Two

TWO

W hen I was brand-new in the city, and to the Northern District of Illinois where I'd transferred to, the first two weeks had been riding around, being shown the ropes, getting the lay of the land, and basically being taught where things were and how fast, or slow, one could be expected to get there. I had never lived any place but Texas and had no idea there could be traffic at three in the morning. It was insane.

I had to absorb, fast, where I was going, what streets ran what way, and most importantly, the ins and outs of my new office. It was important to note how to talk to people, what to say when, and to learn that being too comfortable was a bad idea.

My new boss, Supervisory Deputy Chris Becker, seemed like a nice man. The first two days all of us transfers were in the office and he was going through things, he explained about his open-door policy, as well as the dos and don'ts of working there. He stressed that he would always be on our side unless we did something really stupid. It made sense.

"What do you like to be called?" Becker had asked me. "Just McCabe, or do you prefer it shortened to Mac?"

I was partial to Del, since that was my given name, Delroy McCabe, but since he hadn't added that as an option and I wasn't about to correct him, I said, "Either is fine, sir."

"All right, then."

On my third day there, I got to know a bit better the boss I reported to, Ian Doyle, under Becker. I thought he was brilliant because he was loud, so you didn't have to guess how he was feeling or what he thought, and then there was the cherry on the top of the cake. He had assigned me to Josiah Redeker. He felt, he told me, like that would be a good fit for my training and evaluation. That day a lot of us met for lunch in the break room. The other new transfers—Banks, Warren, Baylor, Richards, Ross, Hawkins, Collins, and Crosby—were all eating already by the time we got there. Redeker and I were the last ones in because we had driven clear across town to pick up chili-cheese dogs, chili cheeseburgers, and chili-cheese fries. Everyone else was having assorted half sandwiches and soup or salad, but not me and Redeker. It would have felt like a party if we had some beer.

Crosby, who was riding with Pazzi, had a salad for lunch, and I was horrified. Clearly, from the way the others were looking at what was in front of me and Redeker versus what was in front of them, I had been assigned to the baller interim partner.

"You're gonna die if you eat like that," Pazzi told me as he dug into a salmon salad.

"You will be healthy but miserable, I can promise you that," Redeker replied with a wicked grin before biting into his enormous cheeseburger with mustard, jalape?os, and chili.

"He doesn't eat like this at home," Callahan chimed in. Ross had been assigned to him and had reported back that he was great. At the moment, Callahan was chuckling, digging into the chicken burrito in front of him that looked like, other than the chicken, the rest was all green, besides the tomato I could see. The only thing I approved of was the guacamole. "Or on the weekends. But lunch, on a weekday, when you know you're going to run that off?" he said, directing his comments to Pazzi. "Come on. Live a little."

That was another thing. I'd transferred from Tyler, Texas, because even though I loved a lot about the state—I had been born and raised there, after all—there was also quite a bit that, being a gay man, didn't work for me. Just being in the same room while Callahan smiled fondly at Redeker and wiped a bit of chili off his chin made my chest hurt.

"You've got grilled onions on that thing too?" Ross asked Redeker.

Redeker made a noise that was probably yes, but he was chewing, so it was hard to tell.

"Aw, man, your metabolism must be something," Ross commented, grinning, and Redeker smiled back. I could already tell that Josiah Redeker favored Ross. They knew a lot of the same people, agreed that some FBI agent named Crouse was a total prick, and that the best place to get hot dogs was Superdawg, no contest. I didn't question these things, but instead made a mental list every time anyone said anything so I could go try them myself.

The third Monday in February, after all of us had been there three weeks, I was partnered up with Ellery Hawkins. He was a nice guy, easy to be around, but he didn't want to be friends outside of work. That was fine. He wanted a clear delineation between his job and his friends, but I was sure that bonding helped partners. I didn't have one when I was in Texas. We had a team, not one specific partner, but Sam Kage, the chief deputy, the highest-ranking marshal in Illinois, liked the idea of partners. He wanted there to be one person, always, looking out for a specific person. I couldn't really fault his logic.

A week later, this was put to the test when I saw a young woman get pulled behind a dumpster by some crackhead loser and had Hawkins stop the car. I was down the street fast, and lo and behold, there were two other guys holding down the girl—a high school student, as it turned out—while the third one, pants shoved to his knees, got ready to violate her.

I was pissed, they were spindly—meth really takes it out of a body—and I had all three scattered on the ground in seconds.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hawkins screamed at me, in front of the girl. "That is not our job, and what if you got yourself killed?"

I had no answer for him, as the girl had wrapped herself around me after I zip-tied all three men, and she was currently squeezing my diaphragm. She was a soccer star at her high school and would have been able to put up a better fight, but the first guy punched her in the face and the second banged her head on the pavement, so she had been rendered nearly unconscious. I had already pledged to go to the hospital with her.

Chicago PD came and took custody of the guys, and then I went with Megan to the hospital. While there, I was met by Eli Kohn, our PR guy, and my boss, Ian Doyle.

