed at him, telling him to evade, evade, evade. The smoking trail of two missiles, AMRAAM anti-aircraft fire-and-forget radar-guided weapons, fired by the Russians, were locked onto his jet.

“Taking fire!” he hollered. “Fox Two!” He squeezed the trigger, launching his own Sidewinder at the Russians and their missile platform. He squeezed his eyes closed and prayed, getting out half a muttered word before the Russians’ missiles impacted the underbelly of his F-16.

A mushroom explosion bloomed in the skies over the forest, and flaming metal and shattered fragments of his F-16 fighter jet scattered over the Estonian border and cratered into the occupied countryside. Russian forces looked skyward, staring at the night sky suddenly turned to day. Moments later, a following explosion rumbled out of the forest, another bloom of flame and debris rising and spreading as the Polish fighter pilot’s Sidewinder blew apart the Russians’ missile launch platform.

Brussels spoke to the surviving Norwegian pilot, the radio controller’s voice shattered and shaken. “Hawk three, RTB. RTB immediately.”

“Affirmative Birdhouse.” The Norwegian pilot kicked on his afterburners. His radar pinged, multiple MiGs rising over the Russian border, scrambling to intercept. “Let’s pray that wasn’t the first shot of the war.”

Tom watched the news and President McDonough’s statement on the shoot-down in his suite at the Hyatt. He and Etta Mae had moved into the Hyatt after the fourth threat had come to the courthouse, this one accompanied by a picture of him and Mike walking up the courthouse Annex steps. Someone had been watching them.

Mike had shit a steel-plated brick, going from his usual exuberant cheerfulness—even with the trial looming closer and closer, he still seemed bound and determined to make Tom smile each and every day—to furious wrath. Storm clouds darkened his normally smiling expression, and his blue eyes filled with cold fury. The threats were coming fast and furious now, angry tirades that Tom had let the Russian documents into evidence, that he was nothing more than a Russian plant, that he wanted the U.S. to be embarrassed and humiliated, that he was a Communist and belonged in Russia, and that Tom would be held at fault when Russia outright attacked the United States. He was a traitor to the country, letter after letter after letter said.

Set against all that, Tom practically looked forward to an email, or a tip, or a news alert revealing his Big Gay Secret.

But, as the weeks had passed, nothing ever came. Not a mention, not a hint, not a whisper.

His phone buzzed. [This looks bad.] Mike was in the room across the hall, in one of the three U.S. marshals’ relief rooms. He was surrounded on both sides, with Mike just ten feet away from him, but still worlds away. Since they couldn’t sit together, they texted.

Russians shooting down a NATO patrol plane? For sure.

[Russia claims they were acting in self-defense. That NATO and the pilot were the aggressor. That this proves they need to defend themselves even more.]

McDonough is basically pleading for President Vasiliev to not strike back.

President McDonough’s statement had been an outright beg as much as anything else. “We should not rush into conflict, race our anger into a war that could have been avoided if not for one man standing and saying, ‘I will accept reason. I will listen. I will compromise.’ The world hangs in the balance, President Vasiliev. Do not be the man to condemn this world to suffering.”

Any word from Kris?

Kris had disappeared into Europe and gone radio silent. Mike hadn’t heard a word from him since he’d walked out of his place the night Tom and Mike came over to stay.

[Still nothing. He told me he used to go on long operations all the time. He and his husband worked all over. Real intel gathering takes time, he said.]

Yeah, but… it’s been a month. I’m worried about him.

[Me too.]

I still don’t understand what he and his team are really doing over there. Is it a rescue mission? Intel gathering? …covering tracks from an operation gone wrong?

The last was uncomfortably possible. Maybe even probable. Renner had filed a sealed protest alleging government misconduct related to discovery. When Ballard turned over the files Tom had ordered him to provide, he’d handed Renner a single sheet of paper from the CIA.

“All documents that may or may not have pertained to CIA Station Moscow and Vadim Kryukov destroyed per information-handling requirements when U.S. Embassy Moscow security breached during Moscow riots and subsequent CIA officer detainment.”

Everything the CIA had in Moscow on Kryukov, on the operation the Russians insisted had been run out of the Moscow station by the U.S. government, and everything else, had been destroyed. It was standard operating procedure when an embassy was breached. Destroy everything.

Had they destroyed the truth as well? Covered their tracks? Protected the U.S. government?

[You know… this isn’t a good thing to say… but I kind of wish Desheriyev hadn’t missed. The world would be better if Vasiliev were gone.]

Tom sighed. Something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

The news shifted, moving from President McDonough’s statement to the DC Sniper Trial. “Tomorrow morning, the trial the entire world has been waiting for will begin. Vadim Kryukov, alleged mastermind behind the DC Sniper’s terrorist acts, will stand trial for the attempted assassination of Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev, three Secret Service agents, and one Russian presidential security service officer. Kryukov has maintained his innocence, but Bulat Desheriyev, the DC Sniper, identified Kryukov as his handler. His testimony will be used in the trial against Kryukov.”

The anchor paused, gazing serenely at the camera like the world wasn’t hanging in tatters. “Russian President Vasiliev has stated that the outcome of this trial will determine all future relations between Russia and the United States.”

The camera cut to an interview with President Vasiliev, sitting in a chair, looking strong and healthy, but still with his arm in his sling. Still sporting the wound of a sniper attack on U.S. soil “This trial is the absolute definition of justice,” Vasiliev said, his voice slow, his words falling like hammers. “The United States will either show, conclusively, that they were behind this attack. Were culpable. Were, indeed, the planners behind this assassination attempt. Or—” He threw one hand up, scowling. “They will cover up their malfeasance as they have always done for decades. But this time.” He leaned forward, and his eyes twinkled. “They have been caught. And they will not get away with their tricks.”

It was all coming down to Tom. His trial. His courtroom.

[You all right?]

Tom squeezed his eyes closed. He should have ditched this trial when he had the chance. He should have pushed it off into Fink’s hands and let him have it, the entire political hot potato, and skipped into the sunset with Mike. He should never, ever have gotten involved.

But if he hadn’t, where would the world be now? Would the case have even gone to trial? Or would Ballard and whoever Fink had handpicked have already decided the outcome, forced a plea agreement, or even shipped Kryukov and Desheriyev off to a black site for enhanced questioning? Made them disappear?

Or, have an accident in prison? Untimely accidents had a way of cropping up, so unexpectedly.

He hated that he could think of his fellow judges and the U.S. Attorney that way. But he could. He could imagine it, them arranging dark room deals that made his skin crawl.

Was he some vanguard of liberty for all accused, the standard bearer for truth spoken in the face of unshakable power? Somehow, he’d turned into one. The White House—and Ballard—had gone deathly silent on the trial, and he practically felt the cold stare of their eyes in the center of his back. The president’s disdain, like a hand pressing him down and down, until they could stamp him out. The Russian press was now calling him the ‘last best hope for truth in the Western World’.

If there was one thing he never wanted to be, it was a puppet for the Russian press.

Tomorrow it would begin. Ballard would present the United States’ case, and Renner would present his in return. The jury would choose the victor, and to the victor went the spoils. Freedom or war. Peace or disaster. The world waited with bated breath for proof of American conspiracy, dark secrets laid bare, exposed for global censure. Russia’s promise, that they would not allow any injustice to be suffered in the world, hung like a pall.

How would this play out?

What did he do?

I’m exhausted. He swallowed. When this is over, let’s run away.

[Okay. I’ll go anywhere with you. As long as wherever we go lets us bring Etta Mae, too.]

He smiled. Just like that, Mike could get him smiling again. And, just like that, he was reminded of how close they had grown, how deeply intertwined their lives had become. At the drop of a hat, Mike would run away with him.

God, he just wanted this to end. The anticipation was worse than everything else, the waiting, the excruciating days and nights of wondering what would come next, what would the outcome be? How far would this go? How bad could it get? No one knew the answer, unfortunately, and they were stuck in a perpetual limbo, a freefall that stretched on and on and on, always clenching against the sudden and inevitable splat against the unforgiving ground.

When it was finally over, though, there would be Mike. Mike, and his smile, and his open arms. And, maybe even his love. They hadn’t said it. It was too soon, really. They were only a few months in, but Tom was feeling it. Had felt it. He hoped, God he hoped, that Mike did too.

I’m going to get ready for bed.

He ran through his night routine, brushing his teeth, changing into fresh boxers and an undershirt. Washing his face, and then rubbing Etta Mae’s ears. Kissing her nose as she huffed, rolling over to escape his touches as she snored on the couch in his suite. He plopped into bed, and he pulled his phone close. He opened up the video caller and dialed Mike’s number.

Mike answered a half-second later. He lay on his back in his own hotel bed, shirtless. He smiled wide when he saw Tom, his eyes glittering. “Hey babe.”

Pure sunshine seemed to drench his soul, a waterfall of joy sliding down his spine and curling in his belly. “Hey sexy.” He spoke softly. They had to be quiet. Marshals were on the other side of the walls.

They didn’t say much, just stared at each other. Mike bit his lip, trying to hold back his smile. Tom traced the lines of his face, the light bursting from his eyes, with his own gaze.

“Thank you,” Mike said.

“For what?”

“Putting up with this. You don’t have to. You could have any guy you wanted. You don’t have to be calling me and whispering like we’re teenagers hiding from our parents. My job… complicates things.” He frowned.

“Only for right now. Just because of this trial. After the trial…” Tom breathed in, deeply. “After the trial, I want to come out. With you. Tell who we need to tell to keep this above board. Winters, Chief Judge Fink, whoever needs to know. So we can do this.”

Mike beamed, smiling so brilliantly Tom thought his face would break in half. He could see Mike’s molars gleaming, his mile-wide Julia Roberts smile lighting up his whole world. Mike wiggled like a puppy, too excited to speak for a long moment. “Okay.”

“Is that all right? I mean, if it’s not—”

“It’s great.” Mike laughed, but buried his face in his pillow, muffling the sound. Only his eyes peeked over the edge. “Are you ready for that?” he asked, pulling the pillow down.

“Yes. I am. I want to be with you. The right way.”

Mike beamed again. “When the trial is over,” he said softly.

“When this is all over.”

They gazed at each other for another long minute, giddy as high schoolers. Until Tom yawned, his jaw cracking as he stretched. “All right. I’m turning into a pumpkin.”

“Get some sleep.” Mike blew him a kiss. “Night, babe.”

He blew a kiss back. “Night.”

The call cut out, and Tom plugged his phone into the charger on the nightstand and rolled over. He bunched a pillow to his chest, pretending it was Mike, and closed his eyes.

After the trial. Two things would happen after the trial was over: the world would be in shambles, on the verge of another war, or it would somehow right itself. Somehow, someway, through the twisted path of this case, through what was about to transpire in his courtroom. He had to believe that it would work out. That truth and justice would prevail. He’d do everything he could, every single thing, to make this right.

He had to. Because after the trial… he was coming out.

Chapter 32

July 27^th

The trial the entire world was watching.

That’s what the news said, the perky, bright-eyed anchors reading off their script cards at five in the morning, before dawn’s first light had broken over DC. Tom, in that hyperalert space of too little sleep and too much caffeine, watched the morning news half in and half out of his suit. His tie lay draped around his neck, a sky-blue silk with delicate white diagonal stripes. Mike had given it to him, a present secreted beneath his pillow a few days before. For luck! his note had said, with a lopsided smiley face.

At six o’clock exactly, knocks sounded on his door. He grabbed his suit jacket and his briefcase and headed out, striding alongside Mike and behind Villegas. Villegas grumbled into his radio, communicating with marshals who held down all the exits and entrances, monitored the elevator doors on his floor and the lobby, and waited in the armored SUV in the Hyatt’s basement. Winters was on the line, too, listening in from the courthouse command office.

Mike slipped his hand into Tom’s and squeezed, lightning fast, in the elevator on the way down.

In the basement, Villegas directed four teams of marshals into chaser SUVs, riding as escorts in front of, and behind, Tom. Mike pulled him aside, to the rear of his SUV, and pulled out the bulletproof vest he’d had Tom try on over a month ago.

“It’s time to wear this.”

Tom swallowed, but nodded. He slipped off his suit jacket and let Mike help him into the vest. Mike smiled at his tie, his fingers gently running over the fabric. “This is a level three vest,” Mike said softly. “It will stop small arms fire and sharp objects. The armored SUV is rated to withstand armor-piercing rounds, so you won’t need a level four vest for the ride. And, if anyone has a high-powered rifle inside your courtroom, we’ve got far, far bigger problems.”

“No kidding.” Tom twisted, tried to get the vest to relax against him. It was flexible, a soft vest as opposed to the hard ceramic plates of a level four vest.

“If anyone takes a shot at you, or anything else, they’ll have to get through me.” Mike was close, too close, speaking almost against his skin.

“Are you wearing a vest, too?”

Mike nodded. He rapped on his side, over his ribs. A slight puff pushed out his button-down, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hint of a concealed vest. “Your robes will conceal your vest, and it’s more comfortable for you to wear it over your shirt. You can take it off in your chambers. As long as you promise to put it back on.”

“Yes sir.”

Villegas appeared, looking harried and snappish and sighing at them both. “Are we done yet? What the hell, Lucciano? Are you giving him a history lesson about the vest? Jesus.”

“Yeah, we’re done, Villegas.” Mike slammed the rear gate shut, rolling his eyes.

“Then let’s go, let’s go.” Villegas made herding motions, cursing under his breath. He had his radio in one hand and his coffee in the other, and he drank and spoke at the same time, still muttering curses as he glared at Mike.

Finally, they were on the move, Villegas in the driver’s seat, Mike in the passenger. Tom sat in the middle of the SUV behind them both, in-between completely blacked-out windows.

The drive wasn’t long. Only three blocks. But he instantly understood Villegas’s security concerns as they rose out of the garage, driving into the breaking dawn.

The sidewalks were packed, filled to bursting with protestors. One section of the crowd screamed with anti-Russian fervor, posters and placards with the Russian flag and the Kremlin crossed out, and slogans proclaiming him a tool of the Russians. Images of him, dancing with marionette strings beneath Vasiliev’s hands. Packed on the other side of the street, protestors waved American flags, chanting USA! USA! at the top of their lungs. Beyond the frenzy, media trucks covered every cobblestone of the courthouse square, and satellite dishes rose to the sky like an urban forest. CNN, MSNBC, Fox, ABC, NBC, Al Jazeera, Russia Today, BBC, and so many, many more. DC Metro police were out in droves, lining the streets and enforcing their blockade, stone-faced against screaming, vitriolic protestors. Sun lamps blazed down on the reporters, the combined lights of so many news agencies making the square look like the surface of Mars, and not DC just before sunrise.

He blinked, trying to block it all out, trying to make his eyes unfocus, let the cacophony wash over him. He could practically feel Mike vibrating in the front seat, could definitely see the way he swiveled his head, taking everything in, every angle, every aspect, cataloging every individual as a threat or not. He mentally reached into the front seat, as if he could fold into Mike’s arms.

They hurried into the courthouse garage, tires squealing against concrete. The marshals in the chaser SUVs flanked Tom’s vehicle in case someone might try and follow them into the basement garage. No one did. Mike hopped out first, opening Tom’s door. He snagged Tom’s briefcase, throwing it over his shoulder, and then helped Tom into his jacket.

