Chapter Twenty-eight

Memphis.

Reid's pretty sure he's been through this city before on some job or another. He doesn't remember finding anything worth coming back for, but then, he's already been to most of the places they visit.

Somehow they all seem completely different now that he has Nate.

So when Nate sees a sign for Graceland - Now decorated for the holidays! Come have a Blue Christmas! - Reid takes the exit without protest. He has been trying to be more vigilant, avoiding overly crowded places like this, but he tells himself that it's been months without any sign that the Angelevs are even remotely close to tracking them down.

Besides, he's been beating his head against the wall that Nate seems to have placed between them for weeks now, and for the first time Nate seems open, his eyes wide and hopeful...

...and they're standing in the Jungle Room an hour later.

"Really?" Reid scoffs, rolling his eyes for at least the fifth time in the last ten minutes. "This place belonged to the freaking king. It should be a castle, but it's just so...lame."

Nate squints. "It's just a house, Reid. What did you expect?"

"I dunno, something bigger. Sexier. More worthy of MTV's Cribs."

Nate smiles to himself and has to stop from reaching out to slide his hand into Reid's. One of the hardest things about his new conviction to not ruin Reid's chances for a life after the trial is to rein in the random displays of affection. He's not sure who he's protecting more - Reid or himself - but that doesn't really matter. He just curls his fingers tightly into his palm and stuffs his hand deep into his pocket instead.

But Reid's too distracted to notice Nathaniel's little internal debate. His jaw is too tight, his attention too focused on a man moving in their direction through the crowded hallway. He's short and slim, dressed like he belongs in a homeless shelter instead of a tourist attraction. He's been with them from the bus that ferried them from the ticket booth to the house itself, always staying a careful distance away, never looking directly at them. He stays bent over his cellphone, apparently more interested in texting than in seeing the house.

It's all just a hair wrong, a shade off from normal.

Besides, who goes to Graceland alone?

By the time they've worked their way outside, standing solemnly over Elvis' grave with the silent man maintaining his still-perfect distance, Reid is so on edge that he won't let Nate more than six inches from his side. There's something about this guy that Reid just can't shake, like an itchy mosquito bite on the back of his brain.

He's heard other marshals talk about some sort of sixth sense, some way they just knew their charge was in danger without seeing anything they can quantify. Reid always thought it was douchey and pretentious - it was just their training kicking in, maybe on a level that they weren't consciously aware of, but still - there is no magical marshal spidey sense.

But he's got no other reason for feeling the way he does, and he's not willing to risk Nate's life by writing off a nothing that feels like a something.

"Nate. I wanna get out of here."

Nate frowns, pulling the Graceland flier from his back pocket. "Didn't you want to see the car museum first? I thought that you would love the collection."

Reid shakes his head; Nate is now officially worried.

"Let's just go home."

*******

It's just an expression, of course; for them, home is a person, not a place. They're just as at home in Elvis' backyard as they will be anywhere else, but they have to seek out the privacy of their motel room to try to relax, curled together and napping in the late afternoon sun.

It's become a ritual of sorts, on the days when they're stationary enough to indulge themselves. It's warm and comforting, a way to reassure themselves of the other's presence, to know in their bones that everything is still alright, that they are together and okay.

It usually leads to sex, but not that afternoon. Reid's too shaky, Nate's too tense. It all feels so fragile, suddenly, but neither one can quite put a finger on why. So instead of splitting a six-pack and takeout in the peace of their room, they head out after the sun sets in seek of distraction.

Neither of them notice the tan Taurus that follows them from a careful distance.

*******

They park a few blocks off of Beale Street, drawn like moths to the bright lights of the strip of bars in the heart of the city. They wander through the music and crowds until they find what they want - a tiny dive where everyone drinks beer instead of fruity mixed drinks, with the best blues band either of them have ever heard playing inside.

The place is long and skinny, barely more than a hallway with booze, but the raucous energy inside sweeps them along with it, smooths the frayed edges of nervous tension they've been carrying lately.

Nate sits at a table close to the band, tucked into a far corner where he can still watch the door, while Reid saunters to the bar and winks at the bartender, a big-haired Southern broad who looks to be pushing fifty but is probably a decade younger. There's a lit cigarette bobbing between her lips and Reid worries that she's going to pull a Michael Jackson and light her hair on fire when she produces a can of Aqua Net from beneath the bar and sprays a generous fresh shellac on her towering bangs.

"What can I get ya, darlin?"

"What's good?"

"Nothin'. But the beer's cheap and comes in big ass plastic cups."

"Well, two big ass beers then, please."

