Chapter Four

Devon.

Nate still hasn't moved, rooted to the spot where he watched Devon fall and staring silently at the body in the distance. It looks small, just a dark lump on the concrete.

Like a speed bump.

Nate starts laughing in his silent, shaking way; he wonders with a sort of clinical separation if he's going into shock.

And Reid is yelling, but Nate can only hear him as if from a very great distance.

"C'mon, Nate, get in the damn car. I know I got him, but it's still not smart to just stay out in the open like this."

I got him.

Nathaniel remembers sitting on his father's back porch with Devon a decade ago, when he first started getting sent out on assignments by himself. Nate was panicking because he wasn't sure he could do this job - manipulation and violence and cruelty - but he knew his place. He had to uphold the family name and tradition. And Devon had just reached across the deck chairs and thrown his arm over Nate's shoulders, warm and comforting.

"I've got your back, little brother. Don't worry."

And he did. Devon took Nathaniel under his wing, taught him how to be at the top of the organization, how to manage and motivate their employees, how to handle their rivals... sometimes to the point where he also needed to teach him how to hide the bodies. It was from Devon that Nate learned how to torture, how to break someone so completely that they would willingly submit to anything. He taught him how to launder his money. How to take power from those unwilling to give it. How to avoid getting caught.

And there was one lesson that Devon gave him, one that he said trumped all the others. It was the very first thing he taught Nate that afternoon on the porch.

"Never work alone, Nathaniel. Always bring back-up with you, someone you know you can really trust." Devon was chewing the end of a fat cigar and staring out across the spring grass. "That way, even if some bastard does manage to get the drop on you, you've got someone there to exact your revenge."

Nate snaps back into the present, his eyes going wide. He turns to Reid, finally, carefully avoiding seeing the gun still clenched in his hand.

"He's not alone, Reid. We're not safe."

And as if waiting for the cue, gunfire sounds again, blasting a line of nearly a dozen holes through the passenger's side of their car.

"Holy shit!" Ben slides as low in the driver's seat as his giant frame will allow, and Reid has no idea why Nate is refusing to move but he is done fucking around. He grabs Nate and practically throws him into the backseat before leaping in after him, shoving Nate down until he's halfway in the floorboard, Reid's body stretched protectively over top of his.

Ben drives like a bat out of hell, barely able to see from where he's sitting, but it's erratic enough that the car only gets hit one more time before they round the corner and drive out of view.

And just like that, it's quiet. No more gunshots, no car careening after them, just the ringing in their ears and the occasional squeal of their tires.

So after a half dozen blocks, Reid feels safe enough to push himself up to sitting. But he still refuses to allow Nate to do the same, putting them both in the awkward position of Nate lying curled in the seat with his head resting on Reid's thigh. And Reid's still so focused on watching for someone on their tail that he doesn't notice that he's absently put his hand on the side of Nate's face, his fingertips slowly tangling in his soft hair.

Until Nate taps him on the knee and those large, nimble hands remind him, that is.

"I'll keep my head down on my own, Reid. You don't have to hold it."

Reid clears his throat and jerks his hand away as if burned. "Shit, yeah. Sorry."

Ben makes a dozen crazy turns through downtown Lansing and doubles back on himself a few times while Reid's green eyes are glued to the back windshield, watching every car that passes to make sure they aren't being followed.

And with every clear street they pass, every slow down-tick of the speedometer's needle, they all breathe a little easier. The adrenaline begins to slow and Reid eases back a fraction in his seat, but it only serves to bring his attention back to Nate.

Specifically, to how his mouth is only about five-and-a-half inches from Reid's dick. Reid sighs, tells himself to think about Chris Christie or baseball or cold rain or Chris Christie playing baseball in cold rain, naked. Anything to distract himself from his too-sharp awareness of where that stupid mouth is; it's been his biggest problem since the day they met.

Well, that and Nate's homicidal family that keeps trying to pump them so full of bullet holes that they look like Swiss cheese.

Reid wipes his palms on the knees of his jeans and takes one last look around.

"I think we're good, Nate."

Nathaniel sits up and tries to fix his hair from where it rubbed against Reid's thigh, but it's just as fucked up and crazy as ever.

Total sex hair.

The thought was completely involuntary and followed immediately with the mental refrain Reid's been chanting with increasing frequency over the past six weeks.

No. You're a US Marshal and Nate is a high-risk target in WITSEC. Your job is to be a badass. And professional badasses do not think about sex hair.

Nope. Didn't happen.

Ben, blessedly, derails Reid's mental spiral. "So where do we go now? Back to our hotel?"

