Chapter Three

"This is a WBAL TV 11 News Special Saturday Report. I'm Andrea Gregg."

"A false bomb threat last night had off-duty police officers and volunteer workers scrambling to evacuate a group of children from the Baltimore Aquarium. The aquarium was open late for Sea Life Safari, an educational evening program for kids in kindergarten through second grade. The program was sold out with forty children in attendance."

The visual cut to a grim-faced older man with graying hair wearing a blue polo embroidered with the aquarium's logo. The titles labeled him as a Facility Proctor. "We were having a great time," he said. "The kids were really enjoying it. We were spread out all over the aquarium in little groups, to give them more one-on-one attention, but it made it harder to get them all out without panicking them. We didn't want to panic them."

"How did you hear about the bomb threat?" the reporter's voice asked.

"A security guard came up and told me we needed to get the kids out quickly and quietly. He didn't tell me why, just that we had to go now. Now, you have to understand, these are little kids, and they're all spread out through the room, and we just had two adults per ten kids, which is normally fine," the man answered, starting to ramble.

The reporter cut in. "So you ordered the evacuation of the facility."

"Security did," he said, starting to look a little nervous. "We did it as fast as we could."

The video cut back to the outside of the aquarium and Andrea. "WBAL News arrived just as the children were being escorted from the building and, we are told, right after the first police car arrived."

The picture changed to a well-lit nighttime scene of the front expanse of concrete along the harbor. For a few seconds, children rambled out through the doors, some skipping and singing, some jogging, others dragging along as the proctors tried to shoo them directly away from the front door. A voice-over started.

Two squad cars sat parked at the curb, blue lights flashing, but the uniformed policemen were fifty yards up the pier toward the museum, moving the children away from the building. At the same time, the rumble of an engine covered the chatter of children's voices.

"As we filmed, several off-duty officers arrived on the scene."

The footage shook and swung around to a man sprinting toward the aquarium through the jumble of concrete and carefully manicured shrubbery between buildings. He leapt over a barrier, using his hand to support him as he literally ran sideways against the wall beside him and then hopped down again, running full-tilt toward the aquarium entrance, jumping over low barriers and concrete planters instead of going around them. The badge hanging from his neck was easy to make out as it bounced around, glinting in the various lights of the harbor.

"Over there!" a crew member shouted and the camera swung again. A cobalt blue motorcycle tore up Pier 3 from Pratt Street to the brick and concrete courtyard and skidded to a stop next to a lamppost. The man's helmet hit the concrete as he yanked it off in his hurry to get off the bike, and the camera zoomed in on a badge hooked onto his waistband before panning to the right to follow him as he ran.

More plainclothes policemen began to arrive, most on foot from the parking lots, and the camera jumped from one to the other, going back to the two who had arrived in such spectacular fashion as they met for mere seconds in the center of the courtyard with a few other policemen and then hurried to the aquarium entrance. The footage remained on the front door for a moment before it was kicked open and an off-duty came out carrying a child under each arm.

"With the help of the officers, the evacuation finished quickly. We are told that the news spread through word of mouth and police radios, though officers are not required to leave their radios on if they are not on call."

"The bomb squad arrived as the evacuation finished and, after searching the building, declared it a false alarm. Despite this, parents and officers are angry that such a threat was made." The camera zoomed in on two men—the motorcycle rider and the parkour runner— as they exited the aquarium, looking distinctly displeased. The runner started to shrug into his jacket he'd shed earlier, but the rider stopped him long enough to reach out and fix a twisted strap on his shoulder holster.

The video quick-changed to the camera and reporter converging on that man who'd run onto the scene: he wore a brown leather jacket, Converse sneakers, and a deep frown on his heart-shaped face, along with more than a five o'clock shadow.

"Excuse me, sir! WBAL 11 TV. Did you run here, sir? How far did you come?"

The man looked like he was going to move to avoid the camera, putting his shoulder toward it and giving the lens a wary look. Then he looked to his companion, whose dark hair was still mussed from the motorcycle helmet he'd discarded. They shared a shrug.

"Can you tell us what agency you work for and why you're here?" the reporter persisted from off-screen, the microphone shoved toward him.