Reid leans on the bar and watches Nate absently, taking in the way he leans back in the chair and taps his toe with the beat. He carries himself so differently now; gone is the rigid, uptight Angelev that walked into his office months ago in a suit and tie. This Nate is alive in a way that one never had been, softer and quicker to smile, curious and engaged with the world for the first time. It warms something deep inside Reid to think that he might have had something to do with the change.

He's plotting how he's going to continue Nate's crash course in How to Be Alive 101 later, fantasizing about finding a nice place to stay and surprising him with the old standard of champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Reid'll feed them to him and watch those full lips wrap around the berry, getting stained with chocolate that Reid will be more than happy to lick clean...

And then he gets distracted.

A door that Reid hadn't noticed before opens behind the bar and a slim man slips out. In the slice that's visible for the second the door is open, Reid sees a small, smoky room, empty except for a table piled with with cash and cards, three men seated around it.

The door closes; the back wall is dark and impenetrable again. Reid pinches the ever-thinning wad of cash in his pocket when the bartender returns, sliding his drinks across the scarred wood.

He turns on the charm, leaning conspiratorially across the bar. "So, what's a guy like me got to do to get an invite into the game in the back?"

She doesn't miss a beat, wiping up the beer that sloshed over the side of the cups when she says, "Don't know what you're talking about, sweet cheeks. It's six for the drinks."

Reid slides a ten at her and pushes it slowly into her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and stroking the knob of bone with his thumb. "C'mon. I'm new in town and just want to try my hand at a local game."

Very few people can resist the charms of Reid Logan; luckily for him, she's not one of them. The world-weary exterior melts away and she leans in, bringing her face only inches away from his.

Gotcha. Reid seals the deal, slowly licking his lips before whispering roughly in her ear, "Pretty please."

Blushing, she gestures for him to follow her behind the bar, crossing to the hidden door with some extra swagger in her ample hips. Reid detours to walk by Nate's table, dropping off his drink with a low, "I'm going to make us some money - I'm behind the bar if you need me." Nate nods and turns his attention back to the band as Reid drifts away.

He kisses the bartender's cheek when he slips past her and into the hidden back room, smiling at the three men already seated there. He can barely see them, the only light a single bare bulb in the ceiling and the air so filled with smoke that he has to fight the urge to cough. But he scrapes the empty chair back and slaps his cash on the table with confidence, rubbing his palms together excitedly. "Deal me in, boys."

The bearded guy shuffling the deck takes a long moment to measure Reid, eyeing the stack of crumpled bills and checking for any obvious bulge of a weapon. He narrows his eyes, gruff as he says, "I'm Jep, and this is my bar, boy. So if you're thinking about trying anything underhanded, you're better off to just walk right back out the door. I don't tolerate violence or cheating of any sort."

And even though Jep's banned behaviors are actually a fairly accurate description for Reid's primary way of life, he just grins and answers, "I'll be on my best behavior. Scout's honor." He even goes to raise his fingers in the scout salute, but has to drop his hand back into his lap when he realizes that he doesn't actually know what it is.

But the attempt is apparently enough to satisfy Jep, because he stops flipping the cards between his hands and starts dealing them around in a classic Texas Hold'em. Reid flips up the corners to peek at his two hold cards, tosses in his bet, and Jep lays out the flop.

Reid keeps his face carefully neutral as he watches the cards turn; he's suddenly only one away from a full house.

Finally, this day is starting to look up.

And he's deliberating on how much he should bet, thumbing absently through his cash, when the door behind him opens again. The noise from the bar is like a sudden roar and Jep looks up, his back straightening. The door closes again, the quiet that descends over the room much thicker than before.

The hair on the back of Reid's neck stands up. He can feel someone standing behind him and slowly slides one hand off the table, inching toward his gun at his waist.

"Hello, Marshal Logan."

The voice is raspy and southern and unfamiliar, but none of that matters. What matters is that someone just called him by his real name. Someone has recognized him.

They're blown.

Reid's blood turns to sludge, rolling too slow and heavy through his veins, while everything else starts moving far too quickly.

Fuck.

Fuck.

So this is where the world ends - in a goddamned shithole in Memphis over a lousy poker game.

It's funny; Reid always thought he'd feel surprised when someone eventually tracked them down. Instead it's just so heavy and sort of sad, like last call at his favorite bar and he's not ready to go.

He turns in silence and stares up into an unfamiliar face. There's nothing he can do but watch as the man continues talking.

As his life keeps unraveling.

