enemies of the state (34 page)

“Ethan…” he whispered, “what do you think I should do? These people deserve to die. They murder indiscriminately. They destroy lives. They’ve destroyed countries. We should be doing more to help all the thousands—millions—who’ve suffered at their hands. And, they took you from me. If I act now, could I be saving lives?” Sighing, Jack bit his lip. “But this will cost, Ethan. Am I taking someone’s loved one away? Will someone feel like this one day because of my choice? Will I be the one to break people’s hearts and take the loves of their lives away from them? For strangers? If I prevent future deaths, but give lives to do so, what is gained?” He sighed. “Am I looking ahead at stopping another genocide or walking into another Vietnam?”

He looked up, finally looking into his own eyes. He was haggard, and the lines on his face had seemed to etch deeper into his skin overnight. He’d always been lean—a swimmer’s build, they’d said—but in one day, he’d become gaunt. Hollows filled his cheeks, sallow and pale, and his hair seemed to be more gray than brown. “What do I do, Ethan?” he breathed. “I need your wisdom. I need your advice.”

Silence. If he’d hoped that the mirror would shimmer, and Ethan’s reflection would smile back at him, or he’d hear Ethan’s voice speaking from on high, then he was out of luck. Ethan was gone, and he’d never hear his voice again.

Jack pushed away from the counter and headed for the shower. There was a generic bottle of shampoo and a half-used bar of soap in the dish. Jack stripped, piling his clothes on the toilet before peeling off the bandages on his forearms and his cheek. Raw gashes and bloody scrapes just scabbing over clung to the gauze. Several reopened, oozing fresh blood over his skin.

He turned the water up as high as it would go, almost scalding. Steam poured from behind the glass enclosure. He stepped in, almost hissing as the water hit his skin.

He stayed under the spray, letting it hit his chest and pound against his skin. The beating rained down on his heart, until the pain on his skin matched the anguish tearing his heart to shreds. Leaning forward, Jack pressed his forehead against the shower wall as the first of his sobs rose from his soul.

So stupid. He was so stupid. He should never have done it. He should have bombed the bastards to the Stone Age his first day in office. He should have done a thousand different things. If he had, maybe Ethan would still be with him.

Slowly, Jack sank to his knees in the shower. His hands dragged down the shower wall, and red-tinted water swirled in the drain between his knees. Tears mixed with the steaming water flowing down his cheeks, and the sound of the shower washed out the choking, gasping hiccups of his sobs.

When the water went cold, Jack grabbed the bar of soap and scrubbed at his skin, over and over, until he was pink and raw.

* * * * *

Jack sat at his desk on Air Force One, staring into the middle distance. Two months ago, Ethan had pressed him against his desk and kissed him. He’d grabbed Ethan back, drawing him close, and it had been the start of them. The memories played in his mind, a never-ending stream of moments and kisses and dreams, all lost.

Knocking at his door made Jack blink. He inhaled, held his breath, and called out. “Come in.”

Agent Daniels, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a sling, entered. He had a black duffel in one hand.

His eyes were red-ringed and puffy, and he didn’t meet Jack’s gaze.

“Agent Daniels.” Jack stood and came around his desk. He gestured for Daniels to sit on his office couch and then sat next to him. “How are you?”

Daniels shrugged. His eyes pinched as he pressed his lips together. “Doc says the bullet wound is good. Through and through. No issues.”

Jack stayed silent.

“I…” Daniels stopped. Started again. “I don’t remember the street battle. They say I was knocked out during the IED.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t believe they’re gone,” he whispered.

Jack’s jaw clenched. He looked away, fighting his rage and his agony.

“’M sorry,” Daniels grunted. He wiped at a tear that had slipped loose and sniffed. “I know it’s hard for you. I, uhh…” He hesitated and then reached for the duffel he’d dropped on the couch. “I thought you’d want this. It’s Ethan’s bag. Not much, but he left some dirty laundry and his cell phone behind.” Daniels shrugged as he passed the bag to Jack.

Slowly, Jack unzipped the flap and pulled out Ethan’s balled up button-down. He’d changed on the flight into his tactical clothes, ditching his suit. Jack brought the collar to his nose. It still smelled like Ethan. The smell grabbed him, squeezing his heart. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment.

He pulled back. “You knew.”

