by Tal Bauer
At the turnoff to Dulles, Jack pulled back and reached into his coat. “I brought someone to drive back with me.” He pulled out the teddy bear.
Ethan poked the bear’s curled earpiece. “Watch over him, okay?” He spoke to the bear. “He’s special. And you have a very special duty, protecting him while I’m gone.”
Jack smiled, and then the SUV slowed down. Travelers milled outside the terminal, people lugging suitcases and hugging their loved ones goodbye. Reporters mingled at the entrance, photographers and cameramen who waited all day on Sundays just to be the first there, the one with the scoop, when Ethan arrived.
They perked up at the blacked-out SUV rolling to the curb.
The partition dropped. Scott looked back, grimacing. “I’ve got to stay with the president, Ethan. We’ve got chaser cars, but we’re running a low profile. So say your goodbyes and slip out quick.”
Ethan nodded. Jack’s hand touched his cheek.
He could say “I love you” a thousand times to Jack and it would never be enough. Not in a lifetime, and not in the next minute. He saw the same frustration in Jack’s eyes, the same pain, and instead of speaking, they pressed their foreheads together. “I’ll see you soon, love,” Jack breathed.
Ethan couldn’t speak. He nodded and kissed Jack’s cheeks, his closed eyelids, and then his lips, lingering until the sob building in his chest threatened to burst free. Grabbing his duffel, Ethan shoved open the car door and jumped out, shutting it behind him before anyone could see inside.
One step and then another. Photographers surrounded him. Hounded him. Cameras flashed and microphones shoved in his face. Questions shouted over each other, a racket of noise that almost had him disoriented.
“Ethan!”
Through it all, he heard his name perfectly, shouted from the one voice he wanted to hear more than any other. Whipping around, he spotted Jack pushing out of the SUV, and Scott, wide-eyed and pissed, tearing from the passenger side, trying to catch up. Cars crammed around Jack’s SUV emptied, undercover agents running to catch and surround Jack. None of that mattered.
Jack was running toward him.
Ethan dropped his duffel and met Jack halfway, his arms wrapping Jack up, enveloping him as Jack’s hands rose and cradled his face. A stuttered breath, their eyes meeting, and then they kissed, pressed as close together as two people could be. The kiss went down to his soul, and then further, something cosmic in the moment, something that reset orbits and stole the power of the sun.
Once, Ethan had seen a movie that spoke about four great kisses in the history of the world. Step aside, he thought. This is the kiss of the ages.
Jack’s fingers were warm on Ethan's cheeks. Ethan's hands wound their way around Jack, up around his shoulders until he had one buried in Jack's hair. They were still kissing, even as the cameras flashed and the media caught it all in close-up, in screaming Technicolor, and Secret Service agents shouted for the crowds to get back. Passersby whipped out their cell phones, recording the entire tableau. It was all going live to the internet, Ethan was certain.
They finally parted. Ethan was unsteady, dizzy, and he clung to Jack, trying to find his balance. Jack was no better, holding on to the lapels of Ethan’s coat, breathless and wide-eyed.
“Mr. President!” A reporter shouted. “Can you comment on the state of your relationship with Mr. Reichenbach?”
“What’s it like to be separated, Mr. President? Having to say goodbye?”
Jack smiled. “I love you, Ethan,” he said, ignoring the reporters held back by the scowling Secret Service agents surrounding them both.
“Hope so, after that.” Ethan grinned as Jack laughed, throwing his head back. He kissed Jack’s chin, and then Jack met his gaze again. “I love you, Jack.”
“See you soon.” Jack stepped back, a single step, and Scott and the others closed around him, whisking him away from Ethan and back to the SUV, surrounding him in their bubble of dark suits and fierce glares. Ethan watched them go, listened to the car doors slam, the spin of tires against slush and cold concrete as Scott peeled away from the curb.
The media was still there, pressing in on him again, but Ethan grabbed his duffel and pushed through, the feel of Jack’s lips still ghosting over his.