"You're gonna be riding with a new partner for the rest of the day," Doyle told me, pointing to Jeff Crosby, who was jogging down the corridor toward us.

"Why?"

Doyle grimaced. "Because Hawkins is done for not backing you up for any fuckin' reason, and Bill Collins drew his weapon on a young, deaf pregnant woman this morning."

That was all over the news an hour later, and Sam Kage was praised for immediately putting Collins on unpaid administrative leave. That meant fired , and everyone knew it. Knowing Kage, even for the very short time I had, I didn't think he cared that everyone thought he'd made the right choice. He seemed like the kind of man who followed his own code. But watching all the cell-phone videos of Collins pulling his gun on the terrified Asian girl with the ponytail, and her dropping her shopping bags with baby stuff in them and then signing wildly at him, was enough to make anyone sick. The chief deputy was not having that guy work for him. Ever. It clearly illustrated that instruction was one thing, as was riding along with your fellow training officers, but being out in the field, on the job, was a whole other piece that you could either do or not. Collins could not. Her hand movements had freaked him out. He hadn't even been able to parse what he was seeing. In the moment, making life-and-death decisions, you had to be made of stronger stuff. You also had to have your partner's back no matter what.

The following week, Jeff Crosby and I were in the process of apprehending a fugitive, working with an FBI task force out of San Francisco. They had intel on a meet that was going down at a chop shop. Inside, once the special agent announced herself, bullets started flying. Seconds later, Crosby yelled for me to get out, as we were taking heavy fire. But I couldn't leave the FBI agent twenty feet from me on the ground. He was shot but alive, and if we retreated, he'd be dead without medical attention.

"Cover me!" I yelled to Crosby, but instead, he went for the door.

"Covering," another FBI agent yelled my way.

I ran out there, retrieved the fallen agent, and dragged him behind a really gorgeous silver Mercedes-Benz AMG GT 55 RWD that I hoped no one would shoot up. It was far too pretty to have bullet holes.

Once everyone was in custody and Agent Demming was on his way to the hospital, having made sure to grab my hand in thanks before he left, Crosby found me and ripped me a new one about putting him in danger. Partners didn't do that, he said. And I agreed, but not in the way he thought—partners didn't do that; partners had each other's back.

When we returned to the office, the supervisory special agent who had been on site with me, Deidre Merriweather, was having a closed-door meeting with Becker. When they finally emerged, she charged across the office toward my desk. Her smile when she reached me was a surprise.

Thrusting her hand out, she said, "Agent Demming is going to be fine due to your quick action, Deputy."

"Just doin' my job."

"And it was appreciated," she assured me as we shook hands.

As she made her way toward the elevator, Becker called Crosby into his office. That was the last day he worked there. Unlike the others, he wasn't terminated, simply transferred—to Alaska, we were later told.

The next day, I joined the guys from SOG, Special Operations Group, the tactical arm of the fugitive response unit, in securing the family of Alex Hollister, a whistleblower who had arranged to roll on his employer, Canning Steel, for shortcuts they'd made in several of their plants that led to three, so far, structural collapses. Hollister's family had been taken by individuals who, we assumed, had been hired by the Canning Steel fixer. But when we checked the house in Evanston where the people were being held, there were so many more individuals than had been initially reported.

The SOG guys hit the door, and we were next. But the men inside had machine guns and, it turned out, Canning Steel had outsourced to guys who were normally muscle for hire, most notably for the Russian mob. There were so more hostages—not only Alex Hollister's family, but young women being trafficked.

Bongani Richards and Cherry Baylor followed Ross and me into the building. Banks and Warren ran back to the cars to call it in, even though Ross, who'd ducked down beside me behind the kitchen island, was on comms with Doyle.

I was going to move, but Ross's hand clamped down hard on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, he shook his head, pointing at the shadow on the floor.

He then sent Richards and Baylor to the left and had me dive forward. When the startled guy turned to shoot me, Ross caught him in the leg and shoulder, putting him on the ground. It didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would to reach the family and the young women. The SOG guys moved in tight formation through the mansion like a hot knife through butter, and we could hear the short bursts of their weapons, compared to the several rounds of wild, sporadic firing that the untrained muscle were letting loose. There was something to be said for precision shooting versus filling the air with lead.

Ross and I reached the girls, and Richards and Baylor made it to the family and barricaded themselves in. We secured the young women, keeping them safe in case anyone tried to come in and grab them and use them as human shields. Once we got the all-clear that the hostiles were either in custody or dead, we went outside to an absolute circus of press, news helicopters, and more law enforcement.

The Hollisters were removed immediately, secured by the marshals service, and four of the guys I'd seen around a lot—Ryan, Dorsey, White, and Sharpe—took custody. They all went and told Baylor and Richards how well they'd done, and then made a point of coming to see me and Ross and shaking our hands and telling us that this was how we got things done in the Northern District. Even better, Baylor—who told me and Ross to call her Cher because she hated Cherry—and Richards—who said to call him Bon because Bongani was a lot for most people—came and helped us when we transferred the girls to the hospital. Interestingly, Banks, whom I'd been riding with, and Warren, who'd been partnered with Ross, told us they would meet us at the hospital later. It seemed strange that neither my partner nor Ross's was with us.

