Part I—He Did What?

"HE DID what?" Burton asked numbly, not sure he'd processed that right.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. "Uhm, Jackson Rivers talked to the assassin, the guy told him he was leaving the job, and, uhm… he left. After, I guess, killing his boyfriend for trying to take the Rivers/Cramer contract off his hands."

"And Rivers just… talked to the guy," Burton said, wondering why he couldn't seem to understand that. According to Jason, the entire thing had gone down over Christmas, and they were just hearing about it now. Of course, Jason had taken some personal leave to purchase his house and get it set up so he could ask Cotton to live with him, and, oh yeah, impossible fucking storms and their aftermath…but… but… but that had been over a month ago, and they were just hearing about it now ?

"And… Rivers simply talked to the guy," Jason replied. "And then he and Cramer and Daniels, Briggs, and Medina all had a nice Christmas dinner, and they left the next morning, and, uhm…." Jason wasn't immune to embarrassment. "Uhm, if our surveillance is accurate at all, nobody went knockin' 'cause their cabin was rockin'."

Burton stared at him. "I didn't need to know that."

Constance glared back. "Neither did I, but they told me anyway, and I had to share."

They both shuddered in an attempt to shake it off, although part of what they were probably shaking off was the embarrassment of thinking of Jackson Rivers naked and doing the thing. Now that Burton knew he himself was bi, he'd been able to admit when some guys would have done it for him if he hadn't been devoted to Ernie. Rivers was one, and even Ernie called him "sex on legs" sometimes.

"So…," Burton muttered, "this guy… this, uhm… guy . The actual fuck?"

"We don't have a name or an ID or even confirmation he exists," Constance said. "And we've been looking since this went down. But Medina's been going through the chatter on the dark web, and…." He gnawed his lip, and Burton had a chance to process how young his friend had seemed since he and Cotton had moved in together. Of course, Cotton still went to nursing school during the week, but Burton knew from experience that sometimes it was the hope that your person would be there to greet you. Jason managed to make it home about two days a week, mostly to see Cotton, and Burton had no doubt that even that small amount of time had given his CO and friend a longer, happier life.

"And what?" Burton asked, curious because Jason Constance was never this uncertain.

"And there are… blank spots," Jason said grimly. "It's hard to put it any different than that. Like, one minute we can see the contract on Jackson and Ellery, and the next minute nobody is asking about it. Now, you and I know that's because our cold fish put a stop on the contract and then backed it up. But the internet chatter doesn't show us the real-life stuff. If anybody lived to see it, nobody's talking."

They both met eyes. "If anybody lived to see it," Burton said darkly.

Jason nodded and then took a few steps around Burton's quarters, where they were currently conferring. It wasn't that their association with Jackson Rivers and Ellery Cramer was secret, but Burton's boyfriend and Jason's boyfriend were definitely on the down-low. Some people in their unit might have met Cotton, but nobody knew he was currently at Jason's place on the weekends. Ernie had saved every deployed member more than once by telling Burton to "watch out for the girl in love with a schoolteacher," or, "Hey, that guy with the godlike chest and Adonis blue eyes is going to run into trouble tonight." (Burton hadn't been excited by that one, but he had passed the tip along as "chatter," which ops used a lot to keep their sources secret.)

"Or maybe…," Jason murmured, pausing his pacing. He grimaced and shook his head. "Well, I wouldn't bet my life on it," he said.

"What?" Burton asked. "Bet your life on what?"

"Lee… what do you think Victoriana looks like to someone in the intelligence community?"

Burton stopped breathing, his face taking on a perfect mask of neutrality. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said.

"Um-hum…. Sex-trafficked children found on the side of the road next to their coyote who apparently committed suicide. Ring any bells?"

"You're the one who got them to safety, sir," Burton said.

"Remains of mobsters revealed during flood in the desert—any clues?" Jason pressed.

"I wasn't there when they went into the desert, if that's what you mean," Burton said. This time, he tried for guileless, but he wasn't sure he was good at it.

"Mm… yeah. How about, a serial stickup felon who turned himself into coyote kibble for no apparent reason? What about that guy?"