17
Jack plucked at his bear during the car ride back, trying to keep it together in front of Scott and his driver. There was a hole opening up in his chest, a dark, tangled mess of aching loss and grief. It was wrong to drive away and leave Ethan heading to Iowa. Wrong for them to be apart, when being together as they had been was so perfect.
Three years until he was out of office had once seemed like a short blip of time. It stretched before him now, a long string of stolen weekends and not nearly enough Ethan.
The partition hissed, lowering. Scott turned in his seat, looking back at Jack. He smiled at the bear. “He made that himself, you know. Sewed on the wire down in Horsepower.”
Jack smiled, but it fractured as his fingers traced the stiff white curl from the bear’s ear to his collar and back. “It’s perfect.” The watch Ethan had also given him pressed against his skin, almost too warm, like the engraved words were a promise against his soul.
“It sucks,” Scott grunted. “Him being transferred. Having to go.”
“It was better than being fired.”
“Maybe. I dunno.” Sighing, Scott shook his head. “Would have been cleaner if he was fired. This sucks.”
He managed a sad smile as he played with the bear, waving his arms up and down. “Yeah.”
Silence.
“We all miss him, too.”
Jack finally looked up, meeting Scott’s haggard gaze. He wasn’t alone, not really. Not when he had Ethan’s friends around him and their memories to sustain him. He spun the bear, waving one paw toward Scott. “Five days,” he said, trying to grin when Scott snorted. “Five days until he’s back.”
Was there ever a way Ethan could stay? Could actually be by his side? Was there ever a chance he and Ethan could live like a normal couple… together? Albeit, in the White House? There was an unspoken question hovering around their relationship from nearly everyone in the media. Would Ethan eventually become his first gentleman? Could the White House―and the nation―accept a first gentleman? Was it even legal, or practical?
Would Ethan want that, if it were possible?
Maybe he’d look into it. Ask a few questions. Diana Ramirez, his counsel, was as good they came. If she knew of any legal basis for them to be together―officially, really together, living in the White House, the acknowledged first couple and everything else―then maybe there was a chance.
Maybe one day. If Ethan wanted.
18
Des Moines
“Jesus Christ, these reporters are everywhere.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ethan shouldered his duffel and glowered, trying to barrel through the crowd of photographers surrounding him. The curb and Becker’s waiting car were just ahead. Becker sat in the front seat, glaring daggers at the press circling his car and turning their cameras on him.
Becker flashed his red and blues and laid on his horn. The photographers snapped more photos.
Finally, Ethan pushed through the crowd and slid into Becker’s car. He slammed the door behind him, shutting off the shouted questions and the whirrs and clicks of the cameras. “Drive. Get us out of here.”
There were media vans and photographer cars just waiting to tail them out of the airport. They’d get away, but not by much. Becker cursed, scowling as he veered right and left and tried to shake the reporters hounding them. Eventually, he lost them at a red light before driving onto the highway and heading for downtown.
“So,” he said, giving Ethan the once-over. “How was it?”
Ethan shrugged. “Good.” He wasn’t about to say that it had been the best Christmas he’d ever had and possibly the single best extended weekend with Jack ever. Their kiss at the airport replayed near constantly in the back of his mind
, an endless loop of Jack’s voice calling his name, Jack’s hands on his face, the way Jack’s lips had tasted. How they had felt and how they seemed to speak straight to Ethan’s heart and soul.
“Saw the news.” Becker grinned. “Seemed like it went well.”
“So we’re not breaking up anymore?”
“Full-on reconciliation. Guess the guy is going to keep you.” Becker winked as Ethan snorted.
“What about you?” Ethan hadn’t heard from Becker once over the long weekend. “Good holiday?”
“Yeah.” Shifting, Becker tried not to fidget but failed completely. One finger tapped over the steering wheel.
Ethan waited.
