enemies of the state (44 page)

They logged off, but Ethan tossed and turned all night long.

* * * * *

When he got into the office the next morning, he stopped dead.

He stared at his desk, at the cold case files. He stared at his coworkers, all ignoring him. He stared at Shepherd, watching him from inside his office.

He turned around and walked out.

* * * * *

Jack checked his phone for the sixty-seventh time and frowned. No texts from Ethan. It wasn’t like them to go an hour without texting. Six hours and nothing? He sent another text, a question mark, as he walked with Irwin to the Cabinet Room.

Later, he and Irwin were locked in conversation, debating China’s invite for a conversation over Taiwan, and a possible release of the island back to self-governance. They headed into the Oval Office without stopping their conversation, and missed Ethan rising from the couch.

Jack did a double take when he saw his lover. “Ethan! When did you… You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.” Joy made his heart sing, but anxious tension tempered his excitement. Ethan’s eyes were wide, and he had that look that he had before he kissed Jack for the first time. Determination, but panicked, and deep within, fractional hope.

Irwin stepped back, heading for the exit.

“I know what I want, Jack,” Ethan said.

Jack stopped breathing. He wanted Ethan there with him, at his side, so badly his teeth ached. He wanted Ethan to be happy, but their love couldn’t just override Ethan’s life, force him to change everything about himself. He wouldn’t make demands, wouldn’t put Ethan in the position of having to choose, him or his career.

But he wanted Ethan with him every single day. The loneliness suffocated him at times. Still, he loved Ethan too much to pressure him.

Ethan pressed his lips together. He nodded once, a final decision made. “I want to be by your side. Every day. Always. So…I’ll take that job you offered. First Gentleman.”

Jack crossed the office in three quick strides, drawing Ethan close and pulling him in for a deep kiss. Ethan wrapped his arms around him, and the moment, the decision, felt so right, so perfect, to Jack. This was their future, together. They’d make it work. Commitment settled around them in that moment, deeper than what was spoken aloud.
Forever,
Jack’s heart whispered.
Forever.

He didn’t notice Irwin’s quiet exit, leaving them in silence.

* * * * *

They picked out the State China that night, laughing the whole way through. They were both awful at it, but the beers and the kisses and the giggles made it better. After, they played a game of pool, but that ended when Jack pushed Ethan down against the table and dropped to his knees. Later, they were cramping from laughter as they tried to wipe out a come stain from the green felt of the table.

* * * * *

Ethan went walking through Lafayette Square early the next day, wrapped in a wool coat with a scarf around his neck. He’d just faxed in his resignation to the Secret Service, and for the first time, he was officially a private citizen. The early spring air was cool and clean, and he breathed deep the smells of DC. Traffic fumes, manicured lawns of the national parks, and dried piss. He smiled. Car horns blared, cars jockeying for space at the traffic circle. Buckled concrete in the road made tires slap and groan.

His phone buzzed, and he expected to see a warm message from Jack, some comment on his first day on the new job, or a joke about him coming on the pool table. Instead, Irwin’s number flashed across his screen.

Ethan, this is Lawrence Irwin. I understand you’re no longer with the Secret Service.

[That’s right.]

I’m not affiliated with the CIA anymore—officially—but I know the agency could use a man like you. Would you be interested in one of the more special programs? Continue to serve your country?

[I won’t do anything that jeopardizes Jack. Or means we have to hide. Again.]

Nothing like that, I promise. Just think about it. Let me know if you’d like to talk.

[I have to talk to Jack first.]

Ethan pocketed his phone and kept walking. The bustle of the morning continued on, joggers and dog walkers and mothers with strollers. Businessmen talking loudly into their cell phones. Aides in dark suits running with wild looks in their eyes. The business of Washington, DC.

His eyes caught on a man sitting on one of the benches. A very familiar-looking man. Ethan stalked over and stood before him, glaring.

“I thought I said I never wanted to see you again.”

Colonel Song folded his newspaper down. “Is that any way to greet someone who helped you?”

He had conflicted feelings about that help. Colonel Song wasn’t technically an ally. That had been a gray area of international relations, and one they kept away from the press. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here with a message for your President.”

“So call the White House.”