"From what I heard, he just swerved into a cactus and kept going," Burton said. He had been there for that one, but then, so had Jason's car, which had been taken into Ace's garage to get its brakes fixed.

"Come off it, Burton. Three entire branches of the Las Vegas mob scene have disappeared into the black hole between Vegas and San Diego―"

"And meth dealers," Burton said, giving an evil little smile.

"Whose children were saved by random strangers hauling ass through the house," Constance muttered, but his admiration was unmistakable.

"You should have seen Ace," Burton reminisced, beyond pretense now because he was so proud of his friend. "He was like one of those action heroes on the big screen, running through the house, throwing kids out windows, clocking bad guys, leaping out in a shower of shattered glass barely ahead of a fireball. It was epic ."

Jason gave him a droll look. "And yet funny how none of those things is ever picked up on chatter," he said drily, and then Burton got it.

"Oh," he said softly.

"Oh yeah," Constance said, but he was much grimmer. "And you know, our cold friend up north actually mentioned us. For all we know, he thinks your people in Victoriana are related. According to Medina, he sounded, well, impressed."

"We don't know this guy's agenda," Burton said thoughtfully, "but we know it might not be all bad."

"That's right," Constance said, but then he shuddered. "But I'd hate to be the one who has to make the decision as to how bad it really is."

"Does anybody but us know about this guy?" Burton asked, suddenly worried.

"Only this unit," Jason said, obviously thinking what Burton was. Jason's unit kept a lot of secrets, and Burton felt safer about the world because of it.

Burton blew out a breath. "Should we keep it that way?"

Jason gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "Maybe…. Look, I'm just playing the percentages here, but maybe you should, maybe, tell Ernie and have him talk to everybody else."

"And I would do that because?" Burton stared at him.

"Because there's no telling what will happen when two blank spots in the chatter overlap and…." Jason rubbed his stomach. "Could you… could you text Ernie now ?" he asked.

Burton's entire body went cold. "Yeah. Yeah, how about, uhm, how about I just go home early today, how's that?"

"Great idea," Jason said. "I…. Shit." Burton understood—Jason had at least five, six hours until he could leave the base. Burton could admit without conceit that he was Jason's best operative and his most trusted friend in the unit, but Jason had a lieutenant colonel who was his titular second-in-command. Given the sensitivity of the mission at the base, one of them had to be in attendance at all times. "I'll get out of here as early as possible. But text Ernie now for me, could you?"

Burton caught Jason's urgency and, like he did on an op, fought through the cold and into action. He was texting Ernie before he thought about it, and he and Jason waited breathlessly for him to text back.

And waited.

And waited.

Earlier that day

OH! COTTON was so excited! He'd managed to pass his first three big tests, and while his workload hadn't diminished one bit, he was going to drive to the unfinished neighborhood outside of Victoriana to spend the weekend with Jason. He could get lots of homework done between swimming in the pool, visiting Ernie and his cats, and banging Jason stupid.

Cotton hadn't forgotten his priorities, but he'd rediscovered the joys of having a lover he actually loved , and he didn't intend to forget about it anytime soon.

He shared a congratulatory soda with his roommate before packing his clothes and his schoolbooks and hopping into the little sedan his friends at Johnnies had bought him before his semester started. Jason's friends Sonny and Ace had checked the thing out during his last weekend in Victoriana and pronounced it sound, so he and Jason were both okay with him driving it across the desert to visit, which was nice, and being that it was a crisp March day in Death Valley, the trip promised to be exhilarating rather than exhausting.

Or it did until about halfway there, when the steering wheel gave a sudden lurch and the car began to list as steering became impossible.

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Cotton got the thing to the side of the road and killed the engine, his heart pounding. His hands were sweaty as he pulled out his phone, and he was about to text Jason when he remembered what his boyfriend did for a living.

Saved the world.

Jason Constance saved the world.

And Cotton Carey could change his own damned tire.

Still, his hands were clammy and shaking as he hopped out of the car and surveyed the driver's side tire, which had apparently given up the ghost in transit.

Checking for service, he was grateful for the three whole bars. He took a picture of the tire and texted it to Ernie, who replied almost immediately.

