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Chapter Twenty-Three

Luke

The safe house Beau had given Luke directions to was exactly what he had expected to find and yet somehow so much worse. The decrepit little building on the outskirts of DC was the kind of place meant to be forgotten, easily overlooked where it huddled behind an unassuming auto body shop, a remnant of a past operation left to rot under a mountain of false paperwork and bureaucratic neglect. He’d been staking it out for the last hour, but despite the silence blanketing the car, he wasn't alone. Taz had refused to let him leave alone. In fact, Taz had become so damn clingy lately, Luke rarely found himself out of the direct eyeline of his tormented lover. About the only time they weren't within arm’s length of one another was when either of them were taking a shit or if work demanded they go their separate ways. In those instances, Taz resorted to texting memes or rude commentary about a mutual acquaintance. Often, it was both. Luke was tentatively calling it a breakthrough in their relationship. Instead of running, Taz had foregone his chosen namesake to become a koala—cute and clingy on the outside, full of feral rage on the inside.

Communicating in silent gestures, Luke and Taz climbed out of the car and shut the doors as quietly as possible. For all his lack of tactical field training, Taz was a quick learner. He fell in line behind Luke, holding the rear at an angle to stay close enough for cover but not too close in the event Luke had to pull his weapon. His footfalls were whisper quiet and perfectly timed with Luke’s surefooted heel-toe creep across the street, over the sidewalk, and through the narrow gap he’d used to surveille the location. The key was also exactly where Beau had said it would be: tucked on the back of the metal flap covering the mail slot and held in place by an epoxy-covered button magnet. Judging by the amount of gritty dust covering the thing, it hadn't been disturbed in years.

Inside, the space smelled of old dust and moldering wood, the air still with a heaviness that was indicative of lengthy abandonment. He didn't even bother trying the light switch. Places like these were bare-bones. Utilities would raise too much suspicion and leave too much of a paper trail. There was no Wi-Fi. No electricity. Hell, there wasn't even evidence of a kitchen or bathroom that would require water. It was simply a shell. A mundane, featureless shell made to look like an even more mundane, featureless home on the outside. A cot laid under a heavy blanket of greyish-brown dust in the farthest corner. Opposite that stood a moth-eaten couch that looked like it had last seated someone in the eighties. Luke vehemently refused to acknowledge the five-gallon lidded construction bucket in the other corner. Given the lack of facilities, he suspected it served one very inglorious purpose and he wasn't about to pry open that lid to confirm his suspicions. His target, his entire reason for being in this shithole, stood in the last corner, the farthest from the door.

The desk was scuffed and water stained and covered in the same murky blanket of oily dust as the rest of the room’s meager furnishings. Dead center sat a landline telephone. Not a cordless number, either. This was an honest to God hardwired landline phone, complete with its twentieth century beige casing and a fucking rotary dial. The system was so damn analog, even the most sophisticated tracking software wouldn't be able to tap into it in time. This was the sort of Cold War shit Luke’s instructors used to romanticize in his military days. The parallels were not lost on him as he shut the door behind them and crept toward the desk.

Luke rolled his shoulders and exhaled before reaching for the receiver. He had one shot at this. One shot, because if former General Jenkins was already compromised, if this was a setup, they'd be dead before they even had a chance to fight for their lives. The small scrap of paper he’d written the number on was smudged by the sweat from his hands, hands that shook more and more with each rotation of the dial as he cycled through each digit with rising apprehension. A click. It rang. Once. Twice. And then—

“Who the hell is this?” The voice that answered was gruff and cautious, the aged telephone line surprisingly clear despite the faint crackle in the background.

“A friend of a friend.”

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 stare that 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.