City Falcon

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. City Falcon Copyright © 2011 by Feliz Faber Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61372-098-1 Printed in the United States of America First Edition August 2011 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-099-8

I brought up a falcon for more than a year. Once I had tamed him the way I wanted him And had adorned his feathers richly with gold, He soared high and fled me, flew to a foreign land. I‟ve seen my falcon since, flying in beauty. His feet were graced with silken jesses, And his feathers were decked all in red gold. May God bring those together who want to love and be loved.

Ich zoch mir einen valken (Der von Kürenberg, 12th century)

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Chapter 1

March, 1994

MARK BOWMAN blinked twice when he spotted the bird of prey in the middle of the crowded International Terminal Departure hall. It hovered over the sea of human heads, leaving small waves of commotion in its wake. “Hey there,” Mark called out after the bird. People readily gave way as he wound his blue-uniformed six feet three through them, finally catching up with the ominous animal. It didn‟t fly. Well, how could it? It perched on the gloved hand of a tall, lean figure that glided smoothly through the crowds, heedless of turned heads and startled murmurs. All Mark could see was a mass of brown curls cascading down a slender back and long jeans-clad legs ending in oxblood-red Doc Martens. “Hey there,” he called out again. “You with the bird, wait!” The bird carrier stopped and turned to face him. Cool, light eyes scrutinized Mark from beneath raised eyebrows. “Yes?” Full baritone voice. Two or three days worth of beard on narrow cheeks. The most beautiful face Mark had ever seen on a man. Mark stopped dead in his tracks in front of him. The flood of passengers parted around them like the Red Sea before Moses, creating an island of solitude.

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“What do you think you‟re doing here with that beast?” Mark asked, his voice sharper than he‟d intended. “Who‟s asking?” the man snapped back. The bird sat on his fist like a stuffed animal, not a single feather moving. A leather hood covered its head. It reminded Mark of a deep sea diver‟s helmet, with bulging eyes and a tuft of hair like a long-bristled paintbrush sticking out on top. Struggling to regain his composure, Mark pointed at his badge. “Port Authority of New York and New Jersey Police. I‟m afraid you can‟t bring that animal with you on board a plane. Please take it out immediately.” Instead of doing what he was told, or at least arguing, the man slowly sized Mark up. Mark felt irritation rise inside him at the blatant insolence. Right before he would have lent a bit more weight to his request, the man spoke again. “We‟re not passengers. This particular animal is working here. Haven‟t you been told, Mr.…,” he read the badge, “Bowman?” What the… working here? Mark felt his right eyebrow threaten to lift and remembered just in time to keep a professionally blank expression. The man stood tall, only a few inches shorter than Mark himself, holding Mark‟s gaze with calm confidence. He had the strangest eyes, so light gray they appeared almost colorless in his deeply tanned face, and he spoke with an accent Mark wasn‟t quite able to place, something European, maybe? At any rate, it made him appear all the more exotic. This is so odd it could be true, Mark thought. His curiosity taking over, he decided to play along for the moment. “Working as what?” “We‟re part of the Falconry Against Birdstrike project. This is a field trial on the use of falcons to keep the runways free of nuisance birds,” the stranger said, an edge of impatience to his voice as if he‟d given the same explanation several times before. “Falconry against bird strike,” Mark echoed. “I‟ve never heard of such a thing.” The birdman took a deep breath. “I assure you, it‟s for real.” Regardless of his awe-inspiring companion, he managed to look

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unthreatening, even a little forlorn as he spoke on. “Actually, since you‟re police, I‟d appreciate your help, Mr. Bowman. We were supposed to meet with a Mr. Johnson at the air cargo terminal, but I seem to have lost my way. Can you tell me how to get there?” For a moment, Mark wondered why it irked him so that this man kept calling him mister instead of officer. Then his professional mind kicked in, and he realized he was still standing in the middle of a very busy airport building next to a very large bird of prey, held on its master‟s hand only by a thin leather strip. Strangely, the passersby didn‟t seem to be bothered much. Although some people gawked at them, most didn‟t deign them more than a fleeting glance. This was New York, after all. The natives met weirder things on a daily basis, or so it seemed. “I‟ll have to inquire about you first,” Mark said with restrained politeness. “Do you have identification?” The other man wordlessly produced a New York driver‟s license from the back pocket of his jeans. Mark took it from him, noting in passing that it was brand new. He headed for a quiet nook, gesturing at the man to follow him. “Would you come with me over there? Less traffic.” Reaching for his radio, Mark couldn‟t resist tacking on, “Oh, and it‟s officer, by the way.” “Beg your pardon?” “Officer Bowman. Not mister.” Turning, Mark met a flicker of amusement before the other man‟s face turned serious again. “All right, Officer Bowman. I‟ll try to keep that in mind.” “Ten-sixty-two for CPD,” Mark said, into his two-way radio. “Come in. Over.” “CPD,” the dispatcher‟s voice crackled from the radio. “Come in, please.” “I need identity verification. It‟s one…,” Mark read the card, “Mr. Hunter Devereaux. D-E-V-E-R-E-A-U-X. He‟s got a raptor that he says is working here at the airport. Can you confirm that? Over.”

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“He‟s got a what?” the Central Police Desk operator squawked, for once forgetting about formal radio talk. “Bird of prey. Big bird with talons and hooked beak. Over.” “Saker falcon,” prompted the bird‟s master. “Saker falcon,” Mark repeated. “Over.” “Hold on. Over,” the dispatcher said. Seemed she had already regained her equanimity. Side by side, they stood waiting. Mark drummed his fingers in a silent tattoo on his belt and watched the man out of the corner of his eye, trying to be unobtrusive. Devereaux had his head bowed over his bird, caressing its feathers with slow, regular strokes of his free hand. He hummed under his breath, the soft sound occasionally stopping for a few whispered words in a foreign language. His long hair, barely restrained by a black bandana, fell over his face like a veil. He threw it back with a short jerk of his head, eyes flickering sideways to meet Mark‟s for a second. Caught staring, Mark focused on the falcon instead. The bird opened and closed its talons on the thick leather glove, jingling little bells which were attached to its feet by small leather straps. “She‟s growing impatient,” Devereaux remarked casually. Mark took his words as leave to look openly. The bird didn‟t strike him as particularly impatient. It continued to imitate a Zen statue. All by themselves, Mark‟s eyes wandered back to Devereaux‟s face, those clean-cut lines of high cheekbones and a fine, straight nose. His beard, a shade darker than his hair, was just long enough to accentuate thin lips which curled slightly at the corners in an unconsciously sensual not-quite smile as the man resumed humming to his bird. Out of dire need for distraction, Mark asked, “What did you mean to achieve, walking your—what? Saker falcon?—through Departure Hall, anyway? That bird‟s not exactly a plushy, after all.” Devereaux tugged at the leather strips which dangled from his glove.

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“She won‟t harm anyone,” he said. “That‟s not my point,” Mark replied, exasperated. The other man shrugged. “Well, she just spent thirty days in a quarantine cage, so I wanted to give her a breather. I thought I‟d make it to the air cargo terminal on my own, but I was wrong, obviously.” Now he looked rueful. “Actually, I was looking for the help desk.” Mark had to bite his tongue in order to stifle a laugh. “With Emil Eagle?” he couldn‟t help asking. Devereaux‟s lips twitched. “Her name‟s Iman. That‟s Arabic for faith.” Mark couldn‟t hold back the chuckle this time. “Uh-huh. You don‟t say.” Devereaux raised an eyebrow and gave Mark another slow, thoughtful once-over. Their gazes met and held once more, way longer than necessary. Intellectually, Mark knew it was stupid to let his selfcontrol slip like this, but he found himself unable to break eye contact, unable to keep his lips from curling up into a broad, genuine smile. Suddenly Devereaux‟s eyes widened. Holding Mark‟s gaze, he slowly, very deliberately, sucked his lower lip in and let it slide out again, flashing white front teeth and, for a split second, the tip of a pink tongue in a wide answering smile. Jesus, was the man flirting with him? Mark felt his cheeks heat up and quickly turned away. CPD chose just that moment to call him back. Mark almost jumped at the crackle of his radio. Hastily, he grabbed the device. “Ten-sixty-two.” “Confirm on the ID,” the operator said. “Johnson from the DES is already waiting for him out at the southern runways intersection. Must‟ve got lost. DES asks you to get Mr. Devereaux and his bird there. Over.” DES, the Department of Environmental Services. That made sense. “Roger. Eight-forty-one for southern intersection. Over and out.”

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MARK drove man and bird out to the airfield in a PAPD patrol car, uncomfortably squeezed together in the confined space. This close, the two appeared even more formidable than before. Hell, they even smelled wild—the whole interior of the car reeked of leather, animal, and dry, old wood. Besides, Devereaux‟s constant low humming started to grate on Mark‟s nerves. “So, what kind of work is your bird going to do here exactly?” he asked, needing to squelch that annoying noise. “Hunting,” his passenger said, took a breath and hummed on. Mark‟s glare obviously went by unnoticed. Wanna make me work for it? “Hunting what?” Out of the corner of his eye, Mark caught Devereaux‟s little irritated eye roll. “Seagulls, mostly: laughing gulls, herring gulls, ringbilled gulls—depends on what comes at us from the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. We use the falcons to chase them off the runways, as I said. The Air Force tested the method too, only recently, at Travis AFB. They came out with up to a fifty percent decrease in bird strikes.” “That‟s something,” Mark said, impressed despite himself. As a member of the PAPD airport division, he‟d seen pictures of bird strikes during crash emergency rescue training. The amount of damage one small bird could do to a huge jet engine if it was sucked right in never failed to amaze him. On the taxiway next to them, an airplane thundered by, making both men jump with shock. The bird let out a piercing shriek and started to flap its wings, slamming one of them into Mark‟s face, blinding him. Although Mark grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, the car went into a skid. “Watch out!” he shouted, struggling to get the car back under control. The bird erupted into screeching, flailing wildly. “Stop, stop, stop!” Devereaux yelled at the same moment that Mark stomped the brake. He was out of the car in a heartbeat, running around the hood to yank the passenger side door open. Man and bird emerged in a tangle of wings and limbs amidst shrieking and jingling bells.

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Once outside the car, the bird spun around its master‟s wrist like a gymnast doing a giant swing, perched back up and, just like that, froze again. Even when the next aircraft passed them, the bird didn‟t move. Devereaux wiped stray strands of hair out of his face, equally calm, and started to hum to the bird again. Frowning, his pulse still racing after the last few seconds‟ frenzy, Mark watched them while he plucked small feathers from his lips where the bird‟s wing had left them. “Fine,” he finally growled. “Can we go on now?” When both master and bird ignored him, he huffed out an irritated breath, stalked back to the driver‟s side, and got back into the car. Moments later, Devereaux joined him. “That went well. Thank you,” the falconer said softly. Surprised, Mark muttered a polite reply. The remaining few minutes of the ride passed in blessed silence. A short way inland from the 4L/31L intersection, a Department of Environmental Services Jeep was parked, together with two other vehicles, on the green. Mark could make out Johnson‟s bulky figure among several other men, one of whom carried a bird too. Mark stopped next to the group. Devereaux turned those strange, light eyes toward him again. “Thank you for the ride,” he said, opening the car door. On impulse, Mark replied, “Good hunting to you two.” Devereaux cast him a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said and was gone. Thoughtfully, Mark looked after his retreating backside. After all, it was certainly worth a notion—two nice, firm handfuls of ass. Who could blame a man for his fantasies? Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Mark turned the car around.

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ON

THE ride back to the terminal, his radio crackled again. “Tenthirty-five for ten-sixty-two. I‟m almost done. Where are you?” his partner‟s voice asked.

“On my way. You still at customs?” “Affirmative.” “Meet you there in ten. Over and out.” As usual, the customs clearance desk was busy. Mark spotted Sean Broderick‟s broad-shouldered figure among a group of customs officers and sauntered over to join them. “Broderick,” he greeted, nodding at the others. “How did it go?” His partner and senior officer was actually several years younger than Mark, who had been an Ohio State Trooper for six years before joining the PAPD. After Mark had finished at the Academy half a year ago, he had been assigned to the redheaded Irishman for his probation, and so far, they had gotten along well enough. Now Sean turned to Mark with a broad grin. “That woman? She wasn‟t pregnant. The dog was right.” “We found twelve pounds of purest snow in that fake belly of hers,” one of the customs officers added gleefully. With a snort, Mark shook his head. Sean laughed. “Yes, that‟s what I said.” He gestured toward a closed door behind the desk. “Chief Jakkelsen and some other female officers are still in there with her. Right now we‟re waiting for the detectives. Anything up for us yet?” “Not that I know of, no,” Mark said. “But, believe it or not, I just played chauffeur for a bird of prey.” “A what?” Mark grinned. “Yes, that‟s what I said,” he parroted. After he had told the entire story, one of the customs officers nodded thoughtfully.

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“I think I saw that guy earlier when he collected his bird. Collected an animal crate, that is. I didn‟t know he had a bird of prey in there though.” “Wasn‟t that the box with the Arabic writing on it? The one that came over from Newburgh just this morning?” his colleague asked. “How in all the world did he end up in Departures?” Just when Mark opened his mouth to answer, the door behind the desk slammed open. A short, dark-skinned woman emerged, weaseled past their group, dodged a customs officer‟s outstretched arm, and bolted toward the crowded Arrival Hall. “Get her!” someone shouted. Mark pivoted and gave chase without thinking. It took his long legs only moments to catch up with the fugitive. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her down with their joint momentum, pushed her to her back and tried to roll on top of her in order to keep her down with his superior weight. But the woman fought him desperately, kicking her legs and thrashing her arms. Suddenly, metal flashed in her hand. “Knife! Watch out for the knife!” another voice screamed. With a grunt of effort, Mark entangled the woman‟s legs with his own, making a futile grab for the knife hand. The short, triangular blade hissed down, missed Mark‟s face by a hairbreadth, and slashed a nasty gap right through the front of his vest. Mark cursed, doubling his effort, but his right arm was trapped under his captive‟s body, and the blade rose yet again, aiming for his throat. For a split second, Mark caught the woman‟s wild eyes in her fearfully contorted face; he could see his death in them. He froze in apprehension. But the blow never came. Suddenly a furious, snarling beast bore down on the assailant‟s knife-wielding arm, and the blade clattered uselessly to the ground. The woman screeched and twisted away from the dog, finally giving Mark a good hold on her. “Off, Rex!” a female voice commanded. Obediently, the dog backed off, though still snarling, with bared teeth and raised hackles. A moment later, other officers from both customs and PAPD were all over Mark and the woman. They dragged

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her up and away, screaming and wailing. Mark was left sitting on the ground, still a little shaken. Hands slapped Mark‟s shoulders and back in passing. “Well done, Bowman,” and “Good job!” rained down on him, even one “Attaboy,” the last from the strongly built blond woman who was refastening the dog‟s leash. She took Mark‟s hand to help him up. Next to her, the dog sat on alert, ears twitching. “Not me, him,” Mark said as he dusted himself down, jerking his head at the narcotics detection dog. Rex wagged his tail, tongue lolling out of his canine grin, visibly pleased with himself. Customs K9 Branch Chief Evelyn Jakkelsen cast her dog a proud glance. “Yes, he did well,” she said, patting his head. Then she looked up at Mark again, frowning slightly in concern. “You okay, Mark?” He poked at the cut across his vest. “No major damage, thanks.” She shook her head. “I‟ll skin that silly cow,” she growled. “How could she miss that knife! If not for Rex….” Mark opened his mouth to calm her, but was cut off. “Jakkelsen!” someone called from the group of people that gathered round the captive. “Bowman! Get over here, guys!” They shared a grin as they headed over. “Mind if I come by later?” Mark asked under his breath. “Not at all,” Jakkelsen replied. Then their respective duties stifled any further talk.

WHEN Mark entered the customs kennel, the dogs started a riot, hopping up against their fences, barking and yipping in welcome. He grinned, working his way through the aisle, reaching over railings, handing out treats and pats left and right, until he reached Rex‟s box. “Hey, my boy.” Mark opened the lattice door, crouching down in front of the big German Shepherd. Rex was too well trained to jump at him, but he obviously had a hard time restraining himself. He waggled his hindquarters together with his tail, whimpered and yipped and

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pushed his big head against Mark‟s chest, almost doubling him over, laving his hands with generous doggy kisses. Mark ruffled the thick fur and scratched behind Rex‟s ears. He pulled a small, wax-paperwrapped package out of his pocket, immediately ensuring the dog‟s undivided attention. Rex sat down on his haunches and lifted his front paw in silent plea, licking his muzzle. Laughing, Mark threw a handful of wiener sausages at the dog and watched with an amused smile as they were wolfed down in no time. “You‟re spoiling him,” Jakkelsen‟s voice said from behind him. He stood and turned, grinning at the K9 chief. “C‟mon, Evie, he‟s earned it. He did a damn good job today.” Her face lit up at the praise. She leaned into the box to pet her dog‟s black fur. “He did, didn‟t he? You were a good boy today, good boy.” Rex pressed against the lattice, licking her hand. She gave him a parting pat as Mark closed the box. “I owe you one, too,” he said. She waved him off. “Don‟t mention it! How stupid can you get, to miss a knife at a full body search? That McNally woman is a real dimwit, and I made damn sure she knows by now.” Her complaint of the young customs officer didn‟t lessen the obligation Mark felt to Evie, considering that she and Rex had literally saved his ass today. He took hold of Evie‟s hands. “Whatever. Believe me, I was damn glad you were there. What would you say if I treated you to dinner tonight?” She blushed, actually blushed, and averted her eyes. Mark smiled even broader, touched by the unexpected display of feminine shyness, so rare with the boisterous K9 chief. At forty, Jakkelsen was twelve years older than Mark, but her trim body and handsome face didn‟t betray her age. They had first met at the customs gym, which the PAPD officers were allowed to use. Since both worked mostly at the international terminal, their professional paths often crossed as well, and Mark took to occasionally swinging by the kennel after his shift. He went there often enough that Sean, deeply devoted to his long-time girlfriend, stopped wondering

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aloud about Mark‟s lack of interest in female company and started to chaff him about Jakkelsen instead. Although Mark wasn‟t exactly unhappy about Sean‟s insinuations, which made for a not-unwelcome cover, he always firmly rejected them. Except for Sean, Evie Jakkelsen was the only person who came close to what Mark would have called a friend here. He enjoyed her company too much to have it spoiled by stupid rumors. As she pulled her hands free, another voice called out from the back. “Evie? Can‟t find the doves. Where did you put them again?” “Coming,” Evie called. She smiled at Mark, gesturing at him to follow as she headed for the storeroom. They were greeted by the backside of a burly man who was bent deeply under the open lid of the huge meat refrigerator, rummaging inside. “Leave my fridge alone, Greg,” Evie scolded, half laughing. “You‟re always messing it up big time. Nobody‟s gonna find stuff in there anymore.” The man straightened and slammed down the lid, turning toward them. He appeared to be in his fifties, was about a head shorter than Mark, and had the lined and freckled face of a man who spent most of his time outside. Currently, he looked rather grumpy. “Where the… where are my doves, then?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “My birds are hungry.” “Calm down, I took them out to thaw already.” Evie pointed at a big, blue plastic bag sitting on a countertop next to the refrigerator. Muttering some more, the man stalked over. He unfolded the top of the bag to peer inside. “Filched some for your big, furry beasts again?” he asked, pulling out a feathered lump to weigh it in his hand. Evie slapped his forearm. “Watch your mouth, Greg,” she chided. “I‟d never force that foul stuff you call food on my dogs. All for your feather balls.”

