Page 116 of Hush

“Yes sir.”

Villegas appeared, looking harried and snappish and sighing at them both. “Are we done yet? What the hell, Lucciano? Are you giving him a history lesson about the vest? Jesus.”

“Yeah, we’re done, Villegas.” Mike slammed the rear gate shut, rolling his eyes.

“Then let’s go, let’s go.” Villegas made herding motions, cursing under his breath. He had his radio in one hand and his coffee in the other, and he drank and spoke at the same time, still muttering curses as he glared at Mike.

Finally, they were on the move, Villegas in the driver’s seat, Mike in the passenger. Tom sat in the middle of the SUV behind them both, in-between completely blacked-out windows.

The drive wasn’t long. Only three blocks. But he instantly understood Villegas’s security concerns as they rose out of the garage, driving into the breaking dawn.

The sidewalks were packed, filled to bursting with protestors. One section of the crowd screamed with anti-Russian fervor, posters and placards with the Russian flag and the Kremlin crossed out, and slogans proclaiming him a tool of the Russians. Images of him, dancing with marionette strings beneath Vasiliev’s hands. Packed on the other side of the street, protestors waved American flags, chantingUSA! USA!at the top of their lungs. Beyond the frenzy, media trucks covered every cobblestone of the courthouse square, and satellite dishes rose to the sky like an urban forest. CNN, MSNBC, Fox, ABC, NBC, Al Jazeera, Russia Today, BBC, and so many, many more. DC Metro police were out in droves, lining the streets and enforcing their blockade, stone-faced against screaming, vitriolic protestors. Sun lamps blazed down on the reporters, the combined lights of so many news agencies making the square look like the surface of Mars, and not DC just before sunrise.

He blinked, trying to block it all out, trying to make his eyes unfocus, let the cacophony wash over him. He could practically feel Mike vibrating in the front seat, could definitely see the way he swiveled his head, taking everything in, every angle, every aspect, cataloging every individual as a threat or not. He mentally reached into the front seat, as if he could fold into Mike’s arms.

They hurried into the courthouse garage, tires squealing against concrete. The marshals in the chaser SUVs flanked Tom’s vehicle in case someone might try and follow them into the basement garage. No one did. Mike hopped out first, opening Tom’s door. He snagged Tom’s briefcase, throwing it over his shoulder, and then helped Tom into his jacket.

Villegas was already on the radio. “We’re heading up the central elevator now.” Marshals blocked off the secured elevator to the private areas of the Annex. He stepped in, followed by Mike and Villegas, and then they were off, straight up to the fourth floor.

He checked his phone. It was six-fifteen.

Two hours and forty-five minutes until the trial began.

The jury was seated first, taking their places in the raised box and settling into the black leather chairs that would be their thrones for the next few weeks. Most had notepads, some had several. All of them looked stern, tense. Frustrated.

The gallery was packed, filled with media representatives, government officials, observers from the Russian embassy, and enterprising members of the public who had slept on the steps of the courthouse to be first in line that morning. The air crackled, far more intensely than at any other trial. This was no run-of-the-mill murder trial, though.

At the prosecutor’s table, Dylan Ballard sat and stared at his notes, so laser-focused on his padfolio that he seemed a statue. Lucas Barnes, the FBI counterterrorism chief, sat beside him, back stiff and straight, flipping through his own notes with an eerie sense of calm.

Renner sat beside Kryukov. Kryukov wore a charcoal suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie, but next to Renner, in his black pinstripe, crisp white French cuff button-down, and dazzling magenta tie, he looked boring and sloppy.

Lining both walls, marshals stood guard, their attentions focused on Kryukov and the gallery.

The courtroom was awash in muted conversation, hushed whispers and bitten-off words snapped into cell phones bouncing around the gleaming maple-paneled walls. White fluorescent light burned down on the court, an nearly-silent hum that crawled over everyone. Waiting, waiting.

Mike nodded to the bailiff and ducked out, heading for Tom’s chambers down the hall.

Tom paced, slow, careful steps from one side of his office to the other and back again. The bulletproof vest itched, and pulled on his shoulders. He was hot, already sweating. He’d asked for the courtroom’s thermostat to be lowered. His robes hung open, unzipped down the front until the last minute. They billowed around him, like a vampire’s cape in a cheesy horror film.

Mike held out his hand. “Everyone is there. They’re ready.”

Tom grabbed him. Stepped into the circle of his arms, and rested his forehead against Mike’s. Pressed together, he realized he was shaking.

“You’re going to be great, Judge Brewer.”

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you stayed with me through this.” He would have collapsed if not for Mike, fallen to the ground in broken shambles, wrung through by the intrigue, the twists and turns, the way his entire court, and the entire country, had seemed to turn their backs on him.

Mike kissed him, softly, a slow meeting of their lips. “The time for justice is at hand.”

They both smiled, and Tom managed a soft laugh. Mike kissed him again. “Lead the way, Inspector Lucciano.”

“All rise!”

Tom took a deep breath before he strode into the courtroom after the bailiff’s cry. Mike followed on his heels and took up post beside his bench, an arm’s reach away.

His black robes puffed out, the dark fabric wreathing him in authority. His voice was the law in these walls. Supposedly. All eyes snapped to him, watching as he climbed up to the bench and took his seat. The Great Seal of the United States hung behind him, framed between two American flags.

All eyes, except for Ballard’s. Ballard refused to look at him, staring off to the side, his face pinched and tight.