Daniels nodded. “I saw it happen. I mean, I saw you guys fall for each other. Ethan was crazy about you. Willing to break every rule in the book, even the ones he thought were gospel.” Daniels snorted, a tiny smile on his lips. It faded. “I didn’t think you were gay, though. Sir.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not.”

Daniels frowned.

“I don’t consider myself gay. Being with Ethan wasn’t some kind of realization of who I was deep inside. It wasn’t a…yearning of my hidden gay man, buried deep.” Jack frowned and rubbed Ethan’s shirt between his fingers. He hadn’t spoken of this to anyone, not even Ethan. They’d carefully avoided any talk at all about Jack’s sexuality, and what it all meant. “It was just me falling in love,” Jack finally said. “And figuring out how to make that work with Ethan.”

“I’m not sure I could be with a dude. No matter how I felt about him.”

Jack smiled. “When you love someone, really love them, you’ll do anything. Figure anything out. Because having them in your life is worth more to you than living without them. That’s how I felt about Ethan.” He chuckled, looking down, and fought back against his heart’s sudden hysteria. God, it had been perfect with Ethan. Absolutely perfect. “The fact that the sex was actually pretty amazing was a nice bonus.”

He would never have that again.

Memories were cascading through his mind again, like snapshots out of time or a film reel spinning out of control. He stood. “Thank you for bringing this to me. Please let me know if you need anything, Agent Daniels.”

When Daniels looked up at him, Jack finally saw all of the loneliness, the heartache, and the guilt Daniels was burying, shoveling so deep within his soul that he hoped no one would ever see it. Daniels blinked, and the moment was gone, his anguish replaced by a bland, flat glaze to his eyes. He stood, nodded once, and headed to the door.

“Levi…” Jack fumbled. He didn’t know what to say. He knew what Daniels was feeling, by God he knew what he was feeling, but what could he do? He didn’t have anything else to give. Not after this. “Levi, don’t be a stranger,” he finally said.

Daniels didn’t acknowledge him as he ducked out of Jack’s office.

Waiting outside was Director Irwin. Jack caught his gaze through the doorway. Irwin looked down immediately.

Good,
Jack thought. Vicious wrath tore through him, hatred and bitter fury singeing his veins. His blood leapt, like raging hounds chasing down prey.
I should stake you out on a road in Syria and let them have their way with you. Let you feel what I felt.
But Irwin wouldn’t ever feel the true depths of Jack’s horror, or his agony, or have his heart broken as perfectly and surely as Jack’s had. He’d never watch the love of his life lie in a street with a gun to his head, and then wait, with baited breath, for his rescue, only to watch the entire mission explode in a firestorm of bitter regret and shattered lives.

Wordlessly, Jack motioned for Irwin to enter. He stood in the center of the room, his arms folded, legs spread, and waited while Irwin took a seat.

The couch where Ethan and I made out once, flying on a quick trip to New York City for a benefit banquet
— Jack shut down his memories, and the image of Ethan lying back, breathless and debauched and grinning as he reached for Jack for one more kiss.

“Director Irwin,” Jack began. His voice was cold fury and nuclear fusion, power contained and waiting to explode. “I hold you singularly responsible for the events in Ethiopia.”

“Sir—” Irwin’s voice shuddered.

“Shut your mouth!” Jack bellowed. “You don’t get to talk! The time for talking was before this trip! Before, when you should have done your job and informed us all of the situation on the ground!”

“Sir! There was no evidence of foreign fighters in Ethiopia! There was no report of jihadist activity!” Irwin turned pained eyes up to Jack. “My people assured me that this would be a responsible risk.”

“A responsible risk?” Jack squeezed his arms, physically holding himself back from lashing out. “Two of my agents are dead, and an entire Marine Raider team! I was almost killed!”

“Sir…” Irwin looked down again, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know how this happened.”

“Well, we’re going to find out. I expect your resignation before we land in Washington. And you will appear before the Senate to answer for your egregious failures of intelligence. Congress will get to the bottom of this, and if they feel it is warranted, they will begin a DOJ investigation.” Jack paused. “I would rather air drop you to Syria and leave you to take your chances, but I suppose watching you rot in prison will bring some level of satisfaction.”

Director Irwin stayed silent. He blinked and then closed his eyes. “You’ll have my resignation in an hour, Mr. President.”