D'oh! Sonny and I will be right there.

Where's Ace and Jai ? Cotton asked, mostly because Sonny usually stayed behind and minded the fort. Cotton thought it might have something to do with how easily Sonny could get spun up if he wasn't in his comfort zone.

Something came up , Ernie texted, and Cotton realized that might be all he ever knew about that. He was surprised how often something "came up" for the people of Victoriana.

I'm about an hour out , he sent back. I could probably change the tire myself.

No!

He stared at his screen, a little surprised.

I'm sorry?

Sorry, Cotton. Got a feeling. Can't really explain it. Hang tight. Don't take any rides from strangers, okay?

Cotton stared at the text, a little bewildered, but Jason had told him once to trust everything Ernie said. He'd trust this too.

Sure. I've got water, snacks, and a little light reading. That last one was a joke, because he had several chapters of his anatomy textbook that he had to be up on by the end of the weekend, and he figured this would give him a chance to get to that without inconveniencing Jason.

You do that , Ernie replied, and Cotton wasn't sure if he got the joke or not, but he'd already pulled out the textbook and gotten into it, so he forgot to ask.

About a half hour in, around the time he was ready to get out of the car and take a piss on the side of the road, he saw a vehicle approaching in his rearview, slowing as it drew near. With a sigh he got out of the Toyota and stretched, ready to tell this nice civilian that he was fine, just waiting on his friends who would help him change his flat.

The vehicle was bigger than he'd anticipated. In fact, oh my God, it was an entire Winnebago , and the man who got out of it was good-looking in a very blandly handsome way. He approached Cotton genially, hands in the pockets of his worn Levi's, a colorful scarf wrapped around his face and shoulders to fight against the brisk desert wind. As he got near, Cotton saw he had ice-blue eyes and dark blond hair, and he gave Cotton, in his sweater and jeans, an appreciative glance.

Cotton returned the smile in that neutral way he'd been learning since he quit porn. His body wasn't readily available anymore, and he wanted to convey that message along with the same basic friendliness that Cotton had always possessed.

"Heya," the man said. "Do you need some help?"

"No thanks," Cotton said, remembering the almost panicked tone of Ernie's texts. "I mean, it's nice of you to offer, but I've got friends on the way. They should be here soon. I'll be okay."

The man barely contained a grimace. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I've got hot chocolate in the RV, and a couple of kittens who would love for you to entertain them!"

Cotton gnawed his lip, sorely tempted by both things. He glanced at his phone screen again and politely declined. "Sorry, if my friends drive by and don't see me, they'll panic."

"Good friends?" the man asked, leaning up against Cotton's vehicle with his arms crossed.

"Yes," Cotton said. "New, but good. I sort of, uhm, inherited them from my boyfriend, really. He's deployed a lot, so they keep an eye out for me."

"Deployed?" The stranger's relaxed position on Cotton's car didn't shift, but Cotton was aware of a… coiling. A muscular tension in the man that hadn't been present before. "He's in the military?"

Wait! Jason had rehearsed how he was supposed to answer this. "Yeah, he's in a troubleshooting squad for training sites. You know, accidents, injuries. He goes and assesses the site and works with the insurance adjuster to decide if it was human error or a trainee mistake. They don't like people getting hurt on the military's watch, right?" He nodded earnestly. He remembered asking Jason if there was really such an office in any branch of the military, and Jason had shrugged. "Hell if I know, Cotton. I just know there's usually ten layers of bureaucracy to get anything done, including money for training facilities. I'm going to be charitable and assume some of that would go there."

"Sounds… boring," the man said, none of that coiled tension leaving his body. "Is he?"

Cotton stared at the man in outrage. "No! He's smart and funny, and we read books together and discuss them, and—" He paused in his vigorous defense of Jason when he realized what was going on here. "Oh. You're hitting on me."

"Well, uhm, yes !" The man laughed. "I don't know if anybody's told you this, but you're stunning ."

Cotton grimaced and told the truth, which was guaranteed to get a man like this—average, vanilla, arrogant—to back off. "I used to be an adult performer," he said. "I've heard it a lot . I tend to go deeper now. Beauty fades."