Villegas was already on the radio. “We’re heading up the central elevator now.” Marshals blocked off the secured elevator to the private areas of the Annex. He stepped in, followed by Mike and Villegas, and then they were off, straight up to the fourth floor.

He checked his phone. It was six-fifteen.

Two hours and forty-five minutes until the trial began.

The jury was seated first, taking their places in the raised box and settling into the black leather chairs that would be their thrones for the next few weeks. Most had notepads, some had several. All of them looked stern, tense. Frustrated.

The gallery was packed, filled with media representatives, government officials, observers from the Russian embassy, and enterprising members of the public who had slept on the steps of the courthouse to be first in line that morning. The air crackled, far more intensely than at any other trial. This was no run-of-the-mill murder trial, though.

At the prosecutor’s table, Dylan Ballard sat and stared at his notes, so laser-focused on his padfolio that he seemed a statue. Lucas Barnes, the FBI counterterrorism chief, sat beside him, back stiff and straight, flipping through his own notes with an eerie sense of calm.

Renner sat beside Kryukov. Kryukov wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie, but next to Renner, in his black pinstripe, crisp white French cuff button-down, and dazzling magenta tie, he looked boring and sloppy.

Lining both walls, marshals stood guard, their attentions focused on Kryukov and the gallery.

The courtroom was awash in muted conversation, hushed whispers and bitten-off words snapped into cell phones bouncing around the gleaming maple-paneled walls. White fluorescent light burned down on the court, an nearly-silent hum that crawled over everyone. Waiting, waiting.

Mike nodded to the bailiff and ducked out, heading for Tom’s chambers down the hall. 

Tom paced, slow, careful steps from one side of his office to the other and back again. The bulletproof vest itched, and pulled on his shoulders. He was hot, already sweating. He’d asked for the courtroom’s thermostat to be lowered. His robes hung open, unzipped down the front until the last minute. They billowed around him, like a vampire’s cape in a cheesy horror film.

Mike held out his hand. “Everyone is there. They’re ready.”

Tom grabbed him. Stepped into the circle of his arms, and rested his forehead against Mike’s. Pressed together, he realized he was shaking.

“You’re going to be great, Judge Brewer.”

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you stayed with me through this.” He would have collapsed if not for Mike, fallen to the ground in broken shambles, wrung through by the intrigue, the twists and turns, the way his entire court, and the entire country, had seemed to turn their backs on him.

Mike kissed him, softly, a slow meeting of their lips. “The time for justice is at hand.”

They both smiled, and Tom managed a soft laugh. Mike kissed him again. “Lead the way, Inspector Lucciano.”

“All rise!”

Tom took a deep breath before he strode into the courtroom after the bailiff’s cry. Mike followed on his heels and took up post beside his bench, an arm’s reach away.

His black robes puffed out, the dark fabric wreathing him in authority. His voice was the law in these walls. Supposedly. All eyes snapped to him, watching as he climbed up to the bench and took his seat. The Great Seal of the United States hung behind him, framed between two American flags.

All eyes, except for Ballard’s. Ballard refused to look at him, staring off to the side, his face pinched and tight.

A few of the jurors smiled his way. He’d done his usual song and dance, his welcome to the court routine for the jurors right after they’d been seated at the conclusion of voir dire. They were all strung out, exhausted from the jury selection process, and dreading the case to come. He’d done what he could, reaching out to them, explaining their importance, their partnership. By the end, he had a few smiles, and one or two chuckles. But, half the jury stared at him stone-faced, already convinced, clearly, that he was exactly what the media had made him out to be: a Russian sock-puppet, anti-American, and already in the defendant’s corner.

Tom sat. Everyone followed suit. Reporters grabbed their notepads, their pencils. Leaned forward with their recorders. His gaze darted to Mike, for a moment.

And then he leaned forward and laced his hands together. “Mr. Ballard. Are you ready to present your case for the United States?”

Ballard rose, and still didn’t look at Tom as he crossed the courtroom to the jury box. Tom didn’t require his attorneys to stand behind a lectern, or restrict their movement. As an AUSA, he’d thought as he moved, and in the past, sometimes would gently pace as he cross-examined a witness. He watched Ballard stand before the jury, legs spread, hands clasped.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Ballard began, his deep voice rich and rumbling, projecting confidence, clarity, and authority. “We begin presenting a case to you today that, when all the media frenzy has been stripped away, and when all the wild-eyed conspiracy theories have been set aside, is simple. This is a simple, straightforward case, and you should not let anyone convince you otherwise.

“A few weeks ago, we watched in horror as a terrorist struck at the heart of our nation. This terrorist, Bulat Desheriyev, shot and killed three members of our nation’s law enforcement community, Secret Service agents Steven Harvey, Patrick Ross, and Chad Robertson. He also killed a member of Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev’s security team, and attempted to murder the Russian president himself.

“Bulat Desheriyev did not expect to be caught. He had, in his mind, a foolproof escape plan. Something, or someone, went wrong, and he was captured. Mr. Desheriyev has since decided to help the United States and the world, and identify the individual who hired, facilitated, and directed his terrorist actions. That person is sitting right there.” Ballard pointed at Kryukov. “Vadim Kryukov.”

He turned, slowly walking the length of the jury box, looking each juror in the eye. “Mr. Desheriyev asserts that Mr. Kryukov recruited him in Russia, paying him millions of dollars for this hit. He directed Mr. Desheriyev to the United States and provided him information on his target, President Vasiliev.” Ballard let that hang in the air.

“Mr. Desheriyev’s assertions are backed up by the evidence. By facts. Fact number one: Vadim Kryukov sent Bulat Desheriyev a text in the days before the shooting, confirming the Russian president’s schedule and location at the time of the attack. This text came from Kryukov’s cell phone, and was authenticated with the three-digit code Desheriyev had been instructed to use for secured communications. Fact number two: Kryukov’s fingerprint appears on a baggie of cocaine found in Desheriyev’s house and left for him at a drop location arranged by Mr. Kryukov. In that drop, there were maps of DC, highlighted information on the Capitol, and suggestions for locations to use as a sniper nest. Fact number three: Desheriyev picked Vadim Kryukov’s voice out of a vocal line-up as the same voice he heard on the phone. Our evidence clearly shows a connection between these two men, and backs up Mr. Desheriyev’s assertions.”

Tom shifted, slightly. Ballard’s case against Kryukov was not the strongest he’d ever seen in his career, not by a longshot. And, no mention of the Russian documents. How would Ballard defend against them? Tom had expected Ballard to defuse their importance from the beginning, undermine their credibility in some way in his opening statement. So far, nothing.

“Mr. Renner and the defense will spin for you a wild fantasy, a world of conspiracy, intrigue, and deep state cover-ups. His defense is more appropriate for a bad Hollywood film, and is irresponsible in a court of law. He will ply you with bogeymen, paint American officials as evil villains, and do everything he can to inflame an already unstable and dangerous political situation.” Ballard’s eyes slid to Renner, holding his glare. His words were a damning indictment and would be repeated on every news network.

Tom swallowed. Renner’s defense existed chiefly because of his own actions, allowing for the defense to build their case through discovery and admission of the Russians’ documents alleging the CIA assassination attempt. Ballard’s harsh words could easily be fired right at him, too.

“Mr. Renner cannot prove any shred of his deranged theory. He asks you to believe that Americans masterminded an assassination attempt of the Russian president. He asks you to believe that a shadowy conspiracy of unnamed persons is attempting to frame his client. He asks you to believe in the veracity of documents hand-delivered from Moscow that seem to perfectly fit his fantastical defense theory. But he can offer absolutely zero proof of any of it.” Again, Ballard let his statement hang in the air, his words falling like hammers. “There is no proof, no facts, to back up this imaginative, creative, but ultimately deceptive theory.” Ballard faced the jury box, squared his shoulders, and glared. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Do not. Fall. For this con.”

Unease rippled through the courtroom, a wave of whispers and wide eyes. Opening statements were never so bold. They were roadmaps, dry lines from a thesis paper, bullet-pointed lists of what each side hoped to accomplish. This was a call to war, a crashing of cymbals deafening the orchestra. Ballard had come out with his claws, and was looking for blood.

“Evidence is what matters in this case, ladies and gentlemen. And the evidence clearly points in one direction and in one direction only: that Vadim Kryukov orchestrated the murder of four individuals and the attempted murder of the Russian president. Vadim Kryukov directed the actions of Bulat Desheriyev. Vadim Kryukov is guilty of these crimes.”

Silence, as Ballard crossed the courtroom and sat back at the prosecutor’s table. Lucas Barnes nodded to him, a quiet show of congratulations. And he’d earned it. Tom squeezed his hands together, tried to stop their trembling. Ballard’s opening had been a slam dunk.

Renner had the right to push off his opening statement until after the conclusion of the prosecution’s case. In some ways, it made sense. He could present his opening and go right into his case, take the time to craft a bombshell of his own. Or, he could go for his opener now, and hope to chink Ballard’s armor and his case. Set doubt into the minds of the jury right from the start, before Ballard had a chance to get going and build momentum.

Tom turned to Renner. “Will the defense present their opening now?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Renner stood, adjusting his cuffs. He rested a hand on Kryukov’s shoulder and smiled down at his client. It seemed almost warm, almost friendly. It was entirely an act.

“The United States has suffered a tragic terrorist attack,” he said, speaking as he walked out from behind the defense table. “And clearly, Bulat Desheriyev is responsible. There are facts to this case, as Mr. Ballard and the prosecution have asserted. Bulat Desheriyev targeted the Russian president and members of the protective detail assigned to him. Bulat Desheriyev pulled the trigger, murdering four individuals. Bulat Desheriyev wounded and tried to kill Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev.” He paused, frowning, and spread his hands wide. “And now we’re supposed to take his word? Listen to his testimony, and believe him to be a credible witness? Ladies and gentlemen, do not fall for that con. Bulat Desheriyev is a mercenary for hire, a thug and a murderer wanted on multiple continents. He’s cut a deal to save his own neck, and is spinning lies for the prosecution.”

Renner gripped the low wall surrounding the jury box, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “This case is far from simple. The evidence against my client is paper-thin. A plot of this magnitude would require a multitude of calls and contacts, would it not? It would require an intense amount of communication. And yet, the prosecution can only bring forth one confirmed text between my client and Bulat Desheriyev. Only one. My client, Vadim, has no history of violence. He has been a man persecuted for who he is, targeted by the Russian government for years, and has suffered at their hands for his identity. Here, now, he is suffering again, painted as a violent mastermind by the governments of two nations and responsible for a heinous crime.

“Vadim Kryukov is a ready-made fall guy. A man with a history of being targeted by the Russian government. A man with no love for the Vasiliev government. A man engaged in anti-Vasiliev, anti-corruption activism. These facts, these aspects of the defendant, points of pride for Vadim, are being twisted and used to support a narrative that just isn’t true.

“Will you convict a man and sentence him to die based on one text, describing public movements that the whole world knew, one fingerprint that is no way connected with these murders, and the dubious word of a serial murderer who is desperately trying to save his own neck?”

Jurors blinked, and swallowed. They scratched notes, looked away. Anything to not look at Renner or face their own discomfort.

Renner smirked for a half-second.

Score for the defense.

“That is all the prosecution’s case is based on, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Two minuscule pieces of evidence and a narrative of hate against Vadim—a survivor trying to make a new future in this brave new world. Mr. Ballard and his prosecution are sadly looking in the wrong place for the perpetrator of these crimes. The mastermind behind this evil act of terror is out there, and watching this trial right now. He—or they—know exactly what they are doing. Throwing an innocent man under the bus. Destroying an innocent man’s life. Letting another fall for their own duplicitous ends.” Renner turned, staring at Ballard.

“Will the true perpetrators of this murder come forward? Will the prosecution do their job and search for the actual murderers? Or will this trial be a miscarriage of justice, and a state-sanctioned murder of an innocent man?” He turned back to the jurors, fire in his eyes. “A man’s life is in your hands, ladies and gentlemen, as is the most important truth we will search for in these days. Your duty is a solemn one. The whole world is watching.”

And with that, he stepped away, nodded to the jury, and strode back to the defense table.

Silence. Pure, devastating silence. Doubt ripped through the courtroom like bolts of lightning, like the Red Sea being rent apart. Jurors stared, wide-eyed, into the middle distance, shifting and breathing unsteadily. Ballard looked down, closing his eyes, and Tom watched him draw his control tight around him, like a knight raising his shield. For all he let loose in Tom’s chambers, Ballard was a tightly coiled viper in his courtroom. Poised, deadly, and waiting to strike at the perfect moment.

Ballard began the prosecution’s case with a bang.

His first witness was one of the surviving Secret Service agents, a man who had helped carry President Vasiliev off the Capitol steps, and had stepped over his friend and colleague, Patrick Ross, after a bullet slammed into Ross’s neck.

Theoretically, a jury—and a judge—walked into a case blind, not knowing the details, theories, summations, or ideations of the case. Impossible though that was with this trial, they all still had to follow the playbook. First, define the crime, establish who, what, when, where, and how. Four counts of murder. One count of attempted murder, the attempted assassination of the Russian president.

Ballard had to define the crime, but he didn’t have to do it so dramatically. So vividly, with such a gut-punch to the heart.

This testimony, and his case, was designed to hurt. To play mournful wails on the jurors’ hearts until they bled rage and patriotic fervor. Until they demanded to execute Vadim Kryukov and relished their grim duty.

Ballard walked Agent Vernon Payne through the shooting, describing moment by moment what had transpired. Payne spoke quietly, but his voice reverberated through the courtroom, and his words, precise and chosen for efficiency, painted the horror of the day in muted memories.

Tom tried to shake off his own memories drawn forth by the testimony. Payne spoke in facts, in bleak pronouncements, but Tom’s firsthand recollection was awash in primary colors. The vividness of the sky, the perfect, endless blue. Crisp sunlight, warm on his skin, as warm as Mike’s hand. The pure whiteness of the Capitol, the endless steps rising to the seat of American congressional power. Thrumming in the air, the chanting, the pride and rage and hope merging into one roar that rose over the Capitol, his people screaming for justice as the Russian president descended toward them.

Shots fired. Blood spilled, rivers of it on the Capitol steps.

Payne’s voice shook as he described the series of shots, the agents who fell. “Steve Harvey was shot first. The shot entered the right side of his temple. He died instantly. The bullet was recovered lodged eight inches deep in the Capitol steps.” Payne visibly collected himself, breathing in deeply. “Chad Robertson was shot in the chest directly beneath his heart. He choked to death on his own blood. We had surrounded the Russian president, and we were moving him to his vehicle.” Payne blinked fast. His jaw trembled. “Patrick was running in front of me. The last shot sounded. I saw Patrick stumble. Heard him grunt, and then start to choke. He fell at my feet. Blood was… everywhere. The steps, my shoes, my pants. I couldn’t stop.” Payne looked down, and tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his cheeks. “I had to step over him, keep carrying the Russian president to his motorcade. I think I accidentally kicked him.” Payne sniffed, long and loud. “Every day I hear the sounds of him dying. How he choked. I left him there—”

And that was it for Payne. He said not another word, just curled over his lap and let the tears silently fall.

