Stars & Stripes

A rustle, and then Ty was the one screaming. Zane remembered the last time he’d heard that sound coming from Ty.



“It can’t be a mouse in the house with Smith and Wesson on duty,” he said, although he knew Ty wasn’t listening.



He dismissed the idea that Ty was at home after being treated to several people screaming, cursing, and banging. Some voices were overcome with laughter, some screaming bloody murder.



“Who the hell brings a ferret into a bar?” Ty shouted, and someone shouted back that all the shouting was scaring the ferret.



Zane frowned as he listened to the chaotic scene for another minute before most of the activity ceased.



When Ty returned to the phone, he was out of breath and sounding quite contrite. “This is Agent Grady.”



“Hey, doll,” Zane said, lips curving into a smile just at hearing Ty’s voice.



“Zane? Thank God. I knew I was going to get written up for that.”



Zane laughed. “Having a rough night?”



“I’ve had worse.”



“A ferret, huh? Well, I was close.”



“Not as close as I was. How’s your dad?”



Zane sighed. “He’s all right. They’ve got him in a regular room now. Talking about sending him home in a few days.”



“That’s good. How are you?”



Zane considered how to answer that, though the pause told more of the truth than any words he could speak. “More tired than I should be.”



“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do,” Ty said in the whispered, intimate tone Zane had been so desperate to hear.



“Got a few minutes to talk to me?”



“Yeah, give me one second.” Ty said good-bye to whoever else had been involved in the business with the ferret, and a moment later Zane could hear traffic and a breeze brushing over the speaker of Ty’s phone. He’d obviously been at a bar, been assaulted by a ferret, and was now walking home. It was a typical night for Ty. “I’m all yours.”



Zane hummed. “That’s nice to hear.” He rubbed one hand over his face. “Listen, the situation down here appears to be a little more . . . complex than I first thought.”



“How so?”



“They’re saying that Dad getting shot was a byproduct of trespassers, but I’m not buying it. Something feels . . . weird.”



“Like, ‘our job’ weird, or ‘you’re in Texas’ weird?”



“Both?”



“Tell me.”



“Dad says he was out riding on the far end of the property and came across trespassers near the old pump house. They took a few potshots and got lucky as they drove off.”



“Jesus.”



“The thing is, there’s nothing near that old pump house. No reason for anyone to be there. I can’t figure it out.”



“So, what, you’re calling in Jim Bowie and Sam Houston to clear shit up?”



Zane laughed despite the gravity of the situation. “I’m going to make some calls, yes, but I spoke with the sheriff this afternoon. He told me this isn’t the first time it’s happened. Dad’s reported it before.”



“Kind of far from the border for the usual stuff, aren’t you?”



“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t make it this far. Could be drugs, could be sex trade, could be horses.”



“If the next option is sex with horses, I need you to stop right there.”



“We’re not in that part of Texas.”



“I bet you look hot in the hat though.”



“Stop trying to distract me!”



“I’m sorry,” Ty said, though he didn’t sound sincere.



“As I was saying . . . Jesus, Ty, what was I saying?”



“You’re not sleeping, are you?”



“No.”



“You want to stay and look into it, don’t you?”



“Yeah,” Zane said with a sigh of relief. He should have known Ty would understand. “So that means I might be here a little while longer than I’d planned.”



Ty didn’t say anything to that, but the silence spoke volumes about his disappointment. Zane could imagine his broad shoulders slumping as he walked. He wanted to reach through the phone and hug his partner, who was, for all intents and purposes, a large teddy bear with a gun.



“Do you need anything from my end?” Ty finally asked.



Zane could think of plenty, first and foremost being Ty himself. He didn’t say that, though, because he knew Ty couldn’t take time off work for Zane’s personal problems. “No, I think I’ve got it covered. I thought I might call and get a sanity check in the evenings.”



