Divide & Conquer Read online

  It would be brilliant. He turned up the police band radio, waiting for the inevitable calls for ambulances, fire trucks, and bomb squads. He only wished he could be there to see it explode.

  THE number of vehicles clogging the parking lots, streets, and even browned grassy areas around the playing fields surprised Zane. Sure, it was a softball tournament on a Sunday afternoon, but wow. There were people everywhere, in various states of winter dress. It reminded him of a county fair with all the fund-raising vendors set up. He almost expected to smell barbecue, but that would have been Texas. Here in Baltimore it would be the sweet scent of fried crabcakes.

  “Where’d you leave the Bronco?” Zane asked.

  “In the far corner over there,” Ty answered immediately, pointing toward the edge of the lot where several large trees with spindly bare branches loomed over the cars parked on the crunchy dormant grass.

  Zane tried to find a space near it but ended up going in the opposite direction to park closer to the field so Ty wouldn’t have to walk so far. “Let me guess. She’s away from the foul balls.”

  Ty looked across the lot at the Ford affectionately. Zane had never seen anything special about the old SUV except for the fact that Ty loved her, and Ty was adamant that the vehicle was a her. She was an ’88 Ford Bronco, green with a tan underbelly, and every inch of her was lovingly cared for, if not pristine. From what Ty’s brother, Deuce, had told Zane, Ty’d had the Bronco since he was in high school. He’d rescued it from a scrap yard and rebuilt it himself. The front windshield was scarred with the sticky remains of old entry decals, some of them retaining the shape of their former stickers from the Marine base at Camp Lejeune. Decals littered the edges of the back and side windows. Zane had never taken the time to stop and look at them all, but he guessed that there were dozens altogether.

  There was one very prominent white sticker in the rear window that said “Semper Fidelis” beneath the USMC eagle, globe, and anchor. There were several smaller decals scattered around that commemorated certain stretches of the Appalachian Trail. A yellow square with a familiar curled snake and the words “Don’t Tread On Me.” An old peeling sticker that had seen better days was what Zane had been told was a nautical star. There was a Smith & Wesson logo. In various places he could see a New Orleans Saints fleur de lis, an Atlanta Braves tomahawk, a faded Grateful Dead “steal your face” sticker, and a very old M with a circle over it that Zane knew stood for an Ironman Triathlon. A newer decal sported stylized Arabic writing that spelled out “Infidel” with an assault rifle used as the capital I. In direct contrast, on the opposite window, was the Om symbol. By itself in the center of one of the back windows was a black POW/MIA sticker.

  The Bronco and its dressings told the tale of Ty’s life and offered glimpses into his heart and soul, whether Ty meant it to or not. Zane knew it had traveled with Ty nearly everywhere he’d been, even serving as his home a few times when Ty was transitioning between lives.

  “People have gotten to where they aim at her. Try to hit her with foul balls,” Ty complained.

  It drew a smile out of Zane, and he chuckled. “That’s awful,” he commiserated.

  “I know!” Ty exclaimed with complete sincerity. He leaned forward in his seat, digging through the duffel bag in the floorboard, and pulled out his cleats, which he’d refused to put on before getting into the car.

  Zane shrugged, though he was amused by Ty’s utter seriousness. “If somebody threw a softball at the Valkyrie, I’d have to clobber them.”

  “Throwing is different. A foul ball has gravity on its side,” Ty explained as he popped open the passenger-side door and tried to swing his legs out before unbuckling his seatbelt. He grunted as the belt tightened, then reached behind him to fumble with the mechanism briefly before it released and he slid out of the truck in a tumble of shoes and equipment, disappearing from sight. “I’m okay,” Zane heard him say.

  “He’s okay,” Zane muttered as he grabbed the ball cap off the floorboard, snagged the keys, and got out of the truck as well. He walked around to the passenger side, half expecting to see Ty on the ground.

  He’d managed to get himself together, though, and he was bent over, pushing his feet into his cleats. His equipment bag was over one shoulder, the handle of the bat hanging near the back of his head. He tied his shoe tight before standing and giving Zane a crooked smile.