Renner and Kryukov stared straight ahead, motionless.

Jurors looked shattered, and several tried to wipe their own tears away.

Ballard turned and faced Tom. He held his gaze. “Pass the witness,” he finally said.

It was Renner’s turn to cross-examine Agent Payne.  Renner stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Your Honor, this has been incredibly difficult testimony. I respectfully suggest we take a short break for everyone to gather themselves.”

Well played. The jury looked at Renner with gratitude, already gathering their things to flee to the juror room. “Fifteen-minute recess.” Tom tapped his gavel on the bench, but everyone had stood as soon as the words slipped past his lips. Reporters rushed to the hall, already on their cell phones, and the jurors scrambled over each other to get out of the courtroom.

Tom turned to Agent Payne. “Is there anything I can do for—”

Payne jumped up and stalked off the witness stand, his back to Tom. Ballard met him on the courtroom floor, wrapping him up in a one-armed shoulder grab. Ballard shot Tom a vinegar glare over Payne’s shoulder.

“Let’s talk about protection for the Russian president. You were assigned to the foreign dignitary protective detail, correct?”

Renner was crisp and sharp, ready to begin again after the recess. Payne had red eyes and a tightly-wound face, but he sat back down in the witness seat and faced the courtroom. He avoided looking at Tom, looking beyond him whenever he turned Tom’s way.

“Yes.”

“As part of your duties on this detail, did the Secret Service formulate a watch list of individuals who might have reason to harm or harass the Russian president?”

“Yes.”

“Was Vadim Kryukov on that list?”

Payne hesitated. “He was not on the list drafted by the Secret Service, but was added to the watch list by the Russian security agents who joined our detail to plan for the trip.”

“Added by the Russians. Interesting.” Renner turned, as if struck by insight. He was a careful actor. “What reasons did they give for adding Mr. Kryukov to the watch list?”

“They said he was a felon in Russia. A known agent who worked against the state.”

“And did you ask any questions about that statement?”

“No”

“Ask for any details about the nature of his criminal past?”

“No.”

“So you wouldn’t, for example, have any idea that Vadim Kryukov’s criminal past consisted entirely of the Russian government targeting him for being homosexual? Or that he’d engaged in legitimate protests, supported by the U.S. State Department, against the Putin regime?”

“Objection!” Ballard stood quickly. “There’s no foundation to this question. Agent Payne has already answered that he didn’t ask any questions and didn’t know any details. He wouldn’t know this, and defense is verging on harassing my witness.”

Tom exhaled slowly. His gaze flicked between Renner and Ballard. Ballard was technically correct. Renner had scored points, though, sliding his information in, couched as a question. He’d exposed a whole new angle to the trial. Tom felt his sympathies rising, inappropriate emotions spreading. To be gay in Putin—or Vasiliev’s—Russia. If nothing else, Renner had shown his client to be sympathetic, a victim, an underdog.

And—dangerously—he’d highlighted a possible motive. His move was a gamble. Where was he going with this line of questioning?

Part of him wanted to know. But the law was the law. “Sustained. Ask another question, counselor.”

“What did you do when you placed my client on the watch list? What actions did you take?”

“He was put under surveillance. Secret Service agents went to him and asked him his intentions during the forthcoming Russian president’s visit.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he was going to, quote, ‘legally and legitimately protest that bastard’, as was his right.”

Renner grinned. “Vadim certainly has a fire about him.”

Smart. Making the defendant human. Tom eyed the jury. They were hanging on Renner’s every word.

Renner continued. “And, did you ask what he meant by that statement?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he mean?”

“He said he would be protesting on the National Mall outside the Capitol when the Russian president visited Congress.”

“How did he know the Russian president was visiting Congress?”

“It was publicly available information.”

“So, Mr. Kryukov did not need to inform Bulat Desheriyev of this fact?”

“Objection!” Ballard rose again. “Calls for speculation.”

“On the contrary, I’m asking the agent’s professional investigative opinion about whether my client would have had any reason whatsoever to text what he allegedly texted.”

“And,” Ballard added. “No predicate for this line of questioning.”

No predicate. The crime had not been laid out in its entirety yet. The facts of the crime and the timeline of events were still being exposed. The text that Kryukov had sent to Desheriyev hadn’t yet been entered into evidence by the prosecution. Discussing it in opening statements was not good enough. If this was how the first hour of testimony was playing out, how would the rest of the trial go? “Sustained.” He tried to catch Ballard’s eye, but Ballard sat down immediately and reached for his notes.

Renner smiled, totally unruffled. “Did you see Vadim Kryukov at the protest on the National Mall, in front of the Capitol?”

“Yes.”

Tom’s memories surged back. Vadim, his long blond hair hanging on the sides of his face, bellowing into a megaphone. Screaming in the crowd, urging the crowd to chant more, louder, cry out to Vasiliev. The effigy, a paper doll of the Russian president hoisted aloft in a tutu, covered in lipstick kisses. Something Vadim had said, in Russian, that had made every Russian agent’s head turn.

“So, Vadim Kryukov was exercising his legal and legitimate right to protest the Russian president, and his policies, in a legal gathering before the Capitol. Doesn’t seem like he was making any move to hide his anti-Vasiliev beliefs, does he?”

“Objection! Calls for speculation, again.”

“Counselor.” Tom leaned forward, peering at Renner. Renner’s eyes shone. He knew he’d done wrong, but he was pushing the envelope, going as far as Ballard’s patience and Tom’s leniency would allow. “You can take better care with crafting your questions. This is a court of law, not a stage.”

“Apologies, Your Honor.” Another slick smile. Renner turned to Payne. “Did you know that the protesters on the National Mall that day were gay pride marchers?”

“No.”

“And, did you know that the protestors were demonstrating against Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev’s human rights abuses against the LGBT community?”

Agent Payne’s face darkened. He scowled, averting his gaze from Renner. “No. I did not.”

“Pass the witness, Your Honor.”

Ballard jumped up. “Redirect.” Tom nodded, and Ballard headed for Payne. Payne seemed to relax, just a touch. He and Ballard were friends, one of Ballard’s many friends in law enforcement. “Agent Payne, you say you saw the defendant at the protest at the Capitol that afternoon?”

“Yes I did.”

“Would you describe his behavior at this protest?”

“Combative. He was screaming at the Capitol and at the Russian president. Inciting the crowd into a fervor. The Russian security agents were very concerned.”

“Why were they concerned?”

“Because the defendant shouted in Russian, ‘I want to watch you die, you motherfucker.’”

Ballard’s eyes went wide, a show for the jury. “Wow. A strong statement. When did he say this?”

“Moments before the first shots were fired.”

Ballard clasped his hands together, pausing, letting it sink in. “The state enters into evidence cell phone video footage of the protest showing the defendant’s actions. A transcript of the video is also provided.”

Tom looked over the evidence sheet on his bench. It listed the evidence the prosecution was going to enter into the trial, with transcripts and photographs stapled behind the cover sheet in a binder. He waited, counting to three, giving Renner a moment to object. Nothing. “Exhibit 5, A and B are entered.”

Special Agent Lucas Barnes helped roll out a large flat-screen TV on a wheeled cart. A portable DVD player rested beside it. “We will now play for the court the cell phone footage of the protest.”

Panic washed down Tom’s spine. He’d been there that day, with Mike. Would the cell phone camera capture him? Would he be exposed in the next minute? There would be questions. Why hadn’t he recused himself if he was a witness to the crime? The whole world had seen the replay, and he could form an argument about why he should be allowed to sit as presiding judge, but that argument would hold more weight if he’d been forthcoming in the beginning of the trial. Not after he was found out. But, to admit he’d been there would be to admit why—that he’d been attending a Pride march and rally. And he hadn’t been ready to admit that, then.

The lights dimmed, and the screen flicked on. The footage was frozen on a crowd, a mass of people and shirtless torsos and rainbow flags, posters and placards and waving arms.

Ballard pressed play.

Shouts thundered through the courtroom, bellows and chants from the protest. “Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Vasiliev has got to go!” “Gay is not a crime! Gay is not a crime!” “Human rights abuser!”

The camera panned, showing Kryukov in the center of the frame, hollering into his megaphone. His voice cracked, but he kept shouting, spitting fire and fury. The crowd rose with his cries, growing louder, more enraged. On the Capitol steps, tiny in the camera lens and in the distance, the Russian president walked slowly toward them, waving.

Furious Russian broke over the speakers, guttural and choked with rage. Closed captioning appeared on the screen, a translation. “I want to watch you die, you motherfucker.” Kryukov flipped the Russian president off.

Two shots snapped, cracking over the video and the courtroom speakers. Reporters and visitors gasped. Flinched. Looked away. The camera panned to the Russian president’s effigy, which had collapsed to the ground. Shrieks rose, panic-filled wails and voices crying out, shouting that something had happened on the Capitol steps. The image shifted, dropped, and then changed to dirt and grass and running legs as screams of fear poured through the speakers.

Ballard cut the video.

Tom sat back and eyed Renner and Kryukov. Kryukov looked dead ahead, his jaw square, chin held high. A proud man. Renner scribbled notes, the lawyer’s version of circling the wagons without appearing weak.

The jurors stared at Renner and then at Kryukov. Twelve pairs of eyes made Kryukov squirm.

The guilty always squirmed.

A defense attorney’s sole job was to create a theory that could carve doubt in jurors’ minds. A theory that could be built in increments, in grunted admissions or slices of weakness culled from witnesses, eviscerations bled out on cross-examination. A theory built from pinched eyes and frowns, and a slowly-growing belief that maybe the defendant didn’t actually do the crime. The theory could be right or wrong, based in fact or fantasy, or anything else. It only had to work. It only had to plant that seed of doubt.

So far, watching the jury, Renner had lost every point he’d gained that morning. The jurors gazed at Kryukov with hard eyes, eyes that looked ready to kill. This was the first death penalty trial at the federal level in years, but these jurors were ready for it. Hungry for it. If they found Kryukov guilty, they would execute him.

Renner’s theory wasn’t working.

Dr. Jacqueline Sparks, Medical Examiner, took the stand next, admitting a mountain of evidence to go along with her testimony. Renner glowered through her swearing-in, and then sat on the edge of his seat, ready to spring at the first hint of an objectionable statement.

Renner was against her entire testimony, and had argued vigorously in sidebar, out of hearing of the jurors. “The defense does not dispute the facts of death, Your Honor. Not the manner of death, or the means to carry out the murders. I will remind you, the actual murderer is part of the government’s case against my client, who did not pull the trigger and kill any of these individuals.”

“No, your client just planned their murders. Orchestrated the entire operation.”

“Allegedly.” Renner sent Ballard a frosty glare. “Your Honor, this entire testimony is prejudicial to my client and serves no purpose other than to upset the jurors.”

“Testimony from medical examiners is always considered key evidence in any trial. We must establish the facts of the crime, including how these individuals died. Barring this testimony would be a grave disservice to the jurors. They would have an unbalanced view of the facts.”

Tom noticed Ballard never uttered the words “Your Honor”. Not once.

“The defense does not dispute the facts of death, Your Honor. We request you bar this testimony.”

Which way to go? Both Ballard and Renner had valid points. Ballard still refused to look him in the eye. Renner implored him with his gaze. Any testimony from the medical examiner would certainly hurt Kryukov and inflame the jury, play on their already-strummed heartstrings.

He’d given Renner a win with the discovery motions, though, and had given the defense significant latitude in crafting their strategy. Enough latitude that Renner should be able to recover from this testimony, if he’d worked diligently. If there was anything at all to craft.

“I’m allowing this testimony.” Tom tried to catch Ballard’s gaze, but Ballard still looked just beyond his shoulder. He didn’t react to Tom’s ruling. “Dr. Sparks may take the stand.”

Renner cursed under his breath. Ballard nodded once. Both melted back to their tables, Renner whispering in Kryukov’s ear for a long minute as Sparks took the stand.

Nauseating crime scene photos followed, wave after wave of sunbaked blood on marble steps, bullet trajectories mapped out with neon evidence straws, shattered bullet fragments embedded in the Capitol. Autopsy records, and photos of the victims laid out on steel examination tables. Agent Payne and other federal law enforcement officers watching in the gallery looked down at the floor, not watching the giant images projected on the flat-screen of their friends, their bodies and murders on display for the world.

Cause of death for each victim was a lethal shot from a 7.62-millimeter round, the projectile fired by a Dragunov sniper rifle. Patrick Ross died from a shot to the neck, which shredded his carotid artery and trachea. Steven Harvey was killed with a shot to the head, slicing through his occipital lobe. Chad Robertson was killed with a single shot to the chest, the giant bullet bouncing around in the chest cavity and shredding his lungs, aortic arch, and half his heart.

Documents supplied by the Russians and reviewed by Dr. Sparks, showed the Russian presidential security agent died of two shots through his back, puncturing both lungs.

The Russians also supplied careful medical documentation about President Vasiliev’s injuries. A shot to his upper right shoulder, nicking an artery and shattering his shoulder blade, his joint. The x-rays showed an explosion of bones, a garbage heap of debris. He’d be lucky to regain partial functionality of his right arm.

Dr. Sparks spent nearly two hours walking through each autopsy, each cause of death, each gruesome photo gallery. Some jurors cried. Others looked away, fury etched onto their faces. It was well past noon when Dr. Sparks finished, and Tom called the lunch recess.

He and Mike slipped back to his chambers, not speaking until the door closed behind them. Tom shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “I can only imagine the headlines after that testimony.”

“Are you okay?” Mike reached for him, his fingers sliding up Tom’s robe and rubbing over his wrists.

Tom had more murder cases under his belt than most judges. As a prosecutor, he’d been tough on murderers, pushing just like Ballard had, making it hurt, bringing to life the suffering of the victim for the jury and for the defendant. He’d counted it a personal victory if he’d gotten the defendant to weep during his presentation. As a judge, he’d been stiff with his penalties for the handful of murderers found guilty in his courtroom.

But it was different, watching the autopsy presentation of men he’d personally watched die. In the courtroom, facts were supposed to be facts, distant, noble things that had no taint of emotion. No wash of haunted memory. In the past, he could look at crime scene photos and autopsy records all day long and not feel the touch of pain, a curl of horror and loss at the death and the tragedy. But he’d seen Patrick Ross die. Had watched Steven Harvey slump to the steps. Remembered Chad Robertson’s blood racing down the Capitol. He’d watched these men breathe their last breaths, give their life for their duties, for the country, and for the Russian president.

He couldn’t pretend to be unmoved by that, not here, not with Mike. He tangled their fingers together. “I’m better now.” He squeezed.

Mike pulled him close, exhaling against his hair as they wrapped their arms around each other. They stood silently, pressing their bodies as close as they could, letting the silence wreath them. If Tom closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was peaceful in the world.

Knocking broke them apart, and Mike pulled away, headed for the door. Peggy smiled and said hello to them both as she passed Mike a large brown bag.

Tom breathed in deeply. Food, and lots of it, by the smell.

“I ordered lunch for you during the first recess.” Mike seemed sheepish as he opened the bag, unpacking enough Chinese food for a small army on Tom’s conference table. “I wanted to take care of you. Make sure you ate.”