Once there, we met Miro Jones, the director of Custodial WITSEC, which oversaw children without parents entering witness protection. Even though some of the girls might have parents, he made certain they were put under the umbrella of the State Department and social services, not CPD. That way we, the marshals service, could arrange to get them home if they wanted, or they could immediately apply for asylum, since not one of them was a US citizen. My fluent Spanish came in handy, and when Warren said he was amazed that a shit kicker like me could speak another language since I barely spoke English, Ross was on his feet before I even got a word out.

"He might speak slow, but he clearly thinks a hell of a lot faster than you," Ross said, his voice dripping with disdain and judgment. "You useless fuckin' prick."

Warren charged him, but Bon stood up—nearly six-five and covered in muscle normally reserved for superheroes—and Warren wisely decided to take a step back. I would have gotten up myself, but I was talking to two sisters, one with both her arms wrapped around my left bicep and the other, the younger one, maybe twelve, sitting across from me, holding both my hands in hers.

"The hell is going on?" Jones yelled as he came striding down the hall toward us, flanked by Eli Kohn, Redeker, and Callahan. "This area is solely for federal law enforcement."

Warren and Banks looked confused, but Ross flashed them a brilliant smile, understanding more than I did in that moment.

"You two"—Jones pointed at Banks and Warren—"need to go with Callahan and Redeker." His tone, the coldness in his eyes, and his posture spoke volumes. He was not to be questioned at that moment.

Once they left, and Jones and Kohn were talking to social services and the guys from State, I reached for Ross. I meant to grab his wrist to get his attention, but he moved and I caught his hand instead. It was warm, and my head snapped up to meet his gaze as he held on so I couldn't pull away.

"What name do you like to go by?"

"Del," I answered, staring up into his gorgeous brown eyes, my mouth going dry.

"Del it is," he said, and his voice was both silky and deep. "And it's Lang to you."

And from that moment on, it was me and Lang, since only the two of us and Bon and Cher were left standing after that first month. Five other deputy US marshals had not made the cut to work in Chicago.

After that, more people came and went, but I was completely bespelled by my partner. He made it clear from the first night that we wouldn't be purely work partners. We were going to be friends.

"I don't want you to think you have?—"

"Knock it off, Del. Do you want to be my friend or not?"

I nodded.

"Be sure now. I can be intense, and you can't ask any questions if I need you to help me bury a body in the middle of the night."

There would be a good reason if he had me digging a hole at two in the morning. I was certain of it. "I'm sure," I said, grinning. "I'm in."

His arm around my neck, pulling me after him, was such a relief. I finally had a port in the storm. I could navigate my way through anything as long as I had the promise of shelter at the end. That's what he was.

When I decided to come out to him, I led him outside, to the benches near our building at work, and sat down across from him. It took me a minute, but I eventually got it out. I was worried for a second that my sexuality might change things between us, especially when he simply sat there, squinting at me.

"Well?" I prodded him.

"Well, what? I know you're gay. I've seen you check out guys."

"You have?"

"Of course I have."

"Oh."

"Did you think I would care?"

Honestly, no. He was my friend, after all. I shook my head in answer.

"Okay, then. In the future, can we save these serious sit-downs for you asking for a kidney or something?"

"Absolutely." I exhaled, my relief overwhelming.

"Thank God," he muttered. "I thought you were quitting, and for the record, you can't do that. You're the only partner I want."

I was too emotional to reply, so I pointed at the food trucks, and we went to stand in line for street tacos.

At work, he was at my side or in my ear, and I could glance at him and know if I was making a mistake or not. I did the same for him.

Off work, he had strong opinions about the men I tried to pick up in bars when we were out drinking. I always got a shake of his head accompanied by a scowl.

"What was wrong with him?" I would ask.

There was always a laundry list.

He didn't like that he'd seen that guy chatting someone else up thirty minutes before. What was I, sloppy seconds? A fallback plan?

He didn't like that he could see the outline of a condom in the guy's back pocket because, in his opinion, that was gross.

He didn't like that the guy was trying to buy me so many drinks. Was he trying to get me wasted so he could take advantage?

It was exhausting to try and get lucky when he was around.

I started teaching him Spanish, and he made sure I did not even think about reaching for the ketchup when we had hot dogs.

"Why is ketchup bad?" That made no sense when some people put sliced tomatoes on them.

"Don't worry about the why , it's simply a no," he made clear.

Most of all, he took me with him everywhere and made it clear to anyone who looked twice at us—especially guys who weren't thrilled to see me and my cowboy hat and boots and the fact that I was not Black like Lang and all of them—that if I wasn't welcome, then we , together, would go. I had been worried because I didn't want him to lose older, close friends because of me, but his mother announced at Easter, to a full house, that I was the most important friend her son had.