“Get out,” Jack growled. “I don’t want to ever see your face again.”

* * * * *

Sunlight streamed through an open window. White gauze curtains fluttered in a light breeze, and Stargazers and Tigerlillies swayed in a crystal vase just beneath the window, set on a mirrored table inlaid with gold etchings and glittering mosaics made from rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

Ethan blinked, holding his eyes closed before opening them again. He turned his head—slowly; he wasn’t sure it would stay on his neck, what with the pounding behind his eyes and at the base of his skull—and more of the ornate room came into view. A wide, palatial space, with marble floors and columns leading to an open balcony. There was a crystal chandelier overhead, and a Turkish rug spread across the floor that would have cost more than most houses in America.

He was lying on a wide bed and covered in sticky sheets. Sweating, he pulled them back, kicking them off slowly. His feet tangled, and Ethan struggled through the dull slowness of his foggy mind. He recognized the touch of sedatives in his system, and he took a deep breath as his head swam. When the dizziness passed, he tried again, and then he was free of the tangled sheets.

Someone had changed his clothes. He was wearing white cotton pants and nothing else. His bare feet twitched. Thick wrappings bound his chest and ribs. Gingerly, he poked himself, and tried to breathe deeply again. No stabbing pain. Bruised ribs, maybe? His knee was wrapped as well, and he winced when he tried to flex it. Bandages were scattered across his arms, and more scrapes and bloody scabs lay uncovered as well. His stomach had a gauze pad taped to it, and a small circle of blood in the center. He peeled that back. Saw stitches in his abdomen.

Where was he? How had he gotten here? He’d been on a tarp in the darkness, listening to gutter Arabic decry him as an American whore and the man-lover of the president, and a pig to boot, while staring at the gleaming blade hoisted high by the filthy jihadist who had spat in his face. He was checking out, mentally disappearing and turning off the lights. He didn’t want to be there when the knife fell.

Most of all, he didn’t want Jack’s last sight of him to be one of horrible savagery. The president was briefed on every execution video terrorists put out. He had never thought that he’d end up as the star of one.

Then, shouts. Banging. Bullets. He’d already been half-delirious by that time, beaten and bruised and bleeding inside, and he’d collapsed as soon as the hand griping his hair had let go. His head hit the tarp-covered dirt, and he was out.

And now, he was reclining in a palace, Middle Eastern by the look of it, and recovering from his wounds. Someone had performed surgery on him. Who had rescued him? If it was the US military, why wasn’t he back in the states, or on a military base somewhere? This was no military base.

Ethan pushed to his feet, standing unsteadily next to the bed. He held his hands out, searching for balance, and waited. After a moment, he took a step and then another. Slowly, Ethan padded away from the bed, crossed the room, and pulled open the door.

He’d expected it to be locked. It wasn’t.

An open hallway greeted him, lined by more columns. Voices floated his way, the words seemingly in English. He stumbled forward.

The hallway dead ended in another round room, open and breezy and just as ornate. Rugs covered the marble floor, and silk couches shared space with round floor cushions and piles of satin pillows. The windows were open, fluttering more gauze curtains, and vases of roses sat on stands every six feet. A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, and before the TV, Ethan saw a team of men—Americans, by the look of them—relaxing and cleaning their weapons while they watched a news broadcast.

“What the hell is going on?” Ethan grunted. He leaned against the doorframe, sagging as his exhaustion hit him hard.

“Ethan!” From the corner, over by a fridge recessed into the wall, Ethan saw Collard whirl around, wide-eyed. He dropped a diet soda and took off, jogging across the room to Ethan’s side. He slipped Ethan’s arm over his shoulder and guided him to the nearest couch, bitching at the American on it to move his ass.

“What’s going on, Scott?” Ethan laid back as he sat down, trying to catch his breath. “What happened?”

“We rescued you.” Collard gestured to the rest of the team. “Lieutenant Cooper and his Marine Raiders flew over from Djibouti. We traced a signal the jihadist who grabbed you left behind, leading us to the bunker they were holding you in. We stormed it, got you out.” Collard stopped talking. He scowled.

There was more. Ethan could tell. The sudden silence, the way the rest of the Marines were all watching him carefully. “Where are we?” he grunted. “If you rescued me, why aren’t we at a hospital?”