Page 114 of Hush
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.Histrial.Hiscourtroom.
[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.