  Zane held out the navy blue FBI ball cap. “You’ll need this.”

  Ty took it and put it on, shaking his head. “I’ve never actually worn it in a game. Facemask,” he told Zane. He nodded toward the field and started walking. “You don’t have to stay, you know. There’s a lot of news cameras here.”

  Zane frowned as he followed, checking out the press. “I know. Do you want me to go?” he asked tentatively. Ty could be difficult to read, and since throwing the whole declaration of love into the mix, dealing with him was like navigating a minefield for Zane. They hadn’t done the traditional yours vs. ours kind of distinctions, and sharing still wasn’t a strong skill for either of them. This was Ty’s scene, and Zane wasn't sure he was welcome here.

  “No,” Ty answered easily. He turned and looked at Zane, then reached up and took his ball cap off again, handing it back to Zane as if he’d forgotten he’d just put it on. “I just don’t want you getting bored. Put this on so people’ll know you’re one of the bad guys.”

  “One of the bad guys?” Zane laughed as he settled the cap comfortably on his head. It smelled just enough like Ty to make it worth wearing.

  “Well, the other teams love to hate us.” Ty’s cleats clicked on the concrete as he walked, and even though Zane knew he’d taken more medication earlier, he didn’t seem overly uncoordinated or goofy.

  They threaded through a crowd of fans and various teams, including local law enforcement, a couple of insurance companies, and an area hospital before they turned the corner of the concession stand and saw the FBI team. Again, Zane was surprised by the number of people involved, especially out here in the cold in mid-February. He’d heard through the grapevine that Ty had been partially responsible for the league organization, calling in favors, reaching out to contacts in various fields around the city. Seeing the spectacle now, Zane had to wonder just how connected his partner really was.

  They were suddenly assaulted from the side by a perky young reporter blurting questions and her hulking cameraman. Ty just smiled and waved her off, telling her, “After the game, okay?”

  “Jesus, you weren’t kidding when you said this had gotten big,” Zane murmured as he stuck to Ty for protection from the mob. “Why haven’t I heard more about it?”

  “Because you work for a living,” Ty responded as he messed with the neck of his Under Armour shirt. He was getting twitchier as they moved, though that didn’t strike Zane as particularly unusual. He was about to respond to Ty’s gentle dig when someone else spoke up to get Ty’s attention.

  “We were starting to wonder if you were gonna make it, Grady. You missed the national anthem,” Scott Alston said as he walked up to them. He was wearing the same uniform as Ty, but his jersey was tucked in and buttoned and his belt wasn’t unbuckled. Zane had heard that all of the teams had given their players nicknames, like Ty’s “Bulldog.” Some were more interesting than others. From the side, Zane could see Alston’s was “Tinman.” There had to be a story there.

  Alston looked at Zane and held out his hand, clearly surprised to see him there. “Not a big deal unless you’re slated to fucking sing it, right? Garrett, good to see you.”

  “Thanks,” Zane said as he shook Alston’s hand. “Thought I’d cheer for the team. He was supposed to sing?”

  “Right.” Alston nodded slowly and looked between them knowingly. “He’s too drugged to drive, isn’t he?”

  “Grady? Drugged? Would never happen,” Zane answered, meeting Alston’s eyes straight on without blinking.

  “Sure it wouldn’t,” Alston said with a laugh. He reached out and took Ty’s hand
in his, lifting it to look at the tape Ty had wrapped around his fingers. “I see you have a lefty glove today. Broken or just bent?”

  Ty took a step closer and yanked his hand away. “Sit on it and spin, Scott,” he muttered as he walked past him toward the larger group of players.

  Alston laughed heartily and looked back at Zane with a raised eyebrow.

  Zane shrugged helplessly. “He said he wanted to play.”

  “He always wants to play,” Alston assured him. “That’s what he was saying last night when we peeled him out of the dirt.”

  “Been there, done that,” Zane said drily. “Ty can sing?”