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“Ha!” he called out, spreading out the dead dove‟s wings. The little corpse dangling between his hands, he turned to Mark. “Foul stuff, she says. Does that smell foul to you? Freshly frozen the hour it was killed. Doesn‟t it look mouth-watering?” He waved the dead bird at Mark, who took a step back. “Actually, no,” he said, wrinkling his nose. Evie burst out in a hearty laugh, arms akimbo. The man looked from the dead bird to Mark and back, frowning. “You‟re right, I‟d say,” he admitted sheepishly. He put the dove back into the plastic bag and scratched his graying buzz cut. “Sorry, I think I got carried away.” Evie shook her head, still chuckling. “You‟re impossible,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Mark, may I introduce John Gregory, PhD, wildlife biologist and resident Master of Birds. He leads the Falconry Against Birdstrike trial program. Initiated it, actually. Greg, please meet Port Authority Police Officer Mark Bowman, another good friend of mine.” Gregory held out his hand, frowned at it, wiped it on the leg of his cargo pants, and held it out again. “Nice to meet you, Officer Bowman.” “My pleasure, sir,” Mark answered, shaking the offered hand without hesitation. His own had been recently coated with dog spit, after all. “Are you a falconer yourself?” The other man‟s eyes lit up. “Of course I am,” he said. “Are you interested in falconry?” “I‟m afraid I don‟t know the first thing about it,” Mark said. “Basically, it‟s hunting with tamed birds of prey,” Gregory explained. “If you want to learn more about it, I could lend you books—” “You better watch out, Mark,” Evie cut in, half laughing. “Once Greg starts to talk about falconry, he‟ll never stop.” Gregory winked at her, grinning. Mark waved her off. “Never mind, Evie, I find this really interesting.” He turned back to the falconer. “As it happens, I think I

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met one of your birds earlier today. I can‟t imagine how it‟s possible to tame such a creature. They‟re awesome.” “They are, aren‟t they?” Gregory agreed happily. “Ah, yes, now I see. Weren‟t you the police officer who brought my wayward falconer back? He told me you helped him when his bird freaked in the car. Said you kept your calm even though you got a clout off the falcon. Well done, Officer Bowman.” With a grin, Mark rubbed the spot at the corner of his mouth where the bird‟s wing had hit him. “No big deal, sir. Actually, I‟ve known kisses that were harder.” The falconer snorted an amused laugh. “Is that so?” Mark shrugged. Gregory laughed again. “I like you, Officer Bowman. Actually, if you want to meet the bird again, you‟re welcome. You could even attend a patrol, if your time allows. Watch us work with the birds.” “Are you serious?” Mark asked, taken aback. Gregory spread his hands. “Sure. The more witnesses to the positive effects of my program the better. You seem genuinely interested, after all. Are you?” “Definitely,” Mark said. “Thank you very much, Mr. Gregory. I‟d really like to come.” As he spoke, the dogs started to make a racket again, announcing a newcomer. Right when Gregory nodded and said, “That‟s settled, then,” another man entered the room with a calm greeting. At the sound of this voice, Mark‟s pulse sped up. Hastily, he turned toward the sink and started to wash his hands. “Ah, yes, there you are, Hunter,” Gregory said. “I finally got hold of the doves. Take that blue plastic thing back with you, will you? Oh, and by the way, seems your falcon made an impression on Officer Bowman here. I just invited him to attend a patrol sometime.” No way to escape. Mark dried his hands with a paper towel and turned to Hunter Devereaux. The bandana was gone; his hair flowed round his face in heavy waves and cascaded over his shoulders, halfway down his back. Mark‟s teeth clicked as he willfully clenched

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his jaw in order to keep it from dropping, an embarrassing wave of heat sweeping through his gut. “Sorry, I didn‟t recognize you right away without your uniform, Officer Bowman. Nice to meet you again.” Devereaux held out his hand. “I hope you‟ve recovered by now from the slap in the face Iman gave you.” His hand was rough and cool when Mark took it. “He says he‟s been kissed harder in the past,” Greg called from the back. “Is that so,” Devereaux said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he flashed Mark a smile. “Well, maybe Iman only meant to kiss you hello. We could try and ask her.” Mark cocked his head, unable to bite back an answering smile. “I wouldn‟t know. Could turn out an interesting task, making a falcon talk.” Lame, Bowman, he scolded himself. Couldn’t you come up with something better? Still, Devereaux chuckled. “If I‟d known you were interested, I could‟ve tried harder. Well, we can always make up for lost time when you come out with us.” Those eyes, oddly bright in his dark face, unashamed and bold, captivated Mark‟s gaze. A cold shiver ran down his back, even though his heartbeat sped up with anticipation. “Fine with me,” he said, careful to keep his face neutral. “I‟m always open for new experiences.” Something brushed his wrist. Looking down, he realized his hand was still in Devereaux‟s grip, the falconer‟s forefinger now resting on Mark‟s pulse with the gentlest of touches. Evie‟s voice, laughing at something Gregory had said, jerked him back to reality, and Mark pulled his hand free and stepped back, his jeans embarrassingly tight. Devereaux‟s eyebrows did a small flip upward, but otherwise, he didn‟t comment on Mark‟s hasty retreat, thank God. He just gave a small nod and turned back to Gregory as if nothing had happened. And what has happened, indeed? You’re starting to see things, Bowman. Know what? You need to get laid; that’s what you need.

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“I‟m almost done with the inventory, Greg. We‟ll be needing some medicines sometime soon. Vitamins, too,” Devereaux said. Gregory waved him off. “Write a list.” “Will do,” Devereaux nodded. “Anything else?” “No, that‟s it. Go ahead, I‟ll be right back.” Devereaux took up the bag, hefting the heavy thing with effortless ease. “Alright, then. Goodnight, Chief Jakkelsen. Officer Bowman, I‟m looking forward to you attending patrol with us.” “I told you to call me Evie,” Jakkelsen called after Devereaux as he left, stirring up another barking frenzy. Gregory rubbed his hands. “Well, then. Evie, want to come over?” “No thanks,” Evie said, taking Mark‟s arm and smiling up at him. “We‟ve got… plans… for tonight.” Gregory looked at her, then at Mark, and winked. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Well, Evie, see you tomorrow. Officer Bowman, it was nice meeting you. Let me know when you want to come. Evie can give you my number.” “I surely will, Mr. Gregory, and thank you again.” “You‟re welcome,” Gregory said, waving his hand in parting. Once he was gone, Mark heaved a sigh. “Damn, just… damn.” Evie grinned at him, patting his arm. “Don‟t worry, he likes you.” Mark pulled his arm free to rub his face with both hands. “Do you really think he was serious when he invited me?” “Yes, you heard him,” she said. “I happen to know John Gregory fairly well. He‟ll be expecting your call.” Mark dropped his hands and cast her a surprised look. “How do you know him?” When she averted her eyes, he added quickly, “Sorry, none of my business. Didn‟t mean to pry.” “Never mind, it‟s been a long time. We‟re childhood friends, actually. His father was the vet who cared for my father‟s cattle.” She

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shrugged. “Long time ago, I thought I‟d have a chance to become Mrs. Gregory, but….” She shook her head. “Shit, Evie, I‟m sorry,” Mark said, embarrassed. She shrugged again. “I said, never mind. Life just sucks sometimes, doesn‟t it. However,”—taking his arm, she smiled up at him—“didn‟t you promise me dinner?”

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Chapter 2

MAURO‟S, Evie‟s choice, turned out to be a rather fancy Italian restaurant with a lot of smoked glass and steel and silent waiters all in black. Mark couldn‟t help feeling slightly underdressed in his black leather jacket and dark slacks. Evie, though, fit the ambiance perfectly in her loose, dark-blue pantsuit. She wore big hoop earrings, which made her butch haircut appear more feminine, and she had even put on makeup. “Quite the ritzy place here,” Mark remarked, after they had placed their orders. “And you fit right in, Evie. You look really good.” Evie smiled sweetly at him. “Special occasions merit making an effort,” she quipped. “After all, it‟s the first time you asked me out.” Mark raised an eyebrow at her. “What the hell? We go out together all the time, don‟t we?” “So you say. But going for a beer after working out, that‟s not going out, Mark. Listen to the expert.” “What do you call it, then, Mrs. Expert?” Mark asked, still mostly curious. “That‟s Ms. Expert to you, hotshot. And what we usually do is just hangin‟ out,” she said, smug as a cat. “This here, this‟s a date.” “A D-A-T-E,” Mark mocked. “Yes, sure. You and me.” She pouted. “Come on, Mark, humor me. Just for the fun of it. Haven‟t had a proper date since… you know when.”

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Yes, he knew. Evie had gone through a pretty ugly divorce about a year ago, one of the reasons she‟d been at the gym almost every night in the first place. He heaved a long-suffering sigh and drawled, “Yes, ma‟am, as you wish. I agree with you, we‟re having a date.” As she pouted some more, he put his hand to his heart theatrically. “But I must warn you, no making out on the first date.” Batting his eyelashes at her, he tacked on, “I‟m not that kind of girl.” At that, she laughed out loud and nudged his shoulder. “No, definitely you‟re not. You‟re a dork.” “I am,” he admitted happily. She laughed again. “Watch out, dork. There‟s our dinner.” The food was really good, and so was the red wine they lingered over afterward. Or rather, Evie did while Mark stuck to water after one glass. He‟d never been able to tolerate alcohol very well. The wine flushed Evie‟s pale cheeks rosy red and made her blue eyes sparkle. Inevitably, their talk returned to the past day‟s events. “You must admit that Mr. Gregory of yours, he‟s something else,” Mark said. “I felt a bit… overwhelmed back there. Pretty much like being hit by a steam roller.” Evie chuckled. “You‟re not the first to say so. And he‟s actually Dr. Gregory, although he doesn‟t use the title very often. It was him who came up with the idea of using falcons against the gulls. You know, since the marksmen were established in ‟88, the National Park officials have filed complaint after complaint with the Port Authority about all the precious endangered birds killed. Mind you, Greg‟s been trying to get them to use falcons since back in ‟91 and only now succeeded.” She smiled fondly. “He‟s a stubborn guy, Greg is.” “Can you tell me what‟s it all about?” he asked. “The Falconry Against Birdstrike project? The official purpose is to reduce the number of seagulls killed and yet keep the runways free of birds who could collide with aircraft. You know, that‟s a serious problem here, what with a bird sanctuary this close.” “Too right,” Mark said thoughtfully. “Devereaux told me the falconry thing did work at Travis Air Base. Sounded reasonable to me.”

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“Reasonable? Ha!” She put down her wine glass with a glare. “Reasonable! Perhaps for the military, but here? At a commercial airport of that size? I say it‟s beyond reason and awfully expensive. Shooting the pests or scaring them away with noise and the like worked just fine, as far as I know.” She snorted. “What‟s more, skilled falconers don‟t come a dime a dozen. Greg had to bend backward to find decent ones. I can still remember how happy he was last fall when Hunter agreed to work with him. Greg told me that went a long way to convince the Port Authority to try the whole thing.” “How‟s that?” “That, I don‟t know exactly.” Pensively, she took another sip from her wine glass, draining it. Immediately, a silent waiter turned up to refill it. After a short thank-you to the server, she continued. “From what Greg told me, Hunter spent the last ten or so years in the Middle East and only recently came back, but they must have worked together in the past. Hunter is actually some kind of falcon specialist, some kind of scientist, maybe? I don‟t remember.” “A scientist, huh,” Mark said. “That fits. Needs to be quite a nutty professor to go walking with a falcon the way he did today.” Evie laughed. “Nutty professor, my ass. If they come in such a gorgeous wrapping, I‟m all for nutty professors now.” So am I, Mark thought. He joined Evie‟s mirth—a little forced, though, because the memory caused an embarrassing heat in the pit of his stomach, and below. Jesus, what’s wrong with you, Bowman? That man’s nothing but a good-looking stranger you’ve laid eyes on exactly two times. Okay, a rather beautiful stranger. Who managed to make it pretty clear he’s interested in you. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and decided to change the subject. “How come you know so much about it?” Evie huffed out a breath. “That was all Greg‟s fault. Turned up one day at my kennel with my commander and Johnson, the DES man. Greg had obviously managed to bring it home to everybody that the kennel would make a convenient base for his project, and there he was, right around my neck.” She sighed. “Didn‟t really have a say in it. Guess I can consider myself lucky he'd rather set up shop with his falcons out there.”

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Mark had to laugh. “I can picture it. Your Dr. Gregory can be rather… convincing, can‟t he?” “He‟s not my Dr. Gregory. And you have no idea.” She sighed again. “Whatever. I still think the whole thing‟s pure politics. Ecological sensibility and all that. The project will only last till fall, and there‟s a snowball‟s chance in hell for a repeat, mark my words. Even for Greg.” “Lucky for me I‟m here for it now,” Mark said. “I‟m looking forward to it.” “Oh yes, falcon patrol. I went a couple of weeks ago when Greg started the first tests. The birds are always a sight, although in my opinion, it gets old after a while.” She chuckled. “Don‟t tell Greg I said that. And make sure you don‟t get underfoot. He hates that.” Mark made a face. “No kidding. Are you trying to scare me here?” “Me? Not in my dreams, honey.” She smiled at him from behind her wine glass. “Just hope you‟ll get stuck with Hunter instead. That guy‟s really nice. Easygoing. But they usually are, aren‟t they?” “They? Falconers?” Mark asked casually, already with a premonition of what was to come next. “No, silly. Gay men,” she said. Was there suspicion in her eyes? Mark avoided an answer by taking up his own glass, silently cursing himself for his paranoia. “You took his flirting with you pretty well, though. I was glad to see you‟re not a homophobe,” she said. Instead of drinking, Mark put his glass back down, a little more firmly than intended. “What?” She raised her eyebrows. “Earlier, in the kennel, he came on to you. Didn‟t you even notice?” Mark felt as if she had just pulled the rug from under him. He could only stare at her. “What did you say?”

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With a tinge of mockery, she patted his hand. “Oh, Mark, you needn‟t be embarrassed for that! A handsome guy like you, you‟re entitled to a little vanity. Can you cross your heart and tell me you‟re not flattered that even a man finds you attractive?” Anger rose within Mark‟s chest, fueled by fear. She knows it. She knows. I gave myself away. Yanking his hand back, he banged his palm on the table. “Fuck no!” he bellowed. All around them, people fell silent. Evie flinched back as if he had slapped her face. Mark compressed his lips for a second. “Sorry,” he said. She stared at him, her wide eyes startled and hurt. He reached out across the table. “Sorry,” he repeated, forcing himself to smile. “But that was quite a bomb you dumped into my lap, here. Didn‟t mean to yell at you, honestly.” After a moment of hesitation, she allowed him to take her hand. At the other tables, people relaxed and turned back to their meals and conversations. “It‟s okay,” she said, but she wouldn‟t look at him. “I‟m sorry I brought it up at all.” He sighed. God, what a mess. Why did she have to be so observant? Why did he have to make a big deal out of her remark, instead of just laughing it off? “Look, I don‟t care what was on that man‟s mind,” he lied. “And I couldn‟t care less who and what Mr. Devereaux is into. I don‟t care, okay? I‟m just not comfortable discussing anybody‟s… preferences… at all.” Now she blushed even more, clearly embarrassed with herself. “Open mouth, insert foot. Story of my life,” she murmured. He smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly, guiltily glad to have taken her mind off things. “I‟d blame the wine, if I were you,” he said. “Did you want some more?”

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She looked up at him, her cheeks still flushed but with a smile back in place. “Are you trying to get me drunk here, Officer Bowman?” Faking offense, Mark gave her his best innocent wink. “Me? Wouldn‟t dream of it, Chief Jakkelsen.” Now she laughed again. “I took care of that pretty well myself, or so it seems,” she said, returning his wink. Mark confined himself to a shrug, bringing forth another chuckle from her that ended in a stifled yawn. She rolled her shoulders. “Seriously, Mark, I‟m quite done in. Mind if we head home?” In the cab, she shivered in her thin blazer and cuddled up to him. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. Her body was soft and heavy at Mark‟s side, actually not an unpleasant feeling. With a contented sigh, she nestled her face into the crook of his neck, making him smile down at her fondly. Still, he was off his guard when she turned her face up to his and brushed his lips with her own. Taken aback, he didn‟t react immediately. She seemed to read his hesitation as leave to take the kiss a little further, but Mark recovered in time, before it could become serious. “What are you up to, Evie?” he asked softly, pulling back. She batted her eyelashes at him. “Just testing the waters,” she said, her speech a little slurry. Her tone was light, but what little Mark could see of the look in her eyes in the dark confines of the cab was far too serious for his taste. He patted her shoulder, trying to make light of it. “I told you, no making out on the first date,” he said. “Behave, Chief Jakkelsen.” She huffed a breath and cuddled back in. “Spoilsport.” He squeezed her shoulder gently and pulled her close again, smiling in the dark. “That‟s my girl.” She was asleep when the cab pulled up in front of her apartment building. After Mark had helped her out, she stood on the sidewalk, swaying slightly on her feet.

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Mark held the cab back by means of a twenty, then walked her to her door. It took Evie two tries at the lock, but finally she managed. Looking back to the waiting cab, she said, “I guess that means you‟re not coming in for… coffee, or are you?” Mark hesitated. “Evie, I….” She reached up, put her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. As Mark felt Evie‟s tongue stroking the seam of his closed lips, a nasty little voice in the back of his mind tried to push him to give in. Do it already, the voice whispered. You could fuck her just once and be done with it, and any suspicion would be gone forever. She’s practically begging for it. It’d be so easy, wouldn’t it? Luckily, his better judgment kicked in at that point. He kept his mouth on hers in a brotherly kiss for a moment, then pushed her gently away. “I don‟t think that‟s a good idea, Evie,” he said softly. With a thoughtful look, she let go of him, licking her lips. “You‟re most probably right,” she said. “Damn wine. Yet, it was a wonderful evening, and I‟d like to thank you for it.” “You‟re welcome.” Mark cast her a lopsided grin. “We can repeat it sometime. Next time you save my ass at the latest. Promise.” She gave his shoulder a playful punch and stepped back. “Next time I‟ll bring Rex.” Mark gestured her in. “Whatever floats your boat. Night, Evie. Sweet dreams.” “You bet,” she sighed before she disappeared inside. Frowning, Mark dropped into the back seat of the cab again, the comfortable evening thoroughly marred for him by its ending. The driver looked at him in the rear view mirror. “Where to now?” Distractedly, Mark told him his address and sat back, folding his arms.

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So Evie had a crush on him. What a mess. Small things he had never taken account of before suddenly made sense. He realized that she must have been attracted to him for a while now. But then again, what had she been thinking? Mark tried to be angry at her but found that he just couldn‟t. After all, she had asked nicely, in a manner of speaking, and she had taken his rejection gracefully, even drunk. He wondered if they‟d make it back to the easy camaraderie of before. Mark noticed that he was clutching his upper arms so firmly it hurt and willed his hands to relax. Yet he seemed unable to sit still. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, tapped his foot, his fingers beating a rapid tattoo on his upper arms, then on his thigh. The entire day had put his head into a blender, leaving him twitchy and precariously on the edge. No way would he be able to catch any sleep in the near future, unsettled like this. He definitely needed stress relief. Fortunately, he knew just the place to go when he had to scratch that particular itch. Leaning forward, he tapped the cab driver‟s shoulder through the open dividing window. “Change of plans,” he said.

THE cab unloaded him in front of an unassuming former warehouse and took off with considerable speed. Mark didn‟t waste his energy being angry at the driver, who‟d given him a scowl and slammed the dividing window shut after Mark had named his new destination. He stepped up to the door and gave the required knock. A peephole opened, and shortly afterwards, he was granted entry. Inside, it was dark and loud, as usual. Mark cut his way through to the bar and bought a Miller Lite. Taking a deep pull from his bottle, he closed his eyes for a moment as he felt his heartbeat fall into step with the stomping bass line of the house music they played here. He turned around and leaned against the bar, scanning the goods on display beneath the stroboscopic flickering of the disco ball. Although it was a normal workday night, the place was packed, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and testosterone. Men of all ages were talking, drinking, dancing, some of them shirtless,

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some of them paired up and making out, heedless of whether they were at the bar, against a wall, or even in the middle of the dance floor. It didn‟t take long until a pretty young blond met Mark‟s eyes. They exchanged looks and smiles, and Blondie came up to the bar. “Hi, handsome,” he greeted. “What‟s up?” Even though he stood close, the music was so loud he had to shout. Mark didn‟t care. He wasn‟t here for the conversation. As Blondie leaned one elbow casually on the bar next to Mark, his cut-off T-shirt rode up, flashing a pierced belly button. Following the blatant invitation, Mark ogled him. Blondie shifted and pushed his hip forward. Mark reached out and followed a carefully groomed darkblond treasure trail downward with the tips of his fingers, flipping the silvery ball of the piercing in passing, and further down across the bulge behind the fly of Blondie‟s painted-on jeans. Here he stopped and, meeting the other man‟s eyes again, leaned in. “You tell me.” Blondie smiled impishly and moved a little closer, until his thigh pressed against Mark‟s. He gripped Mark‟s hand and eased it back until it rested on his ass. Never breaking eye contact, he took the beer bottle from Mark‟s other hand, tipped his head back, and drank. Thoughtfully, Mark watched Blondie‟s Adam‟s apple bob. He moved his hand slowly up and down. That firm, denim-covered swell felt good under his palm, warm and compliant as it wriggled a little. Exactly what he needed right now. His cock agreed, filling in anticipation. Blondie lowered the bottle and winked at Mark, then took another pull. Licking his lips, the young man handed the bottle back. Mark set it aside and brought his mouth close to Blondie‟s ear. “That‟s what I thought. Lead the way.”

THE cubicles in the back were small and tiled, remainders of the bathhouse this place had been in former times. Without further ado, Blondie pulled off his T-shirt, then went immediately for Mark‟s fly, pulled down the zipper, and shoved his hand in. By the time Mark had

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his belt and button open, Blondie was already jerking him with deft, effective strokes. For a few moments, Mark watched, enjoying the sensation; then he reached out to cup Blondie‟s package. The young man pushed eagerly into Mark‟s hand, his erection straining against the tough fabric of his jeans. “You gonna fuck me anytime soon?” he asked, his voice husky. “Getting to it. Strip,” Mark said, grabbing a condom from the basket by the door. Giggling, Blondie stepped back. He peeled off his jeans and shoes and stood, slim and lithe, slender cock curving upward, watching as Mark applied lubricant. “‟S a big one,” Blondie said. Mark grinned at him. “Afraid you can‟t take it?” Blondie winked and waved a tiny plastic vial. “No problem.” He cracked it open. “Want some?” Mark wrinkled his nose as he caught a whiff of the sharp, chemical fumes. “I don‟t do that shit. Gives me a headache.” With a shrug, the other man took a nose full of the poppers and recapped the vial. He turned and kneeled down on the vinyl-covered cot. Grinning back at Mark over his shoulder, he bent forward and arched his back, thighs spread wide. “All ready for you. Help yourself,” he crooned. Mark didn‟t bother with taking off his trousers and briefs, just shoved them down and stepped behind the other man, lining himself up. Blondie‟s hole was loose and relaxed easily when Mark pushed his cock in. With a satisfied grunt, the young man rested his forehead on his crossed arms, and Mark held onto Blondie‟s hips with both hands and started to fuck. Yes, that was exactly what he needed. Reveling in the hot grip of the other man‟s willing body, Mark lost himself in the steady rhythm of his thrusts, in the sounds and smells of sex. Blondie looked back at him, biting his lip. “Harder! Give it to me hard and fast,” he moaned, and Mark dug his fingers in and complied. He felt his face go slack, his eyelids droop as the pulsing at the base of

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his spine built, grew, drowning out all of the day, physical sensations finally overcoming conscious thought. “Harder,” Blondie demanded again. He knelt up, bracing himself against the wall with one hand, and Mark found leverage at the young man‟s shoulders, closed his eyes, and let loose. Right when the release swept though Mark and shot out of his body, the fresh stench of poppers pierced though the lust-induced haze in his mind. Forcing his eyes open, Mark saw the vial dancing right in front of his face as Blondie held it up to him. Cursing violently, Mark shoved the other man down, ripped the condom off, and yanked his clothes back on. “Whoa, what the fuck?” Blondie shouted, scrabbling for his vial, which he‟d dropped as a result of Mark‟s hasty retreat. “That‟s my last, man!” “Fuck you. I said I don‟t do that shit.” Mark was closing his belt buckle, already halfway out the door. “Hey, and what about me? Can‟t leave me like this, asshole!” Blondie wailed, his erection weeping. “Watch me,” Mark hissed, cutting off the other man‟s angry outcry with a slam of the door.