The coiled tension disappeared as the man's absolute surprise registered. "An… an adult performer? Oh my God. You were a Johnnies model ?"

Cotton raised his eyebrows. There was "porn" and there was "Johnnies," and the second one was specific enough to know he'd found a viewer.

"You know my work?" he asked pleasantly.

"You're…." The man stared at him, helpless and a little bewildered as he adjusted his stance—and his pants. "Uhm, yeah. I've…." An absolutely livid blush swept up from his neck, and he had to clear his throat a few times. "Uhm. Wow." He shook his head. "I am having the weirdest week. So, uhm, your boyfriend works a boring military job, and you were an, uhm, adult performer. What do you do now?"

"I'm in nursing school," Cotton told him blandly, and the guy's eyes bulged.

At that moment, a car—one of the few out on the road at this hour—approached from the east. Cotton peered at it and then grinned at his friend who'd helped him pass the time.

"Hey!" he said. "My friends are here. One of them has cats—like, lots and lots of cats, so you two can talk about that when they get out." Cotton smiled in anticipation. "Petting his cats is one of the best parts of visiting my boyfriend on the weekend. Surrounded by that purring… it's great !"

At this point his friend was a little bit dazed. "Wow. Okay. I can't wait to meet your friend who has cats."

Cotton gave him an indulgent smile before turning to watch as Ernie's latest POS arrived on the road's shoulder. It had no sooner stopped than Ernie and Sonny got out—Ernie had been driving—and while Sonny went for the jack and the power tools and the new tires, probably two if Cotton knew his friends, in the back of the POS sedan, Ernie got out and strode toward him and his new friend from the Winnebago. Not wandered, Cotton noted, strode .

"Ernie!" Cotton said in genuine pleasure. He really did love Jason's friends. "Come meet this nice man who pulled over to help me." He looked expectantly to the stranger. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Eric," said the man, extending his hand to Ernie. "Eric Christiansen."

Ernie took the man's hand with a certain resolution, and then his shoulders twitched as though something not entirely painful—but definitely anticipated—shocked him.

"I'm Ernie," he said, and his dreamy black-lashed indigo eyes were suddenly very, very sharp. "And what brings you to the desert, Mr. Christiansen?" He paused, and to Cotton's surprise, his friend's jaw was square and hard. "And think very carefully before you answer."

Christiansen's eyes were suddenly as hard and as cold as a glacier, and Cotton glanced from Ernie to this stranger who'd approached him on the side of the road and was very, very afraid.

ERNIE SLEPT with an assassin—some of his best friends were mobsters and psychopaths. He'd even killed a few men himself.

He did not rattle easily.

But "Eric Christiansen"—not his real name—had rattled Ernie since Cotton had texted, probably twenty minutes before the Winnebago had even pulled up.

Ernie had sensed it coming, like a glacier on a freight train, a speeding tonnage of absolute ice.

He'd had to steel himself to shake Christiansen's hand, and he'd been expecting bugs—giant beetles with frozen feet—but he'd been surprised.

The cold, yes—but it was the snow crust on the pelt of an Arctic fox. There was a warm-blooded mammal underneath the snow, but ice was its element, its home, its life force, and killing was a necessity, a thrill, and a means of sustenance all in one.

Ernie wasn't sure he'd ever met a more emotionally efficient killer in all his life, and he'd been drafted by an illegal branch of the army to evaluate assassins as a job .

"Cotton, needyerhelp here," Sonny called. "You got muscles, boy, let's put 'em to use."

Ernie saw Sonny, crouched in front of the car with the jack, and suppressed a smile. He'd told Sonny to distract Cotton from the interloper before they'd pulled up. Sonny had asked, "Is this a witchy thing?" and Ernie's "Pretty much," had been all he needed. Sonny's absolute trust was a magical commodity, and Ernie would not take it for granted.

Cotton hustled off in an earnest desire to help, and Christiansen watched him in what seemed to be honest bemusement. "That boy," he said conversationally, "has a nine-inch penis with a two-inch diameter. It's stunning. Usually that sort of thing comes with a proportional ego, you know, but I've had apple crumbles with less sweetness and more pretension."