“I’m looking for a more direct line.” Colonel Song stood. “Remind your president of that old adage, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’. Who are his enemies now? And who are his friends?”

“Are you threatening him?” Ethan’s hands clenched into fists inside his coat pockets.

“No.” Colonel Song pulled out a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. “I look forward to your upcoming trip to China with your president. When you work for the CIA, I will enjoy sharing intelligence with you.”

A chill settled in Ethan’s stomach as he watched Colonel Song walk away.

* * * * *

They helped each other dress in their tuxes for the Correspondents’ Dinner. Jack batted Ethan’s hands away and tied his bow tie for him, and Ethan distracted Jack with a hand down his pants as Jack struggled to tie his own. Then they were late to the limo, running down the stairs and trying to smoother their laughter in front of Welby and Daniels.

Ethan still couldn’t look Welby in the eye.

The dinner was fun, the comedian hilarious, but it was the dancing after that was the best part. A live band traded off with a DJ, playing popular covers from the last five decades. Jack and Ethan danced to every song, starting with a loose swing step before drawing close in a slow song.

“Dance stupid with me,” Jack said, grinning ear to ear. “It’s my thing.”

“What, like this?” Ethan busted out a ridiculous disco fever dance move that turned into moonwalking, and Jack tried a one-legged hopping move that had gone out of style the moment it was first tried. They fake tangoed together and then laughed themselves silly doing the worst dance moves of the late ’90s.

Finally, a slow song saved the rest of the dancers from their antics. Ethan chuckled, holding Jack close. “I have to turn in my gay card after that.”

“Aww.” Jack pushed out his bottom lip. “But I just got mine.”

Ethan kissed him, full on the lips, and the cameras flashed.

And he didn’t care at all.

When the last song played, they were the only ones still on the dance floor, cheek to cheek, fingers entwined, and eyes closed. They held hands the whole way back in the limo, and then up the stairs to the Residence.

Ethan finally told Jack about Irwin’s offer as they stripped and readied for bed. He leaned against the bathroom counter, arms crossed, his hip against the sink as Jack watched him in the mirror while brushing his teeth. “I support you,” Jack said, after rinsing. “Anything you want, Ethan. I will always support you.”

“I need to think about it.”

Then he told him about Colonel Song.

Jack knew the truth of their time in Saudi Arabia. He’d called Prince Faisal personally to thank him for his aid to Ethan, Collard, and Cooper’s team. But they couldn’t publicize what had happened. Not that part, at least.

Jack flopped onto the bed face first, spread-eagled and taking up the entire surface. He groaned into the down pillows.

Ethan pushed and prodded and maneuvered him until Jack was on his side of the bed and then curled around him.

“It’s a weird world,” Jack finally said, flopping like a fish onto his back. He kissed Ethan’s palm and rested his hand over his heart. “Colonel Song’s message means something. But we won’t know unless we engage with him.”

“So…yes to the CIA? And figuring out what the Colonel means?”

Jack rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow with his head in his hand. “Well, I’m with you all the way, Ethan. What do you say?”

Author’s Notes

Black Fox is based on the JSOC Intelligence Support Activity, which is an Army/Joint Ops intelligence/operations/special forces activity group with heavy CIA influence and support. Called Grey Fox during the War in Afghanistan, they were involved in the joint SEALs/Delta/SOAR operation that caught Saddam Hussein. In 1989, the group was officially disbanded, but they operate under a code name that changes every two years. Past names have included Grey Fox, Cemetery Wind, Quiet Enable, Torn Victor, Centra Spike, and Intrepid Spear. Cemetery Wind was used in Transformers 4, Age of Extinction.

All White House locations are accurate, including all stairwells and tunnels. The Horsepower office is real, and huge, and right under the Oval Office.

About the Author

Tal Bauer writes LGBT fiction and romance, bringing together a career in law enforcement, trauma medicine, and international humanitarian and disaster relief work to create dynamic, strong characters, intriguing plots, and unique, exotic locations. Tal's stories weave together pulse-pounding adventure, cunning intrigue, and sweeping romance. Tal is a member of the Romance Writers of America and the Mystery Writers of America.