"Mrs. Ross," one of the guys Lang knew from elementary school said as he chuckled, "are you kidding with this right now?"

She pointed to me. "Del is the one following my baby through the door after he kicks it down. He's the one who makes sure he comes home safe every night, and he's the only one who has his back." The way she looked around the room like I'd been taught in communication class in college, to make sure each and every person received her message, was terrifying. When her gaze reached me and she smiled, I felt the shiver run up my spine before she glanced again at the entire room. "Are we clear?" she asked loudly.

Lots of nodding and sounds of agreement.

"Good," she said sharply. "Talia," she instructed her daughter, "go on and give us the blessing now."

Poor Talia looked at her brother like she wanted to die, so Lang smiled and told his mother he would do it. She was fine with that.

Lang was good at prayers. He included everyone, thanked them all for being there, sharing the day, and always ended with a wish for peace and safety in the name of Jesus, amen.

Funny to hear him be so good around his mother on Sunday, and then take the Lord's name in vain every other day of the week.

"Bolts of lightnin' are gonna come out of the sky and smite him," I told Talia when we were out having pizza.

She almost choked on her Pepsi, she was laughing so hard.

"What the hell?" Lang groused at her as she scooted over next to me in the booth.

"Where are you?" Lang asked as we stepped into the elevator with Vargas between us.

I shook my head.

"Do you need to eat?"

Vargas piped up. "I could?—"

"Not you," he snapped at him.

I had no words to give him, and was glad Vargas was there to draw attention away from me.

Once we got off the elevator, instead of walking Vargas to one of the intake rooms, he steered him to our break room, where an enormous fruit basket sat.

"Holy shit," Vargas gasped.

"Go wild," Lang instructed after he cut the zip ties off him, and then when our prisoner went to get whatever he wanted, my partner rounded on me, doing what he often did and taking firm hold of my shoulder. "And you, what's on your mind?"

I tried to move away.

He grabbed me then and hugged me tight. And not like a bro hug, not a quick, friendly clinch, but stepping into me, putting one arm around my neck, the other under my arm, and clutching me against him so we were fused from chest to thigh.

Sometimes, not often but on occasion, it was like my brain got backed up. I got caught in a loop, like now, and all I could do was buffer because the emotion was overwhelming, and trying to put words there, to try and make sense, was too much. When it happened after an op—and he could tell from looking at me when I was incapable of words—Lang would always lean in close beside me so I could feel his shoulder against mine. He'd then do all the talking to whoever else was there. His brain and heart, his thoughts and feelings, never had a disconnect.

Lang was sure my shutdown had to do with my violent upbringing. When I was small and overwhelmed with emotion, I used to cry. My father had been swift with the whole I'll give you something to cry about . The beatings had come often and furiously, the man savage with his fists, belt, or whatever was handy. Now I knew he'd been mad about his life, our lack of money, that my mother had died giving him me, and more than anything, about his place in the world. But back then, talking, sharing, had never been a good idea. I grew up nearly mute, bruised, bloody, and broken.

I've read that when a child has a mother or father, or anyone in the parental role that they can't count on, that in those cases, sibling alliance is normally what occurs. You end up clinging to your brother or sister like a rock in the storm of childhood. When you have great supportive, loving parents, that's when sibling rivalry happens because it's able to in that safe, nurturing environment. You don't need to lean on anyone but your folks because all your needs, like love and security, are already being met. I wouldn't know. Neither scenario happened for me. My father had a hair trigger, and because of that, my brothers didn't care about me or one another. It was every man for himself and if that meant throwing someone else under the bus—all bets were off. If you were pointing the finger away from you, that meant you weren't the one being whipped with a belt until you were bleeding on the floor.

My older brothers left the house as soon as they could. One went to the Army, the other joined the Marines, and I played football and so hitched my wagon to a scholarship. Being alone in the house with my father was a daily minefield, and I might not have made it, but a miracle happened in my junior year when my father met a younger woman. He worked mowing lawns, pruning flowers and bushes, cutting down trees, and she was the waitress where he ate lunch every day. I saw him change with her interest, friendship, and eventually love. He moved her and her two daughters into our house, and very soon, she reshaped his business into landscaping. She went out and looked at yards, gave people quotes, and the two of them could turn an ugly space into an oasis. I was surprised that the man who had shown me and my brothers only anger, hostility, and violence had a gift for making things flourish and grow. He was kind and gentle to her daughters as well, neither his voice, nor his fists, ever rising. What was great for me was that he enclosed the small back deck, put in a toilet and shower, gave me my own door to come and go, and then basically forgot I existed.

Did I care that the four of them had family dinners and I was never invited? No, because I remembered too many meals that erupted in brutality if someone didn't eat fast enough. Being made to eat off the floor was engrained in my memory. I had no desire to sit across the table from that man ever again.

