Page 84 of Hush
Ribs bandaged, fingers set, and bandages on, he was taken to the federal detention center, stripped, searched, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, and dropped in a concrete and steel box.
And now, the Americans wanted to cut a deal with him.
A snotty man, all-American smug superiority and arrogance, had billowed in, staring down at him as if he were nothing, a piece of Soviet trash. “I’m Dylan Ballard, United States Attorney. I’m the man who’s going to prosecute you and send you to prison for the rest of your life. You have a choice, Mr. Desheriyev. You can go to prison for a short time, and then take a long walk to the end of a needle and die while the families of the men you murdered and the United States president watch you writhe. Or, you can spend the rest of your life in prison reading books, watching TV, even exercising. Get yourself a nice prison boyfriend. Spend fifty years of your life in there. But you’re alive. Which would you rather have?”
He’d stared at Ballard.
Ballard had stared right back. “You wanna live, you tell us everything you know. Who are you working for? Who gave you your instructions? How big was your cell? What was your purpose? You cooperate with us, I’m authorized to keep you alive. This comes from the top. The very top. So it’s all up to you, big shot. You wanna live or you wanna die?” He checked his watch. “You have three hours.”
So far, he’d used two hours and forty-nine minutes of his allotted time.
It went against everything inside him to cooperate. To speak to the police, to the Americans. To turn on his own people. He’d never betrayed a man, had never sold his secrets. He did a job and he disappeared, and the job died with his target.
He’d never been betrayed like this, though. Sure, people tried to stiff him. Underpay him. But they always came around.
His soul was shredded by rage, hanging in tattered rags off his angry bones. His mind roared, revenge weighed against a lifetime of silence. Did he care whether he lived or died? No.
Did he want to see the one who betrayed him rot, suffer the full force of the American punishment machine? Yes. Oh, yes.
At two hours and fifty-two minutes after Dylan Ballard left his room, Desheriyev sat back. He looked dead center into the two-way mirror, staring himself in the eyes. “I will speak,” he spat. “I will give you the man who paid me.”
Almost instantly, the recessed door clicked open, an electronic lock sliding out of place. Ballard strode in. “Smart move, comrade.” He dropped his padfolio on the table and sat across from him. “Everything is being recorded. We will use everything, and I mean everything, you say in court. What you tell me will determine how sweet your deal is. I can make your life wonderful. You can have a comfortable time in prison. Or I can send your ass to Guantanamo Bay, rendition your Soviet self to a black site off the map. You’ll never see the sun again.Comprende?”
Americans. They loved speaking Spanish, as if that made them tough. As if having Mexico on their southern border meant they owned the Spanish language. Spain was part of Europe, and Russia had always paid close attention to Europe.“Si, cabrón.” Yes, dumbass.
Ballard grinned, a wolfish baring of his teeth. He flipped open his padfolio and lifted his pen. “Then start talking. From the beginning.”
Chapter 21
“Hey.” Mike slipped into Tom’s chambers, shutting the door quietly behind him. The TV was on, CNN streaming live footage of a protest hovering on the knife-edge of a riot outside the U.S. embassy in Moscow. American flags burned, and effigies of President McDonough were held aloft, puppets riddled with bullet holes and bleeding fake blood. The CNN anchors spoke about skyrocketing tensions, and worsening U.S.-Russian relations.
Mike forced himself to look away. “I’ve got your security plan in place. I’m running the lead, and I’ll provide you with personal protection for the duration of the trial.”
Tom exhaled, blowing air out in a sudden rush. He slumped back in his desk chair, resting his head on the cabernet-colored lambskin leather. “I’m glad it’s you.”
“Of course it’s me.” Mike smiled softly. “I won’t let anyone else near you. I’m going to keep you safe, Tom. I swear. From everything.”
Another shaky exhale. “What’s the plan?”
“We have to move you and Etta Mae out of your house for the trial. Headquarters is setting up a suite at the Hyatt with twenty-four-seven security on all sides. I also told HQ that you’d be rotating between the suite and friends’ houses, and that you’d keep your movements random. Establish no pattern.”
“Friends?” Tom frowned. “What friends?”
“I… thought you could stay at my place for a little while. And at Kris’s.”
Silence.
Mike spoke fast, trying to hastily cover the hole that opened in his heart. “You don’t have to. I should have talked with you first. I’m sorry. I just thought—” He’d thought he could keep what he had going with Tom, even through this, but what if Tom didn’t want that? Jesus, what if Tom was turning around and running right back into the closet? What if this was the end of them?Do you think anyone will find out about Friday?Wasn’t that what he’d asked hours ago, sounding so scared and timid?
Could he blame Tom? He was in the national spotlight, theinternationalspotlight. Hiding an illicit gay love affair while the media was turning over every stick and stone in his life was possibly the dumbest decision he could make. But… selfishly, he still wanted Tom to pickhim.
“I’ll go to your house and get Etta Mae and whatever you need. Please, make a list of what you’d like me to get for you. And then we’ll go to the Hyatt. You’ll be safe there.” Mike sucked in a breath, tried to keep his face like stone.Don’t let him see you crack.“I’ll pick you up in the morning and take you to the courthouse. Arraignment is tomorrow at nine AM. Are you planning on personally presiding over the arraignment, or will you let a magistrate judge handle that?” Arraignments were procedural, and often, the lower judges, the magistrates, presided, pinch hitting for the federal judges and their overflowing court calendars.
Tom stared at him, his jaw hanging open, a frown creasing his Roman features. He looked like a lost little boy, not a federal judge. Slowly, he shook his head. “Mike… Stop. Slow down. You’re going a million miles an hour and I feel like I’m stuck in slow motion.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tom closed his eyes and leaned back. The weight of the whole world seemed to bear down on his shoulders. Jesus, Mike was a prick. The whole world was watching Tom, and he was only thinking of himself.