Email:
[email protected]

Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/tal.bauer.7

Website:
https://talbauerauthor.wordpress.com/

Coming Soon from Tal Bauer

A Time to Rise

The first book in the exciting new Apocalypse of the Angels series

There is a time for everything under the sun…

Civilizations rise and fall, and before humanity, other beings steered the fate of the world and the heavens. The last, dying acts of a desperate people were to pass on what wisdom they could to a fledgling group of humans—starving, alone, and afraid—before the Veil closed, forever.

For the next ten thousand years, myths the world over told of the gift, given in a garden in the center of the world, and that the knowledge gained from it lit a fire of original sin deep within Man’s soul.

Myths from a time before the rise of humanity tell of ancient beings, beautiful and full of grace, who served as ancient messengers and soldiers of God. A time when angels and their kin lived in the world…before their fall, before the closing of the Veil.

But, like all civilizations, humanity’s time has come to an end.

A new power is rising.

Returning
.

Excerpt

Pressing back against the ancient stone-church walls, Alain palmed his pistol, his fingers curling around the heavy grip as he adjusted his hold. Cold ivy, wet with dew, flicked over the back of his neck, and midnight fog clung to his skin, the roughhewn stones, and the dreary courtyard. Across the cobblestone drive in front of the church, pebbles skittered wildly, an ill wind blowing through.

A streetlamp hummed down the road, but it was lost in the haze, and the entire night could have been a transplanted moment from so long ago. Antiquity drowned the air, heavy with every inhale. A fountain burbled, water falling from the mouths of cherubs beneath the light of a sickle moon.

Next to Alain, pressed against the rotten and crumbling walls of St. Golden’s Cathedral, Father Lotario Nicosia slipped his pistol under his suit jacket and into his shoulder holster. He was dressed in his usual Catholic priest’s attire—black suit and a Roman collar—but he packed heavier firepower than just a crucifix. Double shoulder holsters with twin 9mm pistols. Still, Father Lotario tucked the pistol away.

What they were hunting tonight wouldn’t fall to bullets. Not even silver or iron bullets.

Father Lotario coughed, breathing hard through the wet fog choking the nighttime air.

“You need to quit smoking,” Alain grunted.

“It’s not going to be the smokes that kill me.” Lotario drew his sickled blade—black handled and, as instructed by the Keys of Solomon, the seven names of God carved into the metal—in one hand and pulled two flasks from his suit jacket pocket with the other. Slim and silver, there were no markings to tell what each flask contained.

Alain rolled his eyes, watching as Lotario unscrewed the first flask and downed a swallow. Lotario hissed, squeezing his eyes closed, and nodded. “Yep. That’s the vodka.”

“One day, the Holy Water will burn up your insides just the same.” Alain jerked his head toward the church rectory. “Let’s go. There’s a priest pissing himself inside.”

Lotario spat and nodded. Across the street, the swirl of red and blue police lights made hazy circles in the fog, disjointed halos of smeared light at the entrance to the cemetery at Ostia Antica in the southern suburbs of Rome. Senior Officer Angelo Conti would have his men spread out by now, circling the block with a tight perimeter, keeping their prey locked in tight. To anyone else, it would look like any other Italian
Polizia di Statio
operation. Maybe searching for a drug runner, or an escaped drunk.

No one would ever suspect a revenant was on the loose.

The world was woefully—blessedly—ignorant of the demons who had managed to cross through the Veil to make their home in the human world.
What would people do
, Alain sometimes wondered,
if only they knew
?

His job, of course, was to ensure they never knew. That no one would ever know about the darkness, the etheric, and the demonic forces preying upon the world.

His and Father Lotario’s, that is.

That evening, they’d received a call from Angelo, their contact and counterpart in the Italian
Polizia
, and an officer in the Central Operational Core of Security, Special Projects branch. The Central Operational Core managed the Italian state’s counterterrorism and national security operations. The Special Projects branch, which technically didn’t exist, was on permanent cooperative status with the Vatican and assigned to paranormal security. Angelo was a gruff, no-nonsense veteran of the
Carabinieri
and had only grudgingly accepted the transfer to the Special Projects branch when a gunfight at a Mafia sting in Sicily went south and he ended up with six bullets in his body. He was normally the one to request them—seemingly always after dark—when a call about suspicious activity from a Roman citizen was quietly routed to the Special Projects desk.