What would he do if Mike wasn’t in his life? Probably pace the lunch break away, locked in his chambers, and eventually try to force down a granola bar. How isolated he’d been before Mike, personally and professionally. Lunch with law clerks during a trial of this magnitude was out of the question, but other than them, he’d been all alone.

“Thank you.” He shucked his robe and sat down right next to Mike, who was piling a paper plate with food for him. Mike filled his own plate and sat, and Tom reached for his hand. “You take great care of me.”

Mike blushed and beamed, and held Tom’s hand while they ate.

Renner picked up immediately after lunch, like a football coach who’d regrouped at half time and seen the face of God. Ballard was going to pay for forcing Dr. Sparks’s testimony.

“Dr. Sparks, you are obviously an extremely competent and thorough medical examiner. Your testimony was detailed and flawless.” He waited, allowing Dr. Sparks a tiny nod of thanks. “I myself told the prosecution that your work was impeccable, and that we did not dispute any of the facts of this case.”

Dr. Sparks’s lips thinned. She said nothing.

“Knowing that, why do you think you’re here?”

“Objection!” Ballard was on his feet. “Calls for speculation.”

“I’ll rephrase.” Renner smiled his slick attorney’s smile. “Dr. Sparks, if the defense does not dispute the facts of these individuals’ tragic deaths, then what purpose does your testimony serve?”

“Objection! The same objection! This is ridiculous.”

Tom fixed Ballard with a glare. “Outbursts from either party are not welcome in this court. Counselor, move on to a different line of questioning.” Renner had made his point. The jury was squirming.

“Dr. Sparks, do you know anything about whether Vadim Kryukov is responsible for planning these murders?”

“No.”

“Do you have any information about who may be responsible for planning these murders, other than what you’ve read in the papers?”

“No.”

“You know no facts about whether my client is guilty or innocent of the crime he is being accused of?”

“No.”

“So, since we do not dispute one iota of your testimony and you have no information to share about my client’s involvement in these crimes, your testimony, then, served only to play on juror sympathy?”

Dr. Sparks wisely did not answer. Ballard was on his feet in an instant, crying out, “Objection! This question is argumentative and abusive! The defense is badgering the witness.”

“Withdrawn.” Renner smiled again. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Strike the last question from the record. Jurors, please treat that last exchange as if it never happened.” Tom watched the jurors carefully. Some made notes, other scratched lines out on their pad. All of them glanced from Renner to Ballard, their eyes narrowing.

Special Agent Lucas Barnes took the stand next. He walked the court through the FBI’s investigation, through Bulat Desheriyev’s sniper nest, the location he fired the fateful shots from. He spoke about Desheriyev’s sniper rifle, a Dragunov, a Russian-made classic in sniper circles. Hardy and reliable, it was less powerful than the American Barrett, but still extremely lethal.

Barnes then moved to the search of Desheriyev’s bolt-hole in suburban DC, the hideout he had built up for several months, hoping to escape to, and fade into obscurity in, after the crime. Who would suspect the young immigrant who bought fruit every Tuesday and Saturday, and who smiled at dog walkers and little old ladies?

At Desheriyev’s place, they discovered the cocaine baggie, most of the cocaine gone—used—drug paraphernalia, and Desheriyev’s cell phone. Kryukov’s fingerprint was on the cocaine baggie, and a text from Kryukov’s personal cell phone was on Desheriyev’s, confirming the Russian president’s location at the Capitol on the fateful Saturday. The text was verified through phone records, and forensics were able to recover the deleted text from Kryukov’s phone.

Barnes was a skilled witness. He’d been on the stand in his career more times than Tom could count. He himself had used Barnes multiple times in high-profile FBI and counterterrorism cases. He faced the jury, his testimony as if he was having a conversation with them. Tom watched more than one juror smile at Barnes.

After a day of hard-hitting, emotionally-draining testimony, Barnes’s calm, collected competence was like a salve to their wounded hearts and minds. Even Tom found himself leaning into Barnes’s testimony.

Ballard let Barnes testify in long, narrative explanations. Barnes was in control, telling the story of the evidence with little prodding and guidance from Ballard.

“Agent Barnes,” Ballard said. “How did the FBI verify Bulat Desheriyev’s statements after he began cooperating with the prosecution?”

“We walked Mr. Desheriyev through his confession, searching for physical evidence to corroborate each of his claims. We analyzed his cell phone and discovered the text message. Through checking the cellular records and subpoenaing the carrier, we established that the number was Vadim Kryukov’s, which we confirmed when we arrested the defendant. We found the materials provided in the dead drop to Mr. Desheriyev, including the cocaine baggie, and had it tested for fingerprints. We found Kryukov’s fingerprint. The evidence clearly backed up Mr. Desheriyev’s statement and confession.”

“Was there any discrepancy between any physical evidence and Bulat Desheriyev’s statements?”

“None.”

“Did the FBI investigate the possibility that there might have been conspirators beyond Vadim Kryukov?”

“We found no evidence to indicate that there was any other conspirator beyond Vadim Kryukov. In order to verify that, we asked Mr. Kryukov to cooperate with the investigation. We offered him a similar deal to Mr. Desheriyev, if he was truthful and cooperative with the investigation. He refused.”

And then it was Renner’s turn.

Cross-examination was a battle, and with an opponent as skilled and likable as Barnes, Renner had his work cut out for him. Renner had to seize control, wrest it back from Barnes, but not look dominant in front of the jury. Not appear like a bully. He had to make himself seem more competent than Barnes, and sincere, too. Likable. Enough to plant a sliver of doubt in Barnes’s testimony, make the jurors hesitate. Start the dominos of doubt falling, slowly.

Or, he could go the other way, and try and rip Barnes a new asshole.

Tom watched and waited.

Renner put himself squarely in front of the jury, forcing Barnes to look right at him. “Agent Barnes, did Vadim Kryukov and Mr. Desheriyev have any face-to-face contact during this conspiracy that Mr. Kryukov allegedly planned?”

“Not to our knowledge.”

“Was this conspiracy put together mostly through phone calls and texts?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be fair to say that both men appeared to be very careful with their movements. Where they went, when, and who they were seen with?”

“It would be fair to say that.”

“Mr. Desheriyev’s handler used multiple cell phones, switching numbers, trying to prevent being captured by electronic surveillance, it seems. Is this a common tactic among terrorists?”

“It is. Both terrorists and drug dealers.”

Tom’s gaze slid to Kryukov. He’d admitted he was a drug dealer, and the evidence supported that assumption. As did it support his actions as a terrorist mastermind.

“Does the text message seem odd, then? If they were so careful, and switched cell phones for every message, why did my client suddenly text detailed plans of the operation from his own cell phone to Desheriyev?”

“I cannot comment on the motivations of the defendant.”

“Does it seem out of character for the sophistication of the rest of the operation?”

Barnes hesitated. “It might.”

“How does the FBI know that text was sent by Vadim Kryukov on Thursday morning?”

“It came from his cell phone. Cellular records confirm it originated from his cell phone, and triangulation of both his cell signal and confirmation by the phone’s onboard GPS place the cell phone at his residence on Thursday morning. There were also no other fingerprints on his cell phone. Only the defendant’s. Only he could have sent it.”

“Tell me, Agent Barnes. Do you let anyone else handle your phone? Look at emails? Pictures? Memes?” Renner smiled. “Maybe let your wife make a call?”

“No.” Barnes didn’t smile back. “It’s my Bureau phone. No one touches it but me. And I am not married.”

“My mistake.” Renner smoothed his tie, pivoting. “But, it’s fair to say that other people do sometimes share their phone, or let other people handle it.”

“I suppose.”

“In all your investigations, Agent Barnes, have you ever seen an example where a phone only had one set of fingerprints?”

Barnes shifted. “It is rare, but it does occur.”

“In any of those instances, those cases, was it then ultimately concluded that the cell phone had been wiped of prints before being handled again, and that was the reason for the single set of prints?”

Silence. Barnes went rigid, his whole body tensing. He drew himself up, as if gathering himself, gathering the mantle of his federal power. “That has occurred, though very, very rarely. Once or twice.”

“Once or twice.” Renner smiled again. His point had been made.

“This case, Agent Barnes, seems to rely on the sudden ineptitude of these terrorists. Making an amateur slip that would capture their cell phone data. Leaving a careless fingerprint. Lucky for you that men who were so careful in planning every stage of their conspiracy would let a single text and a single baggie of cocaine be their downfall.”

Barnes waited for Ballard’s objection. “Objection! Defense is arguing with the witness and putting on a show. This isn’t theater.”

“Sustained.” Tom arched his eyebrows at Renner. He was pushing hard.

“If the men never met face-to-face, Agent Barnes, then how did a cocaine baggie with my client’s fingerprint end up at Desheriyev’s house?”

“As we understand it, the baggie was left at a drop location, along with maps of the Capitol and of DC. It seemed to be a bonus payment to Mr. Desheriyev. At least, that is how he took it.”

“Were Vadim Kryukov’s fingerprints on any other material in the drop?”

“No.”

“The only proof of Vadim Kryukov’s involvement, then, is his fingerprint on this one bag?”

Barnes hesitated. “The only proof of his involvement in the drop, yes. But there is other evidence tying him to the case.”

“So no one watched him put the baggie in the drop?”

“No.”

“Is Vadim Kryukov a known cocaine dealer?”

“He is.”

“To a group of Russians, a select group of individuals, mostly tied to Russian organized crime rings and nightclubs, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And, as a dealer, his fingerprints would necessarily be on all the baggies he dealt?”

“That would be a fair assumption to make.”

“So, isn’t it possible, then, that my client could have been framed? The baggie could have been placed by anyone into the drop.”

“Objection!” Ballard scowled. “Speculation, and calls for a legal conclusion. Agent Barnes is not here to present the defense’s wild conspiracy case.”

“Your Honor, Agent Barnes is a recognized investigative expert. His testimony is crucial to establishing the facts of this case. As an expert in the case, he should have ruled out all possible lines of inquiry. My line of questioning is not a ‘wild conspiracy theory’, but an exploration of the prosecution’s own case. Is this possible, and has the investigative team ruled this out?”

Ballard silently fumed. He kept staring over Tom’s shoulder, his glare burning into the Seal of the United States.

Dylan, look at me. Give me something to work with.

“Overruled.” Tom’s gut clenched as Ballard’s lips twisted, an almost-curse breathed out as he sat. “Please answer the question, Agent Barnes.”

Barnes scowled. He refused to look at Tom. “There were no other fingerprints on the baggie. If another person had placed it there, their fingerprints should also be present.”

“That is not the question I asked, Agent Barnes. Please. Is it possible that another person placed the baggie in the drop, incriminating Vadim Kryukov?”

Silence. “It is possible, though extremely unlikely,” Barnes finally said.

“It is possible.” Renner smiled, and before Ballard could object, he said, “No further questions.”

“Redirect.” Ballard strode around his table, facing Barnes, but allowing the jury to gaze on their favorite witness again. Perhaps not the golden boy from before Renner’s cross-examination, though. A few jurors wore deep frowns.

“Both Desheriyev and Vadim were cocaine users, correct?”

“Both men’s blood tested positive for cocaine use. That’s a fair assumption to make.”

“In your professional experience, Agent Barnes, are drug users reliable people?”

“Not always.”

“Do they make decisions that are in their own personal best interest?”

“No.”

“A drug user leaving his fingerprints on a baggie of cocaine, while covering up all other aspects of their crime, would be par for the course for a drug user and/or dealer?”

“It absolutely could be. An experienced drug dealer might not even think of the fingerprints in the context of the larger crime, especially if he has a routine to his dealings.”

“Do most drug users dispose of the baggies, Agent Barnes?”

“Yes. Most baggies are flushed down the toilet.”

“Which would imply that Vadim Kryukov, a known user and dealer of cocaine, expected this baggie to be flushed, which would then eliminate his fingerprint. He’d have no need to conceal his fingerprint then, correct?”

Tom waited for Renner’s objection. Renner stayed seated and said nothing. His eyes shone.

“Correct.”

“Which would make his behavior—leaving his fingerprint on the baggie—not unusual or odd at all?”

“Not at all.”

Ballard nodded. “Pass the witness.”

“Recross.” Renner stood. “Agent Barnes, you said that most cocaine users will flush their empty baggies down the toilet. Did Mr. Desheriyev give a reason as to why he did not?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reason?”

“He forgot to.”

“Hmm.” Renner smiled as he spread his hands. “How convenient. He forgot to dispose of a major piece of evidence tying my client to the shooter, the only man in this entire trial who is unquestionably guilty. How fortunate for the prosecution.”

“Objection! Argumentative!”

“Withdrawn. I’ll rephrase.” Renner bowed his head, as if apologizing. Tom knew better. “Is it possible, Agent Barnes, that one of your key pieces of evidence, which inexplicably survived destruction, is meant to frame Vadim Kryukov?”

“Frame by who?” Barnes frowned.

“Well, that would be your job.” Renner smiled indulgently. “As the chief investigator to uncover.”

Barnes’s lips thinned, and he glared at Renner. He shifted, his neck turning tomato-red.

“Agent Barnes, is it possible?”

“It’s possible,” Barnes grunted through gritted teeth. “It’s also extremely unlikely,” he added. “Extremely.”

“Did the FBI, prior to the shooting, have any information on Vadim Kryukov that would have indicated he was capable of planning a violent terrorist act?”

Barnes hesitated again. “No.”

“So out of the blue, Vadim Kryukov plans an elaborate assassination plot, makes contact with Bulat Desheriyev, a world-renowned assassin, and directs his every move to the United States, including his actions up to the afternoon of the shooting. How did he find Desheriyev, anyway?”

“We don’t know how they initially made contact, or how Mr. Kryukov knew how to reach out to Mr. Desheriyev. Mr. Desheriyev only answered the phone when the first recruitment call was made. And when he did so, he heard Vadim Kryukov’s voice.”

“Was this a complex operation, Agent Barnes? Seems like it to me. Moving a shooter from Russia to the United States. Keeping him in hiding. Predicting the exact travel plans of the Russian president, and lying in wait for him at the perfect place and time. Concealing their activities with a high degree of sophistication.”

“It was characterized as a complex operation during the investigation. The conspirators used sophisticated counterterrorism techniques in order to avoid interdiction.”

“In your experience as a counterterrorism investigator, does Vadim Kryukov have the background knowledge or life experience to pull off an operation like this?”

Barnes squirmed. One corner of his mouth pulled down. “Not that we have uncovered so far.”

“Are you saying that the FBI was stumped by an amateur? That Vadim Kryukov bested the counterterrorism chops of the best law enforcement agency on the planet?”

Now Barnes really frowned. He scowled at Renner and looked beyond him to Ballard. Ballard had a death grip on his pen, his knuckles white.

Tom knew the feeling.

“Terrorists only have to get lucky once. We have to be lucky every single day. And it’s not just luck. It’s skilled, dedicated investigations. We work hard to protect this nation. Very hard.”

“I’m sure you do. But isn’t it possible that Vadim Kryukov, with no experience in the military, no experience planning any major operation, or any connection to any terrorist group, might not be the one who planned this assassination?”