“Call whenever you want. Mostly I’ve been in the office, trying to inflict a paper cut on myself serious enough to require medical leave.”



Zane grinned. “Mac would just tell you to suck it up.”



“Hence the many failed attempts at tripping on the rug at the entryway. The one time I managed it, I tucked and rolled and popped back up before I could think twice about it.”



Zane laughed—the first real laugh he’d managed in days. It was hard to tell if Ty was serious or just playing with him, and that was one of the things Zane loved so much about him. Ty really was the type of guy who would ninja roll through the lobby of a government building and just keep walking as if nothing had happened.



A door opened and closed, and Zane heard rustling as Ty took off his jacket and moved around the house. Ty whispered to Smith and Wesson. It was a tender side to his lover no one else had seen, and it all culminated in the way he treated those damn cats.



For a brief moment, Zane was almost sick with the need to wrap Ty up in a hug.



“Are you really okay, Zane?”



“For now,” Zane said, voice hoarse. He shifted to look out the window. There were no lights. Nothing on the skyline but the occasional hill or scrub tree. And stars as far as he could see, stretching on into the night. “I wish you could see this, Ty.”



Ty was silent. Zane was familiar with that silence; he heard it almost every time he said something sincere to his lover and Ty tried to decide if he should respond with a joke or with something more genuine. Zane never knew what kind of response he would get, and that was half the fun of it.



“I’m sure I’ll see it one day,” Ty said softly.



Zane closed his eyes. He almost wished Ty had made a joke of it this time. He missed him. There was no point in lingering over it, so he moved on.



“The real problems come when Mother shows up.”



“Why?”



“She’s barely been to the hospital.”



“Did your folks split up?”



“If they have, no one’s told me. They’re still both living in the same house, but it’s so big they wouldn’t cross paths if they didn’t want to.” Zane had always wondered how his dad lived with his mother every day, but to get through forty-five years of marriage, he obviously loved her on some level. “When she shows up, all she can do is tell me that none of this would have happened if I’d been here like a good son.”



“You know that’s bullshit, right?”



“Yeah, but . . . she’s my mom.” Zane dragged his hand through his damp hair. “You’d think she’d just be glad to see me, but no.”



“I’m sorry, Zane. I’m not really sure how to help. Other than to tell you to quit your bitching and go buy me a Stetson.”



Zane chuckled at Ty’s attempt to distract him from his troubles. As usual, it was working. “I don’t know. A Stetson’s a real personal thing to a man. You don’t just go around handing them out.” He shook his head and spoke more quietly. “I’m not sure there’s helping to be done. Just wish you were here.”



Ty was silent for a long while—another of those silences where he tried to decide which path to take—the sound of his breathing steady and comforting. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, you want me to tell you about my night? Any story that starts out with ‘There was this dude with a ferret in his beard’ is bound to make you feel better, right?”



“Tell me,” Zane said, smiling and relaxing back as Ty started talking. He was glad to listen to his lover ramble on in a voice as smooth as honey instead of dwelling over the trouble he was sure to find tomorrow when he started digging.



“Suspect is on foot, agents in pursuit,” the dispatcher said through Ty’s earpiece. “Suspect is armed and dangerous.”



Ty cut across three lanes of traffic, climbing over a Mini Cooper and then leaping over the head of a cyclist as he dove to grab for the suspect. He made contact but slid right off the man and landed hard, rolling across the sidewalk and slamming into the base of a hotdog cart. The contents tumbled and splattered all over him before he could scramble back to his feet.



He cursed and wiped relish off his arm as he sat up. He supposed he was fortunate the boiling water hadn’t fallen on him, but that stroke of luck didn’t make up for the fact that this was ruining what had been a nice Sunday afternoon with friends.



He could sprint and he could cover long distances, and he could fucking parkour up the side of a wall, but he wasn’t built for dashing across entire cities after suspects who were part gazelle and greased up like that slimy green thing from Ghostbusters.