I got a part-time job, ate at my friends' houses, and bought a hot plate so I could fry up bacon and eggs now and then. I also made quite a few grilled cheese sandwiches. There was electricity out there, so I had a light to do my homework, a space heater so I didn't freeze to death in the winter, and the guys at the service station where I worked took turns making sure I spent the holidays with them.

When my scholarship came through for Everson University, I was gone. I was loading my deathtrap of a pickup truck the last morning in my hometown when my father came out of the house, handed me a shoebox of things belonging to my mother that I had never seen before, and told me that Marcy, his wife, wanted to make me some food for the road. She had never offered to do anything for me before, and it made me wonder why. Perhaps it was as simple as she'd been afraid to be nice to me in case showing me kindness caused my father to stop being good to her and her daughters. The smartest thing she could do was not get involved, and I got that. I did. But either way, it was far too late for me to care.

"Tell her not to go to any trouble on my account. I'm stoppin' by Coach Preston's house, and Mrs. Preston has been up all night cookin' for all of us who're leavin' today."

"Yeah, some of the guys I know said you're a real fine player. I had no idea."

Of course he didn't.

I lifted the box. "Thank you for this."

"You've got everything?"

"Yessir."

I put the shoebox in the front passenger seat, then jogged to the driver's side and got in. Moments later, I was down the gravel driveway and out on the road. I never looked back.

I still had the shoebox, which was filled with letters from my mother to me, her unborn child. There was a picture of her smiling like crazy, pointing to her stomach where I had been at that moment in time. She wrote that she loved my brothers so much, and she already loved me the same. She could barely wait to meet me. She named me Delroy after her father. He'd passed when she was young, and she still missed him. Her people were from Lubbock, and though I was curious, her mother had never looked us up, neither me nor my brothers, so it didn't seem she could have cared all that much. And maybe my father had scared off everyone from my mother's side of the family, but still, if you cared, you made the effort. Mrs. Ross, Lang's mother, who insisted I call her Etta, told me that as a parent, it was your job to keep showing up. You could never stop trying to be a part of your child's life. Never.

I learned over the years how parents and grandparents were supposed to be. In college I had teammates who took me home with them for the holidays every year, and I was treated to kindness, nurturing, and concern. When I blew out my knee, my team was the family that showed up at my bedside—the players and their families. Despite not playing football anymore, I lived with some of my teammates until I graduated, and once I was all healed up, I applied to be a deputy US marshal. It turned out, a knee that couldn't take running on the gridiron was more than good enough to chase fugitives down city blocks. I was in great shape physically and more than ready to serve. With my degree, I was accepted and began my career. I still saw my teammates—we were friends for life, and we met on vacations. I was part of many a wedding, sent baby gifts, flowers when their parents or grandparents passed, showed up at funerals or sent huge plants in remembrance of the love and support I myself had been given.

When I got legal papers from my father wanting me to give over my stake in the land in Wimberley to my stepsisters, I signed my name on the line and got that right back out to him by FedEx the following morning. I had seen my brothers' signatures above mine, and it was odd to be reminded that we were out there in the world, all three of us, without care for the others. Sometimes I wondered what my life would have looked like had my mother lived. Sarah Roundtree McCabe had been a sweet soul—at least that's what Etta said when I showed her my mom's letters.

"That's why you're such a wonderful man," she told me. "Your mama loved you from the start, and you know, that never dies."

I liked hearing that.

But even now, thinking back to falling asleep with blood on my face, having no one question the bruises, split lips, and black eyes when I showed up at school, hearing my father make excuses when bones were broken, like boys will be boys , and that we were horsing around again , and reminding people that of course, his own father had tanned his hide more than once…sometimes, still, the memories clogged my throat. And though I'd schooled myself to never let my eyes fill—that had always brought on a quick, hard strike from a clenched fist—there was nothing to be done about being unable to speak. James McCabe had never minded silence; it was the tears that incensed him. I couldn't even imagine ever confessing my homosexuality to him. I might not have lived through that exchange.

Others had blessedly let me be when I was suddenly swallowing down my feelings. When I got overwhelmed, friends respected me enough to leave me alone, giving me both space and my dignity.

Lang thought that was cowardly of them.

"They weren't sure what to do," he told me the first time I walked away from him only to have him chase me down the sidewalk in the drizzling rain.

I'd stood there, with him in front of me, wanting to both run again and stay where I was. He needed to get under an awning, but I couldn't even suggest that to him because I didn't have use of my voice right then.

"If you want to be alone, I'll respect that," he told me, his tone gentle, smooth like honey, and so very warm. "I would never force you to do anything you didn't want."

I knew that.

"And you know I'm not in the habit of chasing after people who aren't wanted for breaking the law, but this is the first time you've ever run from me, and it was surprising."

I nodded.

"So for clarity, that's why I'm standing here getting wetter by the second."

It wasn't necessary to say anything, and that was good since I couldn't.

"It won't change our friendship if you need time alone," he promised, his smile slow, allowing me to breathe. "If you need your space, then tell me."

I didn't want that. What I needed was someone to be fine with the fact that every now and then, between me and my brain, there was a disconnect.