  Alston just laughed like Zane was joking, and Zane let it go, feeling stupid for not knowing something like that about his partner. His lover. He glanced around, recognizing some other team members and spectators.

  “I’m just going to hang out and relax.” He paused, peering after Ty. “I should probably ask where the EMTs are. Just in case.”

  “Don’t worry. One of them has the hots for Grady. She’ll be all over it if he’s hurt,” Alston told him as he turned, waving over his shoulder. “Thanks for bringing him!”

  Zane waved him off and turned to survey the bleachers now that the team had cleared out. Close to full, but he’d have room to stretch out his legs if he was careful. He had just started toward them when he heard the clacking of cleats behind him.

  Ty grabbed his elbow to stop him; Zane turned in place to look at his partner. Ty’s hazel eyes were shining in the sunlight, and he smiled crookedly as he let his hand slide away from Zane’s arm. “Thanks for bringing me, Zane,” he said with an affectionate pat to Zane’s belly, and then he turned away and jogged back toward the dugout on the other side of the field without waiting for Zane to respond.

  Zane stared after him, rooted to the spot, and it wasn’t even Ty’s fine ass in those pants that had his attention. No, it was that flash of light in Ty’s eyes that struck Zane right in the gut and made his breath catch. He had to try twice to swallow, and his face felt hot in the brisk air. He blinked hard before he realized he was gaping and made himself turn toward the bleachers and sit down about four rows up.

  Occasional actions like that totally convinced Zane that Ty was telling the truth about loving him. It bowled Zane over, and he felt a rush of giddiness. Zane closed his eyes tight and opened them again, and Ty came into focus on the other side of the fence—Zane had zeroed in on him without consciously looking.

  A young girl, elementary school age probably, abruptly skipped into his line of sight, climbed up the bleachers deftly, and sat down right beside him as if she belonged there. She gave him a cheerful smile. “Hi!”

  Zane did a double take between her and Ty before settling his gaze on her. “Hi,” he said, a little surprised. He wasn’t the type of guy kids just waltzed up to. Quite tall, broad in the shoulders, muscled, dark hair and eyes, heavy leather jacket and boots, sort of imposing. But it didn’t seem to faze her.

  “I’m Elaina,” she said as she stuck her little hand out to shake his. “Are you a friend of Ty’s?”

  His hand engulfed hers as he shook it gently. “I’m Zane. Ty’s partner. Nice to meet you, Elaina.”

  “Nice to meet you!” she said enthusiastically. She scooted around on the hard, cold metal bleacher seat to settle primly beside him, looking out at the field like she owned it. “Mommy told me to find someone who had FBI on their clothes. Then I saw you talking to Ty, so I knew you would be safe. He and Mommy used to date,” she told Zane with all the tact of an eight-year-old.

  Zane stifled a chuckle as he watched her, intrigued. “And who is Mommy?”

  “She plays second base. Number five.” Elaina pointed toward the field, where the FBI team was filtering out, beginning to warm up. Five was an attractive brunette, athletic and tan and smiling. The nickname on her uniform was “Lefty.” She was throwing right-handed, though. Zane didn’t have any trouble picturing her with Ty.

  “You come to all the games?” Zane asked, opting for small talk.

  “Oh yeah. We’re the best team here,” the little girl announced proudly. “Well, maybe tied for the best. But the firemen play dirty.”

  “Of course,” Zane agreed. He ducked down out of the way as a woman carrying a tray of food climbed up the bleachers next to them. “I’ll have to start following the scores.”

  Zane caught sight of Ty standing in front of the chain-link dugout, bent over and strapping his shin guards on, slowed down by his wrapped fingers, as the rest of the catcher’s gear sat in the grass next to him. Zane smiled fondly. Ty was so methodical with some things. He wore his Kevlar religiously and nagged Zane about his when they went out on assignment because Zane hated wearing the vest. Ty cleaned his gun every other day whether it needed it or not. And every tie and strap and buckle on his gear had to be just so—if Zane didn’t adjust a strap for him first—if he had even close to the time to fix it. It seemed he treated his recreational gear the same way.