The runner sighed heavily and met the reporter's eyes. He was still out of breath when he spoke. "I'm a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My partner and I heard the call over the radio and came to help." His words had finality to them, as if that was all he was going to say. He started to turn away.

"Is this threat linked to the others? What does Baltimore law enforcement intend to do about these continuing threats?" the reporter asked hurriedly.

The man stopped at the last question, his head down, and the camera was briefly filled with his broad shoulders squaring and the face of his partner, who was looking at the reporter over one shoulder with narrowed eyes.

Then the agent turned and looked the reporter up and down before turning his eyes directly into the camera. "Baltimore law enforcement is going to kick this threat in the ass," he answered heatedly, his oddly colored eyes flashing angrily. He pointed one long finger at the camera, as if speaking directly to the bombers who had set Baltimore on its ear. "We're coming for you."

A nearby parent cheered, and several other parents, aquarium staff, and officers broke into spontaneous applause as the man's partner, who was failing to conceal a smile, steered him away with a hand on one shoulder.

Video cut to the Baltimore police chief. "Of course we'll consider this threat as seriously—if not more so—than any others," he said firmly. "Baltimore's children are our greatest treasure, and we'll be working closely with the FBI to find the perpetrator of this heinous hoax."

"‘Heinous hoax'? Who talks like that?" Special Agent Scott Alston complained.

"Always attempt to avoid alliteration," Ty said with a straight face. Alston barked a laugh.

"You shut up," McCoy snapped as he pointed a finger at Ty.

The entire department was gathered in one of the auditorium-like lecture halls on the main floor of the field office late Saturday morning. People had still been filtering in as McCoy watched the tape of the news story from that morning again. He pulled at his hair as Ty appeared on camera, and Ty sank lower into his chair, hiding his face behind his hand and trying to make himself smaller. He knew he was in deep shit this time. But he would say it again if presented with the opportunity.

"And you, Garrett! You were right there! You should have known better than to let Grady talk to a reporter!" McCoy added from where he stood on the small stage, clearly working up an angry head of steam.

Ty heard Zane draw in a breath, but nothing else. He turned his chin to see Zane sitting still, staring at McCoy, his lips pressed flat. Ty knew that meant his partner really wanted to say something but was stopping himself. Ty would have liked to have heard it. It wasn't often Zane let his temper loose.

To Ty's surprise, it wasn't Zane who finally spoke. It wasn't even someone on his immediate team. A voice in the back piped in. "Sir, all due respect, but it was about time someone said it."

A rumbling of agreement passed around the lecture hall.

"We've been getting nothing but shit from the press and people out there since the fall," Special Agent Fred Perrimore added, his deep voice easily carrying through the room. "Then today I drive in, and nobody threw water balloons at my car. They're still yelling that we should be doing something, but it's an improvement."

McCoy began to rub at the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed.

Ty cleared his throat and sat straighter. He tended to think people needed someone to kick a little politically incorrect ass, and do it loudly, but he wasn't paid the big bucks to make those decisions. He was paid to kick ass quietly. "I'm sorry, Mac," he offered. "I shouldn't have said it, but... it can't make things any worse."

"It can make you a target, Grady!" McCoy shouted, obviously at the end of his rope.

Zane finally spoke up. "No more than the rest of us," he said evenly. "If they'd known his name, they would have splashed it all over the broadcast."

"Do you have any idea how many calls we've fielded asking who the two FBI agents at the aquarium were? It won't be hard to find out who you are, and they will eventually. For right now they're calling you ‘the Rider' and him ‘the Runner.'"

"Original," Alston observed sarcastically with a glance at Ty.

"Catchy," Ty responded with a nod.

"Thought that reporter was gonna pass clean out when you rode up on that hog, Garrett. Good one," Perrimore said with a light punch to Zane's bicep. "Must do you good with the ladies."

Zane just rolled his eyes as he sighed and shook his head. Ty smiled at him before he could stop himself. That Perrimore didn't know the Honda Valkyrie wasn't a Harley probably irritated Zane more than the fact he thought Zane used it to pick up girls.