"I just want to remind you that we're partners, yeah? You can trust me."

And I could. I knew I could.

He was studying my face. "So tell me what you want, and we'll do that. Or if you can't right now, give me a nod and I'll go. We'll discuss this later when you can."

For once, I let go of my fierce control and allowed another person to see the tears that were quickly washed away in the ever-strengthening shower.

"You're killing me," he murmured, opening his arms.

I took a breath and lunged, and he wrapped me up. I couldn't remember ever being held that tight, and I got lost in that feeling of homecoming. But then suddenly I started thinking the embrace was going on too long—we were on a sidewalk, after all—and maybe he was getting embarrassed. But it was like he read my mind and only clutched me tighter, inhaled deeply, and said that everything was going to be all right.

Amazingly, it was.

And he held on until I let go.

These days, six months in, it hardly happened anymore. Some of it was because Lang had insisted I see someone, and my therapist, Dr. Butler, who it turned out had gone to the same undergrad college as me, was helping. Also, there were things I knew for certain that made me confident in who I was. Like, I was damn good at my job, a better, more loyal friend would be hard to find, and people could count on me to always show up for them. And of course, Lang never missed an opportunity to remind me how lucky I was to have him in my life.

I really didn't need to be told.

"Do you guys need some time alone?" Vargas asked with a leer in his voice, and I was reminded that I was there, in the present, at work, with a fugitive watching me. It would be wildly inappropriate for anyone to see me and Lang hugging.

Perhaps.

The thing was, life-and-death jobs sometimes produced oddly timed comfort moments, and more importantly, Lang always had a way of making what seemed strange feel perfectly normal. It was one of his many gifts.

"If you value your life," Lang began icily, "think before you speak."

Vargas shut up, which was not surprising. At six-two, built powerful and strong, with a glare that made bigger men squirm, Langston Ross was not a man to be tested. Far better to stay on his good side.

I felt the weight lift from my heart and found my voice. "I'm okay," I husked.

But still he held on until I took another breath and let my arms drop. When he finally stepped back, I saw the grin that brought out his dimples which never failed to make me smile in return.

"You got all messed up thinking about when we first got to be partners, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, always amazed when he knew whatever the impetus had been.

He nodded. "It's because of fuckin' Pazzi."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because just like when you saved the girl and Hawkins didn't have your back, today Pazzi questioned you, and then he and Yamane didn't back us up."

That quickly, everything made sense. "You ever worry that I'll screw up when we're out and not be there for you when you need me?"

The incredulous look I got made me laugh.

"You only get up in your head when we're not doing something," he reminded me. "You're a hundred percent focused when we're out there on the street." He gestured at Vargas. "How else do you think you were able to keep pace with this asshole for five blocks? That's training and cardio, yes, but it's also focus."

I was distracted. "I ran five blocks?"

"Yeah."

"How can it be five?"

"Because I bet you didn't count the third intersection where you almost got hit by the motorcycle and the minivan."

"Oh, that's right. The yellow minivan."

He grunted.

"Five blocks," I announced with a flourish. "Okay, there needs to be beer and pizza for that."

He shook his head.

"What? Why not?"

"You know why not," he replied like it was painful.

"Oh, that's right," I said, delighted suddenly because he was double-dating with one of his best friends, Malik Sanderson. I liked Malik, he had a dry sense of humor and was often sarcastic, and I really respected his absolute faith that his soulmate was out there, and he was prepared to find her by any and all means available to him, be that online or in person. Now normally, Lang dating was not cause for the aforementioned delight from me, but everyone knew going on a double one was the kiss of death. "Well, it looks like I will have to hit Bartoli's by myself."

"Yeah, but…we could go tomorrow," he suggested, gesturing for Vargas so we could take him into one of the interrogation rooms.

"Saturdays we do laundry and have breakfast. You know this."

"It doesn't have to be breakfast. We had lunch…what, two weeks ago?"

"We had breakfast and then later had lunch as well, as you recall."

"Why? We don't usually eat both?"

"We went and played tennis after laundry and annoyed the crap out of everyone there because we yelled at each other the whole time."

He thought for a moment. "Yeah, that's right."

Always with me and Lang, there was the whole back-and-forth over the question of was the ball in or out. When other people went along with us, like the time before last, his friend Omari and his wife, Siobahn, stopped playing at some point and instead stood there, laughing. I was betting most people argued less and at a lower volume. "But eatin' before or after isn't important, the task is and the task takes time."

"I hate laundry day," he muttered.

"But think, what if you meet the woman of your dreams tonight?"

"Even if I do, that doesn't preclude us having pizza tomorrow."

"If you fall in love, maybe you'll wanna spend the day in bed."

"I'm not falling in love on a date," he said like that was ridiculous, "and even if we don't do laundry, we still have to eat breakfast."

He was missing the point completely. "Maybe you'll make her breakfast in bed."

"Who eats breakfast in bed? You'll get toast crumbs everywhere."