“Vadim Kryukov was associated with a terrorist organization. He was an anarchist.”

“That’s not the question I asked, Agent Barnes.”

“There is hard evidence against Vadim Kryukov. There is physical evidence that cannot be explained away.”

“Yes. The very fortunate two pieces of evidence that seem to be gifts on high graced to the prosecution. With no possibility for either the fingerprint to have been planted or the text to have come from anyone other than the defendant.” Incredulity strained Renner voice.

“Objection!” Ballard spat. “The defense is repeatedly harassing the witness. He is argumentative and trying to testify in place of the defendant. There is no place for this conduct or behavior in a court of law!”

“Please leave the rulings to me, counselor.” Tom eyed Ballard carefully. “The prosecution does have a point, though. You’ve been warned twice, Mr. Renner. Don’t make me do so again.”

“Please, Agent Barnes. The question I asked. I would like you to answer it.”

Barnes sighed, shaking his head. “If there were other conspirators, then Vadim Kryukov had an opportunity to give them up. He was offered the same deal as Desheriyev. If there are more people involved in the conspiracy, then why didn’t he save himself?”

“What if he can’t?” Renner leaned forward. “What if he knows nothing about this, and there’s no way to offer up any conspirators because he had nothing to do with the entire case?

“Objection! There is absolutely zero foundation for that wild claim.”

“Sustained.” It was Tom’s turn to sigh, silently, through his nose.

“You have one fingerprint and one text. And the word of a murderer claiming that Kryukov was the man he spoke to. Do you have any better evidence against my client?”

Barnes’s lips thinned as his eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Don’t you think that’s a pretty weak case, Agent Barnes?”

“No. I do not think this is a weak case. I think the evidence speaks for itself.”

“We’ll see if the jury agrees.”

Ballard jumped up. “Redirect.” He gave Barnes a moment to shake Renner’s cross off. “Is there any reason to believe a wild conspiracy theory? Any evidence to back up the allegation that Vadim Kryukov was framed?”

“No, there is not.”

“Is there any reason to suspect that the evidence in this case was made up? Or, as the defense so kindly put, gifted from on high?”

“No.”

Does ‘on high’ include the White House? The Department of Justice? The CIA? Tom tried to push his own doubts back. He couldn’t be seen as partial, biased, leaning to one side or the other.

“The only physical evidence in this case points to whom, as the mastermind of this terrorist attack?”

“To Vadim Kryukov.”

They broke for the day at four PM. The jury filed out, and Kryukov was led away by a pack of marshals. Tom and Mike escaped to Tom’s chambers and Mike helped him out of the bulletproof vest. Tom collapsed into his office chair, and Mike massaged his shoulders, gently kneading his tight muscles.

“Oh, I need this.” Tom let him go for a few minutes, and then kissed his wrist. “Thank you. Now, what about you? What can I do for you?”

Mike shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve been on your feet all day. I’m surprised you’re still standing. I’ll be happy to give you a foot massage.” He grinned, lopsided.

Mike laughed at him. “Not after being on my feet all day, Your Honor. There’s no way Judge Brewer is going to massage my stinky feet.”

“Tom will.” He kissed Mike’s wrist again, tugging him around until Mike was in front of him. He pulled, and Mike sat in his lap. “Judge Brewer is for out there. Here, between us, I’m always Tom.”

Mike kissed him, sweetly. “I have to say, though… Sitting on Judge Brewer’s lap is kinda turning me on.”

They both laughed, and then they kissed, and Tom got two handfuls of Mike’s ass in his hands. Kissing turned to making out, and then into heavy petting, and then into Tom wanting to lie back on his desk and pull Mike down on top of him. But, he pushed Mike back gently, putting space between them. “I miss you, I do. But I want to do this right. Be smart about us.”

Mike nodded, and he clambered off Tom’s lap. “Yeah, I agree.”

It had been a while since they’d made love. Tom had moved into the Hyatt, and that left no space or time at all for them to be together. Theoretically, Mike could have sneaked over in the middle of the night, and they could have tried to make love silently, in-between the rooms on either side of Tom filled with marshals. Mike could have tried to slip out of Tom’s room before anyone saw him. But that wasn’t the way to have a relationship. They weren’t sex fiends, and what they were doing wasn’t illegal. Just unwise. They didn’t have to sneak around, feel like ten shades of crap while doing it.

And, if they waited until the end of the trial, there’d be no more secrets.

That was worth the wait.

“Dinner together at the hotel?” Tom grabbed Mike’s hand.

“I have some emails I have to send. I’ll meet you in the restaurant an hour after we get back?”

“It’s a date.”

Chapter 33

Mike ran his fingers through his hair, trying to fluff up his pompadour after the long day. He’d ditched his tie and undone his top shirt buttons. Did he look all right? Or just tired?

Day one of the trial was over. Thank God. 

He spun in the mirror, trying to catch his reflection. Tom had seen him all day, stern and sentinel by his side. But still. He wanted to look good for Tom.

He spruced his hair once more and gave up, tossing his comb on the hotel counter before heading out the door. Marshals were milling in the hall, stretching and chatting and drinking coffee as they relaxed while Tom was out of his room. One was writing down everyone’s food order.

“Hey Mike.” Gordon, one of the guys he knew from headquarters, nodded to him. “Want to grab dinner with us?”

“Thanks, but I’m going downstairs. Eating dinner with Judge Brewer.”

Eyebrows rose, but no one said anything.

Last week, he would have tried to spin it. ‘We’re discussing the trial today’ or ‘Just reviewing security procedures’ or ‘Walking him through the next few days’. But he didn’t say anything.

When the trial was over, they’d be coming out. The questions would be answered. The raised eyebrows would stop. He didn’t need to lie anymore, cover up their relationship with heaps of bullshit. He could have dinner with Tom. Maybe it looked weird to the guys right now, but in a few weeks, everyone would understand.

It was dinner. Just a blurry line being crossed. Not high treason.

Tom was waiting at the bar, sipping on a margarita. Marshals hung back, shadowing him around the hotel lounge, but not crowding him. The TVs were all tuned to the news. Russian tanks paraded in long rows in Moscow, and Russian radar painted NATO jets over Europe. Carriers were scrambling fighters every hour, responding to suspected Russian missile launches. The Gulf countries were talking about reducing output of oil exports amid the uncertainty. Oil prices had skyrocketed. OPEC rumbled about cutting output, their attempt at strangling a war before it even began. Doom and gloom poured from the screen, cascading bad and worse news.

He slid in beside him, pressing his shoulder to Tom’s. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Tom leaned back, almost rested his cheek on Mike’s arm. “Can I get you something?”

“Not while I’m on duty protecting you.” He winked. “I’ll just have water.”

They moved to a corner booth in the hotel’s upscale steakhouse. It was dark enough to tangle their feet together beneath the table, and quiet enough to lean in close, keeping their voices soft. A few marshals drifted into the restaurant, sitting at the bar and at the scattered high tops and studiously not looking in their direction. Mike held back from reaching across and holding Tom’s hand, but if he was looking at Tom the way Tom was looking at him, well—

They just needed to get through this trial.

And, hopefully not trigger a new war between Russia and the U.S.

They both ordered steak but got different sides to share. He goofed once, eating off Tom’s plate, but when he glanced around the dining room, none of the marshals were looking their way. Tom had a second margarita, and he relaxed against the corner of the booth, loose and gazing at Mike in a way that made his skin burn. He kept their feet tangled, ankles rubbing gently together.

Their phones rang at the same time.

Mike frowned as he answered his. The number was from headquarters.

“Inspector Lucciano, we have a situation.”

Across the table, Mike watched Tom answer his cell, and then bury his face in one hand as he listened. “When did this happen?”

“What’s going on?”

“Sir, Vadim Kryukov was attacked at the federal detention center. He’s being taken to George Washington University Hospital as we speak.”

Shit. “Do you have any details on the attack?”

A pause. “None.”

That pause said a lot. Mike squinted. “When did this happen?”

“During transfer. It appears Kryukov was left in a holding area. We’re not certain who attacked him.”

“Is the detention center checking prisoners for wounds?”

Another pause. “Of course.”

“Who was on the transfer team? What marshals were assigned?”

Mike cursed again when the headquarters agent read off the names. “Thanks,” he growled. “Keep me updated.” He hung up. Headquarters would never call him back. There’d be nothing to find on the prisoners at the detention center.

Tom ended his call and rested his head in his hands. “This is a disaster.”

“Any word on how he’s doing?”

“Fink says he’s just been admitted into GWU hospital and taken up to surgery. Renner is on his way to the hospital now. How could this have happened?”

“It… was revenge. For today’s testimony.” Tom stared at him. “I know the guys who brought him back to the detention center. They’re all cowboys. Marshals who love the hunt, the chase. Sticking it to anybody they feel deserves it. I guarantee you he was left alone in a little holding room, and the marshals each took a turn on him.”

“Because of today’s testimony?”

“Renner made Barnes look stupid, at the end.”

“Do you think Barnes knew about this? Ordered it?”

“No way. Barnes is squeaky clean. He’s got a solid reputation.” Mike shrugged helplessly. “Some marshals… they’re loaded guns, waiting to go off at the slightest touch.” He frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Tom grabbed his phone and started sliding out of the booth. “You didn’t do anything, Mike.”

“I can try and find out more. Bang a few heads together for you.” He stood, holding out his hand for Tom.

“I don’t know how this will play out. I need to talk to Renner. See how Kryukov is. See what he wants to do about this. Whether he’ll file against the marshals or—” Tom squeezed his hand as he stood, and then let go. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Right now, let me walk you back to your room.”

“Mr. Renner. This is Judge Brewer. I wanted to check in on you and your client.”

Silence. Renner clearly hadn’t expected a phone call.

“I heard the news this evening. How is Mr. Kryukov?”

“In surgery.” Renner’s voice was flat. He hadn’t decided how to react to the call yet. “I will know more in a few hours.”

“How does it look?”

“Broken bones for sure. His ribs, maybe. Definitely a badly broken arm.”

Tom closed his eyes. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Renner. Please, keep me updated. You can reach me at this number anytime this evening. I would like to know how your client is after surgery.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I’d like to schedule a hearing in chambers tomorrow morning. Does nine AM work for you? We can push back the start of trial.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Renner sighed. Apparently, he’d decided not to be combative. “And, thank you for reaching out. I appreciate it. I was in the middle of a scathing press release, ripping the court a new one for lax security and an attitude of acceptance about violence toward my client.”

“I do not accept what has happened, Mr. Renner. I’m horrified that this took place and I will do what I can to right this wrong. If you’d like a continuance, please prepare a motion for tomorrow morning.”

“Your Honor, my client is an innocent man who has been imprisoned for a crime he did not do. A continuance would keep him detained even longer. Mr. Kryukov wants his freedom. I’m sure you can understand.”

Tom bowed his head. A passionate plea from a defense attorney. How many times had he heard similar words over the years? Every defendant was innocent, until they were proven guilty. And, many were proven guilty.

“As long as we’re not pushing your client too hard.”

“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, Judge Brewer.”

Hours later, Mike dropped by his hotel room and shared everything he’d found out. Rumor was some of the marshals had done exactly what Mike suspected. Kryukov was unaccounted for six minutes in the transfer papers. Six minutes was an eternity at the wrong end of fists and kicks. No one was willing to say for sure that they knew it had happened, at least, not to Mike.

But they’d all seen Mike hanging out with Tom, and Tom had felt the sidelong glances sliding their direction from Mike’s colleagues. Mike had been somewhat of a lone wolf in the marshals, and now, he was even more so. Who would fess up to Mike about a couple of marshals illegally beating up Kryukov in a demented revenge plot against his defense attorney?

They stole a few minutes together, hanging out in Tom’s hotel room doorway. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring Mike into his suite. Around them, doors opened, marshals wandering into the hall to check on them, see if Tom or Mike needed anything. Their attempts to eavesdrop were obvious and unsubtle.

So they changed the subject. Mike complimented him on his tie. Tom flushed. He thanked Mike for lunch, again, and Mike asked what he wanted tomorrow. They grinned at each other, bashful, flirty smiles.

Villegas appeared at the end of the hall, as if summoned. All the marshals turned toward him, their heads grinding on a swivel. “Lucciano!” Villegas beckoned him over, eyes wide. “Lucciano, get over here!”

Mike leaned back, spotted Villegas, and cursed. “I’ll text you,” he mouthed.

His phone rang as Mike stepped back. “It’s Renner. I have to take this.”

Mike nodded and headed toward Villegas as Tom disappeared into his suite. “Counselor?”

“Your Honor, sorry to call this late.”

“It’s no problem. I asked you to call.”

“Mr. Kryukov has two broken ribs, a fractured arm, and a whole boatload of bruises. The surgeon had to put three pins in his wrist.”

Tom exhaled slowly. He’d been afraid it was going to be much worse. This was still bad, but not life-threatening, at least. “How is he doing?”

“He’s sedated. Resting comfortably.”

“Good. I’m glad he is comfortable and out of harm’s way.”

“Well, I’m not so sure of that. I’m not entirely convinced this was inmate-on-inmate violence.”

Shit. “Oh?”

“There was care not to attack his head, his face, or his fingers. Anything that would show obvious signs of a beating.”

“I’d say broken bones that have to be set through surgery are obvious signs of a beating, counselor.”

“I am concerned about my client’s safety.”

Tom stayed silent. Truthfully, he was too.

“I’ll have recommendations for the hearing tomorrow, Your Honor. Thank you for your phone call this evening.” Renner was back to professional, brisk and officious.

“Please don’t hesitate to contact me at my office with any requests you have, counselor. I will see you in the morning.”

Villegas dragged Mike around the corner of the hallway and shoved him face-first into the wall. “What the fuck are you doing, Lucciano?”

Mike bounced off the wall and stumbled. He wheeled on Villegas, his hands clenching. “What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Word’s gotten around,” Villegas hissed, “about you asking questions. About Kryukov.”

“Did you know about what happened?”

Villegas cursed.

“Did you? Did you help plan it?”

“No!” Villegas shoved him against the wall again. Mike shoved back, and Villegas slammed into the hotel room door opposite them. “No,” Villegas grunted. “I found out from Winters. He’s shitting fifty cals right now. We’re moving those guys. Tonight. Getting them out of the district and off the eastern seaboard.”

“They’d better be doing missile transport duty in Montana.” One of the marshals’ unsung, unknown duties was guarding the Air Force’s movements of ballistic and ICBM missiles from silo to silo in the wastelands and far-flung nowheres of Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. If you were on missile transport duty, you had fucked up big time.

“Just about.” Villegas adjusted his suit, straightened his lapels. He stalked close to Mike, getting up in his face. “People are talking about you and Judge Brewer.”

Mike didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

“Running your mouth at your little pet judge about what happened? That’s the kind of thing that gets little boys backed into dark corners.” Villegas’s voice dropped. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? You do not. Want. This shit. Being spread around.”

“And what shit is that, Villegas? The truth about what some jacked-up, law-breaking marshals did? They’re getting off light being reassigned. What they did was wrong.”