Despite his internal warnings—and they were going off with full impact—Ernie smiled.

"You won't find a kinder, more grounded person than Cotton," he said. The indulgence in his tone cut off. "We'd kill to keep him safe."

Christiansen's bemusement failed. "Why would you even—"

But it was pretense, and they both knew it. "Zero crap, Mr. Christiansen," Ernie said. "What are you doing on this stretch of the desert? Your answer matters."

"I was on my way to—"

"No," Ernie said.

"Las Vegas is—"

"Nuh-uh."

"And the Grand Canyon is—"

"Please stop jerking me off. I don't need a nine-inch penis to find it offensive and personal."

"What would you do about it if I were?" Christiansen asked as though legitimately curious.

"Do you know what borderline personality disorder is?" Ernie asked as though talking about the weather.

"Yes," Christiansen said, blinking rapidly.

"That nice man changing Cotton's tires is a textbook case. If I whistled him over here and told him what you are, he would brain you with a tire iron before I was done speaking, and then he and Cotton would help us hide the body."

Christiansen's eyes widened in surprise, but Ernie kept talking.

"And I know you're thinking that the scalpel in your pocket could kill me, Cotton, and maybe Sonny—but probably not because he's got skills you'd never guess—before Sonny got to you with the tire iron, but remember this." Ernie's voice dropped, and Ernie was effectively in the present in a way he only usually was when having sex with Burton. "Sonny is the least dangerous person Cotton knows."

He saw the moment, the actual moment, when that registered. Christiansen swallowed almost imperceptibly, and his pupils widened the tiniest bit, and his nostrils flared as though he were scenting prey. "Where would the most dangerous person Cotton knows happen to be?" he asked.

Ernie gave an insouciant shrug. "Maybe he's a quarter mile away with a sniper's scope on us," he said airily, although he knew Burton wasn't that close. He was aware that Burton and Jason were currently scrambling for a helicopter. "And maybe he's taking care of something that the law would not," he hazarded, although he knew exactly what Ace and Jai were doing. "And maybe he's simply caring for somebody who's been injured through no fault of their own." Which is what he was pretty sure George was doing. "And maybe, just maybe, he's having a pleasant conversation with a stranger about the two kittens currently batting the windshield of the man's Winnebago." Deliberately, Ernie turned and waved at the little darlings. "Aw," he said, legitimately charmed. "One of them has club feet. Good for you, adopting special kittens. Points in your favor."

He turned deliberately back—not moving quickly, not showing any of his own military self-defense training, not doing anything to spook the professional killer who had shaken his hand. "If you'd like some pointers for dealing with kittens with special needs, I have a friend who specializes in three-legged tomcats who like to destroy living rooms."

Eric Christiansen's eyes grew very wide at this. "In fact," he said, his voice a little thready, "I got these kittens from a man named Jackson Rivers. Do you know him?"

Ernie was lucky he'd seen the association in the shake of hands. "I do," he said pleasantly. "We consider him and Ellery Cramer to be Very . Good . Friends ."

Mr. Christiansen nodded carefully. "What did you say the most dangerous man you know is doing?"

"Any of a dozen things," Ernie told him, his gift responding to the whap-whap-whap of the helicopter blades when it was undetectable to his ears. "Why do you ask?"

"I think," Christian said, "that in answer to your earlier question, ‘What am I doing here,' I might want to talk to this man. One dangerous man to another."

"Hm…," Ernie murmured. "Then perhaps you want to follow us? I'm in the mood for a soda—there's a mini-mart about half an hour away." By Winnebago, it was half an hour away. By Ernie, who was driving like a NASCAR racer, channeling both his gift and his friendship with Ace to get him and Sonny to Cotton ASAP , it was closer to fifteen minutes.

"I have soda in my—"

Ernie sent him a hard glance, knowing that to his left, Sonny had changed Cotton's tires in record time and was currently putting his jack and power tools into the trunk of Ernie's POS, along with the two tires he'd removed, because Sonny was that fast.