“Ellie worked Christmas day, so I met up with her. We had a cop’s Christmas dinner with some of her patrol. You know, everyone crowded in a diner, eating crappy food.” He tried but failed to hold back his smile. “It was awesome.”
“Ellie, huh?” Ethan chuckled. The young lady friend Becker had made on the local police force. “What happened to her being out of your league?”
More fidgeting. A blush across Becker’s cheekbones. “She asked me, actually.”
“She got tired of waiting for you. I like it.”
“Maybe we could all meet up some day. Get drinks. Or something.” Shrugging, Becker jerked the car off the highway and down the exit ramp, taking them to the Federal Building and Ethan’s car.
He kept quiet, letting Becker’s comment hang. Could he be a normal person again? Would it be responsible to try? Between Jack, his presidency, and the limelight Ethan was constantly in, would bringing anyone else into the swirling insanity his world had become be even remotely a wise decision?
Or had his life irrevocably changed, and he had to make his peace with that, like Jack had had to make his peace with his new life when he stepped foot into the Oval Office?
“So, you said you’d have some stuff about our case when you got back.” Becker changed the subject, speaking about their case only when he turned in to the underground garage, safely out of sight of the chasing media. “I hope you do, because another body was found yesterday. Another murdered girl. More bills stuffed in her mouth. You have anything for us to move forward with? Work on getting rid of this killer for good?”
“Fuck.” Ethan cursed, sighing heavily as the news of the third murdered girl sank in. “I do. Actually, I have a lot.” Scott had texted him late Saturday, relaying a message from Smithson: an address in Des Moines on the other side of the city from the Federal Building, and a time on Monday morning. “We’re joining the FBI task force working the Mother case.”
Becker whipped around in his seat. “What?”
“I told them we had access to a key witness and we could work with her until she converted to working with them. We’ve got to get back to Gabriela. Get her to give us a little more on Mother.”
“How are we going to do that? You saw her last time.”
“I did. I saw how much those girls’ deaths affected her. I’m betting this girl is also connected, and Gabriela will be just as upset. She’s got to make a choice. Does she help us find Mother? Hopefully help find this killer? Put an end to her friends’ deaths? Or not?”
Becker whistled. “Jesus, I do not envy her. Not when you go and lay it on like that. That’s a shitty choice you’re giving her.”
“Not me. Life.” Ethan shoved open the door. His muscles were taut, like he had to run, had to burn something off. Frustration, perhaps. The anger of having left Jack and coming back to find another young woman murdered. The case wasn’t theirs―they weren’t the ones who were supposed to be working the murders, weren’t the ones who were supposed to be finding Mother. They were financial crimes. They caught counterfeiters. Not murderers.
But like everything else in Ethan’s life, the lines had become blurred. He was pursuing something he had no business getting involved in, but he couldn’t let it go. And the choices he―and everyone else―had were fantastically shitty. What was the right choice? What would be best? Where was the clear path, the one leading to the happy ending?
“We meet at the jail tomorrow morning. Before dawn. Before we head over to the FBI’s secure site.”
Becker nodded.
Ethan grabbed his duffel and climbed out of Becker’s car, fishing his keys out of his pocket and unlocking his own with the remote. “Thanks for―” He shrugged, gesturing to the car, the ramp, and the media outside. Becker had volunteered to dive into his craziness, and he didn’t need to.
Becker tried to smile, but it was thin. “No problem, man. See you tomorrow.”
It was as awful as he expected it to be. Perhaps even worse.
They met at the jail just after four in the morning. Ethan had too many jitters and too much coffee in his veins, helped by a nice dose of adrenaline. Becker didn’t say much, but he brought breakfast for them.
They broke the news of the third murder better than the last time. She was most likely an associate, even a friend, of Gabriela’s, and Ethan prepped Gabriela as best he could before delivering the message. She sobbed, and they let her, passing over tissue after tissue.
