That was what he wanted, right? A good career, promotions, achievement. He hadn’t cared about relationships. Why start now? What was so special about Jack?
Daniels texted when they hit the district’s limits, reporting in that everything was secure and good to go. The White House agents were already rolling with the president, and if Ethan and Collard wanted to, they could take the afternoon off.
Ethan dropped Collard off at his house in the suburbs of Maryland. Collard shook his hand, holding on for a long moment, and stared at him over the rim of his shades. “Call if you need anything,” he said. “You’ll get through this.”
He left tire tracks on Collard’s driveway when he peeled out, and he smelled burning rubber for two miles.
He took 16th Street south into the District. Ethan turned at Columba Heights and drove into Adams Morgan.
* * * * *
He ate an early dinner at one of his favorite burger joints, a local gay-run dive with burgers named “Deep Throat” and “The Money Shot.” He drank beer after beer as he sat on the patio, watching the gayborhood come alive around him. These were his people. This was where he was at home. His eyes roamed over tight, tanned bodies, skinny jeans, and popped collars on sport coats. He drank another beer.
Ethan hadn’t packed club wear when he packed for Camp David, but he had a long-sleeved black sweater that clung in all the right places. He changed behind his car in one of DC's ubiquitous parking garages and swapped his cargoes for his jeans—close-fitting, they hugged his ass and showed off his muscular thighs—and then headed for the bars. First up, his pregame dive.
A group of college-age kids were making noise at the bar, loud and catty. Ethan downed another beer as he idly watched them, keeping one eye on the door. Nothing but young ’uns walking in tonight. Ethan paid his tab and headed out.
He ended up at a regular haunt, a bar that wanted to be a club, but wasn’t quite there yet. The dancefloor in the back was packed but small, and the bar in front was always full of men watching the dance floor. A lounge patio catered to the business clientele, with TVs alternating between the news, sports, and soft-core gay porn.
The music pounded into him, shaking his bones. On the dance floor, young, barely clothed men gyrated in time with men dressed in suits, disheveled ties, and unbuttoned shirts. Older men hung back, watching and sometimes joining in. Ethan slid onto a seat at the bar and ordered a beer.
The bartender grinned at him. “Haven’t seen you in a while, sexy.”
Ethan puffed out his chest a bit. He smiled back. “Been busy. Haven’t been able to get out.”
“You were missed.” The bartender winked at him before moving on. Ethan watched him go, his eyes glued to the bartender’s ass.
This was what he needed. Yes, this. Sex, raw passion, and the feel of another man. He needed this.
An hour later, and several drinks in, Ethan made eye contact with one of the young dancers. Shirtless and blond, the younger man had a bubble ass, perky nipples, and round lips that begged for desecration. Ethan smiled at the dancer, and the younger man headed his way.
He draped himself in Ethan’s lap, sweaty and stinking like sex and sin. His pants, up close, were dark leather, so purple they were almost black, and split down the side with a fishnet inlay.
“Hi, daddy,” he purred, wrapping his arms around Ethan’s neck. “I’m Blaine.”
Daddy?
Ethan frowned but wrapped one arm around Blaine and grabbed a handful of his ass. “Hey there,” he rumbled. “You look damn good out there. Can I buy you a drink to cool you off?”
“Only if you heat me up again.” Blaine winked at him and leaned in close. “I’ll take a dirty martini, extra, extra dirty.”
As Ethan ordered, Blaine’s hands found his fly, and he palmed Ethan’s half-hard cock through his jeans. Closing his eyes, Ethan leaned his forehead against Blaine’s sweaty hair. Yes, a little bit harder. Right there. This was exactly what he needed.
Jack’s face flashed through his mind and slammed into his heart. He shuddered and then froze. Behind his eyelids, Jack was laughing, smiling, sitting in front of the fire and asking him for his opinion. Beneath the sweat, the spunk, and the leather, Ethan suddenly smelled pine.
“What’s wrong, daddy?” Blaine whispered into his ear, sucking on his lobe. “Need a pill? A popper? I can hook you up.”
Jesus.
Ethan pulled back, staring at Blaine. “Why are you calling me ‘daddy’?”
Blaine’s eyebrows rose as he smirked. “Honey, you’re exactly what a daddy is. Hot and old. Now, do you want to take me into the back room and tell me what a good little boy I am?”
