Page 170 of Hush

Vasiliev hung up.

Chapter 42

August 8th

Mike had been dreading this moment, this very moment. Winters hovered outside his hospital door, finishing a call. He was about to walk in, face Mike, and read him the riot act. Probably hand over his termination papers. Flush him from the marshals.

He deserved it, he supposed. And he wouldn’t change a thing. But, it still sucked. If only he had a time machine, and he could skip past this part. Skip past all of this, from waking up bleary in the hospital bed, with a nurse crowing about how they’d been certain he wasn’t going to last the first night, what with the number of snakebites he had, the blood loss he’d endured. He’d needed bags and bags of blood, triple the number of antivenom doses usually administered. He’d needed multiple surgeries, after the antivenom brought him back from the edge of death. He’d been on a breathing machine for days, and had come to as she was pulling his breathing tube out of his throat. Miraculous, she said, watching over his recovery. Miraculous.

“I have something to live for,” he’d told her. “Someone.”

She’d thought that was the dreamiest thing she’d ever heard, and she batted her eyelashes at him every time she came in to help him to the bathroom or help him hobble up and down the halls. She’d rushed in and given him an early warning, that the whole ward had been alerted that Marshal Winters was on his way.

Mike picked at his sheet, pulling fibers from the scratchy hospital cotton. At least he was in clothes. His nurse had gotten him a pack of boxers and some t-shirts. He wasn’t going to be talking to his boss in a flimsy gown with his ass hanging out.

Finally, Winters hung up. He hesitated before walking in, and Mike didn’t know how to read that. He straightened, squaring his shoulders, and tried to look respectful, professional, as Winters marched to his bedside. “Sir.”

Winters held out his hand. “Drop the sir, Mike. You’re back from the dead. You can relax.”

He smiled and shook Winters’s hand, and then leaned back, just slightly. “Thank you, sir.”

Winters sent him a droll look, but pulled up a hospital chair and sat down. He peered at Mike.

The moment stretched like a rubber band, pulling and pulling until Mike thought he was going to snap. “Sir, I know—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about your relationship with Judge Brewer?”

He hunted for words, the right thing to say. “It… was brand new at the time. When you asked if I had anything to share. I didn’t know if it was going to last the rest of that day, much less the week. The month. We’d only gone on our first date.”

“And after that? You didn’t come back to update me?”

Mike hung his head. “I didn’t want to be pulled off his protective detail. I’d have gone crazy, not being able to be there for him during this trial.”

“You could have worked command staff. On my team. Not off the detail, but not the point man. And you wouldn’t have had to hide where you were every night, either.”

Mike peeked up at Winters. “A marshal and a judge have never, ever hooked up. I know. I checked. There are procedures in place for AUSAs, defense attorneys, other agents, and witnesses—”

“First time for everything.” Winters arched one eyebrow. “As you might have realized, the marshals are more of a cowboy kind of organization. We circle the wagons. We protect our own, sometimes to the wrong ends. For good or for bad. But we never cut a marshal loose, or hang them out to dry. Ever.” His eyes bored into Mike. “We’re also flexible. We adapt to new situations. No one ever thought a judge would want anything to do with a marshal because most judges are ancient. Or married. Or otherwise undesirable.” A glint appeared in his eyes. “But you happened to find the one judge who was the exception to all that.”

Silence.

“What happens now?” Mike croaked.

“Now, you heal. You’re coming back from the dead. Take time to recover.”

“And after?”

“After, you’ll report to the courthouse, where you and Villegas will switch court loads. You can’t date Judge Brewer and manage his security. But you don’t have to be escorted out of the building because of it, either.”

He didn’t know what to say. The sheet he’d been mangling was a mess, ripped threads, balled-up sections, torn fabric and knots in the strings. He shifted, stared, opened his mouth. Closed it. “Can I see him? Judge Brewer?”

“Not yet. We’re still chasing down our last leads. Judge Brewer has been put in temporary witness protection until we’re sure Pasha Baryshnikov doesn’t have any more agents, Russian or American, working for him.”

He slumped backward. Damn it.

“It’s best you keep a low profile. You and Judge Brewer are known to be close associates now. If someone wants to get at either one of you, they may strike from the side. You can best help Judge Brewer right now by lying low.” He fixed Mike with a firm glare. That wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. Mike nodded.

Winters pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. He passed it over. “These evidence photos were taken at Tom’s cabin in West Virginia. They were not pertinent to the overall investigation, so they were pulled from the file.”