Reid clears his throat and steals another glance behind them. "No. Nowhere that any of us has any ties to."

He's had a suspicion that he didn't want to give voice to after the last time this happened, two weeks ago in San Diego. Reid's good at his job, despite what Nate says; damn good. He's never had a protected witness be found - ever. So the only way he can see it happening three times to the same one is if there's someone working against him within his own agency.

"In fact, Ben, give me your cell phone."

Ben glances over his shoulder, his look questioning and kind of bitchy at having any of his beloved technological toys taken away from him. But he only hesitates a moment before doing as Reid asks.

Two seconds later, when Reid pitches it out his window and they hear the crunch of glass as the car rolls over it, Ben's seriously regretting that decision.

"Dude, are you kidding me? What in the actual fuck, Reid?"

Reid tosses his own phone out as well, then silently holds his hand out for Nate's.

"I know the rules, Reid. The only phone I have is the one that you gave me."

"Yeah, I know. But I bought that with agency resources. It could be traceable by other marshals."

Nate dutifully digs the phone out of his pocket, but throws it through his own window rather than handing it over. The oppressive life inside witness protection has taught him to take control of the small things when he can.

Ben is chewing his lip; he's already forgotten to be pissed about the phone. He's too lost in what Reid is implying.

"You think there's a mole."

Reid rubs at his neck, shifts uncomfortably. The Marshals are an elite service, one that prides itself on secrecy and loyalty. Even hinting at something like this goes against everything they've been taught.

But Reid has to say it.

"How else do you explain it, Ben? We've never had anything like this happen. Then we get a witness who actually has the knowledge - and sizable balls - to take on the Angelev family. And it doesn't matter if we stick him in west Texas or suburban San Diego or a crappy apartment in Michigan - they find him. Fast."

"My family is good," Nate offers, resignedly.

"Not that good. It's not possible."

Ben lapses back into thoughtful silence, trying to find an alternate explanation. It's proof enough that he can't come up with one when he finally says, "We need to ditch the car, too."

It's a crappy late model Taurus, rented on the company card and under their real names when they brought Nate here after the fiasco in California. And it's basically a giant target if someone is selling their information to the Angelevs.

So they leave it outside the gated driveway of the rental agency with the keys in the ignition and a piece of torn notebook paper with Ben's careful writing on it taped to the dash.

Thanks for renting the car to us. We're sorry for all the bullet holes.

Reid kicks at a tire that's slowly going flat - must have been nicked in the shooting. "We got the insurance on this, right, Benny?"

Ben shakes his head gravely. "The agency doesn't pay for it."

Nate hooks his fingers into two closely grouped holes and dips his thumb into a third, smiling when he realizes he's gripping the car like it's a bowling ball. "They may rethink that policy after they get this bill."

And then they walk a half mile to the only restaurant that's open, because they feel lost and drifting without the car or any way of communicating with their agency. They've been reduced to nothing except each other and the clothes on their backs, and they're facing a threat with nearly limitless resources.

They need somewhere to regroup, to think, to scramble for some semblance of a plan.

Of course, Reid doesn't actually say any of that. Instead, he jokes that Ben is always a real bitch when he's got low blood sugar and Reid would much rather face a dozen assassins than another hour with his whiny, overgrown and underfed ass.

The bell on the restaurant door chimes when they walk in and a waitress comes to seat them. Her mouth falls open when she takes them in -Reid and Nate in torn shirts riddled with tiny singe holes, both of them reeking of burnt garbage and sweat. Reid's face is still oozing blood, smears of it drying on his cheek.

But it's a tough neighborhood; she's seen worse. So she just swallows, nods, and seats them far in the back.

"Greek food. I hate Greek food." Reid frowns at the stained menu in front of him, full of words he isn't quite sure how to pronounce.

"Get the briam. You'll like it," Ben says.

Reid flicks his eyes to Nate, sitting just a hair too close to him in the booth, to check if this is something that's true. Because even though Ben and Reid have worked together for the better part of a decade, Ben refuses to admit defeat in his constant battle to get Reid to eat weird-ass rabbit food.

And sure enough, Nate shakes his head, ever so slightly, and moves his finger to point at a picture of a gyro. Meat and bread and lettuce. Reid can deal with that.

The waitress comes back and scribbles down their orders, Ben scowling when he hears Reid's.

And as soon as she's left the table, Reid has made his decision. One that he tells himself has everything to do with his professionalism, and nothing to do with the way Nate's knee is resting oh-so-lightly against his own beneath the scratched laminate table.