“Aren’t you little miss goody-goody.” Villegas closed the final inch separating them. “Don’t make yourself a target, Lucciano,” he growled. “You’re in enough shit as it is.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Villegas didn’t say a word. He stepped back and walked away, rolling his neck as if he were shaking Mike off.

Chapter 34

July 28^th

Tom called Mike over to his suite for breakfast. They ate room service together and ran through the day’s security plan, and Mike filled him in on the marshals from the transport team being reassigned. Etta Mae begged for leftover scrambled eggs and ignored her dog food entirely.

“Hopefully they’re on a dirt runway in Montana right now, smelling cow shit and searching for cell reception and hating life.”

Tom tried to smile. “They’re still getting off easy. What they did was a crime.”

“I know. We’ll circle back around to this after the trial. I’ll help you cut through the marshals’ stonewalling and bullshit.” Going against his own agency, turning against the ultra-tight closed-loop society that was the U.S. Marshals. A marshal bending—or breaking—the law wasn’t, unfortunately, an unusual occurrence. A marshal turning against the pack, ratting them out to a judge… was. But it was the right thing to do.

Villegas banged on the door, giving Mike the hairy eyeball when he opened instead of Tom. Tom invited him in for coffee, and Villegas downed a full cup in one long go. “All right, are we ready?” He set the coffee cup down and glared. He wasn’t asking.

They moved to the courthouse just like the previous morning, loading up in a caravan of black SUVs for the three-block journey. Mike helped Tom into his bulletproof vest, sneaking in a squeeze of Tom’s hips and a wink and a smile. The protestors were still there, as were the media vans and the hounding reporters.

Mike brought him his coffee and settled in at Tom’s conference table, plucking away at his laptop until it was time for the nine AM conference with Renner and Ballard. Mike lingered as Tom welcomed both men into his chambers, then sent Tom a private smile and headed out.

His radio chirped. “Lucciano, report.”

Villegas. Mike cursed. “Just left Brewer in chambers with both attorneys.”

“Come down to the courtroom. Need to talk to you.”

“Good morning counselors.” Tom’s smile was thin, strained. “We have a serious situation to discuss. First, Mr. Renner. How is Mr. Kryukov?”

“Doing well. He says this was gentle compared to what he’s experienced in Russia.” Renner passed them each a copy of Kryukov’s medical report. Tom flipped through his slowly, reading every page.

Ballard flicked quickly through the pages, and then focused on the photos of Kryukov’s injuries. He frowned. “Your client has interesting tattoos.”

“What does that have—”

“Are you familiar with Russian organized crime rings? Or the tattoos that members of the Bratva, the brotherhood, receive? Russian prison tattoos? Each one tells a story.” He pointed to the tattoos on Kryukov’s chest: a church with three cupolas, and a black capital A wreathed in a dark circle. “These are prison tattoos. They denote how many sentences he’s served. Three, at least. And that he’s an enemy of the state.”

“And,” Tom said, flipping to the next photo. “These tattoos are forced tattoos.” He pointed to a pair of eyes on Kryukov’s lower abdomen, and then to a woman wrapped in a snake on his lower back. A playing card, an ace of hearts, on one ass cheek.

Ballard squinted at him. Renner stayed silent.

“Forced tattoos from when Kryukov was imprisoned in Russia. He is homosexual. He was punished for his sexuality in the Russian prison system. These tattoos were forced on him the day he entered the prison. He was marked.” Tom swallowed. “And then everyone knew who he was. And he was targeted for abuse.”

Both attorneys were quiet. “You seem to know a lot about Russian prisoners,” Ballard said softly.

“I know this.”

“Look, what happened was regrettable, but out of our control.” Ballard shrugged. “Sometimes prisoners get out of hand. We’re not Russia. We don’t force tattoos on people. But fistfights can happen. We stopped it before it got worse. That’s what is important to remember.”

“My client doesn’t believe that the men who attacked him were prisoners.”

“Excuse me?” Ballard frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

Did he really not know? Or was this more covering up? Ballard had become a professional at cover-ups, it seemed. Had it always been this way? Just what had Ballard been doing when they worked together? Years and years at each other’s side, and suddenly, Tom realized he barely knew the man.

“Extrajudicial retribution.” Renner tented his fingers, pursed his lips. “I scored points against your special agent yesterday, and your men took it out on my client.”

Ballard scoffed. “This is—”

“What concerns me,” Renner said, speaking over Ballard. “Is the question of whether or not this was also a hate crime.”

“A hate crime?”

“My client is a homosexual. As Judge Brewer stated, he has been persecuted before for his sexuality. Mr. Kryukov clearly recalls hearing his attackers shout ‘faggot’ as they kicked him in the chest.”

Ballard’s face darkened as he went still. “You can’t have it both ways. It’s either an extrajudicial retribution, or it’s a hate crime.”

“It absolutely can be both.”

“Gentleman.” Tom slapped both hands down on his table. “I am deeply disturbed by what happened. There is no reason—none at all—for a prisoner to be assaulted, in any way. By inmates or by anyone else.” He fixed a long stare on Ballard. Ballard didn’t flinch. “I am also infuriated at the possibility that the attack was motivated by Mr. Kryukov’s sexual orientation. The freedom of an individual to be who they are is a core and fundamental principle of America.” He swallowed hard, fighting against the words.

How free had he been his whole life?

What the hell was going on? He was defending a man who had, by the preponderance of evidence, conspired to kill the Russian president with the help of the CIA. His old boss was helping to cover the government’s tracks, and he was sympathizing with the mastermind of the terrorist attack, a gay Russian who had suffered, but was now making the world suffer through his acts. Sighing, Tom shook his head. “I have ordered that Mr. Kryukov be kept in protective custody at the hospital until he is recovered enough to be transported to a secure facility. I’ve also ordered a new team of marshals to secure his transport. His former team, clearly, failed spectacularly.” Again, he glared at Ballard.

“Thank you, Your Honor. We would also like to ask for a continuance.”

“For how long?”

“Only until this afternoon. Mr. Kryukov wants to put this trial behind him and get on with his life.”

Ballard snorted.

“Counselor!” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I will speak with you privately. Mr. Renner, I’m more than happy to grant you this continuance. I’m concerned you’re coming back to trial too soon. If you and Mr. Kryukov decide you need more time, let me know. We can recess until next week.”

“This afternoon will be fine, Your Honor.”

“Then I will see you at one thirty in court.”

Renner nodded his thanks and quickly packed up his padfolio. He flew out of Tom’s chambers, casting one last, lingering look back at Ballard.

Ballard tossed his pen on the table and leaned back. He stared at Tom, his posture, his entire body, screaming fuck you.

“You are way out of line, Dylan. Way, way out of line. Your behavior is beyond the pale. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve dropped the ‘Your Honor’ business, too. You’re pissed at me for following the law? Holding to the Constitution? Believing in the principals of America?”

Ballard snorted again, laughing to himself, utterly dismissing everything about Tom and his speech. Tom might as well have been talking to a wall.

“If I find out you had anything to do with this beating—anything at all—I will have you brought up on charges. I mean it, Dylan. I will put you in jail for the maximum amount of time that I can.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the future, Your Honor.” Ballard stood, sneering down at him. “You’re doing a fine job of driving this country straight into war. There’s not going to be anything left after this trial if you let Renner and Kryukov run with their wild theory. So, if I can stop you? If I can stop what you’re doing?” Ballard leaned over the table. “You can bet your Goddamn ass I will. Your Honor.”

Tom’s courtroom crackled that afternoon. Reporters crowded even tighter than the day before. New marshals lined the walls, glowering at everyone. Kryukov limped in, partially supported by a beast of a marshal, a giant man with hulking shoulders. He could have balled Kryukov up and dribbled him, but he let Kryukov lean on his arm, as if he were allowing a fly space on his skin. He dropped Kryukov in his seat at the defendant’s table and fled. Renner checked his client over, and Tom watched Kryukov nod and nod some more. There were bruises on the side of his throat, and his arm was in a sling. He sat stiffly. Bandaged ribs.

Ballard never looked at Kryukov. He and Barnes huddled, reviewing notes with the FBI’s deputy director, who sat just behind them. Big guns were showing up to the trial.

The jury was wired, strung out on mystery and intrigue, caffeine and too many questions. Their minds were whirling, and he saw half of them frown with the beginnings of a headache.

Tom tried to impart a measure of calm. He gazed over the courtroom, his shipwrecked island of doubt and conspiracy. He was the captain of this ship, and they’d gone aground on day one. Swallowing, he gazed at Ballard.

Ballard stared right back at him. His gaze was frigid.

“Counselor. Please call your next witness.”

Bulat Desheriyev’s arrival brought a murmur and a lingering hush of whispers trailing behind him like a rippling wake. Desheriyev was a large man, obviously fit and muscular. He’d worked out before landing in the federal detention center, and was clearly keeping up with his routine in prison. The red jumpsuit strained against his shoulders, his biceps. He had a shaved head, a bulldog face, and dark eyes. He looked like an Eastern European criminal, a hard man spat out by the Russian machine, and a man easily capable of assassinating the dozens of targets he was accused of by Interpol.

Now, he’d confessed to four murders and the attempted assassination of the Russian president, and pointed the finger at Kryukov.

He walked to the witness stand and waited for his escort to uncuff him. He had the right to testify free of shackles, despite his guilty plea.

Desheriyev was sworn in.

Ballard stood in front of him, hands clasped.

He started slowly, building the basics. Who Bulat Desheriyev was. Where he came from—a small town in Chechnya. His service in the Russian army, and his departure from the ranks.

“Did you enjoy your time in the Russian Army?”

“No.” Desheriyev’s voice rumbled, a deep bass growl that ran down Tom’s spine. His accent was thick.

“And after you left the Russian army, what did you do?”

“Went home. Made a name for myself. Jobs were offered. I took them.”

“What kind of jobs?”

“Jobs where I was hired muscle.”

“A mercenary?”

“Yes.”

“You were considered a very good mercenary?”

“Yes.” Desheriyev smiled. “I had many jobs. Many kills.”

Tom’s stomach clenched. A cold-blooded killer sat feet from him. He spotted Mike edging closer to him on the bench.

“You were known as a man to hire if there was an assassination someone wanted.”

“Yes.”

“Walk me through how you became involved in the plan to assassinate Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev.”

“I was asked if I would take a job targeting the Russian president. It would be a long operation, and would be challenging. Much coordination necessary.”

“Did you accept?”

“Da. Yes. I do not like President Vasiliev.”

“You agreed to take a job to assassinate the president of Russia.”

“Da. Yes.”

“You understood that this was going to be an ongoing operation, with further information coming from the individual who hired you?”

“Yes.”

“Who were you contacted by?”

“He did not say his name on the phone.”

“How were you able to coordinate operations with someone you did not know by name?”

“I was given information on how I would be contacted.”

“And that was?”

“I would receive text messages, phone calls from different cell phone numbers, to avoid spies and eavesdropping. If text was authentic, it would contain the code six-two-one after the message. If we were to speak on the phone, I would receive text before with same code.”

“How much of your actions were guided by this voice on the phone?”

“Mmm, nearly everything.”

“He instructed you on how to get the United States, and where to go once you got here?”

“Yes.”

“He provided you with the funds to establish yourself here in DC?”

“Yes.”

“He provided you with a safehouse where you could practice with your rifle, to keep your skills honed?”

“Yes.”

“He provided details on the Russian president’s travel schedule, including when he would be meeting at the U.S. Capitol, through dead drops, phone calls, and text messages?”

“Yes.”

“What is it that you did in this conspiracy?”

“I pull the trigger.”

Silence.

“If you were never told the identity of the man who hired you, how did you come to know his identity?”

“I recognized voice. Vadim Kryukov is very famous dissident in Russia. His hatred for Russian regime, and Russian president—Putin before, Vasiliev now—is well known. I suspected it was him. I looked up videos online. Many, many speeches he has made, in Russia, and here. It was him. It was obvious.”

“And, did we ask you to listen to voice samples and identify the one that matched the voice you heard on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the identity of the voice you said matched the voice on the phone?”

Desheriyev pointed to Kryukov. “I know his voice. Again, I know it immediately.”

Ballard nodded. He turned back to the prosecution table and came back with a blown-up photo on a poster board. “Entering into evidence Exhibit fifty-three. Photo of the cocaine baggie found in Mr. Desheriyev’s apartment.”

Tom nodded. “So entered.” Ballard passed the oversized photo to the bailiff, who handed it to the jury.

“Mr. Desheriyev, do you recognize the item in the picture?”

“Yes. Is empty cocaine bag from dead drop.”

“Did you ask for the cocaine?”

“No. I complained. I was very frustrated with how long operation is taking. I was unhappy being here. I do not like America. I wanted to leave. He said he give me something that make me feel better. That I should go to dead drop at the Union Station. The lockers by train platform. Something would be waiting for me.”

“And you went there, and picked up the cocaine?”

“Yes.”

“What else was in the locker?”

“Maps of U.S. Capitol. Schedule for Russian president at the Capitol. Road closures. A march permit, showing where the march was allowed to and not go, based on the president’s movement.”

“A march permit. The same march that Mr. Kryukov was seen at, and was demonstrating at on the National Mall on the day of the shooting?”

“It was a pidor thing. Gay thing. Lots of rainbows.”

The courtroom murmured, scowls and whispers and glares all mixing together. Tom’s heart clenched, and his breath shorted out. His lips moved, soundlessly, before he found his voice and called the court back to order. A part of his soul felt singed, though. Casual indifference to something so meaningful, so deeply fundamental to Tom’s identity. He felt like his entire existence had been swatted like a fly, an irritation.

“That would be the same march. Pride in DC, in June.” Ballard’s voice was cold. He headed back to the prosecution table and grabbed another evidence board. “Entering into evidence exhibit fifty-four through fifty-six. A cell phone, cellular phone records, and photos.”

“So entered.” Tom caught Mike’s gaze, and spared a tiny, hidden smile.

Ballard kept going. “Mr. Desheriyev, can you identify the cell phone pictured here?”

“Is my own.”

“And you communicated with Mr. Kryukov on this phone?”

“Yes.”

“He would text and phone you from multiple different numbers, each authenticated with the code six-two-one?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a common practice in your line of work? Using burner cell phones, constantly rotating the numbers being used, authentication codes to verify the messages?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think this was unusual?”

“No.”

“Did you get a message from Mr. Kryukov on the Thursday morning before the shooting?”

“Da. Yes. It contained information on the march and Vasiliev’s schedule on that day. It also had final instructions.”

Ballard reached for yet another photo board. “Entering into evidence exhibits fifty-five and fifty-six. Transcript of text message sent from Mr. Kryukov’s phone to Mr. Desheriyev’s phone.”

“So entered.”

“What were those instructions that you received in this text message?”

The jury listened to Desheriyev as they each received a copy of the transcript, the exact message sent that Thursday morning. “It said to be in position, ready to shoot the president when he walked down Capitol steps the afternoon of the march. I was to shoot him before he got into his motorcade. To shoot him in the chest.”

Renner rocketed forward, scribbling on his legal pad. Kryukov glared into space, scowling. He refused to look at Desheriyev.

“Was there anything else discussed?”

“He wanted to know where I shoot from. Where my sniper’s nest was. I told him.”

“Did you recognize the number that the text was sent from?”