MARK was lucky enough to catch another cab right in front of the club. He got out several blocks away from his apartment complex and walked the rest of the way to clear his head. The March night was chilly, still tinged with a hint of winter. Mark was grateful when he could finally close the door to his apartment behind him. He stripped down quickly, threw his clothes into the hamper, and stepped into the shower. He showered long and hot, using lots of scented soap to wash away the smell of sex, sweat, and beer. It was always like this when he finally gave in to his baser urges: after the rush of arousal was gone, he felt hollow and filthy. He loathed the way he had to seek his release. Like an addict, he swore every time it would be the last time, the promise only lasting until the next time. Tonight

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had been one of the nastier ones. He hadn‟t even been able to find oblivion in the act, as he usually did. He wanted to blame Blondie and his fucking drug habit, but he knew that was only half the story. First Devereaux, then Evie. You’re awfully in demand recently, Bowman. Looking needy? Mark turned off the shower and grabbed a towel. After he had dried himself, he wiped the fog off the mirror cabinet above the sink and leaned in to scrutinize his face. No, not needy; he just looked frustrated, with his light-brown eyes glaring from under puckered brows, short, dark hair standing on end from toweling, square jaw clenched shut. It didn‟t matter one way or the other, since he couldn‟t very well go there anyway, Mark thought as he picked up his toothbrush. The way he handled his sex life now, it was safe. He wasn‟t likely to meet his colleagues at the places where he went looking for his fucks. Or if he ever did, any other cop would most certainly be no more interested in spreading the word than Mark himself was. But getting involved with someone he worked with was out of the question. Well, if it were a woman, perhaps it wouldn‟t be that bad, even if it was Evie, despite their difference in age and rank. However, since he simply wasn‟t into women…. As for gay cops, the PAPD had nothing on any other police force Mark had ever heard of, including the OSHP. Mark had firsthand proof of this. He‟d heard the snide remarks, had witnessed the degrading treatment, the outright hatred those who failed to be discreet enough sometimes had to face. He hadn‟t joined in, but he‟d stood by, secretly glad to be spared and hating himself for it. No way would he risk getting into that kind of crap. He‟d worked too hard to be where he was now, and he wasn‟t about to jeopardize that. Not even for a mouth that was just a little too wide and mobile to be called anything else but sinful. Not for a body as lean and muscular as a cheetah‟s. Not for amazingly expressive eyes so bottomless a man could lose himself in them…. Mark almost swallowed a mouthful of foam as the mental images made his blood rush south, causing him to all but forget what he was currently doing. He coughed, spat, and rinsed his mouth, disgusted at himself.

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Yet after he had gone to bed and switched off the light, the nagging little voice at the back of his mind wouldn‟t let him rest. You could give it a try, it whispered. You could have a good time, and in the end you’ll part ways with no one the wiser, if you’re careful. He’ll be gone by fall, anyway. What harm can it do? Shut up, he told the voice. It will come out, it always does, and then he’ll be gone, and I’ll be in deep shit. He’s off-limits, as well as the whole fucking falconry thing. Not even the little voice dared to suggest that the thought of starting something with Devereaux might not be what was bothering Mark most, but the question of whether he‟d be able to end it—let alone be willing to.

DURING the next few days, a wave of spring flu decimated the ranks of the PAPD considerably. The officers who were spared had to work double shifts to fill the gaps. Mark was too busy to think much about anything else but work, falling into his bed exhausted whenever he was able to get there at all instead of catching three or four hours of sleep on a cot at the station. By Friday night though, the worst seemed over. Mark was granted the weekend off to make up for all the overtime he‟d gathered. He went to bed early, grateful for a sound eight hours of undisturbed rest in his own bed, but Saturday morning found him cranky from the moment he woke. Since Sean had finally called in sick by Friday morning, after sniffling and coughing his way through most of the week, Mark‟s usual day-off routine of playing ball and going for a beer together afterward was moot. It went up in smoke altogether after a short phone call to a croaking, throat-sore Sean. The weather was too cold and nasty to enjoy a long run or motorcycle ride. Museums? Movies? Neither was much fun alone, nor his favorite pastime to begin with. Mark had two free days ahead of him with nothing to fill them and much too much to think about, which he really didn‟t look forward to.

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He cleaned his entire apartment, which didn‟t take too long since he kept it tidy out of habit. He did his laundry, took his spare uniforms to the cleaners, went for lunch and grocery shopping, and picked his washing up afterward. This kept him busy until about three on Saturday afternoon but did nothing to cure his restlessness. He sat down to watch TV, switched through the channels, and flipped the set off after a few minutes. He tried to listen to music and found himself pacing his apartment, looking out of the window at the gray sky and the endless, icy rain. Reading was out of the question. By 5:00 p.m., he gave up and went to the gym.

THE customs‟ fitness room was empty. It was Saturday afternoon, after all; most people had other things to do on their weekends. Given the free run of the place, Mark started his warm-up on the treadmill. There had been a time when New York had looked like the perfect place for him. Sure, his uncle Harry, a former NYPD cop, had warned him that New York was far from being the Promised Land for gay cops, regardless of the Pride movement, regardless of Stonewall. If anybody knew what he was talking about, then it ought to be Harry, who‟d been relentlessly harassed during his last few years of service, ever since someone in his department had found out he was involved with another man. Mark had turned a deaf ear to his uncle‟s advice, telling himself that Harry‟s bad experiences dated ten years back, and times had changed since. Okay, keeping his private life private was the sensible thing regardless, but this seemed a small sacrifice compared to the vast possibilities living in a generally open-minded environment promised. Unfortunately, Harry had been only too right. Sure, here Mark could have sex without being forced to take a week off to sneak away to the next big city, but he still had to make sure his two lives didn‟t touch, much less mingle. He was so fed up with it. Fed up with feeling dirty after sex. Fed up with constantly looking over his shoulder and with living his life alone.

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Harry‟s partner, Nick, had been with the Nassau County PD. Faced with the choice of remaining in the closet or remaining with the department, Nick had quit. Harry had struggled through to the bitter end and lived to regret it. One day, you’ll have to choose. You can’t lie to yourself forever. Choose, or life will make the choice for you, before you’re ready for it. Mark heard the words again, spoken not so long ago by a man who‟d had to learn their truth the hard way. Mark hadn‟t listened to him then. Cursing under his breath, Mark exchanged the treadmill for the rowing machine. He sped up quickly, working up a sweat in order to drown out the wiseass in his mind. There had to be a way; he only needed to find it. Until that time, he‟d simply avoid temptation. Cursing some more, Mark drove himself mercilessly, unsure whether he sought punishment or oblivion. Eventually, he collapsed over the oars, panting hard. He took a few minutes to catch his breath before he untangled himself from the contraption, his legs a bit wobbly but his mind considerably calmer now. When he reached for his towel, Evie‟s slightly breathless voice said, “Where have you been, sailor? Halfway to London?” He flinched and pivoted, looking at her rather sheepishly. She was doing sit-ups, counting under her breath and grinning at him every time she came up. “Sorry, didn‟t hear you come in,” he admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck. He bent at the waist and started to stretch but held his head so he could still look at her. “Forty-nine, fifty….” She rolled over effortlessly for pushups, meeting his gaze. “I could tell. Hard day?” He grabbed his ankle and pulled, stretching his thigh. “Not really. Sean caught the flu, and I didn‟t get my game today. Had a bit of thinking to do, too. Got a bit pushy, I guess.” She pressed up with more force, clapping her hands at every up. “That‟s… good,” she huffed. “Helps you… focus.” He nodded. “Cleared my head.”

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She jumped up smoothly, heading for the treadmill. Adjusting the machine, she said tentatively, “Speaking of clearheadedness, because of the other night….” He winced before he could catch himself, glad she had her eyes elsewhere. “Never mind. It didn‟t bother me.” She looked up at him, her face flushed from more than exercise. “But it bothered me. Still does, actually.” He shook his head. “Evie, you needn‟t—” he began, but she interrupted. “I need to explain it to you. I‟m glad you had your head on straight, you know—I don‟t normally impose myself on people. Then again, I don‟t normally drink so much, either,” she blurted. He sighed. “Evie, you don‟t have to apologize. Nothing happened. Please, can we stop talking about it?” She turned back to the dials. A hurt expression flashed over her face, but he might have imagined that, because when she looked at him again, her smile was back. “Yes, sure. Thank you, anyway.” She stepped onto the conveyor. “I‟ll be done here in about twenty minutes. Wait for me? Maybe we could go for a drink together,” she said casually. He couldn‟t help feeling as if he had missed something important here, but when she didn‟t say anything more, he just nodded and went for his shower. Perhaps having a drink together was a good idea. Resuming their old routine might ease away the lingering awkwardness. Still, he was relieved to hear her laugh. A male voice said something that made her laugh again. Rubbing at his hair with a towel, Mark rounded the corner, smiling in anticipation. “There you are, Mark,” she called. “We were just talking about you.” Only when he looked up from under the towel did he realize to whom she‟d been talking. Hunter Devereaux greeted Mark with a smile. The man was dressed for a workout in loose track pants and tank top, his hair tied back in a single braid. His bare arms were pale, long,

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sinewy muscles standing out in stark relief. Sharp tan lines at his neckline and elbows made him look as if he wore a brown hood and gloves. Mark took it all in before he quickly ducked back into his towel, in order to regain his composure. One look at that man and you’re all over the place. Jesus, Bowman, what’s wrong with you? Get a grip, will you? Wrapping the towel around his neck, he returned the greeting with a casual nod. “Hello, Mr. Devereaux. You work out here too?” A moment later, he could have kicked himself over this lame line. Luckily, Devereaux didn‟t seem to take notice. Or maybe he was just being polite. “Chief Jakkelsen kindly allowed me to,” he said, still smiling. Evie nudged his forearm. “How often did I ask you to call me Evie?” she chided, and Devereaux turned his smile on her. She said to Mark, “Hunter asked me when you wanted to visit the falcons. Don‟t tell me you haven‟t called Greg yet.” Mark winced. “No, I haven‟t,” he admitted, keeping silent on the fact that he had decided he wouldn‟t do it at all. Her eyes widened. “But why, for crying out loud? Waiting for an engraved invitation? I told you he was serious.” “Well, with the flu and everything—I just didn‟t get around….” Mark hesitated, just shy of fidgeting, when she rolled her eyes at him. “I must admit I was wondering about you myself,” Devereaux said. “Iman keeps nagging me about you, you know. She‟d dearly like to show you her better self.” His eyes sparkled with a tinge of mockery. Irresistible. Mark caught himself too late to suppress his answering smile. His lines aren’t any better than yours, but you still think them funny. Interesting, isn’t it? Shut up, he told the curious little voice in his mind. This is nothing; just making a new friend, in addition to doing something that looks as if it could be a lot of fun. If he happens to be gay, so what?

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The hell you say, the voice said. Mark ignored it. He shrugged. “Actually, since we‟re talking now—I‟d be free tomorrow, if this is convenient for Iman. And for Dr. Gregory, of course.” He made sure to keep his voice casual. “Perfect,” Devereaux said. “Patrol starts at dawn. Be at the falconry station at about 5 a.m. Do you need me to give you directions?” “You go ahead with your workout, Hunter. I‟ll take care of that,” Evie interjected. She took Mark‟s arm, steering him away. “Oh, and by the way, Mark, Greg left me a stack of reading material for you the other day. You‟ll want it before you attend patrol.” Devereaux nodded and cast them a parting smile, heading for the treadmill. When Mark allowed Evie to lead him out of the room, he was frowning again as he tried to figure out what had happened to his resolve to avoid temptation.

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Chapter 3

THE next morning found Mark dismounting his Kawasaki KZ 1000 in front of the falconry station, a low, sixty-foot industrial trailer with a corrugated iron shed leaning against it. Three rather battered Chevy Blazers were parked in front of the shed. After yesterday‟s rain, Sunday dawned bright and sunny, if still cold. Mark hung his leather jacket over the bike‟s handlebars, grateful for the thick sweater he wore underneath. Right when he turned to the rickety stairs, the trailer door flew open. “Ah, Officer Bowman. Right on time.” Gregory burst out of the building rubbing his hands, radiating energy like a nuclear power plant. He practically ran ahead of Mark toward the shed, gesturing at him to follow. “The others are already in the mews,” he said, over his shoulder. “Come, I‟ll introduce you. Easy now.” Mark watched in wonder as the bouncing, vigorous man turned into a picture of serenity, speaking in a low, calming voice, his movements unhurried and gentle. While Gregory walked deeper into the shed—the mews?—Mark stopped in the doorway, taking a look around. About a dozen T-shaped posts were rammed into wood chipcovered ground, their upholstered top beams roughly shoulder height. Nine of them were occupied by falcons. Two of the birds were reddishbrown, of considerable size, with bright yellow beaks and long legs.

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There were six others, smaller ones, their feathering gray at their backs and ornamented by darker stripes in front. The last falcon, striped tan and light brown, was Mark‟s old acquaintance, the Saker falcon. Next to a stainless steel workbench along the left wall of the shed, a big, burly man lifted one bird after the other from its post onto a scale. He read the weight to a short, dark-skinned youth who noted the numbers on a white wall board. Devereaux stood in the background next to the Saker, murmuring to it in a low voice. Gregory exchanged a few words with Devereaux, then talked briefly to the other two men before he left again. Devereaux stepped up to Mark. “Hello, Officer Bowman. Glad you could come,” he said, holding out his hand. Mark hesitated for a split second before taking it. But this time, there was no lingering contact, not the slightest hint at lewdness. Just a firm squeeze and a short nod. Relieved, if oddly disappointed, Mark returned both. “Thanks for inviting me again, Mr. Devereaux. And lose the officer, please. It‟s Mark.” At that, a small spark flashed in Devereaux‟s eyes at last. “All right. Call me Hunter, then. I‟m afraid it‟s not a good time for you to get reacquainted with Iman. She‟s a little bitchy today.” Mark cast a glance back at the big falcon. The beast returned his stare out of huge, brown, unblinking eyes. Mark could have sworn she sneered at him. “Never mind,” he muttered, bringing forth an amused huff from Hunter. The falconer took a small, stiff leather pouch out of his jeans pocket and headed for one of the beams closer to the door, talking as he went. “Greg asked me to bring you into the loop. Is this alright with you?” “Of course,” Mark said, falling into step with him. “I read a bit through the material Dr. Gregory gave me. Not much though, I‟m afraid.”

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“Okay. Feel free to ask questions.” Hunter waved his hand toward the men at the scale. “The big guy over there is Walter Rawlins, Master Falconer and a professor from the SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry. The other is Micky Ruiz, a postgraduate from SUNY and our intern. He‟s an Apprentice Falconer. Walt is his mentor. Guys, this is Officer Mark Bowman from the Port Authority Police Department.” Both men paused, nodded at Mark, and then continued their work. Obviously they were used to visitors. Hunter spoke on. “The falcons are weighed twice every day in order to estimate their nutritional condition. They mustn‟t be too hungry or they won‟t be able to fly, but if they are fed too much, they won‟t feel like hunting.” “Not feel like hunting? Don‟t they heed your commands?” Mark asked. “It depends.” Hunter smiled that crooked half-smile Mark found so unsettling. “Even trained, they are still wild animals, not like dogs. They‟ve got minds of their own. The trick is to make them want to do the things you need them to do. You‟ll find out in time.” He turned toward the birds. “Currently, we‟re using Harris hawks”—he pointed at the brown birds—“and Peregrines. Oh, and one Saker.” Their gazes met for a second as if sharing a private joke. “Where did the birds come from?” Mark asked. “Surely you can‟t have walked them all out through the airport.” Hunter raised an amused eyebrow. “That would‟ve left quite an impression, wouldn‟t it? No, the Peregrines belong to Greg; he breeds them. He‟s the only person in the entire state who could have provided so many trained Peregrines at once—they're quite rare. The Harris hawks came with Walt. They are part of his research project at his college. Iman, she‟s mine. She‟s actually not a part of this project. A friend sent her to me as a gift.” “Must be some friend,” Mark said, his curiosity woken. Hunter shrugged. “That he is,” he said without elaborating further, turning back to the falcons instead. “The Harris hawks are used for bigger game, like geese. The Peregrines hunt seagulls, which is what we‟re dealing with here, mostly.”

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Hunter took a few steps up to the nearest beam and lifted the Peregrine on his gloved left hand. “This is Twist.” The bird flapped its wings and bobbed its head. Hunter crooned at it as he covered its head with the leather hood, fastening the strings with his teeth. His face and the bird‟s hooked beak were only inches apart, but neither bird nor man seemed to care. The hooding looked smooth and easy, and the bird stilled almost instantly. “He‟s the only male we have. The others are all females. Most falconers prefer females, because they‟re bigger and stronger than the males. And meaner. Twist here, he‟s a sweetie, aren‟t you, my boy?” He stroked the bird‟s breast feathers. Mark couldn‟t perceive any kind of reaction from the bird, but Hunter hummed contentedly. “Yes, I know you like that.” He turned back to Mark, his face sincere. “These falcons are actual hunting birds, not the tame chicks you meet at falconry shows and such. When we‟re with an unhooded falcon, always keep to the right side of the falconer and don‟t make abrupt noises or jerky movements. Hooded, they are mostly calm and can be touched. But never, ever reach out for an unhooded falcon carelessly. Those beaks can break fingers as easily as they snap a gull‟s neck.” “I‟m sure going to keep that in mind,” Mark said, taking half a step back, just in case. Hunter flashed him a lenient smile but otherwise didn‟t comment. He headed toward the exit, waving at Mark to follow him. Hunter opened the back door of one of the vehicles and placed the Peregrine on an upholstered beam in the back. Rawlins and Ruiz were loading falcons into another car. A moment later Gregory joined them, issuing out leather shoulder bags to the falconers. “Okay,” Gregory said, rubbing his hands. “Let‟s see. Walt and Micky, you take three Peregrines and head northwest. Hunter, the marksmen reported an untimely flock of geese yesterday. We‟ll want a Harris. Get Napoleon. Since we have a guest with us, I‟ll be with Hunter for the morning. All report here at two at the latest. Radio check twenty minutes from now. Any questions? Officer Bowman?” “Not at the moment, sir, thank you,” Mark said. No one else spoke up. Gregory nodded to everybody around. “Good hunt, folks.”

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Among murmured replies to the sentiment, the men left. Mark was gestured to the back seat. Gingerly, he edged forward as far as possible, peering warily at the falcons not an arm‟s length behind him. Sure, they were facing away from him, and they were hooded and fastened to the beam with short leather straps, but still… better safe than sorry. Hunter took the wheel, and Gregory sat sideways on the passenger seat to speak to Mark. “So that‟s how it‟s done,” he said. “This airport spans roughly five thousand acres, about half of which are undeveloped. We‟ve divided the green into three sectors of about one and a half square miles each. We patrol our sectors and fly the falcons at intervals of about half an hour. In addition, Flight Tower or Ground Control can reach us by radio if they need us somewhere in particular. Normally, Hunter and I each have one sector alone, but since you‟re—” He couldn‟t finish the sentence because his two-way radio started to crackle. “Tower for Falconer, flock of gulls reported on 4R south. Confirm.” “Falconer for Tower, roger, we‟re on,” Gregory said. Hunter had already sped up. They jumped and raced across uneven green and service ways toward the end of the peninsula. Mark, peering out of the windscreen, couldn‟t make out anything special when Hunter suddenly stomped the brake. Almost before the car had stopped, Gregory was out, yanking open the back door and taking out Twist, the Peregrine. The falconers headed toward the shore with long strides, leaving it to Mark to trail behind them. After some seconds, both falconers stopped. A short exchange of words, then Hunter hurried on. Gregory removed the hood of his bird. The falcon craned and turned its head, flapping its wings. Gregory raised the gloved hand, and the falcon tumbled down and swept across the short grass for several yards before it soared up, rapidly gaining height. Because he‟d had his eyes on the bird, Mark startled when Hunter broke into a run, yelling and clapping his hands. Out of nowhere, the air was suddenly filled with an enormous noise, wildly shrieking birds, fluttering wings, a tornado of white feathers, red beaks, and screams.