Ethan blinked. Blaine stared at him, his full, wet lips held in a cocky smile. His ass ground down into Ethan’s lap. Jesus. Blaine was young. Baby-faced. Maybe 21. Maybe not.
“Blaine,” he started, not even knowing what was going to come out of his mouth next. His hands rose to the younger man’s hips. “What do you think about China?”
“What the fuck?” Blaine frowned, looking down at him as if Ethan suddenly had three heads. “China? Who gives a damn about China? Are you and I going to fuck or what?”
Suddenly, it was all wrong. This wasn’t what he wanted, not at all. Blaine was wrong—too young, too blond, too naked. He didn’t have dimples, didn’t have salt-and-pepper hair. He didn’t have a warm smile, or a friendly laugh. He didn’t give two shits about the world, and he didn’t want to hear Ethan’s thoughts on anything.
He was just a guy to fuck. Just a place to get some passion, some hard fucking, and move on.
But that wasn’t what he wanted. Not anymore. Realization hit him like a sledgehammer, shattering the illusion he’d clung to all evening. He just needed this to get over Jack, just a little bit of this.
What a lie.
Ethan tried to swallow down his own disgust and the clench of rising bile. Shifting, he pushed Blaine down, setting him back on the ground.
Blaine looked at him like he was last week’s garbage. “Thanks for the drink, old man,” he snapped. “Get some Viagra.” With a snap of his head, Blaine disappeared, heading back to the dance floor and draining his martini in one long swallow. He set the empty glass on a table he passed and slid between two businessmen in sweat-drenched suits, grinding against another young, half-clothed brunet.
Spinning back toward the bar, Ethan rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
What now, Romeo?
He suddenly felt for all of the guys he’d scorned, all of the men who he’d watch hit the bars and then fail to pull anything, too wrapped up in memories and hurt and longing for the one they’d lost. He’d been so sure that he’d never be in that position. So damned sure.
“Sorry, buddy.” The bartender slid a shot of tequila across the bar for Ethan. “On the house.” He leaned down, his head right next to Ethan’s. “Feeling the years?”
“I’m fucking stupid,” Ethan grumbled. He grabbed the shot and downed it.
“Broken heart?” He waited for Ethan’s nod. “Well…I get off in three hours. I can help you forget about him.”
Goddammit, his eyes were watering again. What the fuck? Jesus, he was fucking stupid. So fucking stupid. “Thanks,” he grunted, “but I think I’m going to just head home.”
The bartender smiled, disappointment hidden behind his easygoing grin. “Okay. The invitation is open, though. Just come on back if you’d like.” He eyed Ethan. “And, how about I call you a cab?”
Ethan nodded before burying his face in his hands. Ten minutes later, the bartender tapped him on the shoulder and told him his ride was outside. Ethan threw a wad of cash on the bar top—far too much for a tip, but he didn’t care—and stumbled outside. His brain was already aching, and the hangover hadn’t set in yet. He collapsed into the backseat of the cab and grumbled his address in Foggy Bottom. The cabbie stared at him for a few seconds before setting off.
“If you need puke, you lean out car.” The cabbie snapped his fingers in Ethan’s face at the next light. “No puke inside!”
Grumbling, Ethan cursed the cabbie out under his breath. He tried to swipe his card through the credit reader three times before he got it right. His vision was blurring, and he couldn’t see. Shaking his head, trying to get through the haze, Ethan suddenly felt drops falling on his hands. He wiped his cheeks. Jesus, now he really was crying. So fucking stupid. He was so Goddamn stupid. He was an embarrassment.
The cabbie watched him in silence as he finally managed to pay with his credit card and stumbled out of the cab. He left Ethan behind with screeching tires and burned rubber.
Collapsing to his ass, Ethan pulled out his phone and opened a text message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Who the hell would he text? Collard would just tell him he had to get over this. Daniels would be busy, out with some girl. Inada was with his family, and he didn’t know anything about this anyway. There wasn’t anyone else he was close enough with to open up to, or to drunkenly text on a Monday night. He should have sat down with Gottschalk instead of following at Jack’s heels. Maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe he could have called Gottschalk, gotten to know the man, made a friend, instead of getting drunk and stupid and feeling like ten different kinds of an asshole.
What was done was done, though. He’d pushed Jack away. Made an ass of himself in front of Collard. Looked like an idiot to Daniels. Gotten drunk and emotional and stupid at his bar.
And at the end of the night, he was completely alone.