"One more word from the front row, and I will fire you all on the spot," McCoy threatened. "Now. We have a speaker from Public Relations here to have a talk. You can all thank Special Agent Grady after it's over," he announced to the room, then stalked off the stage and told the guest speaker to go on.

The PR guy started by replaying the news broadcast for them. When Ty and Zane came on camera and Ty spoke this time, his finger pointing at the camera, the room of agents erupted into cheers, whistles, and applause. Ty sank lower and covered his face again so McCoy wouldn't see him smiling and fire him. He felt a nudge of a toe to his foot. A sideways look at his partner earned him an amused wink. Zane had told him last night that he agreed with what Ty had said and the delivery of the message, despite the fact that McCoy would blow a gasket. Zane's prediction had come to pass. There were gaskets galore this afternoon.

"Now, while I must agree that Special Agent Grady's phrasing could have been more diplomatic," the PR rep said, showing off his perfectly aligned, extra-bright white teeth, "I do have to say that the image being presented can only help us. People have been demanding action, and they've just been given some big and bold action."

"Now that is what they should call us," Ty said with a satisfied nod.

"Oh Jesus," Alston muttered.

"And to be frank," White Strips continued, "procedural and agency shows are all over TV and are big hits, and Grady and Garrett here looked just like the rogue agents do on TV."

Zane choked on his sip of coffee, setting off a round of tittering and outright laughter.

"Well," Alston said, just loud enough for Ty and Zane to hear, "McCoy did say you two were pretty."

Ty reached over and flicked him on the tip of his nose. Alston laughed even as he turned his head away.

"... and we estimate public opinion of the FBI rose as much as 8 percent after the very first broadcast," White Strips continued.

"Ooh, so Garrett and Grady are sexy TV stars now," Special Agent Michelle Clancy crowed as Zane talked over her, saying, "Those percentages don't mean anything."

"It means, Special Agent Garrett," White Strips said with a smarmy smile, "that due to your sudden rise in popularity, you and your high-profile partner just earned another three months of community class duty."

"Oh son of a bitch!" Ty blurted out with a flurry of hand motions and stomp of one foot, sending another ripple of laughter through the entire conference room.

"I didn't even say anything," Zane objected.

"Your bad-boy biker image did your speaking for you, Special Agent Garrett," White Strips pointed out. "You should have thought of that before zooming however-many hundred feet down the pier on that motorcycle."

"Yeah, Garrett, next time curtail your hotness," Ty sniped. He crossed his arms and slumped in his seat like a sulking child. More classes, more lectures, more dealing with people and being nice to them. He was going to go insane. "And do I get no credit at all for running the same distance in the same amount of time that he rode? Come on!"

There was a brief chorus of pandering, unsympathetic "awwwws," followed by Alston drawling, "And why is it—"

"We shop at the same grocery," Zane said sweetly, cutting off whatever Alston was starting to spin out.

"Ty doesn't eat real food," Alston observed with a frown.

Ty waved him off.

"Back to business," White Strips insisted, picking up a stack of thick manuals and starting to pass them out. "Time for a general review of agency public-relations guidelines."

Ty groaned inwardly. He hoped the sudden support from his fellow agents would hold after being bitch-slapped with a regulations manual for the next hour. He doubted it.

Zane parked near the ambulance that sat to the side of the softball field and climbed out, leaving the truck running with the heater on. It only took him a few steps to get to the open back doors of the ambulance where Ty sat, looking awfully dejected. He wore a loose blue and gray baseball jersey with the word "Feds" written in cursive across the chest, and he was covered in red dirt almost from head to toe. The number twelve and the name "Bulldog" were stitched on the back where his last name should have been. The jersey had come untucked from a pair of gray baseball pants, revealing a dark blue Under Armour shirt that hugged Ty's torso.

When Zane stopped at his side, he turned his head and gave Zane a sheepish smile. "Hey," he greeted.

After looking Ty up and down, Zane smiled. "How you feeling?"

"Had better nights." Ty's words were slow and careful. Then he held up his right hand, which was wrapped up in white athletic tape. His pinkie finger was almost indiscernible. He held a disposable ice pack in the other hand, pressing it to his ribs. "Got run over by a fireman."