"I'm still hungry, so can you stop talking about food?" Vargas whined.

Once the three of us stepped into the hall, we were faced with a glowering Ian Doyle, but that was par for the course. What was new was Chris Becker with a similar expression, and finally, for an extra-special horror, Sam Kage, the chief deputy himself.

"Sir," I greeted him.

"Sir," Lang echoed me.

Redeker walked around Doyle and over to us, informed Vargas that he needed to go with him, and took hold of his arm. Leading him back down the hall, he passed Becker and Doyle, who moved out of the way, then immediately stepped back beside the chief deputy, who, of course, had not moved an inch.

"What happened in the strip club?" Sam Kage wanted to know.

I could tell from the way he asked the question that he already knew; he just wanted to hear our side of things.

"Marshal Pazzi," I began diplomatically, "didn't in any way want the fugitive to construe that we were violatin' his constitutional?—"

"No," Kage stopped me, then looked at Lang.

"Pazzi didn't think we had enough evidence that Vargas was Vargas, so he didn't feel he should be cuffed. My partner and I disagreed. On scene, Pazzi had seniority, so we deferred to him, and then Vargas told us he had to go to the bathroom and we were off to the races."

Kage nodded. "Seniority or not, if you disagree, you call it in, there and then, and get confirmation on procedure from your supervisory deputy."

Chris Becker pointed to himself.

"Or your deputy director, whoever is free."

Doyle looked bored and mad at the same time, which was impressive.

"I expect you to be able to say no when you're certain you're in the right."

"Yes, sir," Lang confirmed.

"Yessir," I parroted.

They left then, thankfully, but not before Becker informed us that Lang and I, along with Pazzi and Yamane, were to meet in his office in ten minutes. I would have preferred to go on Lang's double date as a chaperone or have a cavity filled, but from the look on Becker's face, we weren't getting out of that.

I wanted to go talk to Callahan because for whatever reason, he did not care for Pazzi yet kept it under control, and I never saw him throw a stapler at him like I'd seen Kohn do once. I mean, what kind of an asshole did you have to be to piss off Eli Kohn, perhaps the most unflappable guy I'd ever met. He handled the tough questions blasted at him nonstop by relentless reporters, and somehow keeping a smile on his face the whole time. Pazzi, however, nearly got brained by one of those fancy staplers that could punch through twenty pages at once despite not being big and heavy-duty. It was magic.

But Callahan was stuck interviewing Vargas with Redeker, and that would take time. Lang and I went to our desks, and I started looking for my mouse—apparently, whoever sat in the middle of the floor, things on their desk got taken by everyone —and Lang began looking at the messages that had been placed under the stapler on his. Lots of pink while-you-were-out notes that someone had got stuck taking.

"What does this say?" Lang called over to Dorsey, who, I was guessing, had been the one in the office all day.

"It says Malik," Dorsey grumbled. "And what kind of crappy friend are you, Ross, that he has to make sure you're showing up for your double date?"

"Why a double date?" Sharpe wanted to know. "Those are the worst. No matter what, your buddy always looks better."

"That's true," White, Sharpe's partner, asserted.

"Plus, Malik's a lawyer," I threw out.

"Oh, you're fucked," Doyle added with a cackle from where he was leaning over Ryan's desk, talking to him about something.

Fucking Doyle, always with the snarky comment adding insult to injury.

Lang threw up his hands and shot me a look.

"We're all only teasin'. It'll be fine. You're gonna have a great time."

Redeker leaned out of the interrogation room then. "Did you guys promise you were gonna feed this guy?"

"No," I told him. "But now I'm hungry too."

"So am I!" Vargas yelled out from behind him.

Redeker squinted at me. "You like to run, so go get us all food and take your partner with you."

"I do not, in fact, like to run," I advised him, "and that was just plain mean."

His rakish grin told me he didn't give a crap.

"We can't go anywhere," Lang chimed in. "We have to be in Becker's office in"—he checked his watch—"five minutes."

"Cho," Redeker barked at her. "You and Lopez get it done. Baylor and Richards can go with you. They're in the parking lot."

She flipped me off.

"How is this my fault? You can go talk to Becker instead."

"Nope," Lopez said quickly, glancing at her partner. "We don't want any part of Pazzi."

"Absolutely not," Cho quipped. "Food run it is. You all better text me or you won't be eating. I am not screwing around."

"What're you gettin'?" I called out.

"Sandwiches," she answered before she and Lopez stepped into the elevator.

I knew the deli she liked, so I was fast with our order, mine and Lang's, and put in a pastrami on rye for Vargas because he didn't strike me as a vegan.

"Let's go," my partner snapped because he was both hungry and annoyed, so I followed him, with lots of snickering happening behind us and me flipping off the room as we headed to the supervisory deputy's office.

"You look like a child when you do that," Lang assured me.

"Stop bein' mad at me because I'm the only one here with you. This ain't my fault."

"Did you get me extra meatballs on my sub?"

I shot him a look. As if I'd ever forgotten.