Chapter Six
Emergency NATO Summit Called: Russia Invited
In an historic move, NATO has called for an emergency summit meeting in Prague next month to address the ongoing security threat to Europe and the world from the Islamic Caliphate, and NATO has extended an invitation to Russia for the summit. “We’d like to find a joint European-Russian solution to joint European-Russian problems,” British Prime Minister Whitehall said. “We appreciate Russia’s assistance and insight in these matters. Together, we can accomplish more.” Critics of the invitation accuse European leaders of appeasement, saying that they are prematurely giving in to Russian aggression in both Europe and the Middle East. The invitation to the NATO summit, they point out, comes with no strings attached. Russia is not required to pull back from operating on their own in Syria, or to withdraw from the occupied positions it holds within Georgia, Ukraine, Romania, Moldova, or Estonia. Some political observers expected that any engagement with Russia would come with a price tag, with the West requiring Russia to change their belligerent ways before they would agree to any dialogue with the aggressive Russian state. Sources within the White House revealed that while NATO is open to engaging with Russia to explore joint solutions, NATO is ultimately responsible to NATO member nations, of which Russia is not. All options for dealing with Russia’s aggression in Europe and their operations in Syria, including direct military action, remain on the table, according to the source.
* * * * *
“You’re late,” General Madigan growled into his secured cell phone.
“Sorry, sir.” The voice on the other end of the line was thin and harried. The kid was stressed. Madigan had heard that tone before, in harder times in the sandbox. “I made contact with Al-Karim.”
“Does he understand his next targets?”
“Yes, sir. And he says another video will be released later this week.”
Madigan murmured. More hostages being executed. “Excellent. We need to draw the Russians and the Chinese into the target zone. Spur them on. Make them react. We do that, and we’ll have this done by Christmas.” Madigan grinned. “It will be a great holiday.”
“Yes, sir.” Muffled sounds broke over the line on the kid’s side. “I’ve got to go, sir. The White House is paging me. I’ll be in contact.”
“You’re doing great. Excellent work.”
A pause. “Thank you, sir.”
The line went dead. Madigan lowered the phone, pressing the case against his chin. If the kid was following protocol, he’d have turned off that phone the instant he hung up and removed the battery. With no power source and no active ping to the cell network, his phone would be impossible to trace by anyone. Not even the NSA.
Not that Madigan had to worry about the NSA. The director, John Luntz, was an enthusiastic supporter of their mission. He’d joined their cause. He’d given invaluable assistance during the mission’s first days, when they were operating on prayers and secrecy and dumb luck. Luntz, like Madigan, was a patriot. Someone who looked ahead. It was too bad about General Bradshaw, though. He and others, wouldn’t understand their mission.
There would be a purge when the time came, in the White House and the government as a whole. It wasn’t personal. It was just national security. It was the future.
Because when the whole world fell apart, they would inherit the rubble and establish a new order, a new promise of peace and stability.
Just a few more pieces had to be maneuvered into place. They would rip the world to shreds, and none of the president’s maneuvers for peace would make one bit of difference.
* * * * *
Colonel Song leaned over Faisal’s chair, bracing himself against the Prince’s desk. He stared at the widescreen computer monitor standing tall in the middle of Faisal’s desk, displaying the results of the intelligence directorate’s efforts.
“See here, this phone number calls these individuals with an update. Now this number—” Faisal typed furiously, calling up a second screen. “Is a legitimate contact. When we called our partners at the American embassy in Riyadh and tipped them off about the Russian’s building a base in southern Syria, all of these numbers were called. Embassy officials, state department officers, the CIA in Langley…” Faisal trialed off, scrolling through the numbers in the phone tree. “But, then this number was called.” He pointed to an isolated number, all alone. “And this number we have flagged as one that Al-Karim receives phone calls from.”
“Al-Karim, the leader of the Islamic Caliphate’s military wing in the greater Levant?” Colonel Song’s eyes pierced Faisal.
“Yes. That Al-Karim. We know nothing of the person who called, though. It doesn’t correspond to anything we have in our databases. It’s not assigned to any government agency. We haven’t hacked it before. We can’t trace it.” More typing. “We did more digging, though. We now know that this mystery phone calls the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They call the National Security Agency. They call Langley.” He listed off five numbers that the unknown cell phone had called. “But we can’t pinpoint their identity. The phone is kept off unless it’s making a call. When they place a call, they’re always on the move. We’ve tapped the phone in Washington, DC, Turin, and Maryland.”