"Yeah, I thought that was you. I got a call this morning from one of my dealers who works up the street from Graceland and he tells me the craziest story - that the snitching, as-good-as-dead Angelev brother that everyone's spent months looking for just strolled up to the ticket booth with some tall, bow-legged bastard hovering next him. I, of course, just assume that my guy's been sampling the product a little too much and he's hallucinating again, but I tell him to tail them on the off chance that it really is Nathaniel." The man laughs, slowly walking around the table so Reid has to swivel in his chair to keep his eyes on him.

"I mean, what a prize would that be, right? Serving him up to the Angelevs on a silver platter?" His boots are so loud on the squeaking floorboards; Reid can see the grayish color of his teeth when he smiles. "So he texts me a picture and - hot damn; he was right. And not only is it Nathaniel, but as an added bonus, I personally know - and hate - the  marshal who's protecting him."

He's reached the other side of the table, absently picks up the card deck and fans through it. "So I tell him to stay with you, that I'll catch up as soon as I can. Because I have just got to see it for myself - the delicious look on your face when you realize that you've been caught. And now, well-" he slaps the deck back down with a bang, his eyes burning greedily into Reid's, "-here we are."

Reid finally finds his voice, sort of. It's hoarse and choked, ground out from between clenched teeth. "Who-"

"Who am I? Come on, Marshal, you're hurting my feelings here. Am I really that forgettable?"

The man laughs again, and suddenly Reid can see it. Erase twenty pounds and eight years of hard living, and there he is. Lonnie Welch, one of the first witnesses Reid ever protected - and one that he never got along with.

If Reid remembers correctly, Lonnie was a coke dealer who'd gotten arrested and squealed on his supplier in return for placement in Witness Protection. It was hard to believe that the Angelevs would have anything to do with someone like that - they were famous for their zero-tolerance policy on rats - but for information on Nathaniel they'd probably work with the devil himself.

"Lonnie," Reid breathes.

"Actually, you guys changed it to Steve."

"That's right, we did. I went to all that trouble to set you up in a brand-new life - and put up with your whiny little bitch-ass in the process - and this is how you repay me? By selling crack to kids again and selling me out to the Angelevs?" Reid makes a tsk noise, trying to hide behind cockiness. "What's that old cliché? Oh, right. 'I'm not angry, just disappointed.'"

"I needed money, Marshal. The glamorous job you gave me as a city sanitation worker wasn't really going to cut it. Besides, you should be congratulating me on my entrepreneurial spirit. I've built quite the booming business here, made some powerful new friends...you know, nothing gets the Angelevs' attention like money. And now, I've got just what I need to get myself fully into the family's good graces." He pulls out a cell phone, starts scrolling through contacts. "Elsa, Elsa, where are you, you gorgeous little thing - ah. There."

He turns the screen toward Reid, presses the green button.

Calling Elsa Angelev.

Reid's seen this name before, in some of the most cold-hearted and bloody pieces of Nate's confession, and in the research Christine had compiled as she built her case. Elsa, Nate's sister and something of a specialist in the organization. If someone needed to be interrogated, tortured, or permanently disposed of, no one was better than Elsa.  She's smart and lethal and the absolute last person on the planet that Reid wants having even a scrap of information about Nate.

Reid shoves back from the table, money and cards fluttering to the floor, and stumbles over his overturned chair's legs. He's dizzy, too pale, and his pulse is too fast. He doesn't even remember moving, consumed by a red blur and a rage so strong that he can feel it in his teeth, in the rabid desire to bite and tear into Lonnie's throat until Reid's bathing in his blood, the life draining away beneath his hands.

And when the fury fades enough that Reid's aware of himself again, Lonnie's phone is in a dozen fractured pieces beneath Reid's boot and he's pulled Lonnie nearly off his feet, holding him pinned against the far wall. Reid's gun is in his hand, the safety off and the barrel digging into the flabby skin under Lonnie's chin.

He would do it. Lonnie is unarmed and at Reid's mercy; every law in the country would call pulling that trigger a crime. And yet, Reid knows that he could do it and sleep well that night. That it's the only way he will sleep well that night. But before he can squeeze, he hears the loud click of a hammer being pulled back an inch from his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jep holding a revolver level and aimed straight at Reid.

"Not in my bar, son. Drop the gun."

Reid thinks about just shooting Lonnie anyway. If he doesn't, Lonnie will call Elsa before Reid can even get back to his car. And once that happens, it's only a matter of time before she tracks them down.

But if he shoots now, he's got no doubt that Jep will return fire. It's suicide - which would still be okay, except that news of a US Marshal going rogue and murdering an Angelev associate before being shot himself is exactly the kind of thing that will draw a shit-ton of attention. And then someone will remember seeing Nate, or hearing this conversation, and then Nate will be as fucked as he is if Reid lets Lonnie live - only he'll be alone.