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“Holy shit!” Mark watched in awe as hundreds of seagulls fled in a wild ruckus toward the bay, a wobbling, twisting mass of whitefeathered bodies. Suddenly, the flock separated like a herd of sheep before a dog. The falcon roared down, literally out of thin air, at breathtaking speed and cracked a gull in the back with deadly accuracy. While it tumbled to the ground, the falcon caught himself at the last possible moment. He landed a split second after his quarry, hunkering down over it with widely spread wings, and started to pluck feathers from the gull. Gregory hurried after his bird. He held out his gloved hand, a piece of meat dangling between thumb and forefinger, crooning at Twist until the falcon allowed the gull to be taken away. Fluttering, the falcon perched up on his master‟s fist, picking at the piece of meat. Mark let out a breath he hadn‟t noticed he‟d held, looking around himself. The sky was clear again, not a single gull in sight. Hunter leaned against the car, speaking into his radio. Gregory stuffed the dead gull in his bag and headed back to the car, grinning at Mark when he passed him. “So, Officer Bowman, did you like that?” Mark beamed. He knew it, and he couldn‟t do anything about it. His heart was still thumping from the rush of adrenaline, and he had to cram his hands into his pockets in order to keep himself from gesturing. “That was fantastic! Is it always like this?” “No,” Gregory said dryly. “Most of the time we just fly them and load them back into the car.” He patted his bag. “Our purpose is not to kill the gulls, quite the contrary. The falcons are there to shoo them away. The gulls spot a falcon at a distance of a mile and stay away from the area, and that‟s what we want. This little fellow here wasn‟t supposed to die, but it happens. The falcons like a healthy hunt, though.” “I could tell,” Mark said, recalling the fierceness of the bird. Hard to imagine with the motionless, statuesque animal perching on its beam now, its hood back in place. They could hear voices from Hunter‟s radio. At the same moment, Hunter called, “Move it, Greg! Another alert up north!” Gregory hurriedly shut the car‟s rear door and hustled Mark to his seat. He hadn‟t yet closed his door completely when Hunter took off,

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driving the vehicle unforgivingly across rough terrain, crossing the service way right in front of a shuttle bus. Curses crackled through both radios. Mark chuckled, anticipation and the excitement of the wild ride boiling up inside of him. He smiled as he met Hunter‟s eyes in the rear view mirror for a second. Hunter returned the smile, although he immediately turned his concentration back ahead. The wild ride didn‟t last long. Gregory‟s radio crackled once again, and he muttered a curse and signaled at Hunter, who immediately slowed down to a normal speed. Turning halfway to Mark, Gregory said, “The marksmen got them first. Shot about twenty gulls. Damn their asses.” Hunter gave an approving grunt. Gregory said, “We‟ll head for 13L. Intersection‟s done for the next few hours.” As they changed direction, Mark leaned forward. He was about to ask questions, but Gregory radiated a foul mood, muttering under his breath and speaking into his radio with a low voice, and Hunter was frowning. Mark decided to back off for now. Sitting like this, his face was not an arm‟s length away from Hunter‟s shoulder. Mark could smell him, old wood and soap and a tang of something warm and spicy. Knowing Gregory to be distracted, Mark dared to search Hunter‟s gaze in the rear view mirror again. With an odd, fluttery feeling in his stomach, he caught the falconer‟s eyes. They looked at each other for long seconds, Hunter‟s stern expression softening before he visibly shook himself and looked straight ahead again, his face impassive once more. They stopped next to the rows of landing lights at the end of the runway. Airplanes took off or landed in short order, but at a considerable distance from them. This time the Peregrine stayed in the car. Hunter carried the Harris hawk several steps away. After a short glance around, he unhooded the bird unceremoniously and let it go. The hawk soared straight upward to the drafts, then spread its wings and started to draw wide circles, far above the wetlands of Jamaica Bay.

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Mark let his head fall back and followed the hawk with his eyes. It was so high it was only a dot against the vast, white expanse of the sky. Mark tried to picture how the bird would see the three men, mere dots themselves, small and inconsequential. What might it be like to be as single-minded as that animal had to be? He could empathize with the falcons about their focus on the hunt. Like when he himself had pursued that drug smuggler the other day. He recalled the rush of adrenaline. The satisfaction at bringing his prey to bay. That was what counted for every hunter, earthbound or airborne. A sharp yell brought him back to reality. Hunter swung a weight on a long cord in circles around his head. “That weight is called the lure,” Gregory said, startling him. Mark hadn‟t noticed the head falconer approach. “He‟s luring the falcon in; that is, calling her back.” Mark nodded, never looking away from Hunter. Gregory continued. “The birds are fed only on the glove. The glove means food. The lure means there will be food. Thus the falcon will always return to the glove.” “But you release them completely. They could just fly away.” “Yes, that‟s true, and sometimes they do. Well, they are fitted with radio transmitters, so we can track them, but everybody loses a falcon now and then. Humans per se don‟t mean anything to a falcon, other than a source of food. Yet they have learned that being fed is easier than hunting by themselves, and they usually come back.” Gregory nodded at Hunter. The Harris hawk had landed on his upraised fist and received its piece of meat in turn. “They‟re fierce opportunists. If you think about it, humans and falcons are not that different for that matter.” The Harris hawk was hooded and loaded back into the car with unadorned, practical ease. Gregory sat behind the steering wheel this time. They rode a short while along the shore, stopped and repeated the flight routine—ride, stop, fly one of the birds—for another four and a half hours, until they had completed a wide circle. Hunter and Gregory took turns driving, but after the first time, it was only Hunter who worked the birds. Gregory stayed behind with Mark to give explanations and answer questions. Mark watched,

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finding himself more and more fascinated, in marked contrast to Evie‟s premonition. Every flight appeared different, providing a new detail, and his questions didn‟t seem to bother the head falconer at all. On the contrary, Gregory obviously approved, since he answered more and more at length. Inevitably, Mark got to watch the falconer along with the falcons. When Hunter flew the Harris hawk, he held it close to his chest and crooned to it, then whipped his arm out and threw the bird. The Peregrine he carried at shoulder height, released it quickly, and caught it on his upraised arm with a small spin of his entire body. Mark could only marvel at the effort it had to take to repeat these movements again and again over the hours, given the size and weight of the falcons. After all, they weren‟t dead weight. Catching a landing bird or throwing it into the air had to multiply the strain. Even when the falcons hunched over to feed on the falconer‟s fist, they flapped their wings and sometimes caused the falconer‟s arm to bounce. But Hunter just carried on, inexhaustible, making it look effortless. Mark recalled the well-defined muscles he had glimpsed on Hunter‟s arms the previous night. Now he knew exactly where those came from. As the hours passed by, Mark caught himself more and more frequently letting his gaze linger on Hunter instead of watching the falcons. Each time he forced his mind back by putting it on Gregory‟s explanations or by finding another question to ask. But it was too tempting. Hunter focused on his every action, as if there was nothing more important in the world. Like his birds, he abandoned himself completely to the moment. With a start, Mark suddenly realized that he pictured all that intensity directed at him. The thought caused his heart to lurch in an entirely unfamiliar way. Unwilling to scrutinize the unsettling emotion any further, he forced his attention back to Gregory.

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ONE hour after noon, they were heading back to the station. “We‟ll break for lunch now,” Gregory said. “Hunter, you take the other car and get fresh doves from Evie. I‟ll return the birds and then go whip up something to eat. Sandwiches okay?” “Fine with me,” Hunter said. “Oh, and we need to leave Iman behind this afternoon. She didn‟t get along too well with some of the Peregrines. I‟ll fly her separately later, I think.” “What‟s with her?” Hunter shrugged. “Don‟t know. I guess she‟s having a mood.” Gregory stopped the car in front of the trailer to let Hunter out. “I told you, you should have gone for a male. They don‟t bitch half as much.” Already halfway out of the car, Hunter gave him a glance back over his shoulder. “You have no idea,” he said with a wink. “Smartass.” Gregory swatted Hunter‟s hip. Hunter grinned and thumped the car roof. “I‟ll be right back. See you.” With a parting nod that encompassed both Gregory and Mark, he got into the other car and drove away. “So what will happen now, sir?” Mark asked as he followed Gregory around the car to the rear. “As I said, I‟ll bring in the birds. You can be in on that, of course, or you can head home right away, as you wish.” “Won‟t you go on patrol in the afternoon?” Mark asked. Gregory, who had his back turned to Mark, might have missed his disappointed expression, but the emotion obviously carried through Mark‟s tone of voice, for Gregory flashed him a short, amused smile. “Yes, I will, of course,” he said. “I‟m afraid I can‟t offer to let you participate in that, though, because we‟re already behind our schedule as it is, and we‟ll all be too busy to take proper care of you.” Knowing he‟d been dismissed, albeit very politely, Mark swallowed the unexpected irritation Gregory‟s words caused him. “Sure, sir,” he said casually. “I‟d like to watch you bring in the birds, then, if it‟s not too much of a bother.”

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That earned him another brief smile. “Not at all, Officer Bowman. I‟m glad to note that you seem to have enjoyed your morning with the falcons.” Gregory opened the rear door of his car and reached for the Harris hawk. Standing behind him, Mark watched Gregory touch the bird‟s talons with his gloved hand and pull lightly at the leather straps with the other until Napoleon hopped onto the glove, spreading her wings for balance. Gregory tightened the straps through his hand and waited until the bird had stilled. Stepping back, he asked, “Would you take Twist?” Mark blinked. Gregory grinned at him. “Don‟t worry, Officer Bowman. When they‟re hooded, they can‟t tell one gloved hand from the other.” He reached into the cargo area and handed Mark a falconer‟s glove, well worn and spattered with bird droppings. “Pull it on over your left hand. Now, bring it level with Twist‟s talons. A little bit higher, ‟cause he‟d rather climb up than down. Take the jesses between thumb and forefinger. Yes, like this.” Gregory tugged slightly at the ends of the straps which dangled from Mark‟s hand. The Peregrine took a step forward, and its talons closed on Mark‟s leather-covered wrist. Mark‟s arm bounced down under the bird‟s surprising weight, but it took him only a split second to adjust. His heart in his throat, he felt the sharp claws scrabble for better purchase and then their deadly grip as they burrowed into the leather. Hardly daring to breathe, he eased back out of the car and straightened until he stood, postured just like Gregory, his hand a little below shoulder height, elbow slightly bent, balancing the falcon gingerly on his fist. “That‟s right. Good to go,” Gregory said, turning away. Too busy getting accustomed to the feeling of the bird on his fist, Mark could only utter a grunt in response. The Peregrine started to tread from one foot to the other, opening and closing his claws. He bowed and gave a soft shriek.

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“Straighten the jesses,” Gregory said, back over his shoulder. Mark pulled the dangling straps tight, and the falcon calmed down. They walked into the shed, where Gregory placed his bird on its perch and unhooded it. He pointed to the first perch in the row. “Put him there,” he said. Mimicking Gregory, Mark leveled his gloved hand behind the top beam, nudged the falcon forward against it, and pulled at the jesses. Twist simply hopped onto the beam. After Mark attached the mews leash to Twist‟s anklets, he backed away, wide-eyed. His arm dropped at his side, feeling strangely light now without the weight of the bird. He took a deep breath. Removing Twist‟s hood, Gregory nodded approval. “Done like an old pro, Officer Bowman.” Although he didn‟t smile, his dark eyes sparkled with mirth. With a pang, Mark realized that the older man‟s attitude actually mirrored Hunter‟s—or maybe just the other way round. They really had to go way back. Mark hadn‟t heard Gregory leave, but at some point he realized he was alone in the shed. He pulled the glove off. His skin tingled where the bird had grabbed him, and the filthy, grainy old leather had made his forearm itch. But still. The mews were quiet, aside from an occasional flap of big wings or clacking of a beak. In here, it smelled like dry wood and leather and animals. Tiny dust motes danced in the light filtering in through the cracks between walls and roof. Mark felt the peace of the place settle over him like a blanket, calming his endless urge to move. He could have stayed there forever. Rawlins and Ruiz came in with their falcons. Leaning against the steel workbench, Mark watched them go through the weighing routine again. Just when Rawlins placed the last falcon on her beam, Hunter returned, carrying the now-familiar blue plastic bag. He exchanged a few words in passing with the others as they left and hefted his load on the workbench next to Mark‟s hip with an apologetic smile. “Sorry to disturb you, but I need to cut up the doves now.” “Never mind. I can leave,” Mark said, already taking a step back. Hunter shook his head.

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“If you can stomach a little gore…. Usually, we keep our visitors away from the uglier parts of our business. But you can stay, if you want.” His smile had taken on a hint of mischief. As if I could leave now, you brat, Mark thought, but he had to admit he rather enjoyed himself. “Okay, I‟ll lend you a hand,” he said, smiling back with equal daring. After tipping out the bag‟s contents on the stainless-steel workbench, Hunter took out a big, jagged knife and a wooden chopping board from underneath it. He reached for a dead dove. “In that case”— the knife hissed down and decapitated the carcass with a crunch—“you can pluck feathers, if you don‟t mind.” He thrust the headless dove into Mark‟s hand. “Only the outer feathers, please. The falcons don‟t mind the down.” He sounded utterly unimpressed, much to Mark‟s chagrin. Hunter severed heads, claws, and wings, parted the remaining carcass in two halves, one with the tail, one with the neck attached, with the speed and ease of long practice. Entrails, heads, and claws were wiped into the trash can with a quick jerk of his blade. Without batting a lash, Mark made sure he kept pace with Hunter, dove by dove. Hunter acknowledged him with a side-glance and a grin. “So this is falconry,” Mark said, his eyes fixed on his hands. “A few hours of fun and the rest is grunge.” Hunter gave an amused little snort. “There is that. Not to mention cleaning up behind the birds, making sure they‟re healthy, keeping them entertained….” “Sounds like hard work. How did you come by that job?” “That was Greg‟s doing. He asked me to help him with this project, and since I had nothing better to do at the moment….” He shrugged. “Here I am. What about you?” “What do you mean?” “How come you‟re working at this airport? Are you from here?” “No, I‟m from the Midwest. I came here about two years ago. Transferred to the PAPD from Ohio State Highway Patrol.” The feathers stuck to Mark‟s hands, which were sticky with gore. He rubbed them together impatiently. “Shit, that‟s nasty. Why do you ask?”

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Hunter handed him a paper towel. “Well, I was thinking… I haven‟t been here long, and it‟s been a while since I‟ve been in the States in general. I must admit I feel a bit lost at times. Do you think… would you mind showing me around sometime?” There it was again, the intent look, barely masked by Hunter‟s lopsided smile. Slowly toweling his hands, Mark resolutely quelled the small but insistent alarm bell in the back of his mind. Shut up. What’s the big deal if I play tourist guide for him? “I‟d better.” He allowed himself a mocking grin. “It seems to me that if anyone ever needed a guide, then it‟s the guy who walked his falcon smack in the middle of an airport building, don‟t you think?” Hunter‟s smile broadened, making his eyes sparkle. Jesus, the man’s a looker. “Exactly my point. We‟re on, then.” He pointed his knife at the workbench. “Or do you want to chicken out on me, now?” “Smartass,” Mark muttered, but he reached for the next dove. They worked on, side by side, the dead doves quickly turning into handy bits of meat. Mark enjoyed the companionable silence. The coppery stench of blood was almost enough to drown out Hunter‟s particular scent, even though they were standing so close to each other. Almost. Still, it wasn‟t pretty work. “Tell me what‟s so special about falconry,” Mark said after a while. Hunter‟s blade moved in a blur. “Where do I start? What‟s there not to like? Watching a falcon kill some clueless bird, swooping down on it like a deadly curse, isn‟t that exciting? Falcons are the fastest creatures altogether; they dive at over two hundred miles per hour. They are absolutely fearless, which makes them perfect, deadly weapons. Imagine a bullet with a cold, calculating mind of its own. That‟s what a falcon on the hunt is.” “You love it,” Mark said quietly. Hunter cast him a glance. “Absolutely.” “But why being a falconer?” Mark demanded. “I can see how watching the falcons is fascinating. Hell, I was quite taken myself. But

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what‟s the point in taming them and taking on all the labor with caring for them when you could just as well go out with a pair of binoculars? What is the point?” Hunter worked on as he spoke. “Isn‟t that obvious? My falcons are wild and free, and yet they come back to me at my call. They are perfectly capable of fending for themselves, and yet they turn to me for food and give up their quarry to me. They don‟t need me, but they choose to keep me company for something we both enjoy. Their trust is worth all my time and devotion.” The knife came to rest on the chopping board when Hunter turned to face him. “Ah, Mark, do you need to ask? The falcons give up everything to me and expect me to give them everything in return. How could I resist?” Mark looked at him, lost in the intensity of gray eyes that had turned almost black with passion. These eyes came closer, filling his vision, until all he could see were their dark depths and the carefully banked fire burning within. “Don‟t tell me you don‟t feel it, too,” Hunter whispered, his breath fanning Mark‟s skin. Mark closed his eyes, expecting to feel the warm touch of lips on his own any moment now, helpless to pull back from the contact, unable to decide if the prospect thrilled or scared him. But the kiss never came. The feeling of warmth disappeared from his skin, and the noise of the chopping knife started anew. Mark opened his eyes and stared down at his hands, which still clutched a piece of dead dove, flabbergasted, then looked at Hunter who was chopping away, totally unfazed for all Mark could tell. He dropped the de-feathered lump on the growing pile and reached for the next before his brain decided to work again. What the hell? Right then, Hunter said, “We‟ve got enough for now. Thanks for your help,” and all Mark could do was nod because Rawlins came back, muttering a greeting. Mark helped with putting the cut meat into

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clear plastic bags, which Rawlins stowed in the shoulder bags. Hunter wiped his hands on a towel and started hooding falcons. A short while later, Gregory stuck his head in. “Are you ready in here?” he asked. Mark trailed behind the falconers when they each picked up a falcon and left, Rawlins handing over one of the leather bags to Gregory in passing. Outside the mews, Mark stood aside and watched the falconers getting ready for their afternoon patrol. Rawlins and Micky left with a nod and a few parting words, and Gregory went into the trailer, calling back at Hunter to go ahead. Hunter leaned on the frame of his open car door. “You did a good job,” he said, grinning at Mark. “I‟m duly impressed.” There it was again: the teasing, the flashing smile, the attitude. Mark felt the familiar annoyance creeping up inside him. He knew he was scowling. “Care to tell me what happened in there?” he asked. The innocent look Hunter gave him was almost Oscar worthy. “What? To me, it looked like getting to know each other. Thanks for your offer, by the way. I‟ll gladly return the favor if you want to come on a patrol again.” He winked. “I‟d love to think I have… whetted your appetite.” Mark didn‟t know if he should laugh or lash out at him. Temptation walking, indeed. It puzzled him even more how much he found himself enjoying the game. “What if you have?” he blurted, surprising himself. If Hunter looked any more clueless, he‟d sprout wings. “As for me, you‟re always welcome,” he said, holding out his hand. “I‟m sure Greg won‟t object either, if you ask him. It was our pleasure to have you here.” Manners getting the better of him, Mark took the offered hand. “The pleasure was all mine,” he said. “Thank you for having me.”

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Hunter chuckled, let go of Mark‟s hand, and folded his long frame into his car. He looked up at him through the open window. “Not yet, Mark, not yet,” he said as he started the engine and backed the car out of the parking spot. A wave, and he was gone, leaving Mark gaping after him. He couldn‟t quite figure out what had just passed. All he knew was that his conscious mind screamed at him to run, get out of here as fast and as far away as possible, although this was the last thing he wanted. He‟d tasted blood, so to speak, and wanted more, greedy and ruthless like a predator. There was this other voice, stronger and deeper within him, that trilled with joy. You wouldn’t want to back off, even if you could, but there’s nothing you can do about it, and don’t you deny it. Gregory came out of the trailer, pausing next to Mark on the way to his car. “Well, Officer Bowman, that‟s it for today. We‟ll part company now, but it was very nice having you with us.” He must have said the very same words to a lot of people in the last few weeks, Mark realized. Gregory‟s thoughts seemed to be somewhere else already. “Yes, Dr. Gregory, thank you. It was a great experience. I‟m very glad you allowed me to share it,” he replied with equal formality. Gregory waved him off with a distracted smile, not quite looking at him. “You‟re most welcome. Evie recommended you, after all. Give her my greetings on occasion, would you?” He grabbed the car door handle. “Have a nice day, then. Unless you‟ve got any questions left?” His tone implied that Mark better not. Nevertheless Mark screwed up the courage to say, “Actually, yes, I have.” Brow creased, Gregory looked back over his shoulder at him. “Yes?” Mark swallowed. “Sir, I, ah, would you mind…?” “Yes, Officer Bowman?” You’re nuts, Bowman. “I‟d like to come back, if you don‟t mind. Couldn‟t I join you more often?”

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Gregory‟s mouth twisted into a dismissive downward arc. “To what end, Officer Bowman? Even though you were pleasant enough company today, and as much as I like to introduce people to my work, this is what I do here. Work. Look, I don‟t fly my falcons just for fun, and I can‟t afford to weigh me or my falconers down with entertaining visitors all the time.” He and Hunter were really two of a kind when it came to issuing challenges. Mark had never been able to resist a dare. Was this a good or a bad thing? He didn‟t bother lingering over the question. “Well, sir, one of your falconers already invited me back. I don‟t think Hunter considered me a burden when I helped him cutting up doves for falcon food.” Now Gregory turned fully toward him, scrutinizing him slowly, head to toe and back, his face impervious. Mark made sure Gregory could see his hands, still smeared with dove blood despite his efforts to clean them. The head falconer‟s eyes went up to Mark‟s face, then to his hands again. Mark waited, leaving the ball in Gregory‟s court. “Helped him, did you?” Gregory asked eventually, his lips twitching. Mark shrugged. “I plucked feathers,” he said casually. Gregory‟s lips twitched again. “Did he tell you to?” What was he up to? Mark shook his head. “I offered. He asked me. Does it matter?” When he laughed, Gregory‟s face lost its dignified set and turned open, even slightly mischievous. “God, he‟s impossible. Hooked you, didn‟t he? Plucked feathers, indeed.” He shook his head. “What‟s that supposed to mean, sir?” Mark asked, slightly impatient. Still chuckling, Gregory explained, “Mark—you don‟t mind if I call you by your given name, do you?—I apologize for giving you the cold shoulder earlier. Hunter told me from the start your interest went farther than a single patrol, but I didn‟t believe him. He—you—proved me wrong, and that doesn‟t happen very often.”

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Mark cocked his head, unsure what was expected from him. “So, what happens now, sir?” he asked eventually. Gregory‟s face turned serious again. Despite the fact that he was shorter, Mark felt as if Gregory was looking down his nose at him. It wasn‟t entirely comfortable. “That depends on what you want, Mark. You want entertainment, a nice pastime? You fuck off right now and go watch Discovery Channel. You want to look deeper into the art, become familiar with the birds, see if there‟s a falconer in you? You stay and listen carefully. What will it be?” Arrogant, patronizing bastard. To his own surprise, Mark found himself unable to be annoyed. Besides, wasn‟t this just what it was about? “I‟ll listen,” he said. Gregory held Mark‟s gaze as he spoke. “Okay, here‟s the deal: you can come back here as often as you want, whenever you want, attend patrols, talk to the falconers, spend time with the falcons, as long as it doesn‟t interfere with our work. In exchange, you can help us with the birds now and then. If, by the time this field trial is over, you‟ve found you‟re seriously interested in falconry, I‟ll help you find a Master Falconer who you can apprentice to. Consider this an internship of sorts, no strings attached—you can end the agreement anytime, no questions asked. Is this acceptable to you?” Becoming a falconer himself? Mark hadn‟t thought that far. But Gregory‟s words touched something within him he hadn‟t even been aware of. This was worth giving a try. “Yes, sir, very acceptable,” he said. Smiling, Gregory held out his hand. “Let‟s shake on it, then.” Mark felt himself grinning like a moron as he took the head falconer‟s hand. “Thank you, sir.” “You‟re welcome. Come back tomorrow, if you want.” He dropped Mark‟s hand and made to turn back to the car. “I can‟t, I‟m on duty tomorrow,” Mark said.