"We've gotta go off grid."

Ben just nods, like he already knew this was coming.

"Yeah. I agree. I'll call Janie, tell her that something's happened and I've got to disappear for a while-"

"No." Reid's voice is quiet, but firm. "I mean just Nate and me. You need to go back in, see if you can track down whatever bastard is betraying us from the inside."

Ben sits, stunned, for a long minute. Nathaniel draws designs in the sweat on his water glass with his fingernail and tries to be invisible, to let the partners work it out without him.

And when Ben finally speaks it's quiet, vulnerable, and more than a little sad.

"Reid, we've been together since my first day. I don't know how to do this job without you."

Reid laughs, uncomfortable, looking off through the grimy windows behind Ben. "Benny, you're a fucking genius. You've got a Dartmouth degree, the kind of stupidly shiny hair that belongs in a Pantene commercial, and a beautiful wife waiting for you at home. There's nothing you can't do without me."

And then Reid clears his throat, desperately needing to steer this conversation safely out of the emotional territory it has veered into. "You're better in the system. I'm better outside of it. And together, maybe we can keep this miserable loser-" he jerks his thumb at Nate beside him, "-alive long enough to make it to trial."

He looks over at Nate and smirks. "No offense. See how that feels?"

Nate glares.

*******

The food arrives and Ben digs into his salad with gusto. Reid scrutinizes his gyro for a minute before hesitantly biting in.

"Huh. S'good." He takes a bigger bite, nudges Nate with his elbow. "Thanks, dude."

Nate nods, tight and pensive. He's barely touched his food, and Reid can feel his leg shaking where it rests against his own. He suddenly realizes that maybe Nate isn't taking this as well as he has the last three relocations.

So he asks, his voice muffled as he talks around his food. "What do you think, Nate? I mean, you know your family better than anyone. Do you think we could make it out there on our own?"

Nate looks down at the napkin in his lap, for once unable to lock eyes with the man beside him. He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to ask this much of anyone, much less someone he has come to care about. Because keeping Reid with him is the equivalent of painting a huge target on his back, and that's more blood on his hands than Nate can take.

But the only people in the entire world that he trusts are at this table, and they've earned his honesty.

"I think it's the only chance we have."

Reid nods, satisfied, and takes another giant bite of his food. "It's settled then. We'll get a cab to drop you at the airport, Ben, and then we'll take off. You still got that burner cell I gave you when you started?"

Ben pulls the old flip phone from his pocket and lays it on the table.

"Good. My untraceable number is programmed into that under the name 'Robert Plant.' It's the only way we'll keep in touch. It's... better for everyone if you don't know my false ID or anything about where we are."

Ben knows what this means - that even under torture he can't give away Reid and Nathaniel's position. It's hardcore and scary and something they've been trained for but never had to use before.

But Reid's not breaking and Nate looks completely blank. So Ben has to man up, choke back his fear. He's the one who will be sleeping in his own bed tomorrow, after all.

Ben swallows, nods. "Yeah, okay. You gonna tell Andy?"

Reid takes a deep breath and thinks about telling his boss and makeshift father-figure that he is running away for months with the Justice Department's most valuable asset. It won't be pretty - Andy's going to bitch and moan and call Reid a whole slew of redneck insults, but Reid knows he'll eventually calm down. And realize there's literally no other way.

"Yeah. In a day or two. But give him the broad strokes when you go back without me, okay?"

Reid's expression wavers; for just a second he looks lost, like he's a sailor marooned on an island and watching his ship disappear over the horizon without him.

And Nathaniel doesn't have a lot of experience with empathy, with handling emotions that aren't anger or hatred or terror. He's feeling fragile himself, the vision of Devon's death still flashing unbidden through his mind. But if they're going to do this and survive, then they've got to learn to lean on each other. Nate has seen enough of Reid in the last six weeks to know that he's a softer kind of person, one that needs support whether he admits it or not.

So he slides a tiny bit closer, pressing their legs together from from hip to knee and bumping Reid's shoulder gently with his own. And when Reid looks over at him, one eyebrow lifted in confusion, Nate tries to tell him everything with his eyes that he knows Reid wouldn't want him to say in words.

Thank you. I really do trust you. And I'm ready to run whenever you are.

Reid has to look away, cross his arms over his chest and curl his fingers into his elbows until his nails leave tiny curved marks on his skin. Because otherwise he is going to slip a hand beneath the tabletop and lace his fingers with the ones of the cursed man next to him.

And that's not only unprofessional. That's fucking dangerous as shit.