Reid drops the gun; he turns Lonnie loose.

Jep picks up Reid's gun and tucks it into his own waistband before muttering, "Now get out."

Lonnie leers, malicious and victorious.

And, out of options, Reid runs.

He slams through the door and staggers, shocked, because nothing has changed. The band is still playing; people are drinking and laughing just like they were five minutes ago. How can the world end and no one else notice?

No one except Nate, that is. He somehow senses that Reid is there, and it only takes one glance at him before he knows that the house of cards they've been living in has collapsed down around them. He stands, feeling dread slither cold and slimy down his throat. This - this look of blind panic on Reid's face - is the one he's been afraid of seeing since Lansing. It's the one that says they've been caught.

That it's over.

He tries to rush to Reid's side but a man from the next table over suddenly stands, moving into Nate's path. It's the disheveled dealer from Graceland, the one that Reid kept watching. And now he's shaking his head at Nate, flashing a gun at his hip.

Nate doesn't hesitate; he punches him in the jaw so hard that he's unconscious before he hits the floor.

And Reid can't even spare a second to appreciate it, just using the ruckus and drunken cries of "Fight, fight!" as cover to snag an empty whiskey bottle and, on a whim, the bartender's can of hair spray before ducking out from behind the bar and meeting Nate at the door.

A glass bottle and makeshift lighter-and-hairspray flame thrower aren't much as far as weapons go, but they're better than nothing.

Reid grabs Nate's hand and they walk down the sidewalk, quickly but trying not to draw attention. They use the crowds as much as they can, weaving around and through the clumps of people.

Reid picks a crumpled baseball hat out of a passing man's back pocket, pushing it down over Nate's recognizably messy black hair. He pulls the collar on his coat high, spares a second to allow himself to rest his hand against his soft cheek and murmur, "Keep your head down."

But far too soon, they run out of strangers to hide behind, reaching the end of the strip of bars where the sidewalks are growing less crowded. Reid risks a glance over his shoulder and - there. Half a block back and stalking toward them is Lonnie. He's gotten another cell phone from somewhere and it's plastered against his ear.

Reid knows exactly who's on the other end.

Lonnie isn't looking at him, not yet, but it's only a matter of time before he spots them out here in the open.

So Reid pulls Nate down a side alley, pausing to wrap his hand around the empty bottle's neck and smash the end of it against the brick wall. The broken part is jagged and sharp and he knows exactly how to kill with it, but that won't do him much good if Lonnie has gotten his hands on a gun.

Not that it matters in the long run. Not now that Elsa knows where to start tracking them.

Footsteps sound from the mouth of the alley behind them; Reid pulls Nate around another corner and into a back street. A group of homeless men are huddled around a trashcan fire a hundred feet away.

"No point in running, you little lovebirds," Lonnie calls, his voice echoing eerily through the narrow streets. "I know this city better than you could ever hope to. And you're never getting out of it alive."

They're cornered; the alley they came down is too narrow to slip back by Lonnie without him seeing, and the street they're on is straight and empty. It'll be impossible to lose him without some kind of cover.

Nate pushes up against Reid, his breath visible in the December cold and his eyes dark with worry. But the hairspray can in Reid's pocket is trapped between their bodies, and Nate's movement presses it painfully into Reid's hip. Reid blinks, staring at the fire with sudden inspiration, and silently thanks whatever higher power told him to take the hairspray. He darts toward the burning trash barrel, pulling the can from his pocket.

"Nate, you ever read the warnings on the back of an aerosol can?"

Nate answers in clipped, tight motions, his eyes darting around the shadowy alley. "I don't think now is the time to be discussing home safety tips."

But he catches on a moment later, realizing what's about to happen two seconds before Reid tosses the can into the flames.

"You should really back away," Reid mutters to the men in rags as Nate grabs his hand and pulls him into a sprint down the street.

Seconds later, just after Lonnie pushes his way through the cluster of homeless people running in the opposite direction, the pressurized contents of the can expand in the heat of the fire. It explodes, throwing ash and burning shrapnel into Lonnie's face, a sliver of the can slicing across his left cornea.

He falls to the pavement and drops the phone, screaming and rubbing furiously at his eyes. A shrill voice yells, small and tinny through the phone's speaker.

"Dammit, Lonnie, don't you dare lose them. Nathaniel has to die!"

But by the time Lonnie can see again, his eyes still burning and tears streaming down his cheeks, Reid and Nate are nowhere to be found.