Zane couldn't help but laugh.

An EMT wrapped up in a heavy jacket nodded solemnly. "I'm shocked he remembers it."

"You hush," Ty grunted at her.

"Can he leave?"

"I've done all I can do for him," she answered with a nod and a pat to Ty's shoulder.

"C'mon, your chariot has arrived," Zane said, stepping back and waving the way to his truck. "Did you get the truck's number?"

"What truck?" Ty asked as he slid carefully from the ambulance and trudged around it. He wasn't entirely steady as he stepped past Zane; his cleats dragged through the gravel. He seemed to be moving on autopilot as Zane steered him to the passenger seat.

Zane helped him in, pushed the door shut, walked around to the driver's side, and climbed in. "The fireman's truck."

"He didn't use a truck," Ty answered with all sincerity. "His jersey says he's Tank. I got jacked, man. Dude picked me up and threw me down. Gave me Vicodin," he told Zane with a deep frown, not appearing to notice his thought processes hopping around.

"What'd you do? Break it?" Zane asked, reaching out to try to catch the flailing hand that was all wrapped up.

"They told me what was bruised and cracked. Dislocated finger, maybe a cracked rib. I tried to listen, but the EMT had this..." Ty put his hand up near his throat and seemed to search for the right word, his hazel eyes not quite focused. "Really low-cut... I got distracted."

Zane pressed his lips together to keep back the smile.

"And they counted the run! I had him out at the plate, though. I held onto the ball. Well, it stayed in my glove, anyway. Glove got knocked off. Should have been like half a run."

"That's terrible," Zane murmured as he looked at the mess of tape that practically cocooned Ty's hand.

"It is terrible, Zane! We were only up by one!"

Zane chuckled as he got the truck moving. "Put your seatbelt on," he reminded. "It's a good half-hour ride to your place."

Ty nodded and buckled with difficulty. "Were you busy?"

"No, it's fine," Zane said, glancing at Ty as he drove. "I was just working on casefile details. Slow night." He didn't mention he'd merely been passing time waiting for Ty to get home and call him to come over. The softball season had been going strong for two weeks now. Zane would have gone to watch the games, but he'd been trapped by the latest PR events for Baltimore business professionals. He wrinkled his nose. Yet one more work commitment keeping him and Ty apart. He truly resented not being able to watch Ty in action.

"Can you stay with me?" Ty asked, his brow furrowing worriedly.

"Of course I can."

"I can't be alone when I take these things," Ty told him, waving a small paper packet Zane assumed contained pills of some kind.

Zane frowned, feeling a twinge of worry. "Why not? Besides the whole falling-over-loopy thing." Ty's reactions to drugs ranged from hysterically funny to frighteningly horrific, and Zane wasn't taking any chances. He hated to say he enjoyed Ty when he was drugged, because it usually made his partner sick. But before that he was like a big teddy bear, warm and open and steadfast and sweet.

"Well, that and sometimes I... quit breathing," Ty explained in an offhand manner as he looked out the truck's window.

Zane went absolutely cold and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "What?" he asked, tone rising and sharp with surprise.

"Just a little, like my body forgets it needs air," Ty offered with the same maddeningly carefree attitude he handled all the possibly life- threatening situations he found himself in. "And usually not for long."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ty, don't you think that's something I should know?" Zane asked, voice coming out harsh with worry. "But I just told you," Ty said in a hurt voice.

"When you've already taken something?" Zane sucked in a breath and forced himself to relax, but his pulse had jumped and was now racing. "Well, now I'm really glad you called me, because the EpiPens are all at your place."

"Sorry," Ty offered sincerely.

Zane sighed as he stopped the truck at a red light and reached out to ghost his fingers over Ty's shoulder. He shook his head slightly. Just the idea of losing Ty threatened to knock Zane over. When they got to the house, he was finding one or two of those injectors Ty had stashed all over and keeping at least one within easy reach at all times. Ty's weird allergic reactions were off the charts when they happened, and Zane needed to be better prepared.

"It'll be okay. The hot paramedic chick gave me her number to call if I needed help," Ty continued, his good hand weakly chasing Zane's. "She plays first base."