"The mini-mart," he said, smiling thinly. "Your kittens are awfully cute, sir, but I don't need to see them in person just yet."

Christiansen swallowed. "For the record," he said, his cultured voice masking the tiniest edge of hurt, "none of the people here would be in any danger in my RV."

Ernie took that for what it was. "That's reassuring," he said. "But so many people would be in danger should it become convenient to go back on that promise. I'm choosing the safest option for all involved."

Christiansen's hurt faded. "How many people are we talking about?" he asked, suddenly sounding a little alarmed and very curious.

"You don't have to worry," Ernie said. "Odds are you'll never have cause to meet all of them at once."

"And where are—"

Ernie gave a slight smile, and now the whap-whap-whap was actually audible. "I suggest you get in your vehicle and make your way to the mini-mart with the sandwich shop inside, right across from the garage. Trust me, they're the only buildings you can see from the road for quite a ways. You can't miss them."

A faint look of panic crossed Christiansen's features as he heard the helicopter too. "Are you military ?" he asked, surprised.

"Me?" Ernie laughed. "No. And you're not on any military radar at the moment, so don't panic. But do get in your RV and follow us." Ernie smiled indulgently at Cotton, who was getting into his vehicle and waving. "But not Cotton. He needs to get home."

Christiansen waved too, his bemusement never fading. "He has no idea who I'm dealing with, does he?"

Ernie laughed softly. "Oh, he knows. He just doesn't understand violence, not in any meaningful way. We would like to keep it that way, and we don't mind leaving a few things out to do that."

Sonny was approaching now, his toolkit still in his hand when it should have been thrown in the trunk already. "We ready to go?" he asked, giving Christiansen an unfriendly stare.

Christiansen bowed slightly. "I'll follow you to the mini-mart," he said respectfully.

Sonny nodded back curtly. "That's fine," he said. "Someone'll meet us when we get there."

"Someone?"

Ernie tilted his head. "I know you think you need to meet with the most important person we've got," he said, keeping the illusion that they were an actual organization. "But what you don't realize is we are all the most important person we've got. Don't worry. Somebody who can answer your question will meet us there."

"What's my question?" Eric Christiansen asked. "How would you know what it is?"

"That was the easiest thing to figure out," Ernie said, and it was true. The minute he'd sensed Christiansen's true nature, he'd known what it could be. "You want to know if you're safe here or if you'll be treading on any toes. You want to know if there's a territory, if you need to mark a space. You don't want to set up shop here—you want to live here, and you need to know if it's safe to do so."

"Is it?" Christiansen asked, sounding wistful.

"It could be," Ernie said thoughtfully. "But we'll talk there." He gave a faint smile. "Bring the kittens inside in their crate—I'd love to say hello. Sonny, one of them's got club feet, can you see?"

Sonny glanced to the front of the RV, his face splitting into that impossibly young and excited grin. "Ain't he cute," he said. "Why they call 'em club feet? Or club foot? 'Cause that'd be a pretty sucky club right there. Why isn't it ‘unique feet'? That'd work better on account of it rhymes."

Ernie gave Christiansen a real smile. "Well, sir, you heard him. We look forward to meeting your kitten with the unique feet." His smile turned businesslike. "Later."

"Who will we be waiting for?" Christiansen asked. "Our friends in the helicopter?"

"It depends," Sonny said. "We got some folks doing a thing today. They're done with the thing, you might meet them instead." He gave an evil smile. "Maybe you should wait for the helicopter."

Christiansen looked like he'd had more shocks today than he was used to, so Ernie guided Sonny back to his vehicle and loaded in, telling Sonny that he'd drive if Sonny could text, because they'd need a guy on coms.

"What'm I doing?" Sonny asked as Ernie took the wheel and pulled smoothly onto Hwy 15.

"Checking to see if Ace and Jai are done," Ernie said grimly. "I'd rather not give away Burton and Jason yet, although they're the ones in the helicopter."

Sonny's chuckle was as evil as his smile had been. "I think Ace and Jai are having a banner fucking day, you think?"

Ernie chuckled back. "I sure do hope so."