********

Reid is shaking by the time they double-back to where they parked the Camaro, refusing to loosen his grip on the broken bottle until he's fished his back-up gun from beneath the seat and tucked it hard and comforting into his waistband.

He peels out before Nate even has the passenger's door closed completely, his head pounding as he begins to process just how thoroughly, royally fucked they now are.

"Son of a bitch! Goddamned idiotic, how could I forget about stupid fucking Lonnie, I walked us right into that..."

He rants so much that Nate is eventually able to put together the basics of what had happened and interrupts, the digital voice not capable of making the words as soothing as Nate wishes they were. "It wasn't your fault, Reid. You can't possibly remember where every witness you've ever worked with lives. And even so, it was just horribly bad luck that we happened to run into him."

"He knows your family, Nate. And I'm the one who moved him to this god-forsaken city. Bringing you here was like I practically set you on his doorstep with a big red bow wrapped around you."

"You didn't know he was back in the business, Reid. I'm sure you got him a reputable job before you left; there was no reason to think that he'd still have any of his old contacts."

Reid just shakes his head, refusing to let go of the guilt. And then he remembers that there's still a part of the story Nate doesn't know, a part that makes Reid feel even worse. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, takes a deep breath.

"Nate, there's something else I've gotta tell you." Reid tightens his grip on the steering wheel and watches the road intently, too afraid to glance over at him when he continues. "I think...I'm pretty sure it was your sister that Lonnie called. Elsa. That's your sister, right?"

Nate nods; he doesn't like where this conversation is going.

Reid continues quietly, like he's trying to soothe a wounded animal. "I'm sorry, man, but I think the next time someone comes for us, it won't be a hired gun. I think it will be your actual family. We might have to - well, I might need to - stop her."

Nate sighs. He'd never wanted to put this burden on Reid, but he won't lie to him either. "My family has already come for us."

Reid straightens up, glancing in the rear view mirror like Nate has suddenly seen a caravan of Angelevs on their tail. "What? Where?"

"In Lansing, at the apartment. The man that you shot off that fire escape? It was my brother. Devon."

The Camaro's speed slowly drops, Reid so distracted that his foot has slipped off the accelerator without him noticing. "Oh my god," he breathes, the memories flooding over him, this information clicking into place and changing the whole picture. The horror on Nate's face as he'd watched the body fall, the way he'd seemed rooted to the parking lot. And later, in the bathroom, those sobs...fuck.

"That night in the shower. I thought that you were just freaking out over having to go on the run, but it was grief. You were being forced to run with the man who killed your brother-"

Nate reaches out to rest his hand on Reid's thigh but he jerks away, finally remembering to put his foot back on the gas.

"Jesus, Nate, all this time, you've been with your brother's killer. Living with me, trusting me, sleeping with me...how can this just be alright with you?"

"It was your job, Reid."

"He was your brother, Nate."

"And he was trying to kill me. Trying to kill you. It saddens me, but Devon made his choice when he raised his gun against me." Nate puts his hand on Reid's leg again, squeezing hard enough to keep him from moving it away. To make him understand. He waits a long moment before lifting it to continue typing. "I made my choice when I sat down at your desk. And I make it again every morning when I wake up beside you."

Nate leans across the car, presses his lips against Reid's temple as the app finishes, "I don't blame you, Reid. I never have."

Reid swallows, his throat bobbing in the pale green light of the dashboard. "And Elsa? If she's as good as you said she is, now that she knows where to start she will track us down eventually. What happens then?"

Nate stares hard at the side of Reid's face, tries to make him feel how strongly he believes in him.

"Then we do what we have to in order to survive."

They descend into silence, overwhelmed and trapped by their own thoughts. And after a while, a drizzling rain begins to fall, steadily increasing into a downpour as they drive on. Reid's too lost in shock to remember to turn on the windshield wipers, so the water on the glass smears the road before him into a black blur.

He's furiously trying to come up with a plan, some idea of where they go from here, but only one sentence keeps circling his brain.

We are so completely, totally screwed.

So he just keeps driving, because it's the only thing he knows to do. The rumble of the engine and squelch of the tires on the wet road are the only sounds as the seconds tick into minutes, the miles he's putting between Nate and Memphis not making him feel any better.

Finally, Reid can't hold it back any longer. His voice is cracking and thick, his bottom lip trembling against his will.

"Nate, what the fuck are we going to do now?"

Nate watches the rain splash against the windshield, takes a deep breath. "I don't know, Reid." The car in front of them taps their brakes, painting the wet highway a bright red for a moment. "I don't know."