Page 167 of Whisper
He probably needed to change that.
His blood boiled and his stomach curdled whenever he was around his straight teammates. They still barely tolerated him, and the reverse was also true. He preferred to work alone. He preferred toneversee straight people. It was irrational, completely. And yet he resented their happiness. Their ease. How they met and loved and married. How no one told them their love wasn’t valid, that their marriage didn’t exist because they crossed a line printed on a map. How no one took away their love, their memories, if everything went catastrophic. He just couldn’t stand it.
There was a gay community center in DC. He should check it out. He hadn’t seen a play in two years, hadn’t been to an art gallery since—
Well, since Toronto, and David.
His phone vibrated, in time with the rings.
Blinking, he stared at it.
It wasn’t Dan.
It wasGeorge.
George hadn’t said awordto him, not once, since everything had come apart. He’d turned his back on Kris when Kris was locked in the Learjet while the coffins were unloaded, and he’d left before Kris deplaned. He’d never called. Never sent a card. Never left a shitty VM or even sent a text saying he was sorry for Kris’s loss.
Kris had called him. One time, drunk, raging, fuming at the world, he’d called George at four in the morning and hollered at his voicemail, at the CIA, at George, at everything that was wrong in the world, over a year and a half ago.
Nothing.
What the hell was this?
He answered just before it went to voicemail. “George?”
Silence. Then, “Kris…” He heard George sigh. “I know it’s been a while.”
“Three years, six months, and twenty-eight days. Since David died.”
More silence.
“You didn’t call, George. Wealwayscalled each other. Wasn’t that what we did? When things were bad? We called each other.”
“Kris—”
“You never called.”
He heard George swallow, like he was trying to swallow back vomit. “Look, I’m calling about something else.”
“If you’re looking for a favor from me, I am hanging up the phone. No, I’m ripping the phone in half.”
“No. I need to tell you something. But I can’t go into details. Just… Look, something is happening.Tonight. We’re finishing our mission. And, getting revenge. For David.”
Time slowed. Kris tried to think. His eyes closed. He inhaled, forced himself to ask, “What do you mean?”
“What we started, back in Afghanistan. It’s ending. Tonight.”
Osama Bin Laden.
Kris’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He shook his head, tried to jumpstart his brain.
“Stay by the news,” George said quickly, his voice hushed. “I’m at the White House. And it’s happening. Right now.” He paused. “I told the guys to put in an extra bullet. For him.”
“George—” His voice cracked. Somewhere, his body found tears he hadn’t shed yet, and they cascaded down his cheeks, tumbled from his eyelashes. “George, wait.”
“I have to go.” Muffled sounds. The line cut out.
He moved on autopilot, dropping his phone and his ice bag and drifting to his closet. His studio wasn’t large. His and David’s old kitchen was larger than his whole unit. But he had a small walk-in closet, stuffed with his designer threads, and on the top shelves, his rifles and handguns.