Ethan held his hand out across the table while she was gulping down her tears, swallowing air in big hiccups as she hugged herself tight. She hesitated, but then reached for his hand, holding on until her knuckles went white. He waited until her breathing leveled out and she sat up straight. Looked him in the eyes and tried to smile, a watery thank-you.
Gabriela told them all about the murdered girl, still a Jane Doe in the county morgue. Who she was and how she knew her. How they’d come across the border together and started working the streets for their coyote. And then―
Her mouth closed with a snap when she got to the part where she’d been rescued. When she got to Mother.
“Gabriela, I know what it’s like.” Ethan shifted, crossing his legs as he bit the inside of his lip. “To have to make the best of a bad decision. When everything seems like it’s only going to get worse.”
She watched him, her wary eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I know what it feels like when you’d rather die than hurt the ones you love. But I am asking you. Please. Help us find Mother. We need to talk to her. Find out why these girls, these girls all connected to her, have been found dead.” Gabriela looked away. Her chin quivered.
“She’s done bad things,” Gabriela breathed. “Not just good.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“You’ll arrest her.” Tears cascaded down Gabriela’s cheeks. “She’s my savior. She saved me. She answered my prayers. How can I just turn on her like that?”
He held out his hand again, stretching it across the table toward her. “Help us stop the next murder. Please.”
Gabriela’s fingers inched across the cold steel table.
She gripped his hand and started to speak.
In the FBI’s secure site dedicated to the investigation, Becker and Ethan were led to a conference room and dumped for over an hour.
Becker almost blew his lid.
“You know what to do?” Ethan asked softly when they finally heard voices outside their door.
A single nod was all he got in response.
Grouchy FBI agents stormed in, eyeballing Ethan and Becker like they had a thousand other things to do besides talk to them. They jerked out chairs from the other side of the conference table and sat, not looking at Ethan or Becker. Kept up a running banter on their side, something about the football games over the weekend.
Finally, they turned their way.
Ethan and Becker were officially read into the case. Mother was one spoke of an organized crime wheel that stretched across both the Canadian and Mexican borders, in big cities and small towns. She was a ghost, but she had left her touch across a dozen different major crime scenes. Ran prostitutes, who the FBI highly suspected were illegal immigrants. Ran drugs and money and counterfeited bills. Girls connected to her had been found running weapons. But none had turned against her. They ha
d no concrete leads. Not on her. Other angles of the investigation, yes. Mafia bosses in Chicago. Coyotes in New Mexico. Drug runners in Amarillo. But nothing on Mother.
“So we were told, by Headquarters, to listen to what you had to say,” the first agent, a sour-faced man who looked like he was sucking on a lemon, said, glaring. “That you had something for us.”
“We have an individual who will confirm that the three Jane Does are all connected to the human trafficking ring that brought her over the border. Our witness can also confirm all three girls’ identities. And she’s provided us with Mother’s last known alias.” Becker said, lacing his fingers together as he squared off against the agents across the table.
Silence. Pure, irrevocable silence.
19
Des Moines
They redirected all their energy, almost the entire team of agents and intelligence analysts at the secure site, to searching for Emily Jones, Mother’s last known alias. A common name, with hundreds of possibilities across the Midwest, and then sent out agents to check up on each. Becker rode with the FBI agents in the field while Ethan worked operations and reviewed intelligence at the secure site. He cross-referenced what Gabriela had told them with the intel the FBI had gathered so far, trying to find new leads to pursue.
You should be out here.
Becker’s text, late Monday afternoon, surprised him.
[You’re doing great. You don’t need me out there.]
But it’s not fair.
He pulled together a few more possible leads for Becker and the FBI agents to run down and sent them over text. [It is what it is. And you deserve this. How does investigations feel?]
I love it. This is amazing. But you should be out here too.
[I’m good where I am.]
No luck on Monday. Becker stayed out with his team until just after eight at night. Ethan watched the clock, but Jack had already pushed back their call a few hours. He was still in the Situation Room―the final day before the invasion kicked off a furious frenzy of last-minute adjustments and intelligence gathering.