"That's nice."

"I'd rather be with you."

Zane struggled to tamp down the worry. "That's good to hear. You'd never tell me that if you weren't drugged, I bet."

"Nope!" Ty told him happily. He looked over at Zane with a nearly serene smile. Zane leaned over and captured Ty's full lips in a quick yet warm kiss before stepping on the gas pedal. "I should tell you more often," Ty whispered, not moving from where Zane left him, the side of his head resting against the seat.

Zane stared out the windshield at the busy street as he drove. After a long silence, he reached out to catch Ty's good hand and pull it around to kiss the dirt-stained knuckles. "I wouldn't mind hearing it more often," he said, the words coming out hoarser than he expected.

When Ty didn't answer, Zane squeezed his hand gently and moved it, noticing Ty's arm was limp. He looked over to see Ty still slumped sideways, dozing, breaths ragged but steady. Zane couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile. He kept Ty's hand in his and set them on his right thigh as he focused on getting them home.

To get into the baseball complex, Pierce would either have to pick the lock or park his car on the street and risk getting a ticket as he climbed over the fence. He knew his crime history. Too many people got caught because they parked in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was one car in the locked lot, an old Ford Bronco with vintage stickers on the windows. Pierce knew who it belonged to: that brazen federal agent who had called him out on the local news.

Pierce did his research. He even knew the man's name. Grady. Tyler Grady. Pierce sneered as he thought about the newscast. Man had one hell of a nerve to talk shit when he didn't even have any leads. But Pierce had plans for him now too. He didn't know why the truck had been left behind, but it would save him the trouble of having to find Grady's address.

Grady wasn't the only thing he'd researched. He'd also Googled how to pick locks, and he was reasonably sure he could do it. The others stayed in the car as he tried his hand at it.

He could hear them growing more and more impatient, heckling him through the open windows as he struggled with the lock-pick set he'd bought on eBay. Finally he cursed and jogged back to the SUV.

"I can't get it," he told his companions. He pointed at Ross and Hannah in the backseat. "You two stay in the car. If anyone comes by, light a blunt and start making out, got it?" They looked mutinous about being left behind, but nodded.

He beckoned to Graham, the last member of their enterprising little group, to accompany him. Then Pierce took the equipment out of the back, handed off one of the bags, and carried the other as they made their way over the barrier into the parking lot and toward the first softball field, where all the municipal league games were being played.

When they got to home plate, Pierce gingerly pulled the homemade bomb from the bag and set it beside him on the ground, smiling at it with no small amount of pride.

"We have to dig it up?" Graham asked. Even in the shadows it was easy to see the sour look on his face.

"We have to hide it," Pierce said glibly. He'd already explained all this, there was no way he was doing it again, not out here in the open when time was of the essence.

Graham grumbled and complained as they went to work, digging up home plate. By the time they had a big enough space under the plate for the device to fit, they were both covered in sweat and a fine layer of red dust. They wedged the device into the hole, both of them straining to set it just so. It had to be perfect, or the pressure switch on the top wouldn't activate unless someone stood on top of it and danced.

It was a large bomb. Big enough to leave a crater where home plate was and kill everyone in a ten-foot radius even if it was underground when it went off. Pierce belatedly realized that they wouldn't be able to hide all the excess dirt, and he frowned heavily as he mopped at his brow. The air was cold against his skin, but the adrenaline was combating the bitter chill. Their plan was working so far, and no one was the wiser yet because he planned ahead. That was why, after the first couple of bombs had gone smoothly, he'd set up the dry run at the aquarium—easy enough, since he worked there part time—to check the city's adjusted emergency response.

"Start putting that extra dirt in the bag. I'll set the switch," he ordered.

"Can't we just spread it out?"

"These are cops, man. They only way they won't notice if there's like ten pounds of extra dirt out here in the morning is if they're high."

"Fine," Graham muttered.

"Hurry up. And make sure the plate's straight. We still have one more thing to take care of," Pierce grunted as he eyed the Bronco in the shadows of the parking lot.

He'd show Mr. Mysterious B. Tyler Grady what it was like to be kicked in the ass.