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Gregory shrugged impatiently. “Whenever, then,” he said. “See you around.” “Yes, sir, you certainly will,” Mark replied, unable to say more. Gregory clicked his tongue. “For God‟s sake, stop calling me sir. I feel like my own instructor at that. Call me Greg like everybody else.” Closing the car door behind him, he called back, “Oh and by the way, I suggest you wash your hands before you attend any social functions.” Off he went, leaving Mark positively gaping. Once again. On the highway heading home, Mark‟s brain started to work properly again. He was tired, sweaty, and hungry. He‟d lived through one of the weirdest, most exciting mornings of his life. His hands were still sticky, his jeans were filthy, and his sweater stank. He‟d just agreed to give up a lot of his free time in order to learn the odd, nerdy art of falconry from a gruff man with the fastest mood switches he‟d ever experienced. Doing so, he would have to face another man who was about to blow up his carefully built bubble of safety. How could something that was so incredibly stupid feel so perfectly right?

THAT night, sitting on his bed in his apartment, Mark leafed again through the reading material Evie had forwarded to him. There seemed indeed to be a lot more to falconry than watching the birds, mainly regulations and laws, unfortunately. Buying a gun to shoot ducks was definitely easier than hunting them with a falcon. Mark took up a booklet titled A Brief History of Falconry. Along with taut, plain, and enjoyably written articles, it had pictures—from ancient-looking ones of falconers in medieval garb to contemporary photographs. From the back cover, a very young Greg smiled at him, one hand on the shoulder of a skinny boy who carried a Peregrine. The caption read, “Author John Gregory and apprentice.” Mark did a double-take at the boy. He stood very straight, holding the falcon stiffly on his wrist. He‟d had a mop of dark curls back then,

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and he was still almost a head shorter than Greg. But there was no mistaking that smile. The pride shining from his eyes lent his features an almost angelic beauty. Even in the picture he seemed to be thrumming with energy, Greg‟s hand barely enough to keep him still for the photographer. Tentatively, almost tenderly, Mark ran his finger over the picture of the boy Hunter Devereaux had once been.

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Chapter 4

SWEATING in his heavy riot gear despite the cool and overcast day, Mark stood on the tarmac in a secluded part of the airport reserved for private aircraft. He was one of about a dozen likewise attired PAPD officers who currently watched the Gulfstream jet of some wealthy Middle Eastern businessman taxiing toward its bay. The PAPD escorted important personalities on a regular basis, but with the recent World Trade Center bombing, this one was considered worthy of special precautions. After all, the bomber, like this visiting businessman, had come from Kuwait. The Kuwaiti ambassador seemed to have expressed strong concerns regarding an attempt on the visitor‟s life. Which would also explain why a good third of the PAPD motor squad was assigned to the visitor‟s and the ambassador‟s limousines, waiting in a line further back. Inspector Jacobs, commander in chief of the PAPD JFK Command, was standing slightly apart from the welcoming committee for the group of about twenty people who were descending the gangway now. If he‟d thought about them at all, Mark would have expected bearded oil sheiks in traditional garb and a flock of black-veiled women. But the Kuwaitis looked like any group of businesspeople, the men in tailored suits, the women in elegant dresses, silken headscarves, and heels. Their leader, a lean, silver-haired man, walked next to a teenage boy, who was the only member of the group who looked around himself in obvious wonder. The others appeared completely unimpressed as they joined the waiting officials.

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Sighing inwardly, Mark shifted his weight when the newcomers started to engage in embraces and handshakes with the waiting group. Those Arabs and their welcome rituals. This could take a while. Since he was closest to the mouth of the hangar, Mark was the first to notice some kind of commotion deeper within the vast hall. He hadn‟t yet taken the first wary step toward it when an intruder alert came over his earpiece. CPD didn‟t rate it overly dangerous, thus it was only Mark and his next-in-line colleague, Young, who retreated silently into the building as fast as it was possible without causing unnecessary alarm among their charges. Inside, they found a handful of very upset ground-staff members arguing with a tall, dark-haired man who was almost blocked from Mark‟s view by the wall of people who were backing away from him, step by angry step. Strangely, they gave him a wide berth while obviously trying to hold him back. The man, on the other hand, talked to them in a calm voice but nevertheless kept walking on. Mark approached almost to arm‟s length before he recognized Hunter, who once again carried Iman on his wrist—unhooded, for a change. That man and his falcon are like my very own personal bad penny, Mark thought. What the fuck is he doing here? “Devereaux,” he called. Hunter stopped and cast a questioning glance his way, then had the nerve to smile at him. Mark pushed between two of the staff and planted himself in front of the falconer. “You stop right now!” he ordered, raising a hand in emphasis. He realized his mistake only a moment too late, when the falcon let out a shriek and lashed out at his hand, as fast as lightning. The strike hurt, despite the thick riot-uniform gloves. Mark flinched back with a curse, grabbing his automatic with both hands. His sudden movement caused Iman to duck for another attack, beating her wings and shrieking again. Hunter frowned, put a calming hand to his bird‟s breast and said, annoyingly cool, “Mark, I told you….” Mark heard Young cock his weapon, shouting commands at Hunter, and then someone yelled something in Arabic, and approaching footsteps clattered on the concrete floor. Turning around, Mark saw the boy who had been with the Kuwaiti businessman come running through the hall, face full of

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excitement, calling out in Arabic. Two Kuwaitis in black suits ran after him, waving a handgun each, shouting at the boy, at Hunter, and at the cops. While Mark immediately came to the ready on the Arabs, Young hesitated, moving his automatic back and forth between the gunmen and Hunter. “Ya Allah, don‟t shoot the kid!” Hunter said, his voice soft yet sharp with urgency. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw him put Iman‟s hood on, and the shrieking subsided. It didn‟t make much of a difference, though. Through Mark‟s earpiece, Inspector Jacobs‟s breathless voice barked demands; footfalls and voices rang out everywhere, and behind him Hunter added to the riot, speaking loudly in rapid-fire Arabic. The boy stopped, wide-eyed. One of the bodyguards caught him and shoved him behind his back. He snarled something in Arabic and aimed his gun at Mark‟s chest with a narroweyed stare. Mark‟s colleague had the other Arab in a Mexican standoff, both yelling at each other. “They say stop threatening the prince,” Hunter said from behind Mark, the words tumbling over one another. “You must lower your weapons first, and then they will back off.” This went against everything Mark had been taught. A threat at gunpoint? Never give up your defense, officer, or you‟re dead. “Please, Mark, believe me. Do it.” Hunter‟s voice was tight with real fear, and time stood still. The Arab‟s knuckles whitened on the handle of his gun. Mark‟s body acted, seemingly of its own volition, before he realized he‟d made a decision. Holding the Arab‟s gaze, Mark locked his weapon, then raised his empty right hand, lowering the automatic with his left. Behind him, Hunter spoke in Arabic again, his voice now clear and even. The gunmen exchanged a glance and slowly lowered their weapons. A second later, Mark‟s colleague did the same. “Officers!” Mark heard Inspector Jacobs‟s voice, both close up and through his earpiece. “Down with your weapons! Back in line!” Suddenly their little tableau was surrounded by people, and the earth started turning again, with a slight jolt. Mark had never been so relieved to follow an order. He stepped back and watched the bodyguard release the boy, who ran the last few steps to Hunter and

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threw his arms around the falconer‟s waist. Then the group parted for the Kuwaiti leader, and Hunter pulled free of the boy and sank to his knees, taking hold of the older man‟s hand and pressing it to his forehead. Immediately, the Arab pulled Hunter back to his feet and into an embrace of his own. The older man took Hunter‟s arm and walked him back out to the waiting limousines, with the boy bouncing excitedly ahead of them and the entourage trailing behind. All the while, Iman perched on Hunter‟s left wrist, detached and motionless like a statue once again.

OF

COURSE, Mark and Young were debriefed about the incident.

Mark considered himself lucky that Inspector Jacobs and Taylor, the Diplomatic Service agent on duty, were too busy addressing reproaches to each other to question his or Young‟s behavior in the face of two overeager, armed bodyguards. “We should have been notified of the Sheik expecting another guest,” Inspector Jacobs said, raising his square chin in indignation. Agent Taylor, a fortyish man in a fine suit and tie, didn‟t have Inspector Jacobs‟s impressive bulk, nor a chin to speak of. But he sure equaled Mark‟s commander in chief in indignation. “It remains to be seen whose fault it was, if you indeed weren‟t informed. But, if this were the case, how could he access the hangar in the first place? Weren‟t your men supposed to hold up intruders?” “They did,” Inspector Jacobs snapped. “They reacted immediately and properly.” “Wouldn‟t have done them or His Highness any good if this falconer guy‟d had a bomb in his crate instead of a bird. Why weren‟t the service doors guarded?” “This isn‟t—” the inspector interrupted himself, casting a glance at Mark and Young, who were patiently standing at attention. “We‟ll get back to that later, Agent Taylor. Do you need anything else from my men?”

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“As a matter of fact, no. Well, one more thing.” The agent hadn‟t looked happy to begin with, but now he made a face as if he‟d just sucked on a lemon while he looked between the three other men. “His Royal Highness Sheik Nasir Ibn Ahmad Al-Jabar asked me to give you gentlemen his most sincere apologies for the behavior of his grandson‟s bodyguards. He wishes to congratulate you, Inspector, on the levelheadedness of your men.” Jacobs raised his eyebrows, the lips under his iron-gray moustache twitching. Yet when he answered, his voice didn‟t betray any emotion. “Please convey my thanks to His Highness then, also on behalf of my men.” “Will do.” Agent Taylor nodded at Mark and Young, rising from his chair. “As far as the DS is concerned, the debriefing is successfully finished. I‟ll have my protocol transcribed and sent over to you by tomorrow. Thank you, Officers. Inspector.” The inspector held Mark back after Young had left. “You‟re aware I know exactly what you did back there, aren‟t you, Bowman?” the inspector said, tapping Mark‟s written report on the tabletop to align the pages. Mark held his breath. He didn‟t think Jacobs referred to his familiarity with Hunter, for he was sure this had gone unnoticed, but the inspector‟s next words still came as a relief. “Good thinking, indeed. That was an awful risk you took, though.” Mark shifted on his feet. “Thank you, sir. The situation was very tense,” he said, holding his head high. “It could have escalated any second.” “That‟s true,” Inspector Jacobs said, a sharp edge back in his voice. “But if you hadn‟t been so lucky, I‟d be ripping you a second one right now for placing a fellow officer, yourself, and a bunch of civilians in unnecessary danger, if you weren‟t dead anyway. What were you thinking, Officer?” Mark didn‟t answer, since there was no proper answer to this. Why hadn‟t he waited for orders? Then again, it had been touch and go. A few seconds could have made a huge difference or not, nobody would ever know. Back in his trooper days, he‟d been all on his own

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more often than not, with nobody to rely on for decision making other than himself. He‟d done the right thing. Still, under Jacobs‟s scrutiny, Mark had to struggle to keep himself from flinching. “You got really, really lucky today, Bowman,” the inspector eventually said. “You better make sure you don‟t push it.” Mark nodded, glad to get off this lightly. “I surely will, sir. Thank you.”

THE next morning, two enterprising illegal van service providers lured a group of unsuspecting French tourists, who stood in the shuttle line outside the Air France terminal, into taking their unauthorized transport services. Caught in the act by a PAPD officer, the men locked their prey into their van and turned tail, causing a wild car chase halfway across Queens and Brooklyn. About a dozen marked police cars with their lights flashing and sirens blaring hounded the van into a dead-end street. There the men jumped out, bolting on foot while the van still moved on with its screaming and cursing load of frightened tourists locked inside. It finally came to a halt when it crashed into a Postal Services truck. In the end, both escapees were secured, although they caused several sprained joints and busted shins in resisting arrest. The media was all over the story, drawn to the hot police chase like moths to a flame. The arresting officers, their superiors, the tourists, and even the wrongdoers each got their five minutes, filling up the local news channels. Among all this uproar, even Young forgot about the minor incident at the private jet hangar the day before, to Mark‟s considerable relief. Nobody ever mentioned it. Instead, people were still talking about the wild car chase when Mark‟s shift headed for the locker room that evening. Neither Mark nor Sean had been part of the chaos, much to Sean‟s regret. He was still pressing other officers for details when they passed the bulletin board. Mark took a look at it and stopped dead, grabbing Sean‟s arm. “Look at that!” “What is it?”

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Mark jerked his thumb at the board. Sean looked and started to curse. In no time, the entire shift crowded in front of the board, groaning and swearing. Apparently, the flu had returned with a vengeance, which, together with the damage today‟s events had caused, resulted in a serious shortage of officers. Nearly a third of the names were marked red, on sick leave. Others bore colored marks indicating replacements or shift changes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sean spat. “Night shift on traffic duty from tomorrow at… what‟s that? Holland tunnel? till Sunday morning? What the fucking hell are they thinking?” Several others complained along the same lines, and Sean was still muttering curses under his breath when he yanked on his coat. “Alice‟s gonna have my balls,” he muttered. “I was supposed to be free this weekend! The weekend before last, fire rescue training, last weekend I was bedridden with the fucking sniffles, and now this! I promised her eating out and a movie on Saturday, this vampire flick she digs so much. A pity she knows I can‟t stand that Tom Cruise guy. Boy, I‟m gonna get an earful.” “Cut her some slack, Broderick,” Mark said. “It‟s not your fault, after all. I‟m sure she‟ll understand.” Sean sighed. “She surely will. After all, I do love her for a reason. But I feel like I let her down, see?” “You‟ve been with her for what, three years now?” Mark asked. “She‟s got to know by now what she got herself into with a cop.” “That‟s just it.” Sean pounded his fist on the locker door. “Fuck! I meant to propose to her this weekend. Even got a ring already. Fuck!” Mark raised both eyebrows in mocking disbelief. “Isn‟t that a little over the top? A diamond, just to make up for two lost weekends?” Sean pivoted, scowling. Mark laughed at him. “Easy, man! Just kidding.” He punched Sean‟s shoulder. “It‟s only a pleasure deferred.” Sean punched him back. “That‟s rich, coming from you. Won‟t you congratulate me?”

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“My heartfelt sympathy,” Mark deadpanned. Sean laughed out loud. “That‟s pure envy talking!” He winked at Mark, his good mood reestablished. “Do you know what? I‟m thinking about a nice Sunday surprise now. That‟s the benefit of night shifts, after all, the free days afterward.” His grin turned lewd. “Strawberries and champagne, tearful thank-yous, and a nice, lazy fuck or three. As good as could be, don‟t you think?” Mark shrugged. “If you say so.” “C‟mon, don‟t be that way. What about you? Missing a hot date too?” “Not quite. I thought I‟d attend falcon patrol again.” “You what?” Sean said, raising both eyebrows. “Remember what I told you about that falconry project going on here? I happened to meet our resident head falconer recently. He took me on a patrol last Sunday, and I liked it. Ended up asking for a repeat, and he allowed it,” Mark said. He sounded defensive and silently wondered why. “It‟s different, it‟s fascinating, and there‟s a lot of fresh air involved.” “Hell, I think that‟s fucking cool,” Sean said. “Also weird. Not my kind of thing, though.” He shook his head, smirking. “Makes me wonder if there‟s a hot chick among those birds?” “Shut up, Broderick. I miss hunting. This is something of that sort.” “No shit. Hunting? With rifles and whatnot?” Sean‟s eyebrows threatened to meet his hairline. “Back in Ohio, I went hunting a lot.” Mark shrugged. “Shot my first deer when I was twelve.” He didn‟t mention that he‟d not particularly enjoyed that first time. He‟d missed the heart shot, and his father had made him finish off the deer with a knife. Mark had cried, and his father had called him a sissy and beaten him. After that, Mark had made sure to always kill on the first hit, although he never rejoiced in it the way his father did. But when he lay in wait for the deer or hounded his prey, his body thrumming with adrenaline, that was always worthwhile.

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Watching the falcon plummet down and whip that gull right out of the air had given him the same rush. With the sharp talons gripping his wrist, he‟d felt the same mix of anxious excitement and wild anticipation, like when his father had handed him his first rifle. Hunter was right. The falcons were weapons. Beautiful, deadly weapons with cold, calculating minds of their own. How powerful it would be to master such a weapon. “Did you ever. You can take the boy out of the country….” Grinning, Sean slapped Mark‟s back. “Whatever, let‟s get outta here. Alice‟s waiting for me.” “She put down a curfew for you, Sean?” Mark teased. “Must be fun being henpecked.” Sean laughed. “There‟s nothing wrong with a little peck. For appetizer.” “Sure thing.” Mark snorted. “And the main course will be taking out the trash.” “Don‟t mind, as long as there‟s dessert,” Sean said. On the way out, they were still horsing around like schoolboys. It was dark outside, the only light provided by the floodlights of the cargo terminal runway. Mark was zipping up his jacket when a figure emerged from the shadows next to the door and made a grab for him. Both officers immediately reacted as one. Mark snatched the hand that reached for his arm and whirled around, using the momentum to overbalance the stranger. At the same time, Sean dived down to take hold of the assailant‟s legs. “Light, light,” Mark barked, planting one knee into the captive‟s back and yanking his arm higher to keep him down. The man groaned but didn‟t fight back. A moment later, Sean shone his flashlight at the man, revealing Hunter‟s painfully twisted face. There was a stunned pause. Abruptly, Mark let go and jumped to his feet. “What the—” Sean started, but Mark cut him short. “He‟s good. I know the guy.”

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“Thank you so very much,” Hunter said. He dragged himself up by the hand Mark offered him, wiped loose strands of hair out of his face, and worked his shoulders with a wince. “Ouch.” “Your own fault. Should‟ve known better than to jump a police officer out of the dark.” Without waiting for Hunter‟s answer, Mark turned to Sean. “Sean, meet Hunter Devereaux, airport falconer. Hunter, Sean Broderick, my senior officer.” After a moment, Sean cleared his throat, pointed the flashlight away from Hunter‟s face, and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Sorry about….” he trailed off, gesturing at Mark and himself. Hunter huffed out a breath. “Never mind. Mark‟s right, I should have known better. Well, I certainly do by now.” He shook Sean‟s hand briefly. “Do you guys really patrol the airport with falcons?” Sean asked curiously. “What‟s that good for?” “I told you, it‟s about preventing bird strike, Sean,” Mark cut in. “That works?” “According to Dr. Gregory‟s former researches and our own experiences so far, it does indeed,” Hunter said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “But this is the purpose of a field trial, after all. We‟re here to translate a more or less theoretical concept into action. The answer to your question will have to wait until further notice.” Despite the darkness, Mark could practically sense Sean‟s sneer. He said hastily, “Hunter was the one I told you about the other day, you know.” This seemed to bring Sean‟s hackles down. “I see. Well, let‟s hope the falconry thing goes as smoothly outside your ivory tower, Mr. Devereaux. Less bird strike would be a good thing, no matter what.” He waved his flashlight at Mark. “Gotta run. Watch out for Mr. Bird Handler here, Mark. He seems to have a talent for wrong place, wrong time. My pleasure, Mr. Devereaux.” “The pleasure is all mine, Officer Broderick,” Hunter said stiffly, and then Sean was gone.

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Hunter rubbed the back of his neck, murmuring something under his breath. Mark clenched his fists to prevent himself from seizing Hunter and shaking him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his voice tight from irritation. “And what the fucking hell did you mean to achieve with Sean? Smooching with royalty gotten to your head?” “What are you talking about, Mark? I don‟t understand.” Hunter sounded genuinely confused. Mark took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Sorry. It‟s just that I don‟t understand, either. I mean, last time I saw you, you were kissing some Arab‟s hand like you were his prodigal son, and now you pop up here, right out of left field, and talk down your nose to my partner like he‟s a moron. What am I supposed to make out of all that?” “I didn‟t mean to… I didn‟t….” Hunter stuttered, and then paused and raked his hair with both hands. “I did, didn‟t I?” He shook his head. “I‟m sorry, really. I didn‟t mean to sound condescending. It‟s just… I‟ve been explaining the falconry project to so many people recently, most of them officials of some sort, I just answered like I always do. I didn‟t think.” He put his hand to Mark‟s forearm, searching his eyes in the semi-darkness. “Mark, I really don‟t think you stupid, or your partner, either. Please believe me.” He sounded contrite. Mark nodded slowly, involuntarily covering Hunter‟s hand with his own. “Apology accepted,” he said. Hunter‟s hand squeezed his arm for a moment, and Mark suddenly became aware of the physical contact. He took his hand away, and after a moment, Hunter pulled back too. “Actually, you needn‟t apologize to Sean,” Mark said, covering up his awkwardness. “He already got back at you, did you notice? He called you a geek.” Hunter shrugged. “How‟s that supposed to get to me? For all I know, that‟s a cap that fits me. Should I be offended?” “Geeks make your dick shrink,” Mark said. Immediately, he would have liked to eat his words. Hunter's gaze drifted down to Mark‟s crotch, where it lingered for a moment before sliding back up.