  Zane shook his head but didn’t look away. Ty Grady was a study in contrasts, and the puzzle-like appeal of it was impossible for Zane to resist.

  Zane wasn’t sure why Ty was suiting up to catch, though. He definitely shouldn’t have been, not with a bum throwing hand. But Ty was obviously under the impression that he could throw with his left hand and catch with his right, instead of the other way around. Zane knew he could shoot a gun, throw darts, and shoot pool, all with both hands. Zane had even seen him hurriedly scribble with both hands, though you could never read the end result, no matter which hand Ty used. Maybe he was truly ambidextrous, another fact Zane was somewhat embarrassed about not knowing, if it was true.

  Ty was still fussing with the strap to the chest protector as he and Alston walked up to home plate to meet with the umpires and the other team’s captains. Zane couldn’t hear them, but he could see Ty and Alston muttering to each other as Ty tried and failed several times to hook the strap at his side while using his hurt hand. Finally, Alston reached out and yanked Ty’s helmet from under his arm, swatted his hands away from the strap, and bent to clasp it for him as the others gathered at home plate tried not to laugh. Zane shook his head as he watched. As irascible as Ty could be, he sure had a lot of friends, people who seemed to see right through the façade that had so confounded Zane when he first met Ty Grady.

  The gathered men all shook hands where they stood in the batter’s boxes. They’d step closer as they shook hands, kicking red dirt on the pristine white plate. Zane watched in amusement as Ty carefully avoided the white chalk lines and home plate. The meeting lasted a few minutes as they went over the ground rules, the men scuffing the dirt in the boxes with their cleats, smoothing out the uneven ridges of dirt. Then they parted and went back to their respective dugouts. Ty took pains to step over the white chalk lines on the field as they walked, but it was hard to tell if it was to avoid them or because that pill was hitting him.

  Elaina leaned closer to Zane. “Mommy says Ty’s very superstitious,” she confided in a whisper. “He wears the same socks every game.”

  Zane turned his chin to look at her. “Does he wash them?” he joked. He tried to remember if Ty had put on the same socks Zane had stripped off of him last night.

  “Mommy tried once, but he saved them and made her promise not to. He locked himself in the bathroom.”

  Zane laughed and glanced back at Ty. “That sounds like him.”

  “He also taught me that you never cross your bats in the dugout, you never touch the lines or home plate before a game starts, and only pansies wear batting gloves.”

  Zane laughed again. “I guess he would know,” he said with a shrug. “I never played baseball. Or softball.”

  Elaina looked at him askance.

  “I can play football though,” Zane offered in a conciliatory attempt.

  She shrugged off that news and looked back out at the field excitedly as the FBI team took the field to a smattering of applause, boos, and catcalls from the
crowd. Zane joined in the clapping as most of the players jogged to their positions, but Ty and Alston, who was pitching, both waltzed out as if they had all the time in the world.

  Ty had his head down, his glove in one hand and his mask in the other, and somehow he’d already gotten his face and short hair dirty. It wasn’t easy for him to saunter in the bulky gear, but he managed to pull off the attitude anyway. The gear fit his frame well, and it only added to the illusion that he was larger than he really was. Zane knew that in most rec league softball games, the catcher didn’t bother to wear gear. But this wasn’t your average slow-pitch softball league. The pitchers threw overhand, and they played with a regulation-size baseball. The women who were involved were athletes, not out there for show, and there was certainly no one drinking beer in right field.

  Ty had sent Zane a text one night earlier in the month, joking that it was srius bizness.

  As Ty got closer to home plate, he looked up into the bleachers, his eyes almost immediately settling on Zane.

  Zane felt his heart beat hard a couple of times, and he had to draw a breath, because for a second, he was short on air. Then Ty smiled that half smile of his, the laugh lines at his eyes and mouth appearing, before he gave a quick wink. Then he ducked his head and slid his mask on, turning his back on the crowd as he stopped behind home plate.

  Zane swallowed hard. That wink had been for him.

  Crystal-clear revelation struck Zane like a bolt of summer lightning sizzling through the chill February air.