“I lost him,” Alston panted over the earpiece. “He’s like a cyborg or something.”



Ty looked around as he tried to catch his breath. He and his teammates had been enjoying lunch at a sidewalk café after closing a difficult week, debating if they should order a bottle of wine or just walk a few blocks over to the nearest bar and start Sunday off early like good little heathens. And then a man had paraded up to them in a trench coat and whipped it open to reveal nothing underneath but a huge, unfortunate tiger tattoo on his chest. His nipples formed the tiger’s eyes, his navel acted as the nose, and Ty hadn’t allowed himself to examine it any further before he’d turned his head and spit his water all over Alston. Lassiter had jumped to his feet and knocked Perrimore’s bowl of hot pasta into his lap. And Clancy had almost fallen out of her chair laughing. She’d thought it funny until the man had grabbed her, kissed her, and then run off with her sidearm.



“Maybe not having any clothes on makes him aerodynamic,” Lassiter muttered, sounding just as out of breath as Alston was.



“Wouldn’t the trench slow him down?” Perrimore wheezed. The man was built like a brick shithouse: good for barreling through locked doors, but not made for long-distance.



“I’ve got his coat,” Ty said with a laugh. He was barely winded, but then, he ran every day and had for years. The hotdog cart had fared better than he had, though.



“Eyes on the suspect!” Clancy shouted, her piercing voice nearly busting Ty’s eardrum. He reached up to his Bluetooth piece and turned the volume down.



“Clancy!” Alston shouted. It was a safe bet that he’d just been outdistanced by his spitfire of a partner and was now huffing and puffing to catch up to her.



Ty jogged to the end of the street, looking both ways.



“Where the fuck are you?” Ty asked.



“I got to get a treadmill,” Perrimore said.



“I think . . . I think I’m outside Ty’s house,” Lassiter added.



“You’re not, Lassie,” Ty assured him. “You can’t run that far.”



“All these fucking houses look alike!”



“You went the wrong way, you fucktard!”



“West Lombard! Heading toward downtown,” Clancy shouted.



“We might need backup with this fucker,” Alston gasped. He was still on the move.



“If you say ‘he’s slippery,’ I’m going to knock you on your ass,” Ty grumbled.



“Someone, for the love of God, get ahead of him!” Alston was gasping for air. “I’m done. I’m done. I’m dying.”



Ty fished his badge out of his pocket and stepped into the middle of Pratt Street, flagging down a taxi. When the man stopped, Ty went to the driver’s side door and flipped his badge open. “How good are you with hairpin turns?”



They sped along the busy streets that connected the Inner Harbor with the downtown financial district, narrowly missing parked cars, pedestrians, and further hotdog vendors. Ty caught a glimpse of Clancy, her red hair and even stride unmistakable as she sprinted along the sidewalk. Just ahead of her was the streaking man with the tiger tattoo, Clancy’s gun clenched in his hand, a grin in place. He had no idea what sort of pain would rain down on him when she caught him.



She wasn’t gaining on him, but she wasn’t losing ground either. She would catch him, eventually. In heels.



Ty tried to raise her on the conference call they had initiated, tapping his Bluetooth headset, but his phone had either died or ended the call on its own.



“Get ahead of Naked Guy,” Ty told the driver as he gripped the door handle.



The taxi took a turn that almost put it up on two wheels, and it came to a screeching, jarring halt just as the streaker darted across the street. He dodged the taxi, leaping up onto the hood to try to slide across it. No doubt the guy had seen it in a movie somewhere, because no one in their right mind would try that otherwise. He hit the hood of the taxi, and the driver let out a horrified scream.



“Ball prints on my hood!” the man cried as he gripped his steering wheel and shook it.



Bare skin squealed against the windshield. The man didn’t even make it halfway across the car before his own nakedness stopped him dead, and he lay splayed against the hood and windshield like a squashed bug. A big, sweaty, squashed, naked bug.