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“Seems he was wrong about me, then,” Hunter said softly, the familiar amusement back in his voice. “Hmm. Well. As for your first question, I‟m here to thank you. For saving Ahmad‟s life.” “I didn‟t do anything you‟d have to thank me for,” Mark said automatically, still distracted by the bodily reaction Hunter‟s gaze had caused. Then he paused, working the thought over more professionally. “That was a very near thing, wasn‟t it? And for that matter, I think you know it was mostly your fault. I could hardly believe my eyes. Seriously, what were you thinking?” Hunter sighed. “I know, it wasn‟t one of my brightest ideas, but… anyhow, those men thought I was up to something shady. So I took Iman out of her crate in order to show them there wasn‟t a bomb inside, or whatever they thought. The rest just happened so awfully fast. I didn‟t know what to do. All I could think of was Ahmad. I could have never forgiven myself if he‟d been harmed because of me.” Hunter wrapped his arms around himself and started walking toward Mark‟s bike as he spoke. Mark fell into step next to him, understanding perfectly the need to move. “I understand you were invited by this sheik—Al-Jabar, is it? What I don‟t understand is how you come by such illustrious acquaintances. And why you thought you had to drag your falcon along for the occasion. Enlighten me, will you?” he said, aiming for casual. As he‟d hoped, Hunter picked up on his tone. “This mystery is easily solved. I worked for him, Sheik Nasir, I mean, back in Kuwait. Lived at his house. I‟ve known Ahmad since he was a little boy. When Sheik Nasir asked me to bring a falcon as a surprise for Ahmad, I couldn‟t deny his request. They were only here for one day, and Ahmad is already a good falconer, as young as he is, just like his father was.” They stopped under a streetlamp next to Mark‟s bike. Mark could see Hunter‟s face closing up again with emotion. He waited, and Hunter spoke on. “Anyway. I‟m glad you were there today. Must have been kismet.” “Kismet,” Mark echoed doubtfully. Hunter wrinkled his nose. “It means fate. Sorry, I‟m afraid I‟m not very successful at clearing things up for you, am I?”

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“No,” Mark said, the corners of his mouth twitching in slight amusement. Hunter‟s rueful look coaxed Mark‟s smile to full life. Smiling back, Hunter said, “It‟s such an awfully long story.” “Arabian Nights, huh?” Mark asked. “Princesses and treasures and genies in bottles? Or rather sea serpents and demons?” In the harsh light of the neon lamp, Hunter‟s eyes darkened with sadness, although his lips continued to smile. “Some of each,” he said. Those eyes. They made Mark speak before he had time to think about it. “I‟d like to hear that story sometime,” he said softly. Hunter was the first to break eye contact. He cleared his throat and grinned broadly, the amused note back in his voice. “Well, this could actually be fun, you know. I could play storyteller, and in return, you could teach me manners. After all, my social skills seem to have rusted recently.” He rubbed his wrist. “Although I must say, your teaching methods leave a lot to be desired.” “I‟m sure you‟re better at teaching, being a geek,” Mark said, gladly returning to a lighter tone. “None of the falcons ever complained,” Hunter said. He gave Mark another of those looks. “Want to try it out for yourself?” Mark couldn‟t help a laugh. He‟d almost forgotten how sweet this game could be. After all, it had been quite a while since he‟d played it. “Tell you what,” he said. “It‟s past seven, and I‟m hungry. There‟s a diner a few hundred steps away. Want to grab a bite?” “Well….” To his surprise, Mark found himself more than a little disappointed when Hunter hesitated. “Don‟t like burgers?” he teased. Hunter shook his head. “Don‟t care, I‟ll eat whatever. And I‟d really like to eat with you. But… I must admit, I don‟t like diners.” “Then what do you suggest?” “I‟d suggest takeout. What about we meet at the falcon station?” “Deal,” Mark said. “Give me twenty minutes.”

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Chapter 5

THE night was cold again, a damp chill indicating more rain in the near future. Regardless, Hunter was leaning against the trailer next to the stairs in just his T-shirt and jeans, smoking a cigarette, when Mark pulled up. Hunter pushed himself off the trailer wall as Mark tried to find a firm patch of earth to place the kick stand on and took the paper bag with their food from Mark. “Nice bike,” he said. Mark had bought his Kawasaki out of an auctioned lot about a year ago. It was cheaper than any car and invaluable with New York traffic. No traffic jams, if you weren‟t afraid of a little cold or wet now and then—which Mark wasn‟t, and Hunter obviously wasn‟t, either, given his current state of dress. “Do you ride?” Mark asked as he followed Hunter‟s bare feet up the stairs. “Used to,” Hunter said. “Trail bikes, mostly.” He waved Mark into what looked like an office of some sort, gesturing at a threadbare sofa that took up most of the left wall. At the far wall, a long desk was positioned beneath the two small, oblong windows, and in the left and right walls were narrow doors. A small kitchen unit, several floor-toceiling book racks, and closets were crammed into the remaining space. “Sit. Want a Coke?” They talked about motorbikes over their burgers and sodas, the dispute quickly turning into a friendly argument about the respective amenities of trail bikes versus big bikes.

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“If you try to ride your elephant on dirt tracks or pathless sand dunes, you‟ll end up stranded. A trail bike will take you just about anywhere,” Hunter said. Mark snorted. “Yes, with your brain rattled and your ass beaten black and blue, no doubt.” Hunter shrugged. “There‟s a price to everything.” Grabbing his second burger, Mark asked, “From what I‟ve heard, you‟re some kind of scientist. So, you‟re what? A veterinarian?” “I‟m a biologist. Ornithologist, actually, specialized in birds of prey. That‟s why I went to Kuwait University for my doctorate.” “Your doctorate,” Mark echoed. “Wait—should I call you Dr. Devereaux, now?” Hunter shook his head. “That‟d be too much credit. I haven‟t finished it—yet.” He contemplated the burger in his hand as if to decide whether to take another bite or give up on it. “I keep telling myself I will, one day. However, if I plan to, I‟d better look for another topic.” “Why‟s that?” Mark asked, taking another bite. “My thesis is about the prevalence and incidence of West Nile Virus infections in domesticated falconidae compared to wild populations in their natural habitat. You see?” Mark had stopped eating for an incredulous look, his eyebrows almost up to his hairline. Hunter shrugged. “What? There‟s no West Nile Virus in the states, so….” Shaking his head, Mark swallowed down his last bite. “You‟re pretty fond of grown-up words, that‟s for sure.” This earned him a guilty glance and a wince. “I did it again, didn‟t I? I‟m sorry. Looks like I really need a teacher.” “You bet.” Mark cleared his throat. “Okay. Why didn‟t you finish?” “I liked being a falconer more. And it paid much better,” Hunter said. At Mark‟s disbelieving snort, he continued, “Don‟t believe me? It‟s a regular occupation over there. Wealthy Arabs spend small

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fortunes on good falcons. Some falcons have their perches in the middle of the family room, and they are valued no less than any child. And they are carried openly everywhere, even into airports.” He winked, and Mark had to grin. “Oh, now I see.” Hunter grinned too. “Life is so different there, it‟s beyond explanation. I‟ve been back for six months now, and I still feel like an alien most of the time. Just how I‟m supposed to talk to people here— it‟s my mother tongue, but I seem to have forgotten how to use it properly. Things are so much more complicated here. Take my falconer‟s license, for instance. I‟ve been a falconer for more than twenty years now, but here, they wouldn‟t give me a license if it wasn‟t for Greg and his falconry project. In Arabia, if you can handle a falcon, you‟re a falconer, no question about it.” Mark nodded at that. He‟d tossed aside the brochure on legal requirements Greg had given him after the first few pages. “Even the food is different, although it‟s also just meat and bread,” Hunter continued, waving the rest of his burger. “The stuff here, it all tastes like cardboard and plastic.” Hunter was still on his first while Mark had had two already. “You‟re not particularly fond of burgers,” Mark said, watching him picking at his food. Hunter grinned and crumpled up the wrapping paper. “Could do without. But I‟ve had worse. Sheep‟s eyes, camel testicles….” “Cut that out!” Mark choked. Hunter chuckled. “The Bedouins take it quite seriously if you don‟t eat what they serve you,” he said. “One of the first rules I learned.” He pulled up his legs to sit on the sofa meditation style, facing Mark. Tossing aside the wrapper of his last burger, Mark sat back and took a sip from his soda can. “Okay, tell me. How does an egghead falconer who‟s on first-name basis with Arabic royalty end up as a scarecrow?” He had meant the question as a tease to continue the light tone of their talk, so he was surprised when Hunter huffed a small, hurt laugh and averted his face.

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“Sorry, I—” he began, but Hunter stilled him with a wave of his hand. “No, it‟s okay. You‟re right. That‟s what I am right now, actually.” He paused, and Mark said, “Listen, I was just joking… damn, I‟m sorry.” Hunter looked at him again. “I think it‟s time we stopped apologizing to each other all the time, don‟t you agree?” he said, smiling his almost-smile. “Your question was legitimate, after all. I‟ve been a falconer for more than half my life, and it‟s all I ever really wanted to be. If I‟ve got to work as a scarecrow to make a living as a falconer here, then I‟ll do it, and gladly.” Mark winced, and Hunter touched his knee for a moment. “I said, „stop apologizing‟, didn‟t I?” The spot where Hunter had touched him tingled. Mark shifted on the sofa, crossing his legs. “Okay,” Hunter said. “It began when I was still at Amherst. I was working with gyrfalcons then, and Faris, Sheik Nasir‟s son, constantly hovered around the mews. He was supposed to study engineering, but he spent more time with us than at his lectures. He was homesick, and he missed his falcons. We became friends, and roommates only a short time later.” Hunter‟s eyes lost focus with the memory. “We lived together for five years. Faris kept talking my head off about the wonders of desert falconry and the research options I could have at his father‟s falcon clinic. At some point, I couldn‟t think of anything else anymore. When he returned to Kuwait, I went with him.” He paused. He was leaving something out, Mark sensed, but he didn‟t pry. “They welcomed me with open arms there. All the time I worked for them, Sheik Nasir treated me no different than he did Faris.” The small smile flashed across his face again. “You see, you were right. I am, in fact, Sheik Nasir‟s long lost son. Sort of.” Mark opened his mouth to say something, but Hunter stared into space again. So Mark just waited until Hunter spoke on.

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“You must understand, I had every intention to return. But Kuwait grew on me awfully fast. At some point, I guess I just forgot to leave. I spoke Arabic more often than English. I had a family of sorts. I was a respected member of the University. I could go hawking whenever I wanted to. I thought I had all I ever wanted from life.” “Why did you leave it behind, then? What happened?” Hunter didn‟t answer right away. Instead he collected the uneaten burgers and empty soda cans, carried them to the trash bin, then crouched in front of the fridge and started rummaging inside. He spoke into the fridge. “Reality happened, as one might say.” Taking out another Coke, he stood and turned back to Mark, his face blank. All emotion had left his voice. “None of us took the premonitions seriously, if we followed the news at all. When Iraq attacked Kuwait, Faris and I were in the desert, on a hunting trip. We came back to find Kuwait City in flames, the Al-Jabar palace shot to pieces, the family dead or disappeared. And when we went to look after the falcon clinic, we ran into a bunch of Iraqi soldiers there.” His fingers played with the tab of the soda can, causing a rhythmic snick-snick-snick. “They shot Faris. I saw him die, and I couldn‟t do anything to prevent it.” Mark stared at him, stunned. He didn‟t know what to say at that. “Jesus, how did you…. My God, did they… were you…?” he stuttered. “They didn‟t get me, no. They tried, but I escaped into the desert. Made it to Dubai, where I worked at another falcon clinic for three more years. Greg brought me back from there.” He crossed the room back to Mark and handed him the soda. “Here.” Mark took the can, looking at Hunter with incredulous eyes. “You tell that like it was just… nothing. How can you stay so calm?” Hunter shrugged. “It all happened so long ago. Sometimes it‟s like something I read in a book.” Unbelievably, he smiled. “Just leave it at that, Mark. It was a bad time, but it‟s over. I‟d rather not speak about it anymore.”

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Mark huffed an exasperated breath. “My God, you can‟t be serious. What do you want us to talk about after you tell me something like that? The weather?” He pulled open his can with more force than necessary. It hissed and showered him with a fine spray of Coke, and he jumped up with a curse, spilling even more of his drink over himself. “Shit!” He wiped angrily at his jeans and shirt. Hunter got a dishrag and started to dab at the wet spots. Mark shoved him away, whipping the cloth out of his hand to use it himself, only managing to make it worse. “Shit! I look like I pissed myself,” he muttered. He glared at Hunter. “Don‟t you dare laugh at me!” “Wouldn‟t dream of it,” Hunter said, the corners of his mouth twitching. Mark‟s little accident helped dissolve the heaviness Hunter‟s memories had caused. When Mark finally decided he was dry enough, he felt more at ease again, and Hunter‟s slightly amused half-smile was back in place. “Given how you looked at me earlier, I seem to have made another social mistake,” Hunter said, pointing at the dishrag Mark had thrown on the table next to his soda can. Mark shifted on the sofa, uneasily aware of what Hunter was talking about. “Well, no… it was actually nice that you tried to help me, but….” he trailed off, his face heating. Hunter nodded. “I keep forgetting about the different comfort zones Americans have, compared to Arabs,” he said. “As if American men can‟t stand the touch of other men. That‟s a delicate matter, isn‟t it?” Mark snorted. “Don‟t tell me Arabs don‟t get touchy when you try to grab their crotches.” It was Hunter‟s turn to snort. Since he was just taking a drink from his own soda, this resulted in a fit of coughing and choking with Mark patting his back. “See?” Mark said. “American man touching another man. No problems there.”

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This had Hunter cracking up again, leaving him holding on to Mark as he gasped for breath. “Ya Allah, that hurt! Don‟t do that to me, will you?” Mark grinned, patting his shoulders some more for good measure until Hunter lifted his head with a deep breath. Their faces were only inches apart. Hunter‟s hands rested on Mark‟s upper arms, while Mark had Hunter by the shoulders in some kind of half embrace. They remained like that for long moments, the mirth slowly fading from both their faces. Eventually, Mark shoved Hunter back, none too gently, and turned away, holding onto his soda can with both hands. “That‟s what I mean.” Hunter‟s voice was soft. “I‟ve made you feel awkward, have I not? Even though there‟s no need for that, since we‟re all alone here. Nobody here to take offense, except for you.” “It‟s not that… I‟m not… it‟s just, men don‟t get all touchy-feely like this. That‟s so… queer,” Mark stuttered, staring firmly down at his hands. “Queer,” Hunter said. Mark winced at his tone of voice. Jesus, Bowman, what have you gotten yourself into? “Queer, as in homosexual, Mark? Well, that‟s what I am, so?” Mark‟s head jerked up as he stared at Hunter, who gave him a shrug. “What? I thought you knew that.” “Well, I kind of figured it out, but….” Mark paused to lift his can to his lips, realized it was empty, and put it down again. Scrabbling for the rest of his dignity, he said, “Man, you better keep that to yourself. No need to throw it into people‟s faces like this.” The crooked smile made a reappearance as Hunter handed him a new can, already open. “Here. Sorry, I didn‟t think you‟d mind.” “I don‟t!” Mark realized he was almost yelling and toned his voice down. “I don‟t mind. It‟s just… being gay is not exactly popular here, you know? It can get you into trouble.” “Trouble,” Hunter echoed. “Okay. I get it.” He sighed. “What a pity. In Dubai, I could have been sentenced to death for being gay, and here, it can still get me into trouble.” He cocked his head. “What kind

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of trouble, if you don‟t mind? For the purposes of my social education, I‟d like to know what I‟m facing here.” He was mocking him again. Mark felt anger well up inside him, making him speak more vehemently than usual. “It‟s no crime, alright. But people are still killed for being gay. Or beaten up. Or fired, or harassed until they quit their job. Or judged, or treated with contempt. What kind of trouble, you ask? I knew a man who died of AIDS. Even his doctor told him it was his own fault. Because he was gay! That‟s the kind of trouble we‟re talking about here.” By the end, Mark realized he was yelling again, but he didn‟t care. He banged his soda can on the table and made to stand up, his only wish to get out of there. In a wink, Hunter was on his knees in front of him, holding him down with unexpected strength. “Mark, Mark, I didn‟t mean…. Mark, please, I‟m sorry, I‟m so sorry….” It brought him back to his senses, back from the relived pain, the fury, seeing the same emotions written plainly on Hunter‟s face. Mark slumped back on the sofa, closing his eyes, giving in to the gentle hands that stroked him, caressed him, soothed him, for once giving it up, giving it all up. His forehead came to rest against Hunter‟s, his face cupped in Hunter‟s hands, and Mark let him, let himself be held. “No apologies anymore, remember?” he said after a while. Hunter laughed softly, the sound somewhat choked. “This one was in order, I think. I can be a prick sometimes, just so you know.” “No kidding. Wouldn‟t have noticed,” Mark said. Hunter‟s fingers moved, stroking Mark‟s cheekbones, but Mark didn‟t pull away. Even when Hunter traced Mark‟s lips with his thumb. “If I wanted to kiss you now, would you get mad at me?” Hunter asked. Mark took a deep breath. “No,” he said. Mark waited, eyes closed, for the first touch of lips on lips. When it came, it was a gentle, dry brush. Hunter‟s beard rasped across Mark‟s chin as the soft touch moved, teased Mark‟s mouth corner to corner and back again, this time leaving a hint of wetness in its wake. Tentatively,

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Mark parted his lips, chasing after the moist trail with the tip of his tongue. “Gazzabi,” Hunter whispered, the word a cool breath across Mark‟s skin. The big hands angled Mark‟s head, and the gentle brush became a warm, wet pressure which sneaked between Mark‟s lips, past his teeth, until it reached his tongue. Mark opened his mouth and gave in to the taste and the heat. Rough faces rubbed against each other, burning skin, tongues met and licked, teeth scraped tender flesh, fingers pressed into muscles and bone. Mark‟s hands came up, went to Hunter‟s waist, and Hunter rose, moved closer, pushed, urged, until Mark was flat on his back, his legs spread wide with Hunter on top of him, belly against belly, groin against groin, sliding and grinding. Mark slid his hands up under the hem of Hunter‟s T-shirt, and finally touched bare skin, hot and smooth under his palms. He angled his fingers, scraped upward with his nails. Hunter arched, threw his head back, the pressure of his hips almost painful on Mark‟s hard cock. Mark rocked his hips up with a soft groan. “Don‟t,” Hunter gasped out. He pulled back, bracing his weight on his elbows and knees. His pupils were huge, his face drawn with the same need that forced a protesting noise from Mark‟s throat. “No more, Mark. I need… we need to stop now, or I won‟t.” Mark felt lightheaded, his blood pooling where their bodies had touched only moments ago. Touch, pressure, heat—he wanted it back. He ached for it. His arms tightened around Hunter‟s flanks. “I‟m not stopping,” he grated out. The coffee table toppled over, sending papers and half-empty soda cans flying when Mark kicked it away as he jerked them around. He didn‟t care. He was sitting astride Hunter, leaning on Hunter‟s wrists, which he had caught as Hunter flailed in surprise. “Not… stopping.” This time it was Mark who took over Hunter‟s mouth in a greedy kiss, staring into these darkened eyes, daring him. He pulled back, both men panting for air, glaring at each other.

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Then Hunter relaxed beneath Mark, his face lighting up in a bright smile. “Okay,” he said, the one word vibrating with joy. They tore at each other‟s clothes with hungry hands. Mark splayed his fingers on Hunter‟s bared chest, slid them down to Hunter‟s waist again, over hairless skin taut over lean muscles that shifted and jumped under his palms. Hunter rolled up, fumbling with Mark‟s fly, and Mark turned his hands and shoved his fingers under the waistband of Hunter‟s pants. Where he‟d expected cotton and coarse hair he found only more smooth skin and a hot, pulsating hardness. With a moan, he flipped the buttons open with his thumbs, shoved his hands deeper into sweaty heat. Hunter‟s cock nudged Mark‟s wrist, and he pulled his right hand free, fumbled in his jeans pocket, and cursed when his fingers came up empty. Hunter‟s hands stilled. “What is it?” “No rubbers,” Mark growled. Hunter gave him a grin. “Then we‟ll have to cope without,” he said, hands moving on, parting Mark‟s fly, rubbing him through the fabric of his shorts. Mark moaned, pushing himself into Hunter‟s hand, his own trapped at an uncomfortable angle between their bodies. His fingers clenched involuntarily, and Hunter flinched and hissed. Cursing under his breath, Mark yanked his hand free and tugged at Hunter‟s pants instead. “Shit, I need… take that off!” “Wait, let me up for a sec.” Hunter struggled to get up, but Mark shoved him back with a glare. “No way!” Hunter fended him off, laughing breathlessly. “Wait, I say! Come, let‟s go to bed. More comfort.” “Like it here,” Mark said, still busy with Hunter‟s pants. “I‟d like it even better if you….” He stopped short and looked up. “Bed?” “Over there,” Hunter gestured to one of the doors. “I live here, didn‟t you know?” A cold stab of wariness cut through the haze in Mark‟s brain. Shit, Bowman. Caught with your pants down. He got to his feet,

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swaying a bit. His hands trembled as he began buttoning up his fly. “You planned this,” he accused. Hunter blinked up at him from under drooping eyelids heavy with lust, cock hanging out of his open pants, dripping liquid at the tip. Mark swallowed and licked his lips, unable to look away as Hunter took hold of himself, hand moving in lazy strokes. Instead of closing his jeans, Mark had to reach inside, to rub himself through the fabric of his shorts, just like Hunter had done to him. Eyes rolling back in his head, he moaned. There was Hunter‟s hand, over Mark‟s, adding friction, adding pleasure. “Trust me, Mark,” Hunter whispered close to Mark‟s ear. “If I had planned this, I‟d have bought condoms, and you‟d be fucking me right now.” Fucking him. Mark‟s knees buckled at the thought. “Jesus, that, yes,” he said, his voice thick with desire. Hunter took his hand. “Come, then.” Hunter steered them along a short hallway into a tiny bedroom, barely big enough for a narrow single bed and a dresser. The faint glow of the runway spotlights, falling in through a small, unveiled window above the footboard, was the only lighting in the room. The bed hit the back of Mark‟s legs, and he sat down hard. Hunter‟s pants went down with him, and this thick cock stood proud in front of Mark‟s face. He lunged forward and ground his face into Hunter‟s deliciously smooth crotch, into his scent of spices and old wood and man. He wallowed in it, rubbed it into his cheeks, his neck, licked it off Hunter‟s skin, moaning as he tasted salt and musk. He ducked his head and licked along the vein on the underside of Hunter‟s cock, trailed the ridge all the way to the tender patch of skin behind the hanging balls, pressed down with the tip of his tongue. Hunter‟s hips jerked in Mark‟s grip, so he did it again. Next to Mark‟s ear was a whisper of skin on skin, Hunter‟s hand nudging Mark‟s temple in fast jerks, and Mark looked up at Hunter‟s taut face, the slightly opened lips. “Let me.” Taking over, he beat Hunter‟s hand away. It dug into Mark‟s scalp when he bent his head down again to suck Hunter‟s balls as he stroked him off.