He grunted, but I got the shoulder bump that told me he was done being grouchy.

We got there before Pazzi and Yamane, which meant they had to sit in the chairs closest to the big man's desk, and we got the ones farther away. New people always wondered why Becker's office was bigger than Kage's, but the chief deputy didn't have lots of people in his office at one time to have morale discussions. He did the one-on-one thing in his space. If you were going in there, it was just you and him and God help you. So far, thankfully, it had never been me and him alone in his office, and I preferred it that way.

I sat down and crossed my arms, Lang did the same, and I wedged my knee against his.

"Are you two even aware of your body language?" Becker asked as Wes Ching, the SOG commander, stuck his head into the office.

"Are we going to—oh, sorry. Never mind. I think I got my days mixed up."

"No, you didn't," Becker told him, gesturing at us. "But these two and Pazzi and Yamane are having a thing."

"Which one is Pazzi? I feel like I know that name."

"He's the one Kohn threw the stapler at," I reminded him. I really liked Wes Ching. He said exactly what he thought at all times, and since he didn't share an office with the rest of us, he never got talked to about sharing his judgments.

"Oh yeah." He glanced at Becker. "Maybe let these guys go so we can eat, since Pazzi's an idiot."

No comment from Becker on that. "Text Cho and find out what she's picking up. Get something for me, and we can eat in here. This won't take long."

Ching grunted and leaned out as Pazzi and Yamane came in. Pazzi closed the door behind them.

"Nice," Yamane said in a really judgy voice at our back-of-the-room seating as he and Pazzi sat down.

I would have flipped him off but I didn't want to annoy my boss.

"Start at the beginning and tell me why you did what you did," Becker told Pazzi. "I already heard from Lang and the cowboy here."

I didn't mind the cowboy thing. It was the hat, which I only wore occasionally now, and my boots that were still a wardrobe staple. There were Wranglers as well, and my belt buckle was apparently far too big, according to my partner.

Yamane put up his hand to shut up his partner and explained that yes, Pazzi had been overly cautious, but technically, he was working from our training.

Lang countered that there was training and procedure and then there was stupidity when enough forms of identification were confirmed to satisfy detainment. "And even if you want to waste time waiting for IAFIS when you have everything but a goddamn birth certificate in front of you," Lang said, his voice getting sharp and precise like it did when he was pissed, "all fugitives or suspected fugitives should be in restraints. That is for our protection as well as theirs."

"I—"

"Period," Lang nearly yelled, shutting Pazzi down.

"Are you going to let me talk?"

"Was it your turn to talk?"

I glanced at Becker, who was quietly listening. I had a horrible vision of him making us swap partners for two weeks or something, and so I gently bumped Lang with my shoulder, then turned to Pazzi.

"We both know Vargas should have been restrained, yeah? Why so careful?"

Pazzi stared at me.

"It's always better to err on the side of caution, ain't it? That's just common sense. We all worry about bein' wrong, but I had to run five blocks."

He smiled then and exhaled, seeming to deflate. He was as tired as we were. When I glanced at my boss, he leaned back from his desk like he too was more relaxed. The temperature in the room had cooled, which was very good.

"I'm really sorry about that," Pazzi finally said.

I smiled wide. "Payin'-for-lunch sorry?"

"Not the way you eat," he griped.

Yamane elbowed him in the side.

"Fine. Whatever," he conceded.

"And Lang," I added.

"No," Lang said, "I don't need him to get my?—"

"We're a packaged deal," I said, cutting off my partner, tapping my fist on his knee to get him to stop. This time, he needed to let it go. "Because even though I was the one runnin', Lang had to keep track of me, and you know how much he hates doin' that."

Both Pazzi and Yamane laughed that time, and Lang muttered under his breath something about me being an ass, but he bumped my shoulder with his chin before sitting up straight.

"You need to text Cho. She's probably at the deli by now. Our orders are already in."

We all looked at Becker then, who waved us away, wanting his office cleared.

I was almost out when he said, "Wait one second, Mac."

Becker used Mac for me the most; Doyle seemed more partial to McCabe.

"Close the door."

I did as he told me and stood there waiting, facing my boss.

"You're good at resolving tension. You and your partner, your strengths and weaknesses line up well, so when he needs you, you're there, and vice versa. Don't think I don't see it."

I had no idea what that meant. "Just don't put me and Pazzi together. Please. We won't somehow find a way to work together. That'll end in bloodshed."

He scowled at me. "Care to rephrase?"

"My blood sugar is very low, sir. I don't even know what I'm sayin' no more. I might need some glucose or?—"

"Get out," he ordered me.

When I opened the door, Lang was there waiting, and I carefully closed it behind me.

"What did you do?" he groused at me. "If you fuck around, he's gonna put me and Pazzi together and you and Yamane, and that will seriously end in bloodshed."

"That's exactly what I told him," I said, grinning.

He fisted his hand in my Henley and yanked to get me moving. Like I wouldn't follow him anywhere at any time…ever.