“I did not. It was new one.”

“You did not know that was the defendant’s personal cell phone number?”

“No.”

“But it had the verification code, six-two-one?”

“Yes.”

“So you knew it was from your handler, Mr. Kryukov?”

“Yes.”

“Will you walk us through what happened on the day of the shooting, Mr. Desheriyev?”

The courtroom went deathly silent, still as a tomb. Tom watched motes of dust dance beneath the fluorescent lights. Most people held their breath. Reporters leaned forward. The jury watched with the sick fascination of watching a car crash before their eyes, a blooming horror show simply too terrible to turn away from. Even Tom breathed fast, quiet, quick pants through his parted lips. His memories pushed against the back of his eyes, clamoring for attention. His heart raced. His palms went slick.

Swallowing, he forced himself to listen to Desheriyev and locked down his mind.

Mike shuffled closer. Tom could see him out of the corner of his eye, feel the bubble of his presence pressing on him. Thank God. He sent a silent thanks, wishing he could turn and grasp Mike’s hand, tug him close. He’d been strong for twenty-five years. He was strong still, would be strong through this and everything else.

But he didn’t have to be alone, not anymore.

It killed him that he had to pretend to be.

Desheriyev seemed to grow, becoming more than the DC Sniper, a multi-national murderer, a professional killer for hire, as casually arrogant as he was violent. A man entirely without a conscience, plainly reciting the horrors of what he’d done like he was relaying a day spent with friends. Almost relaxed, he described each step of his murderous terrorist act. Behind Ballard, Agent Payne and others from the Secret Service and FBI watched from the gallery, their eyes ablaze, fury pouring from their rigid bodies and their stern, purposefully-blank expressions. Nothing could erase the wrath, the anguish, from their gazes.

“I set up my sniper’s nest in the cupola on the tower of the building at Pennsylvania Avenue and Sixth Street. I arrived early, before the morning traffic, before the march, before the rainbows. I watch everything. The crowds form. The traffic. The people gather. I could see the west end of the Mall and the Capitol steps.

“I waited for the Russian president to arrive. I saw him park and go up the steps and into the Capitol. I saw the march come down the grass and head for the Capitol.”

“Why did you not shoot President Vasiliev when he arrived?”

“Instructions said to shoot when he left.” Ballard motioned for Desheriyev to continue. “I watched him come down the steps. I had to calibrate my shot. Test my range. I fired first at the march. Took out their puppet President Vasiliev.” Desheriyev grinned. “Then I moved back to the steps. I breathed out, and brought the trigger back. Straight back. No hesitation. I fired. Fired again. And again. I got him in the upper chest with the first shot, but I wanted to hit him again. Vasiliev was surrounded by then by the Secret Service. I had to shoot them to get to him.” He shrugged.

Muted gasps of horror whispered through the courtroom. Tom clenched his hands together. Desheriyev was a monster. There was a glint in his eyes as he spoke, retelling his actions, his murders. He was getting off on the spectacle. All attention on him, and him able to retell the horrors of that morning. Nausea tumbled in Tom’s belly.

“A Dragunov fired in a city sounds like a cannon. I fired my shots within six seconds. That is the time in which a person freezes. They do not know what to do for six seconds. I broke down my rifle, made my escape.”

“There was a problem with your escape, wasn’t there?” Ballard’s voice was hard.

“Yes,” Desheriyev growled. “My exit plan was cut off. I was supposed to drop down and cross the roof, go down over the fire escape, and disappear into crowds on Indiana Plaza. Then into the Metro station. I had rehearsed. I knew how to escape perfectly. But that day, the doors were locked. The fire escape was blocked. I was trapped.”

“Why did this occur? Do you have any idea how it happened?

“I was set up,” Desheriyev growled again. His voice dropped, growing harder, his accent thicker. Anger colored his vowels, crashed on the harshness of his consonants. “The only person who knew where I was that day was him.” He pointed at Kryukov. “Mu’dak! He set me up to take the fall.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He did not think I would turn on him.”

“But you did. You’re helping the government prosecute him.”

Desheriyev snorted. He looked away.

“Aren’t you, Mr. Desheriyev?”

“Da. Yes. In exchange for a lot.”

Ballard quickly changed topics, stepping away from the statuesque pose he’d been frozen in through most of Desheriyev’s testimony. “Mr. Desheriyev, do you have any idea what the verification code meant? Six-two-one?”

“Nyet. No. It was chosen by Kryukov. I do not care.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that the code six-two-one is the number of the law passed in Russia that deals with LGBT propaganda? The so-called ‘anti-LGBT propaganda’ law?”

Desheriyev shrugged. “He is well-known pidor. It make sense his vendetta against Vasiliev would be tied to that.”

“Pidor?”

“Homosexual.”

Ballard nodded once to Desheriyev, and then to the jury. “Pass the witness.”

Renner rose, taking time to button his suit jacket. He appraised Desheriyev, who stared back calmly, serenely.

“Mr. Desheriyev, how many murders have you committed?”

Ballard was on his feet immediately. “Objection! That is inflammatory and clearly designed to prejudice my witness in the eyes of the jury.”

“I’m exploring the character of the witness, Your Honor. Mr. Desheriyev’s character is directly related to the veracity of his testimony. How trustworthy an individual is this man?”

“The witness is not on trial!”

“No, because he has already pled guilty to these murders.”

“Counselors.” Tom held up his hand, a silent call for calm. “Mr. Renner, your approach is more prejudicial and inflammatory than probative. Find another way to pursue your line of questioning.”

Renner wasn’t happy, but he nodded. Ballard sat back down, his scowl a permanent fixture. He still refused to acknowledge Tom.

“Mr. Desheriyev,” Renner tried again. “You have pled guilty to the shootings at the Capitol?”

“Yes.”

“And these are not the first murders you have committed?”

“Objection.” Ballard was on his feet again. “The witness’s background was established in his testimony.”

“Counselor, move it along.” Tom let steel into his voice, a hardening of the usual calm he liked to project from the bench.

“There are multiple arrest warrants for you, Mr. Desheriyev, in multiple countries, correct?”

“Da. There are now.” Desheriyev seemed proud. “No one know who I was before this. I was ghost.”

His rifle ballistics had matched a dozen unsolved murders across Europe. As soon as the FBI identified him as the owner of the rifle, Interpol came forward with a flood of warrants and requests for extradition following his trial.

“And these warrants are for murders you are suspected of carrying out?”

Ballard gritted his teeth, but stayed seated.

“Yes.” Again, Desheriyev seemed proud. He smiled.

“Is it fair to say that you lived one step ahead of the law? Covering your tracks? Hiding?”

“Yes, yes. I fool the police all the time.”

“And, you knew that if you were caught, the gig would be up?”

Desheriyev frowned.

“You knew if you were caught, it would all come out, right?” Renner pressed again. “I mean, how long could you run from everything?”

Ballard tensed, ready to rise. Desheriyev answered, his eyes narrowing. “I was never suppose to be caught.”

“But you were.”

“Da,” Desheriyev growled. He turned a murderous glare on Kryukov, who refused to look back at him.

“What did you think would happen to you if you were captured one day?”

Desheriyev shrugged. “Depends which country I get caught in. In Russia, torture. Probably die in prison. In Europe, I would be given private apartment and they call it a jail.” He grinned widely.

“But, Europe would also speedily extradite you to Russia, would they not?”

He glowered. “Is possible.”

“How fortunate then that you were captured here.” Renner spread his hands, smiling. “We don’t like to extradite to Russia, for exactly those reasons, unless someone isn’t being very helpful or cooperative. We don’t believe in torturing people. But, we do have the death penalty.” He stared at Desheriyev. “You seem like a guy who likes to survive. Did you cooperate with the prosecution in order to avoid both the death penalty and the possibility of extradition to Russia?”

Desheriyev, for the first time, shifted uncomfortably. He glanced to Ballard, as if hoping for escape via an objection. None came. “Da,” he growled.

“And your deal, like all deals, was contingent on providing the state with information to further their case, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“So you were powerfully motivated to provide information that the prosecution could use to arrest another individual and charge them with this crime?”

“Da. Yes.”

Ballard tensed again. Tom watched his jaw clench, his temple throb.

“Motivated enough to lie?”

“Objection!” Ballard, jumping up. “This question is abusive in its insinuations.”

“‘Your Honor’.” Tom stared hard at Ballard. “You seem to be forgetting something, counselor. More than once.”

Ballard just stared. Tom arched his eyebrows. The courtroom shifted, whispers passing from lips to ears.

“Your Honor,” Renner said smoothly. “I am probing the witness’s veracity and honesty which gets to the heart of the case against my client. Mr. Desheriyev’s cooperation with the prosecution is the basis of the prosecution’s case. The court has an obligation to uncover whether Mr. Desheriyev told the truth.”

“His statements were backed up by the evidence, which Special Agent Barnes has already testified to.” Ballard again left off the honorific, refusing to address Tom directly. Tom saw several of the jurors’ eyebrows slowly rise. “The witness’s veracity, in this instance, has been established.”

Again, fair points raised by both Ballard and Renner. Tom wanted to overrule Ballard’s objection because of his attitude, his seething rage that was so poorly covered. His obvious ire at Tom that was infecting the courtroom, and had already poisoned the prosecution.

Bulat Desheriyev, by all measures, was a terrible human being. A murderer. Possibly a liar?

The evidence had backed up his testimony.

“I’m overruling the objection.” Ballard’s glare spat daggers toward the bench. “I believe the evidence stands on its own merits,” he finished. “Truth is found in evidence, counselors. Not razor-sharp repartee.”

Several of the jurors nodded. Renner pretended to look contrite. He turned back to Desheriyev. “Please. Were you motivated enough to make a deal with the government that you may have lied about the involvement of my client?”

Desheriyev shrugged. “There is nothing to lie about. He hired me. He also sabotage my escape plan. Why would I not turn on him?”

“Allegedly.” Renner smiled indulgently. “My client, unlike yourself, has not pled guilty. He is still presumed innocent.”

Desheriyev’s snort and eyeroll clearly said what he thought of that.

“Mr. Desheriyev.” Tom’s voice hardened. “You will conduct yourself with more decorum than that.”

Desheriyev, seemingly following Ballard’s lead, did not respond to him. No ‘Yes, Your Honor’ from him. Just a slight straightening, and a tiny grin.

“Let’s switch tracks.” Renner paced away, heading for the jury box, as if he were putting a puzzle together in his mind. “You never met Vadim Kryukov face-to-face, did you?”

“No.”

“In fact, you still have never met him face-to-face. This is the closest you have ever been to Vadim Kryukov, is that right?” He gestured between the two men, one in the witness stand, the other wounded and bruised at the defense table.

“Da. It is.”

“The bag of cocaine given to you at the dead drop. Did you actually see Kryukov put it in the dead drop?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone put anything in the dead drop?”

“No.”

“Is it possible that the cocaine was bought by some other person and added to the materials placed in the dead drop?”

Desheriyev shrugged. “That would not make sense.”

“I didn’t ask if it made sense. I just asked if it was possible.”

Scowling, Desheriyev’s lip curled. “Maybe. Could be.”

“Someone, perhaps, who wanted to frame Vadim Kryukov?”

“Objection! This is wildly speculative.”

Tom ground his molars together. Behind him, he heard Mike hiss, a frustrated grunt of air between his clenched teeth. Ballard was driving his disrespect home. It would be all over the media, the internet, running on every headline of the trial. A fracture in the justice system, a U.S. Attorney and a judge squaring off in the biggest case of the modern era.

“Withdrawn.” Renner sent Tom a small smile, as if apologizing. For his own flashy approach to the trial, or Ballard’s conduct, he couldn’t tell.

Renner squared himself in front of Desheriyev, pausing. “Mr. Desheriyev,” he said slowly. “Do you have any knowledge of any persons who may be responsible for this crime, other than my client?”

Tom saw panic spark in Ballard’s eyes. Ballard couldn’t object, not yet. The question was carefully, perfectly worded.

Desheriyev nodded, walking into Renner’s trap. “The CIA.”

“Objection!” Ballard, on his feet again. “This is absolute hearsay and speculation. The witness has no direct knowledge of any participants other than the defendant!”

“I believe that was the question that I asked.” Renner played dumbfounded well, Tom thought. “Are you answering for your witness, counselor? Would you like to take the stand?”

Ballard turned his attention to Tom. Your Honor. This is the time to say it. Your Honor. “There is no basis in evidence for any conspirators in this case beyond Vadim Kryukov. There is no evidence, none at all, to support the defense’s wild conspiracy theory.”

“There’s no evidence because the state failed to investigate it!” Renner flung his hand toward Ballard and Barnes. “And, because any evidence the state may have had on the CIA’s involvement was conveniently destroyed and unavailable in the discovery process! The only documents are—”

“Your Honor!” Ballard finally broke, his voice rising above Renner. “This is outrageous!”

“Both of you!” Tom barked, his voice bouncing off the courtroom walls, a deep bellow. “Counselors, approach the bench.”

Silence enveloped the courtroom as they came close. Tom heard the fast inhales and exhales of the jury, the nervousness of their fingers clenching their notepads, anxious shoes shuffling against the carpet.

“The prosecution is doing everything they can to squash legitimate evidence, Your Honor, evidence that you allowed into trial.” Renner spoke first, hissing over the maple barrier as Tom leaned in close.

“You said yourself: evidence speaks for itself. The Russian documents you allowed into this trial have no basis to support their claims. There are no supporting facts.” Ballard growled as he argued. He was back to dropping the ‘Your Honor’, again.

“I was attempting to ascertain your witness’s knowledge of any involvement when you trampled all over my cross-examination, counselor.”

“Please.”

“That’s enough.” Tom glanced between Renner and Ballard. Two firm men, powerfully motivated to prove the other not just wrong, but catastrophically wrong. This was deeper, bloodier, than a usual courtroom battle. But of course it was. The world was at stake. “Counselor.” He fixed Renner with a hard stare. “You wish to know if the witness has any direct knowledge that could corroborate the Russian documents?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Renner slipped into his placating voice, obsequious.

Tom said nothing as he turned to Desheriyev. “Mr. Desheriyev. Do you have any direct knowledge of any CIA involvement with the defendant? By direct, I mean something you heard from the defendant directly or observed with your own eyes.”

Desheriyev scowled, but shook his head. “I know what I see on the news.”

“But no direct knowledge from the defendant?”

He shook his head again.

“I need a verbal answer, Mr. Desheriyev.”

“Nyet!”

Tom turned back to both attorneys, still huddled by the bench. “Counselor, I trust this satisfies your curiosity?”

Renner looked like he’d taken a shot of vinegar. “Your Honor, if I could—”

“Your question has been asked and answered, counselor. Move on to your next line of questioning.” He nodded to both Ballard and Renner, dismissing them. Ballard spun on his heel and stalked back to the prosecution table. Every federal law enforcement officer gazed at him, pride, support, brotherhood, and affection mixing together. The deputy director of the FBI leaned forward and squeezed Ballard’s shoulder as he sat back down.

Renner took a moment to gather himself before walking back to Desheriyev. “You testified that you and your handler were careful with your communications. Changing cell phones, authentication codes, and dead drops. If you were so careful with your actions, then why would Vadim Kryukov use his personal cell phone to communicate with you via text? Doesn’t that sound careless?”

