Page 41 of Escape into the Night

There was a pause on the other end followed by a slow exhale. “That's a dangerous phrase these days.”

Luke huffed a small laugh that carried no humor with it. “Well, yeah. So is working for a government that’s eating itself alive from the inside out.”

Another beat of silence followed. In the background, Luke could just make out the sounds of a television, canned laughter and quippy dialogue that spoke of a world still spinning while theirs teetered on the brink of disaster. Another exhale blotted out the sounds of normalcy. “You have thirty seconds to convince me this isn't a trap.”

“Ty sent me. Thierry Riche—” Luke didn't even get to finish saying the man’s surname before Jenkins cut him off.

“That fucker’s still alive?” A low whistle cut over the line, quiet but still managing to convey awe. “Well, I'll be.”

“Barely. He’s hanging on.” Luke leaned his palm on the desk, ignoring the slick sticky dust layer that fused with his sweaty hand. “We know about the coup. We know about the VP and the CIA. We know about Siamo.”

“That bastard,” Jenkins scoffed.

“We need names. We need the list of people who haven't sold their souls yet. We need to know who’s still willing to fight for this country before it's too late.”

“You don't know what you're asking for, son.”

“I know exactly what I'm asking for, General.” Luke’s grip tightened on the receiver until the ancient plastic creaked in protest. “Please.”

The silence stretched to the point of breaking before a heavy sigh marked the moment he made his decision. “Someone will meet you in forty-eight hours at the south entrance of Rock Creek Park. No backup. No weapons.”

“That’s a hell of a big ask.” Luke’s frown twisted his lips.

Jenkins chuckled, dry and reedy. “Right back atcha, kid. Forty-eight hours. And make sure you lose this number.”

With that, the line went dead. Luke released a weighted breath and set the receiver back in its cradle with deliberate care. His pulse was steady, but a frisson of unease still crawled right under the surface of his skin. This could be the break they needed, or it could be a trap. He wouldn't know till he met the mystery messenger at the dead drop. He had forty-eight hours to overthink that part. He ran a palm down his face and turned to the other side of the room to find Taz curled up on the biohazard called a couch, his knees tucked against his chest and a vacant gaze peering into the middle distance, a thousand-yard starethat sent a chill down Luke’s spine. All thoughts of government conspiracies and potentially lethal dead-drops evaporated as he crossed the room.

Luke had seen Taz shaken before. He’d seen him at his lowest of lows and highest of highs. The exhaustion in his lover’s face wasn't just from lack of sleep, although that was a large contributor. This exhaustion, this clung to Taz’ bones in a way that bordered on debilitating. Taz was unraveling in a way that he tried to hide from everyone and it made Luke’s chest tighten. Careful not to crowd him, Luke carefully sat beside him on the moldy, threadbare couch.

“Talk to me.”

Taz jolted, his gaze snapping back into focus as he aggressively scrubbed his brow with the knuckles of his hand. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit,” Luke said as softly as he could. “You're wound so tight, you're liable to snap.”

“Mn. We’ll see.”

“Baby.” Luke moved slow, gently reaching out to run his fingertips along the line of macramé bracelets crowding Taz’ wrist beneath the baggy sleeves of his sweatshirt. “You aren't alone. I'm here. I'm always going to be here.”

Taz grew still. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in, either. Luke watched carefully as he traced a gentle path along the inside of Taz’ forearm. “If you keep carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, it's going to bury you.”

His reaction was subtle. His throat bobbed. His eyes blinked. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Maybe I deserve it.”

“No. You don't.” Luke’s chest ached, a deep gnawing pain driven by the terror of losing the man he loved. He turned, fully facing Taz and lifting his hands to cradle the younger man’s hollow cheeks. “You don't.”

“Why does it feel like I do?” Taz’ exhale was shaky and faint as his eyes darted toward Luke’s face before flirting away again, captivated by things only he could see. Luke didn't have an answer for that. Taz was probably the only one who would have that answer. Instead of responding with empty platitudes and meaningless promises, Luke gently folded Taz’ stiff frame into his arms and carefully pulled him against his chest. Taz shuddered as his eyelids fluttered shut, his body melting into Luke’s embrace with a meek sigh. His fingertips moved instinctually, carding through the silken strands of Taz’ hair with slow, deliberate motions. The action was just a simple touch, not demanding, not pressing. A physical tether and quiet reminder of the words Taz struggled to believe.I'm here. I've got you. You're enough. I love you.

They sat there like that for a lot longer than Luke had intended to. A lot longer than they should have. Decades of training in risk assessment made it an easy decision to remain in this tenuous moment. The risk of losing Taz to the demons in his head was far greater than the risk of being discovered in this shithole safe house on the edge of the city. Luke didn't say a goddamn word as he continued brushing his fingers through his partner’s hair. When he slowed, a barely-there whisper broke the startlingly serene silence.

“Please don't stop?”

He didn't need to be asked twice. Not when that tiny voice asked. He'd sit there till his time on earth was over if it meant preserving this precious, blissful moment of relaxation he'd managed to construct. He’d abandon the entire world for just one more moment of peace with the man who had a stranglehold on his heart. One priceless moment where they could just breathe. That was worth everything. His entire purpose coalesced into this moment—the ability to offer peace and security amid the raging storm.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Abriella

Outsidethebriefingroom,life continued as usual. The steel and glass fortress of DC’s FBI headquarters hummed with activity. Quietly efficient agents clicked away at keyboards, murmuring amongst themselves until the occasional ring of a telephone cut through the constant hum of classified information shared carefully with those who could be trusted. The illusion was enough to make Abriella laugh under her breath, but the sound held no humor. Trust. What a beautiful lie they told themselves.

---