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Hunter thrust his crotch into Mark‟s face with little, jerky movements. His fingers in Mark‟s hair flexed as Mark rolled the heavy weights in the soft pouch with relish. Mark‟s tongue dabbed at that spot again, and Hunter gave a small, keening whimper, his thighs shaking. Yes. With a grin, Mark pulled back and looked up. He wasn‟t prepared for the expression of stunned awe on Hunter‟s face. Hunter‟s hands twitched, grabbed at air, at Mark‟s hair and shoulders. Mark sucked on his own thumb, the tip of Hunter‟s cock sliding against his cheek. He pressed the wet digit against the tiny opening in the swollen glans, and Hunter‟s thrusts became violent. There was a vein on his forehead which stood out as he drew his eyebrows down, and his face contorted, as if he was in pain. Mark‟s other hand slid between Hunter‟s thighs, his forefinger finding and pressing down on that spot, and that did it. A sharp tug at his hair was the only warning Mark had before Hunter let out a harsh breath and shot, his seed spilling over Mark‟s fist and trickling down his arm. Hunter‟s legs gave way. Slowed down by Mark‟s arms, he slid to his knees between Mark‟s spread thighs, his head dropping heavily into Mark‟s lap. Unable to name the feeling that made him do so despite his still unsated need, Mark leaned in to rest his forehead between Hunter‟s shoulder blades. They stayed like that for a long moment, Hunter‟s back heaving under Mark‟s stroking hands, his breath hot against Mark‟s open fly. After a while, Hunter sat back, his face a pale oval in the dark. “I want us naked,” he said. “Is this okay for you?” Instead of answering, Mark stood and quickly pulled off the rest of his clothing. Lying on his back, he scrambled up on the bed, his gaze fastened on Hunter‟s face while Hunter crawled after him, over him, bright eyes shimmering in the dim light. Hunter‟s tongue trailed up along the line of dark hair on Mark‟s stomach to his chest, brushing a nipple, lingering there when Mark moaned. He licked Mark‟s throat, up his jaw, then down again. Mark let his head fall back, moaning again when Hunter‟s mouth found his other nipple, suckling and nibbling. Abruptly, Hunter sat up, straddling Mark‟s thighs. He yanked the bandana off and shook his mane free.

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Never, even if he lived to be a hundred years old, would Mark forget that picture. The dim light cast deep shadows all over Hunter‟s body, bringing forth the flat planes of his chest and stomach, molding the long, lean muscles of his arms. His face was a woodcut in shades of black and grey, with a furrow between his brows, sharply angled cheekbones, slightly open lips. A halo of disheveled hair surrounded his head. Mark‟s breath hitched. He trailed his hands up Hunter‟s flanks, urging him down, and when Hunter dropped down on top of him, Mark burrowed his hands greedily into the silken mass of hair, tangled his fingers in it, used it as leverage to reel Hunter‟s head in for a hungry kiss. He rolled them over, and Hunter spread his thighs and wrapped his legs around Mark‟s hips as Mark burrowed deeper. There was a crease where Hunter‟s leg met his body, a sweat-slick, sharp groove of muscle, sinew, and bone, begging for Mark‟s cock to slide in. He rutted against Hunter‟s body, his violent thrusts eagerly met by Hunter‟s jerking hips. They stared into each other‟s eyes, mouths open, just shy of touching, their panting breaths mingling. Hunter dug his fingers into Mark‟s biceps hard enough to bruise, and Mark let his head fall forward, pressed his forehead into Hunter‟s shoulder with a loud moan, and ground down harder. His orgasm gripped him and shook him like a giant fist, and he cried out when he spilled himself between their bodies. For a short while, they lay motionless, breathing hard. Then their tangled limbs relaxed, and Mark rolled off Hunter‟s body. “Move over,” Hunter said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He nudged Mark toward the wall and spooned against Mark‟s back. Still in a daze, Mark cuddled into Hunter‟s embrace, covering Hunter‟s arm across his chest with his own arm, twining their fingers together. He listened to Hunter‟s breath slowly evening out, listened to his own heartbeat slowing down. His eyes drifted closed.

MARK woke, warm and entirely satisfied, to a gentle hand caressing his face. He opened his eyes and saw Hunter silhouetted above him, features barely discernible in the dim light. Closing his eyes again,

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Mark smiled and gave in to the urge to nuzzle his mouth into Hunter‟s caress, to touch Hunter‟s palm with the tip of his tongue. “Tease,” Hunter said softly, a smile in his voice. “Up yet again?” His words brought Mark back to reality. Startled, he flinched back and pushed Hunter blindly away, sitting up so fast his head spun. Hunter. God almighty. Mark shot out of the bed, averting his face, and scrambled into his jeans. “What are you doing? Calm down, it‟s only two,” Hunter said from behind him. Mark didn‟t listen, hardly heard him, feverishly searching for his clothes. He couldn‟t locate his socks, gave up on them and shoved his bare feet into his boots. His shirt, where was his shirt? He turned to the bed, rummaging through rumpled bedding. “Mark,” Hunter said, a little louder. His voice finally filtered down to Mark, stopping his frenzy. Mark stilled and slowly turned around. Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, his naked body just a darker shadow in the shaded room. As Mark looked at him, Hunter stood, holding out the missing shirt. He watched calmly as Mark jerked it on. “What‟s wrong with you?” Hunter asked. “Nothing,” Mark muttered. When he met Hunter‟s concerned gaze, he immediately dropped his eyes again. “I‟m just… I‟d better go now.” Hunter took a step closer. His hand appeared in Mark‟s field of vision, hovered there for a moment, and disappeared again. “Mark,” he said, “please, tell me what I did wrong.” Reluctantly, Mark looked up. “You‟ve done nothing wrong,” he said. “It was me. I shouldn‟t have let this happen.” Hunter frowned. “Are you saying you didn‟t want to have sex with me?” “Not the point,” Mark replied, anger welling up inside him. “But we shouldn‟t have. It was wrong.”

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“It didn‟t feel that way,” Hunter said calmly. Mark wiped his face with his hand. Hunter‟s quiet admission, so similar to what he felt deep inside himself, choked off his annoyance. He swallowed. “Hunter, I, ah, listen, nobody here knows that I am…. I‟m not out, and I need it to remain that way.” Hunter gave a short, bemused laugh. “As if I hadn‟t figured that out already. Are you afraid I‟d give you away? How do you think I survived in the Middle East for eight years?” “I don‟t know,” Mark said. “And I really can‟t get my head around it, given how obvious you are. Just leave it, Hunter.” “Obvious, am I? Well, as for my part, I don‟t see any need to conceal who and what I am anymore. Doesn‟t mean I can‟t control myself.” “No shit. And you think people won‟t notice?” Mark said, his voice getting louder as his anger flared yet again. “You don‟t care. Fine! But I do, and I tell you what, I won‟t let something like this happen again. Besides, it isn‟t as if anything really happened.” Turning on his heel, he headed for the office with angry, stomping steps. He was pulling on his jacket when Hunter spoke up again. “Be that way, if you want,” he said. “Are you still coming back for falcon patrol?” Mark pivoted, glaring. Hunter leaned in the doorway, arms folded, face bare of emotions. “You‟re kidding, right?” Hunter shrugged. “You can, if this didn‟t mean anything to you. We could really use another pair of hands as it is. I promise, I‟ll make sure to restrain myself from jumping you, if this helps.” Everything about Hunter called out to Mark: his confidence, his aplomb, the unashamed beauty of his naked body. Mark clenched his fists to prevent his hands from reaching out. “Fuck you! I can‟t control myself around you!” Pushing off the doorframe, Hunter shrugged again. “You just did, didn‟t you? So don‟t you tell me that‟s your issue.” He turned his back and disappeared into the hallway, closing the door in Mark‟s face.

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Chapter 6

“THIS sucks, you know. It really does,” Sean complained. He was sitting in the passenger seat of their cruiser, fiddling impatiently with the dials on the radio. “I don‟t mind traffic duty,” Mark said, slightly unnerved. They‟d had the same conversation several times over. “You better, since you‟re not a trooper anymore! Traffic duty is only fit for old farts and hopeless cases. Should be beyond us, don‟t you think? It sucks.” “You said that already.” Mark shrugged, unfazed by Sean‟s remark. He had learned early on that they weren‟t keen on traffic duty here, particularly on night shifts. To him, the need to keep his focus on his driving was more than welcome. “Oh, are we in a mood again, Bowman? Your bad. I‟ll just say it again, until you get it. It sucks.” “Got it. Actually got it three days ago when we started this stint. I‟m starting to feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.” “Someone needs to keep us entertained,” Sean said, sounding smug. Well, anything’s better than listening to my very own fucking infinite loop of thoughts. But even with the overtime they had to pull, the shifts lasted only so long, and after hours, Mark had ample time to think. Although he

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ran for miles every morning after work and only went to bed completely exhausted, his mind wouldn‟t let him rest. If he slept at all, Hunter haunted his dreams. The picture of Hunter sitting astride him in the airport lights lurked behind Mark‟s eyelids, even during his waking hours, and Hunter‟s words played over and over in his head. “You can still come for falcon patrol if this meant nothing to you.” Friday morning dawned a crisp and sunny early spring day. Mark came home after another uneventful night shift, feeling stiff and aching, with his muscles finally starting to complain about the last few days‟ overload. A hot shower eased the soreness a little, but did nothing for Mark‟s restlessness. In his kitchen cupboard he found a half-empty box of his favorite frosted flakes, but by the time he had prepared a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, his appetite was gone. The cornflakes turned into a milky goo as he wandered through his apartment, still in nothing but his underwear, turned the stereo on and off again, opened and closed shutters, flipped through a book and put it back on the shelf. He sat down on the sofa, turned the TV on, switched through channels for a few minutes, then switched it off again, throwing the remote on the coffee table. The reading material Greg had given him was still there, the small booklet he had last read open to the picture of Greg and Hunter. “You can still come for falcon patrol….” Carefully avoiding thinking about what he was doing, he dressed, got on his bike, and rode to the airport. He made it past the terminals to the service road that led to the falcon station. Just out of sight of the trailer, he pulled over and stopped. With the motor running, Mark sat on his bike for long minutes. The sky was only just turning blue, the horizon still hued pink. Far, far ahead, above the wetlands of the national park, a dark dot soared up, hung in the sky for a while only to drop down again abruptly, like a stone. For a moment, Mark‟s shoulders slumped in defeat; then he jerked the clutch and stomped the gearshift lever. Cursing a blue streak,

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he pulled the bike around hard enough to leave a black skid mark on the tarmac and took off at top speed.

AFTER another long, punishing run, Mark finally managed to sleep for a few hours. When he woke to the alarm of his bedside clock, his head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, and the muscles in his shoulders and legs were hard knots. He dragged himself into the bathroom for another hot shower, made coffee, and fried some eggs, which ended up thrown out half eaten. His mood hadn‟t improved the slightest bit when he got off his bike five minutes before start of shift at the PAPD headquarters motor pool. Leaning against their cruiser, Sean awaited him. “Almost too late, Mark,” he said. “And you look pretty chewed through. Hot date, eh?” “Mind your own business,” Mark snapped. He got behind the steering wheel and started the engine with an angry flip of the key. Sean joined him in the car a moment later, raising an eyebrow at him. “What crawled up your ass and died, Bowman?” Mark shook his head. “Sorry. Haven‟t slept too well lately. ‟M not up to scratch, okay?” Sean shrugged. “Okay. Just don‟t take it out on me, all right?” While they headed for the Holland tunnel, Sean filled Mark in on their schedule. The routine of the patrol, the focus it took to stay alert in the glaring neon lights of the tunnel or the darkness outside, finally managed to ease Mark‟s gloomy thoughts, and by early morning, he felt almost normal again. “News on our sick colleagues?” Mark asked when they resumed driving after writing the umpteenth speeding ticket.

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“No changes. We‟ll check at the end of the shift, but I‟m gonna sleep as much as possible tomorrow, just in case.” “That reminds me, how did Alice take it?” Sean groaned. “Don‟t speak of it, okay? Women! Sometimes I think I‟d rather get myself a rubber doll. Deflates when you pull the plug.” “Rubber dolls don‟t cook,” Mark said, and Sean cracked up. On Saturday morning, after they reported back to PAPD headquarters, Sean stood at the duty roster, tracking names with his finger. “Hey, look, Peretti and Wong are back! No more traffic duty for us.” “That‟s all nice and shiny, but we‟re still scheduled for night shift today. And did you see that?” Mark pointed at the small cards behind their names. “NYPD administrative cooperation. What the hell?” “Too fucking right, buddy.” Sean scratched his head. “You know what, you go ahead with the paperwork, and I‟m gonna find out what that‟s about.” “Shirking paperwork yet again, Broderick?” Mark said, faking a glare. Sean just shrugged. “What? LeVelle is on duty. She's two hundred pounds and at least fifty. I‟m making a sacrifice here. After all, you‟ll want to know too.” Mark flipped him off. Sean was chuckling when he came back, twenty minutes later. “Parking lot raid,” he said. Mark had just finished and threw the last form into the out tray. “Which parking lot?” he asked. “Some good citizens seem to be taking offense at the hookers and cruisers at the Holland Motor Inn‟s.” Mark snorted. “That‟s a pay by the hour. There‟s bound to be prostitution.”

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Sean flashed him a dirty grin. “Bunny hunt! That‟s business mixed with pleasure, I say. It‟s gonna be fun.” “What‟s so fun about picking up working girls off the street?” Mark said. “There‟s worse things out there.” Sean cast him a surprised glance. “Now look who‟s talking.” He shrugged. “It‟s all part of the job. Weren‟t you the one who I heard saying, „it‟s the law, it‟s what we are?‟” “Don‟t throw my own lines back at me,” Mark shot back. “I‟m only saying, raiding hookers isn‟t my idea of fun.” Speaking of which, what is, for that matter? the nasty little voice in Mark‟s mind piped up. Admit it, Bowman, your life hasn’t exactly been a funfest recently. The falconry thing was the most fun you’ve had in a while, wasn’t it? Except for Hunter, obviously. Shut the fuck up, he told the voice. Fuck damn, I liked my life as it was. Two weeks ago, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as falconry, and if I did, I didn’t care. I don’t need that in my life. And I certainly don’t need a falconer in my life. “Oh, by the way, since we‟re stuck over here, think you‟d want to join me at the shooting range tonight before duty? Fewest hits buys dinner,” Sean suggested Mark waved agreement. “Make sure you‟ve got enough cash on you.” Sean smacked his shoulder. “Gobshite.”

THE Holland Motor Inn‟s parking lot was sparsely lit, a fact that had made it increasingly popular with the shadier characters of the night crowd lately. The various patrol cars silently crept nearer from all directions, blocking the exit roads. Two NYPD Vice vans took residence close to the main entrance. Police officers swarmed the place in pairs and groups. In a concerted action, all cruisers started their signal lights at once, flooding the parking lot with red and blue flashes. Suddenly, the

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quiet place reverberated with the wail of sirens, heavy footfalls, and barked commands. Car doors slammed, engines revved, tires squealed in forced stops. Women shrieked, men cursed. Mark ran down the lane with Sean and two NYPD officers, the cones of their Maglites dancing over dark windshields as they looked for fogged-up windows or ominous rocking. It didn‟t take long. One of the NYPD cops jerked his head toward a suspicious car. “Here you go,” he hissed, waving his partner along for another suspect. While Mark shone his flashlight right into the eyes of a very embarrassed man, half in, half out of a business suit, Sean dragged a less-than-modest woman in nothing but heels and a crooked miniskirt out of the car. She hissed like a cat about to be bathed, yanking her top back on and her skirt down as far as it would go, which wasn‟t far at all. Sean grabbed her purse, leafing through a thick wad of bills while Mark wrote down the john‟s personal data, uttered in a halting whisper. When Mark got fed up with the pathetic figure and let him go, the man practically jumped into his car and took off at lightning speed, leaving behind a vapor trail and a particularly pissed alley cat. They delivered the hooker to the vice detectives in one of the vans. The prostitute‟s angry swearing still sang in Mark‟s ears as they walked along the rows of parked cars, further into the darkness. The beams of their flashlights caught only empty seats. Of course, most of the patrons had taken their business elsewhere by that time. The busted prostitutes were protesting loud enough to alert at least half the lot, and the patrol cars stood out like Christmas trees. Mark and Sean searched the narrow alleys in between the cars anyway. They spotted another prostitute giving her client a blowjob right next to a car, but the pair noticed the cops too soon and bolted in different directions. “Get the girl,” Sean called, already running after the guy. The hooker had a head start on Mark. Kicking away her heels, she fled into the darkness, slogged through some brush, and was gone by the time Mark finally untangled his uniform from the shrubbery. Cursing under his breath, he gave up on her. Most probably, it had helped her escape that Mark hadn‟t been too keen on catching her in the first place.

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The pursuit must have carried him farther away than he‟d estimated. Except for the constant hum of distant traffic, this part of the parking lot was quiet, no other units to be seen. Not even the trouble lights of the patrol cars reached here. The place was unlit, most of the bays empty. The scrubby underbrush the prostitute had disappeared into separated it from the backyard of the neighboring warehouse. Something about the location struck Mark as vaguely familiar, though he couldn‟t quite put his finger on it. A car slowly entered the lane, approaching Mark at walking pace. When the beam of the headlights caught Mark‟s figure, the car stopped. The driver leaned out of the window. “Up for a ride, hottie?” Only then did Mark realize, with a pang, where his feet had taken him. During his first weeks in New York, he‟d feasted ravenously on the smorgasbord of sexual offerings. For a while back then, Mark had developed quite an obsession for cruising areas. He‟d abandoned those for safer hunting grounds not much later, but he‟d actually been right here before and taken more than one guy up on a come-on like this. Not today, though. He held up his badge and shone his flashlight on it. “Don‟t think so, hottie,” he said. “PAPD. Stop the engine and get out of the car.” Mark saw the driver‟s eyes widen in panic when he turned his flashlight at the windshield. Nevertheless, the driver‟s reaction took him by surprise. Instead of heeding Mark‟s command, the man stomped the accelerator. Mark could barely dive between two parked cars when the car skidded toward him. It bumped a parked car with a crunch of metal and splintering plastic, and took off with screeching tires. Mark‟s flashlight went flying, clattering to the ground several yards away. With a frustrated yell, Mark jumped up to run after the car, but it was already gone. Swearing loudly, Mark bent down to retrieve his flashlight. Way to go, Bowman. At least the light’s not broken.

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The beam danced idly across the bushes, catching on something white. Blinking in surprise, Mark flashed the light back to the white thing, and froze. Two faces, equally frozen in shock, stared back at him. In the split second the flashlight illuminated it, Mark internalized the entire scene: one man on all fours, the other one behind him on his knees, both with their pants down. The white thing was the top‟s bare ass. Mark could even see the bottom‟s rapidly dwindling erection under a soft, sagging belly. The top‟s hands tightened on his partner‟s hips, his eyes passing a silent plea to Mark. Otherwise, neither of them moved. Approaching footfalls and voices jolted Mark back to his senses. “Hello over there,” someone yelled. “Need help?” Light beams teetering ahead of them, a couple of uniforms headed his way at a fast pace. Mark pivoted and ran to meet them halfway, waving his own light. “I‟m okay,” he called, gesturing after the escaped car. “Asshole‟s gone.” The fatter of the two NYPD officers doubled over, panting, holding his sides. The other one, younger and obviously fitter, just shrugged. “Thought as much. Boy, when we heard the tires squalling, we figured you‟d need an ambulance. How in all hell did you end up back here?” “Must‟ve got lost,” Mark grumbled, unwilling to admit that he‟d been outrun by a hooker. The young cop winked at him. “Same here. Awfully fast, the bunnies, aren‟t they?” His partner straightened and wiped his brow, squinting at the bushes. Mark held his breath, praying the older man was nearsighted. “Shit, look where we are,” the cop said. “Wonder what we‟d find if we went through that brush here a bit.” “What do you mean?” his younger partner asked. “This is fag zone here, you sweet innocent. Want to catch yourself some cocksuckers? Needn‟t go far at all. I bet there‟s quite a bit of ass fucking going on around here right this moment.”

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The younger cop‟s eyes went huge, and the older laughed. He clapped his partner‟s back. “Let‟s save that part of your education for another time, Parker,” he said. Turning to Mark, he added, “The raid was called off five minutes ago anyway.” As they walked back, Mark got in touch with Sean over the radio. Afterward, he trailed silently behind the NYPD officers, only contributing to their talk with an occasional grunt or remark when they addressed him. His cop‟s conscience screamed at him. He should‟ve busted those two men, even though the action hadn‟t been directed at their ilk this time. They‟d infringed the law far more severely than some prostitute doing her job in a public space. So why the fuck haven’t you done your job, Bowman? He‟d been unable to move a limb, his body refusing to act on his conscious mind‟s command. It could have been someone you knew. Hell, it could have been you. Upholding the law, even if the letter of the law didn‟t always meet his sense of justice, had been ingrained in him from his first day at the OSHP Training Academy. Trooper or cop, he was still sworn to the canon. What if the next raid was back there? Would you let them off the hook then too? He didn‟t have an answer to that question.

THE airport station house's locker room was empty. Small favors. Mark went through the motions without thinking. He changed into the spare set of clothing he always kept in his locker and hung up his uniform. He clicked the magazine out of his service weapon and put both parts into the weapons safe inside the locker. He closed the locker.

