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If you didn’t mind that American Greetings card vibe, it was pretty.

And usually peaceful.

There were worse places to be a cop. That was for sure.

When he reached the street, he headed downtown. The restaurants and cafes he passed were, as expected, closed for the evening, but he came at last to a little hole-in-the-wall dive called The Tipsy Perch.

He recognized the faded sign with its striped aggrieved-looking perch fish, though he was sure he’d never been inside. Light gleamed behind brown curtains, but it was quiet. No music. No jukebox. Which suited Archie fine.

He pushed open the peeling red door and stepped inside.

The pub smelled of old leather and older wood, of hops and yeast, and very faintly of tobacco smoke though it had been many years since smoking in bars and restaurants was a thing. Mostly, the place was empty. A few regulars sat at the bar, and Archie’s heart sank at the sight of a familiar pair of broad shoulders in a black tactical jacket. He started to back out again, but his attention was caught by the image filling the large-screen TV above the bar: Laramie County Detention Center in Cheyenne.

An unseen reporter announced, “According to the U.S. Marshals Service, John Breland, who was charged with an array of federal crimes including terrorism, espionage, sabotage, conspiracy, and attempted murder, was found dead in his cell shortly after seven o’clock p.m.

“Authorities have confirmed that the death is being investigated as suicide. Breland was one of three men arrested in April of this year after a lengthy sixteen-month FBI operation which involved infiltrating a group planning a violent attack on Warren Air Force Base. Three men were arrested and four others were killed in the plot to trigger a race war. An undercover FBI agent was also seriously injured during the operation. Breland was believed to be the ringleader...”

The world sharply tilted. Archie’s heart thumped in his chest, each beat louder than the last. The voice on the TV faded into the distance.

His knees buckled.

He reached out for the table next to him, but missed, sliding off into black and spinning space.

Chapter Ten

“Back to you, Gavin!” concluded the announcer from down a long and echoing tunnel.

Hard hands locked onto Archie’s biceps and he was hauled up and slung into a wooden chair next to one of the empty tables.

“You sure know how to make an entrance,” Beau muttered. “Put your head between your knees.”

A large, capable hand landed between Archie’s shoulder blades, pushing him forward, and Archie complied, taking slow, deep breaths as tiny stars flashed and floated beneath his closed eyelids. He could hear the buzz of excited voices in the background, though the words were indistinct.

This is really not my day.

He didn’t realize he’d given voice to the thought until Beau asked, “Which part?”

“Every part.” Archie opened his eyes and blinked down at the sticky floorboards a few inches from his face. He was grateful Beau had not laid him out on those grimy planks to resuscitate him.

“Is he drunk?” someone asked from overhead.

“Let’s find out. Have you been drinking, Special Agent Crane?” Beau’s fist was still locked in the back of Archie’s jacket collar, the knuckles of his hand brushing Archie’s hair and nape. And the funny thing was, even after all this time, all this distance, he’d have known that touch, known Beau’s hands on him anytime, anywhere.

Archie sucked in a deep, unsteady breath and sat up, dislodging Beau’s grip. He rested his elbows on the table, face in his palms, trying to get command of himself. “What a funny guy,” he muttered from behind his hands.

There was a loud click as someone set a glass on the table next to his elbow.

“Thanks,” Beau said, though clearly not to Archie. “Drink some water, Special Agent Crane.”

I swear to God, if he calls me Special Agent Crane again in that fucking tone of voice, I’m going to punch him…

The brief flare of anger was helpful.

Archie lowered his hands, picked up the glass and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of cold water. The dizziness was receding but he felt sick with shock.

Breland dead.

Suicide.