“Objection.” Ballard sounded drained as he stood, and a sigh crept into his voice. “Calls for speculation. The witness can’t testify to what the defendant was thinking.”

“I’ll rephrase.” Renner shook his head, seemingly shaken from the last exchange. He straightened again as Ballard sat down. Day two, and the trial was already exhausting everyone, wearing on all of their nerves. Tom felt it too, a weariness that tugged on his sanity. He could feel a migraine building behind his eyes.

“Is it a breach in your operations security to have your handler text you from his personal cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“And this single text on the Thursday before the shooting is the one time that such a direct connection was made between you and Vadim Kryukov?”

“Yes.”

“Which means that this is the one text that can tie Vadim Kryukov to you, and forms one piece of the prosecution’s very slim evidence against my client. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

Desheriyev blinked. “I cannot know what that man was thinking.” He practically parroted Ballard’s words, and a few chuckles rose in the gallery. Even Ballard cracked a tiny, tiny smile.

“Are you absolutely certain that my client sent that text message?”

“Who else would send it? It had code. It talked about the plan.”

“A perfect text, then, to frame someone. I’ll ask again: are you certain my client sent that text message to you?”

“Da! Yes! It came from him!”

“You watched him type it? Watched him send it?”

“No—”

“Then how are you certain?”

Ballard stiffened again.

“It had same code,” Desheriyev spat. “It had to be him.”

“And never, in the history of communications, has anyone ever impersonated another, or cracked a code, or sent a message that claimed to be from one person when it was in fact from another.”

“Objection! The defense is attacking the witness, not asking questions.”

“Withdrawn.” Renner put his hands in his pockets, suddenly casual, as if just thinking out loud. He squinted, looking up. “Doesn’t it seem very, very strange, Mr. Desheriyev, that my client would send you a text message from his own phone, especially when you testified that you believe he was planning on burning you and making you take the fall for this crime? Doesn’t that seem… nonsensical?”

“Objection! This was asked a minute ago and answered. The witness can’t know what was going through the defendant’s mind.”

Renner shook his head. “Withdrawn.” He buttoned his coat, side-eyeing the jury. Tom saw several peering at him, other scribbling notes, drawing diagrams and charts trying to piece it all together. One juror had a timeline going and wore a deep frown. Renner smiled. “Pass the witness, Your Honor.”

Ballard stepped forward. “How do you know that the cocaine given to you in the dead drop was from Mr. Kryukov?”

“Because he said he would give to me.”

“Along with materials related to the shooting?”

“Yes. It would all come together.”

“And, again, how did you know that you were speaking to Vadim Kryukov?”

“I knew his voice. It was him. He is famous in Russian dissident circles. There are many, many videos of him online, making speeches. His voice is well known.”

“Did anyone in the prosecution or investigative team mention Vadim Kryukov to you before your confession?”

“No.”

“Have you cooperated fully with the prosecution’s investigation?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you choose to cooperate with us?”

Desheriyev slid another icy glare toward Kryukov. “I not go down alone for this,” he spat. “Not when this plan was not mine. Not when I was set up. I do not give a shit about President Vasiliev, but I never plan to kill him. Until he called me.” Desheriyev jerked his thumb toward Kryukov. “And now, I rot in prison. But I will not go there alone.”

Now the jury’s gaze slid to Kryukov, appraising the silent man sitting statuesque at the defense table. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted, not once. To the jury, he was an object, a phantom, a mask to throw their fears and suspicions upon. As distasteful as Desheriyev was as a human being, he was more real to them than the defendant. Tom watched the wheels turn in the jurors’ minds.

As Tom turned, he caught Ballard’s gaze, first also appraising the jury, and then turning to appraise him.

It wasn’t a friendly look, or a professional stare. It was the gaze of a prosecutor dead-set on turning a man inside out, on ripping his character from one end of the law to the other, and hanging his tattered soul from the beams of the courthouse.

It was a look that said you’re next.

Chapter 35

Tom poured another glass of wine as he sat on the balcony off his hotel suite. He squinted over the city, as if that would help the pounding in his head. Sighing, he slouched back in the deck chair. His shirt was undone, tie gone. His undershirt was untucked from his suit pants, and his shoes were in a pile by the foot of his bed. Etta Mae snored beneath his feet. Once a day, a marshal picked her up and took her to a park, walking her around for at least an hour. She was bone-tired every evening when he got back.

He heard his suite door click open, and then slowly close. Behind him, the sliding glass door was open, curtains twitching in the breeze. “I’m out here.”

Footsteps. He closed his eyes. A hand landed on his head, ruffled his hair. He tried to smile.

“Hey.” Mike’s soft voice floated past his ear, right before Mike dropped a kiss to his cheek.

Dangerous. Marshals in the rooms on either side could possibly see them. But… Tom couldn’t work up the anxiety over it.

Months ago, he’d have frozen in fear if anyone knew that the thing he wanted most in the world was Mike’s kiss on his cheek, and Mike’s hand held in his own. Now, all he wanted was the world to shut up and go away, and let him and Mike sit together and enjoy the evening. Maybe let the evening turn into something a lot better than the day had been. He couldn’t even summon the phantom of his old professor anymore. That cackling skeleton that had haunted him for decades had seemingly turned to dust, while he wasn’t even looking.

Was this how acceptance happened? He just gave up caring about other people’s reactions, their raised eyebrows and sidelong stares? He stopped fussing about who thought what, and why? Was self-acceptance more about giving up everyone else’s attitudes and reactions, instead of worrying about his own?

He’d lived with the blinding terror of coming out for twenty-five years, of having to endure the soul-stripping agony of exposing his wants, his desires, his needs to a world that assumed he was wrong, different, broken. But why did he have to correct anyone’s assumptions? People had assumed “straight” for decades, and they were wrong. There was no statute of limitations on his identity, no expiration date on his desires.

What would it be like to come out and no longer care about everyone else? Society was still trapped in his mind like a snow globe of 1991. The haters and the baseball bats.

Once, he hadn’t cared about the world. He wanted to fight it, live his life, turn his very existence into a form of protest. Live with Peter, loving him in that eternally optimistic way young men viewed the world. They were going to move to New York together, and Tom was going to be an attorney while Peter kept chasing his dreams. What would his life have been like if his soul hadn’t been shattered?

Dreams crumbled in the face of hatred. His professor had torpedoed his life with Peter in a few sentences. He realized that day, that the world, and how the world viewed him, mattered.

Had the world changed, or had he? Was the soul of a forty-six-year-old man different than that of a twenty-one-year-old man? Had he wanted too much too soon, or should he have had everything he wanted from that very first summer, have been given the life where he could love Peter and pursue his dreams?

He couldn’t second-guess the winding path of his existence. Couldn’t get lost in what-might-have-been and if-only. He was here, now.

And he was, for the most part, happy. Not with the trial, and his career that seemed to teeter on the edge of shambles. But with Mike, and his decision. He was counting down the days until he came out of his closet completely. For the first time in a long, long, long time, the thought of standing up and saying he was gay—that he wanted the world to know that he loved a man, this man—didn’t make his skin shrivel up off his bones.

Tom grabbed Mike’s hand as Mike pulled the other deck chair close. He let their hands hang in the space between their chairs. Tom held out his glass of wine. Mike shook his head.

“I went with the team taking Kryukov back to the hospital. They were perfect gentlemen.” Mike stretched and rolled his neck. “He’s back in his hospital room.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence, fingers laced together. Mike relaxed back in his seat, closing his eyes as Tom sipped his wine. He stroked his thumb over Mike’s palm, trying to read the future in the lines and calluses of his skin. Those hands could touch him for all the rest of his days. He’d be just fine with that.

“What ever happened with your volleyball tournament? You were going to the finals.”

Mike shook his head. “Kris is gone, and the trial happened. We forfeited.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s always next season.” Mike grinned, glancing sideways to Tom. “And, I’ll have my own personal cheerleader. Right?”

“Of course.” Tom winked. “Every single game.”

Mike sighed. “Crazy day in court.”

“It’s only day two.”

“What’s going on with the U.S. Attorney? What’s Ballard’s problem?”

If he told Mike, what would Mike do? Was the real threat not from Kryukov or the protestors, but from someone much closer? What about Ballard’s threat that morning? “He’s… convinced I’m leading the world to the apocalypse, through this trial.”

“What?” Mike twisted, skepticism coloring his tone. “How?”

“By being overly conciliatory to Kryukov’s defense, I am somehow empowering the Russian narrative and conspiracy theory that the CIA was responsible for the murders, and that will allow the Russians to invade. I’m, in fact, paving the route for their tanks straight up Pennsylvania Ave, all the way to the White House.” He caught Mike’s gaze. Mike stayed quiet. “Any word from Kris?”

“Nothing.”

Tom leaned back and gulped down a mouthful of wine.

“I don’t think you’re being overly conciliatory to them.”

Tom shrugged. “I’m fighting my own doubts pretty hard. I’m second-guessing my gut reactions to rulings on testimony.”

“Who wouldn’t? Trial today was a circus maze mixed with a boxing match. I don’t ever think I’ve seen a courtroom that tense.”

“Neither have I.” Not in the mob cases he’d prosecuted, the organized crime hits, or even the other terrorism cases he’d been a part of. “Ballard is wound up tighter that I’ve ever seen. He’s going to blow.” And he’s going to try and take me out, too.

Mike squinted. “Has he said anything to you?”

It was Tom’s turn to stay quiet. Mike rolled his head toward Tom, fixing him with a hard stare.

“He… said something along the lines of he’d do anything to stop me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mike pitched forward, clasping his hands together. He breathed out slowly, carefully. “Tom…”

“It’s Dylan Ballard, Mike. I’ve worked with him for years. He’s a hothead and he’s an unmitigated asshole, but he’s not a violent guy.”

“You said yourself that you’ve never seen him like this. If he’s pushed over the edge, who knows what he’s capable of? People snap. Badly.”

“He’s definitely being pushed. This isn’t him. He’s not this bad, not normally.”

“Honestly, Tom? I really don’t care what he’s like normally. I only care that he’s a potential threat to you. He made a threatening statement. He’s disrespecting you. This isn’t appropriate.”

“But I can’t do anything about it. I can’t remove him from the prosecution, not because he’s an ass. The whole lot of U.S. Attorneys would be fired if that was the standard. I also can’t interfere with this case. I can’t.”

“I can’t let you get hurt. Or be in any kind of danger.”

Their gazes met. Tom sighed. He reached for Mike. “You’re at my side every possible moment. I believe I am safe.”

“I don’t want you alone with him anymore. What about when you’re in chambers? I haven’t been there—” He stopped short, and then cursed. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“This morning. When you and both attorneys were meeting about Kryukov’s attack. Villegas called me to the courtroom. He wanted to talk about the security plan. Go through things we’d already discussed. Ask me questions about information for your detail.”

“You think he was trying to probe for weaknesses?”

“No. Everything he asked for was in my daily reports. I think he was trying to keep me away from your chambers.” Mike’s eyebrows rose. “And Ballard. You two were alone in there.”

“For five minutes.”

“It only takes ten seconds.”

Tom stroked his thumb over the back of Mike’s hand. “What do you recommend, Inspector Lucciano?”

“I don’t want you alone in chambers with him anymore. I want to be in there. I need to be a deterrent.”

“Okay.”

Mike smiled weakly. “Okay? Just like that?”

“Yes. I trust you. Personally and professionally. I can’t say that and then undermine your advice.”

Mike blushed, and he looked down. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know you will.”

Movement in the windows, off the balcony in the room next to Tom’s. One of the marshals’ rooms. Mike dropped Tom’s hand, just before his cell phone buzzed. Mike swiped the screen on.

“It’s Villegas. He told us to turn on the TV.”

“Us?”

“Yeah.” Mike frowned.

They headed inside together, and Mike grabbed the remote. He turned the TV on to CNN.

“Breaking news now, and we have to warn you, these images may be disturbing.” The anchor’s voice droned, that half-sedate, half-adrenaline-laced tone of newscasters everywhere. “Russian state TV has released footage of the American CIA station chief admitting his involvement in the attempted assassination of President Vasiliev, and the DC Sniper terrorist attack.”

The video cut to a white room, and a man Tom recognized from the Russian documents and the news release of the kidnapping of the CIA officers. He swayed, just slightly. One eye was puffy, the skin around his eye socket too light. As if he was wearing makeup, or concealer, and it wasn’t blended right. “I financed Vadim Kryukov,” he grunted. His words were stilted, and his jaw barely moved. “The CIA—and myself—are responsible.”

The video spun, and then the image cut back to the anchor and the swirling red background of the breaking news alert. “Shocking statements from the former CIA station chief in Moscow, kidnapped and held under arrest in Russia. Questions have been raised about the veracity of his statements, and whether or not his admission was made under duress or whether he has been tortured.” Two inset boxes appeared, and the anchor introduced his special guests, an expert on Russian interrogations from some indecipherable think tank, and a legal analyst for the network. “Tell me. Do you trust this video?”

The Russian expert, a rumpled, middle-aged man who looked like a college professor, spoke first. “It’s hard to say. I can see signs that point to possible use of force, or what we would call ‘enhanced interrogations’. It seems like his jaw might be wired shut. Or, is he just struggling with a very public admission of guilt, an admission that will change the balance of international power in the world? If this is true, the United States is unquestionably guilty of a major international crime.”

“Do you think it is true?”

“Has the CIA assassinated, or facilitated the assassination of, leaders of foreign nations that the United States has opposed? Yes. Could it have happened again? It’s very possible. Very, very possible.”

“One thing is certain. If this was a CIA plan, their cover story has completely fallen apart.”

“Yes. It would have been something akin to a false flag operation, where they put in place a terrorist act that was to be blamed on a third party. Vadim Kryukov and Bulat Desheriyev, in this case, look like the unwitting patsies of the CIA. But, something happened. Someone got sloppy. The Russians found out the details. And now…” He trailed off.

“Fascinating developments, and especially in light of the dramatic testimony heard today in the DC Sniper trial. Judge Brewer seemed to struggle to keep the trial on track, with the U.S. Attorney and the attorney for the defense almost coming to blows at times. Judge Brewer, over the past month, has been accused of buying into the Russian narrative of events and has faced significant public pressure.” A picture of Tom flashed on screen, his photo taken the day he joined the court. “If today’s developments prove to be true, does that spell vindication for Judge Brewer?”

“In a way.” The legal analyst, a young woman in a crisp white suit, soured. “Judge Brewer’s actions have been deeply suspect, and sources within the U.S. Attorney’s Office tell me they are readying writs of complaint for the higher courts and are looking into addressing Judge Brewer’s conduct in this trial—”

“What conduct? What conduct are they discussing?”

“His clear bias toward the defense’s wild conspiracy theories—”

“But are they conspiracy theories, if this video proves to be true?”

A pause, and the legal analyst gave a half shrug, half flick of her hair. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Indeed we will. We’ll keep a close eye on this story as it continues to unfold.”

Tom turned to Mike, who wrapped him up in both arms and pulled him close, holding him tight as Tom buried his face in the center of Mike’s chest.