Page 132 of Hush

“Then I will see you at one thirty in court.”

Renner nodded his thanks and quickly packed up his padfolio. He flew out of Tom’s chambers, casting one last, lingering look back at Ballard.

Ballard tossed his pen on the table and leaned back. He stared at Tom, his posture, his entire body, screamingfuck you.

“You arewayout of line, Dylan. Way,wayout of line. Your behavior is beyond the pale. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve dropped the ‘Your Honor’ business, too. You’re pissed at me for following the law? Holding to the Constitution? Believing in the principals of America?”

Ballard snorted again, laughing to himself, utterly dismissing everything about Tom and his speech. Tom might as well have been talking to a wall.

“If I find out you had anything to do with this beating—anything at all—I will have you brought up on charges. I mean it, Dylan. I will put you in jail for the maximum amount of time that I can.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the future,Your Honor.” Ballard stood, sneering down at him. “You’re doing a fine job of driving this country straight into war. There’s not going to be anything left after this trial if you let Renner and Kryukov run with their wild theory. So, if I can stop you? If I can stop what you’re doing?” Ballard leaned over the table. “You can bet your Goddamn ass I will.Your Honor.”

Tom’s courtroom crackled that afternoon. Reporters crowded even tighter than the day before. New marshals lined the walls, glowering at everyone. Kryukov limped in, partially supported by a beast of a marshal, a giant man with hulking shoulders. He could have balled Kryukov up and dribbled him, but he let Kryukov lean on his arm, as if he were allowing a fly space on his skin. He dropped Kryukov in his seat at the defendant’s table and fled. Renner checked his client over, and Tom watched Kryukov nod and nod some more. There were bruises on the side of his throat, and his arm was in a sling. He sat stiffly. Bandaged ribs.

Ballard never looked at Kryukov. He and Barnes huddled, reviewing notes with the FBI’s deputy director, who sat just behind them. Big guns were showing up to the trial.

The jury was wired, strung out on mystery and intrigue, caffeine and too many questions. Their minds were whirling, and he saw half of them frown with the beginnings of a headache.

Tom tried to impart a measure of calm. He gazed over the courtroom, his shipwrecked island of doubt and conspiracy. He was the captain of this ship, and they’d gone aground on day one. Swallowing, he gazed at Ballard.

Ballard stared right back at him. His gaze was frigid.

“Counselor. Please call your next witness.”

Bulat Desheriyev’s arrival brought a murmur and a lingering hush of whispers trailing behind him like a rippling wake. Desheriyev was a large man, obviously fit and muscular. He’d worked out before landing in the federal detention center, and was clearly keeping up with his routine in prison. The red jumpsuit strained against his shoulders, his biceps. He had a shaved head, a bulldog face, and dark eyes. He looked like an Eastern European criminal, a hard man spat out by the Russian machine, and a man easily capable of assassinating the dozens of targets he was accused of by Interpol.

Now, he’d confessed to four murders and the attempted assassination of the Russian president, and pointed the finger at Kryukov.

He walked to the witness stand and waited for his escort to uncuff him. He had the right to testify free of shackles, despite his guilty plea.

Desheriyev was sworn in.

Ballard stood in front of him, hands clasped.

He started slowly, building the basics. Who Bulat Desheriyev was. Where he came from—a small town in Chechnya. His service in the Russian army, and his departure from the ranks.

“Did you enjoy your time in the Russian Army?”

“No.” Desheriyev’s voice rumbled, a deep bass growl that ran down Tom’s spine. His accent was thick.

“And after you left the Russian army, what did you do?”

“Went home. Made a name for myself. Jobs were offered. I took them.”

“What kind of jobs?”

“Jobs where I was hired muscle.”

“A mercenary?”

“Yes.”

“You were considered a very good mercenary?”

“Yes.” Desheriyev smiled. “I had many jobs. Many kills.”

Tom’s stomach clenched. A cold-blooded killer sat feet from him. He spotted Mike edging closer to him on the bench.