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Then he just stood, leaning his forehead against the steel, his eyes closed. Slowly, he thumped his head against his locker door, once, twice. He heard a muffled groan and only realized a moment later that it was his own. Cursing, he punched his fist against the locker. His knuckles hurt. The sting felt good, so he did it again. Choose, or life will make the choice for you. Seemed as if it had already.

THE falcon station was deserted. No cars in front of the trailer, and when he peered into the shed, all perches were empty. Now what? Mark climbed the stairs and tried the trailer door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. In the still weak early morning light falling in through the narrow windows, the makeshift office looked even shabbier than it had the other night. It was definitely more cluttered. Carefully avoiding letting his gaze linger on the sofa, Mark looked around, hoping for an idea of how to proceed from here. He could hear the crackle of radio talk and traced the sound back to its source—a small stationary unit with modern digital scales, buried beneath a large weather map. While he folded up the map neatly, he listened to the radio traffic, thinking hard. Greg had the falconers do a radio check twenty minutes after departure the other day. With luck, Mark would get his clue here. Turning the folded map over and over in his hands, he listened and waited. There it was. Hunter‟s voice, distorted by static but unmistakable. “Talon One for Falconer, check.” “Check, Talon One,” Greg‟s voice answered. “Name your position.”

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Yes, Hunter, Mark mouthed. Tell me where you are. “Southwestern end of the marksmen‟s line.” “Check. Over.” Mark tossed the map on the desk and turned on his heel. He was out and on his bike by the time Talon Two reported.

MARK could see the Chevy from afar. Hunter and a man in a reflecting jacket were standing a few yards away from it, next to the wire net fence that separated the airport area from the wildlife refuge. An argument seemed to be going on over there. Reflecting Jacket was gesturing wildly while Hunter stood still and very straight, holding a falcon on his wrist, close to his body, shielding the bird with his free hand. He looked squarely at the other man, like he had at Mark that night before he‟d slammed the door in his face. Suddenly, Reflecting Jacket brandished a sticklike object, which Mark realized a moment later was a shotgun, and pointed it at Hunter. The falcon‟s head lashed out at the man, and Hunter pivoted, curling protectively over his bird. Mark gunned the engine with a roar. He didn‟t take the time to properly park his bike, just dropped it to the ground still running. His helmet went flying as he took the few remaining steps to get between Hunter and the gunman. Showered with dirt from Mark‟s tailspin, Reflecting Jacket lowered his weapon and took a step backward, turning a stunned face to Mark. Retreating another few steps, he clutched his weapon firmly with both hands. At least it was pointed down. “What‟s going on here?” Mark barked. Behind him, wings flapped and the falcon shrieked, but he didn‟t dare look, keeping his eyes riveted on the gunman‟s face. Wide-eyed, Reflecting Jacket opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out. Close up, he appeared less threatening, despite his gun. In fact, he looked frightened. A medium-height, pudgy, bespectacled, frightened guy, who happened to hold a potentially deadly weapon in his slightly trembling hands. Mark immediately turned it down a few notches to prevent further scaring the man. Fear biters were the worst.

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“Sir, you‟re not supposed to point your weapon at people,” Mark said, using his best reassuring-cop voice. He held his hands loosely by his sides, palms out, in an effort to appear nonthreatening. “Please put it down.” Reflecting Jacket blinked owlishly a few times, then looked down at his hands as though seeing the rifle for the first time. “Oh, yes, I guess you‟re right,” he said, but made no move to comply. His eyes wandered from Mark‟s face past his shoulder and back again. Forcing himself to speak calmly, Mark spread his hands wider. “You should put your weapon on the ground now, sir.” A car door closed in the background, and the gunman finally relaxed and slid the butt of the rifle down next to his feet, holding it loosely by the barrel, like a western hero. “It‟s alright, Mark,” Hunter said softly as he came to stand beside Mark. “I can handle this.” Mark chanced a glance at him. Hunter, without the falcon now, gave Mark a short nod and a small smile. Reflecting Jacket broke into a sheepish grin, the rifle obviously forgotten. “I‟m sorry,” he said, his gaze alternating between Mark and Hunter. “Never mind,” Hunter answered, taking a step forward and proffering his hand to the gunman. As the two of them shook and exchanged a few more words, Mark went back to his still-sputtering bike. By the time he‟d shut off the engine and propped the bike on its stand, Reflecting Jacket was walking away along the fence, carrying his gun nonchalantly on one shoulder. When Mark turned again, Hunter was sitting sideways in the passenger seat of the Chevy, speaking into his radio. He looked different today. It took Mark a moment to realize he had his hair back in a braid again. It made his features sharper, bringing forth his cheekbones and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Not in a bad way, though. Mark leaned on the open door until Hunter finished his call, silently thankful for the opportunity to collect his thoughts. With the

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burn of adrenaline fading, he felt the tiredness creep back on him, together with the anxiety of thinking about what he‟d do next. “Who‟s this gunslinger?” he asked, nodding his head at Reflecting Jacket‟s departing figure. Hunter opened a bottle of water and took a sip. “He‟s one of the marksmen. They‟re here to shoot seagulls that approach the airport. We had a… slight disagreement.” He gave Mark a thin smile that didn‟t quite reach his eyes. “I‟ve got to thank you, by the way. It had gotten a bit heated when you came. Good timing.” Mark shook his head. “Heated, huh? I could tell. What have you done to the poor guy?” “Nothing, really. But when I brought Iman to him, he became upset. I think she scared him.” Mark raised a questioning eyebrow, and Hunter continued, “Look, they‟re not supposed to shoot anything else but gulls. He aimed at Iman. I had to show him the difference, didn‟t I?” Mark stared at him in disbelief. “Huh… what?” Hunter shrugged. “He‟s a biology major, after all. He should have known better. I told him also that his aim was off, given that he missed a Saker at a few hundred feet. He didn‟t take that too well, either.” Hunter stood and leaned his shoulder casually on the car, taking another drink from his bottle. Mark couldn‟t help an amused snort. “No shit. No wonder he looked like he was about to shoot your head off.” Grinning, he thumped the car door shut with the heel of his hand. “You are a prick, Mr. Devereaux. I wonder if I should‟ve let him.” The sparkle was back in Hunter‟s eyes as his smile broadened in response. “I‟m glad you didn‟t, Officer Bowman,” he said, saluting Mark with his water bottle. “Want a drink?” Hunter mentioning his title blew the illusion of normalcy. Mark‟s face fell. With a shrug, Hunter drained the bottle. He turned to toss it through the open window, but not fast enough for Mark to miss his frown. Back turned to Mark, Hunter asked, “Why are you here, Mark?

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Want to join me for the patrol?” Despite his casual tone of voice, the set of his shoulders radiated tension. Mark rubbed his hand over the knotted muscle in his own neck with a wince. “I don‟t think so, no.” Hunter‟s hands tightened on the window frame. Otherwise, he didn‟t respond, waiting. Mark took a deep breath. “Actually, I came to tell you… Hunter, I think it was all a big mistake. You, Greg, the falcons…. I won‟t come back.” “So why did you ask for it in the first place?” Hunter turned to Mark, face unreadable. “Why are you telling me that, anyway? It‟s Greg you should be talking to.” “I will,” Mark replied sharply. He clenched his fists in an attempt to control the angered embarrassment rising inside him. “I wanted to talk to you first because… because I think it concerns you most. I should never have gone after the falconry thing, knowing you were here.” Hunter pushed himself off the car and straightened, crossing his arms. “What has me being here got to do with anything?” he asked, his voice even. Annoyingly so. Mark dug his nails into his palms. “Don‟t you tell me you don‟t know that,” he said, struggling to keep his wavering control. “It was all about you, from the moment you first looked at me, with your fucking innuendos and your fucking attitude and your fucking eyes!” He heard his voice get louder but felt unable to stop it. Didn‟t want to, either. “I knew from the start you were pure poison, and now I‟m a mess, and it‟s all… your… fucking… fault!” Mark‟s fists pounded the accents to his last words on the car roof. “Stop that,” Hunter snapped. “You‟re scaring the falcons.” “Don‟t give a shit,” Mark growled, but he still took a step aside. Hunter held onto his own biceps in a white-knuckled grip, but his face remained blank. His voice cut like cold steel. “You‟re a grown man, Mark. No one could have made you do anything. You took my

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invitation all of your own free will. I didn‟t have to twist your arm, as far as I recall.” “You—” Mark started, but Hunter chopped him off. “And don‟t you dare blame me for the sex. That takes two, as well you know.” “You started it,” Mark yelled. Hunter‟s lips curled into a sneer. “Ah, now, Mark, that‟s pathetic. You didn‟t strike me as a blushing virgin at all,” he said. “However, I get it. You don‟t want to see me again. Fine. I‟ll get over it.” Turning away, he made to round the car. “Get lost, then, and let me do my work.” Mark‟s vision blurred red at the edges. “You self-righteous, cocky, arrogant asshole,” he snarled, grabbed a handful of braid and yanked hard. Hunter whirled around and lashed out, hitting Mark‟s jaw hard enough to make him stumble backward. Roaring, Mark caught himself and launched into a tackle which ended with Hunter up against the car, wrists pinned in Mark‟s iron grip, both men glaring at each other, breathing hard. Hunter struggled, but his lean body was no match for Mark‟s broader shoulders and taller frame. Eventually he stilled, eyes shooting daggers at Mark. “What is it you want from me?” he hissed. The words cut through Mark‟s red-hot fury and brought him back to his senses with a jolt. Shoulders slumping, he stepped back and turned, all his anger draining away like water from a sieve, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He closed his eyes and shook his head, struggling to get his leaden feet to move, to carry him away. A touch on his arm stopped him. Mark stood, unable to turn, unable to move on. “Mark,” Hunter said, the unexpected kindness in his voice helping Mark to find his tongue. “Let me go, Hunter,” he croaked, horrified at how miserable he sounded. Hunter‟s hand on his arm tightened instead, tugging gently.

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Mark didn‟t know how, but suddenly Hunter‟s arms enfolded him, held him tight, and he just crumpled, knees going weak, hands fisting in the fabric of Hunter‟s jacket. The familiar soft humming vibrated beneath Mark‟s ear. Hunter‟s hands stroked Mark‟s back, his hair. A part of Mark was appalled at the display of weakness he provided, but the rest of him didn‟t care, leaning closer still into the warmth of Hunter‟s embrace, unthinking, just giving in to the feeling of being held. Hunter‟s lips touched Mark‟s cheek, his soft beard brushed Mark‟s skin. Words mixed into the low humming, no louder than the sound, soft words in a language Mark couldn‟t understand but felt soothed by nevertheless. They stood like that for a second or an hour, Mark couldn‟t have told. Eventually he pulled back with a sigh, hanging his head. Hunter‟s hands slid easily from his shoulders, coming to rest on his forearms. Mark turned his palms up, unable to stand the closeness any longer, but unwilling to give up physical contact completely. “I‟m so tired, Hunter,” Mark said. “I‟m tired of fighting every day. I don‟t want to fight anymore.” “Then don‟t,” Hunter said. “You needn‟t fight everything.” This time, Mark looked up. Those gray eyes, so earnest, so gentle, met his gaze and held it, feeling like a promise. Hunter cupped Mark‟s cheek and pulled him closer, and Mark caved in to the light brush of lips on lips. Hunter kissed him way more tenderly than a man Mark had known for all of three weeks should by any right. Still, Mark didn‟t do anything to change it, giving in to the comfort of the soft caress. They pulled back at the same time, leaning against the car right next to each other but not touching anymore. Mark dropped his head back. Dawn had passed by now, but the sun hid behind the clouds. Far in the distance, a single sunray highlighted the remnants of morning mist over Jamaica Bay like a spotlight. Mark closed his eyes, dizzy from weariness and confusion. He wondered how he‟d make it home without falling asleep on his bike. “You‟re asleep on your feet,” Hunter said, echoing Mark‟s thoughts. “Come on, get into the car. I‟ll take you home.” “Can‟t,” Mark groaned. “Can‟t leave my bike.”

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“Be reasonable, Mark. You‟re not fit for driving right now.” Mark let Hunter urge him into the passenger seat, way too tired to argue. “Don‟t worry, your bike will be fine here. You can come back for it when you‟re awake,” Hunter said, belting him in. “Where do you live?” “But, the falcons….” Mark started, his voice already thick with sleep. Hunter put a silencing finger to Mark‟s lips. “They won‟t mind a little ride. Just let me notify Greg first.” Mark slept away most of the ride, only waking when Hunter nudged him to ask for directions. He woke fully when Hunter stopped in front of his apartment building. “Nice neighborhood,” Hunter said as Mark leaned back into the car for a goodbye. “Thanks. And thank you for the ride.” “You‟re welcome,” Hunter said. Mark hesitated, reluctant to let him go but not knowing how to make him stay. Hunter laughed softly. “Later, we‟ll have time for talking and… other things. But right now you need to sleep, and I need to fly my falcons. So move it already, or I‟ll never find the nerve to drive away.” Mark shook his head and pushed off the car with a pat to the window frame. He took one step, then turned again. “Hunter?” “Yes?” Mark worked his jaw. “You‟ve got a hell of a punch on you,” he said. “About time you beat a bit of sense into my thick skull.” Hunter laughed. “Anytime,” he said, waving his hand in parting as he pulled away.

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Chapter 7

MARK was asleep almost before his head touched his pillow, his body fiercely demanding its needs. He woke with a raging hard-on, the tail end of his dream still lingering in the foreground of his half-conscious mind. Hunter‟s eyes, gold-flecked, gray abysses. Hunter‟s strong, big hand rubbing Mark‟s cock, grabbing Mark‟s ass…. Mark fisted his swollen member, jerking off before fully awake. He finally woke when he came, moaning Hunter‟s name. He lay there in the afterglow, still holding himself, hand sticky with come, and tried to figure out whether the fluttery feeling in his belly was fear or anticipation. When his phone rang, Mark reached automatically for it with his right hand, cursing and promptly fumbling the receiver when he noticed his mistake. The cord tangled, and the set teetered at the edge of the nightstand. Cursing some more, Mark lunged at it, sending it flying with a crash. He was slightly breathless when he finally got hold of the receiver and pressed it to his ear. With his right hand. “Fuck,” he bellowed, realizing only a moment too late he was already on the phone. A low chuckle answered his embarrassed intake of breath. “Is this supposed to be an invitation?” Relieved, Mark relaxed on his pillow again. “Hunter,” he said. “Thank God it‟s you. I just almost trashed my phone.” “Too bad,” Hunter said, maintaining a suggestive tone.

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Mark laughed. “Jackass,” he scolded affectionately, switching hands. Closing his eyes, he could almost see the sparkle in Hunter‟s eyes as the other man clicked his tongue. “Again at the name-calling, are we? I‟ll make sure to think of something suitable to call you.” “You, at a loss for a smart remark? Should have recorded it,” Mark said, reveling in the sound of Hunter‟s amused snort. He settled in more comfortably, crossing his legs at the ankles and pillowing his head on his right arm. His hand was still sticky. Oh, to hell with that. “Whatever,” Hunter said. “I‟m calling about your bike. Do you need it anytime soon?” “I don‟t have another ride, so yes,” Mark said, sitting up. He cast a searching glance at the dresser. “Fuck damn, the keys! Did I leave them in the ignition?” “Don‟t fret, I took them,” Hunter assured him. “I got your bike under shelter at Falcon Station.” “Oh, good,” Mark sighed. He swung his legs out of the bed and slipped on a shirt. “So how do I get her back? Did you have something in mind?” Hunter chuckled. “You know, you almost beg for it, giving me clues like that. How am I supposed to let that one pass?” His voice dropped lower, almost to a purr. “I‟ve got a lot of things in mind, and only a very few of them involve your bike. Then again, thinking about it….” “Cut me a break, Devereaux,” Mark groaned. “It‟s way too early for me to put up with your sort of humor.” He walked the few steps over to the window to peek out through the half-opened blinds. “Looks like rain. I‟d better get that done before it actually starts.” “Back to business then, if you must,” Hunter said. Mark could almost hear him shrug. “Okay. Greg is coming out this afternoon anyway, he could pick you up at Howard Station—” Mark‟s stomach did a little flip of discomfort. “What did you tell Greg?” he cut in, too fast, obviously, because at the other end of the line, Hunter fell silent. Mark winced.

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Hunter‟s voice was back in his ear, sharper than before. “That we went at it like dogs in heat and you were too fucked out afterward to drive home on your own. What do you think, Mark? I told him that you wanted to join me for falcon patrol but were too tired after your night shift streak. He actually approved of your devotion, you know.” Mark massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut. “I‟m sorry,” he said. There was an awkward pause. “Mark, I know Greg very well,” Hunter finally said softly. “And he, me. He knows already that I find you attractive, but he thinks nothing will come of it, actually made fun of me for hitting on the guy who goes out with his old flame, Evie. He might even crack some jokes with you around. But he won‟t snoop, and he won‟t meddle; that‟s not how he is. You can trust me. We‟re safe with him.” Mark hesitated. That was what it was all about, wasn‟t it? “Or I could get your bike to the staff parking lot and leave the keys with Evie,” Hunter spoke on when Mark didn‟t answer. He kept his voice carefully casual, but Mark could hear the strain within it. Not annoyed though, more like resigned. Mark had never before noticed how many emotions a voice was capable of conveying. “It‟s entirely up to you, Mark.” The hell it is. “Okay. When will he be there?”

IT

WAS raining hard when Mark left Howard Beach Station, shortly

after 6:00 p.m. He turned his collar up and huddled deeper into his jacket, shielding the small stack of Greg‟s books against the downpour the best he could. Although he ran the few yards to where the Chevy waited for him at the curb, he was wet through by the time he jumped into the passenger seat. Greg greeted him with a nod and pulled off immediately, right before a blue-uniformed woman in a transparent rain cape reached the car, ticket pad at the ready.

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“That was close,” Mark said, slicking back his wet hair with both hands. “You could‟ve always pulled the blue shield with her,” Greg said, shrugging as Mark shot him a glare. “There must be a towel of some sort on the back seat. Help yourself.” The back seat was cluttered with a hodgepodge of leather straps, gloves, feathers, dirty boots, papers, candy bar wrappers, and other indefinable items, including some ominously stained rags which might have started their existence as towels. Way back when. Mark wrinkled his nose. “No thanks,” he said. Greg laughed. “All things considered, that might be a smart decision,” he said cheerfully. “I must admit, tidiness isn‟t my forte. Lucy keeps nagging me about it, and Hunter‟s almost as bad. I can‟t help feeling as if she put him up behind my back to keep his eye on me. And a good thing too, or else I‟d be living off chocolate bars and wearing the same clothes three weeks in a row.” Greg‟s good mood went a long way to put Mark more at ease. “Is Lucy your wife?” “That she is. She‟s taking care of our falcons back home in Plattsburgh while I‟m away.” “So she‟s a falconer too?” Mark asked, surprised. Greg nodded at the small stack of books Mark held on his lap. “Yes, and a good one at that. Women have always been falconers, as you ought to know by now.” He grinned. “Sometimes I can‟t help wondering if she only put up with me for so long because of the falcons. We‟ll be married for twenty years next month.” Mark wasn‟t sure how to answer appropriately. “Congratulations?” he said tentatively. Greg actually cracked up at that. “You‟re not married, are you? Of course not. Evie—” “She‟s just a friend,” Mark cut in. Greg took his eyes off the street long enough that he almost didn‟t see another car putting the brakes on in front of them. Mark‟s foot kicked the floorboard, and he closed his hands firmly around the books to keep from reaching for the Oh-Jesus bar.

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“Motherfucker!” Greg focused ahead again. “Hunter told me you offered to show him around a little,” he went on disjointedly, after a while. “That‟s good. That boy‟s become so reclusive since he‟s been back, he worries me sometimes. Why he chose to live out there instead of renting an apartment somewhere nicer is beyond me.” He paused. Mark simply waited, unsure if an answer was required or not. Obviously not, since Greg spoke on. “You know Hunter was in the Middle East during the Gulf War?” “He mentioned that,” Mark said warily. Greg turned into the last service way. “He did? I reckon he‟s seen some pretty ugly things there, although he won‟t tell me much. Maybe he‟ll talk to you.” He pulled up in front of the trailer and put the car in park before looking at Mark again. “I‟m glad he‟s found a friend in you. He‟s special, you know. Oh, and by the way, he‟s cooking. I hope you like Arabic food.” “Beg your pardon?” Greg opened the car door. “Hunter. He‟s cooking; said he wanted us to have real food for a change. That means lamb and lots of spices and this flatbread stuff. You like that?” “I don‟t know, sir,” Mark said, confused. Before darting out into the rain, Greg gave him another grin. “You better. And stop „sirring‟ me already.” Mark followed Greg, still busy sorting out if he‟d just been warned off or welcomed.

THE scent which greeted him inside the trailer was inviting, no doubt about it, same as Hunter‟s smile. It caused a fluttering feeling in the pit of Mark‟s stomach, dispersing any doubts Greg‟s curious remarks might have planted in his mind. Greg stepped up to Hunter, peering into pots, which earned him a slap on the wrist and a mock glare. “You better make yourself useful and set the table. And hand Mark this towel, while you‟re at it.”

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“Worse than Lucy, as I said,” Greg complained to Mark, but he did so with a smile and went to do as he‟d been told. He cleared the coffee table by simply pushing everything on it to the floor, urging Mark to take off his jacket and sit down on the sofa while he laid out plates and cutlery. In no time, they were gathered around the low table—Greg and Mark on the sofa, Hunter squatting down across from them. He sat on his haunches, his knees tucked under his armpits in a way that made Mark‟s own knees wince in sympathy. Hunter, for his part, seemed to be comfortable like this as he dished out meat, vegetables, and thin, soft slabs of flatbread to each of them. “I must admit I‟d written you off already, Mark,” Greg said through a mouthful of eggplant casserole. “Thought you‟d changed your mind until Hunter told me you were on night shift. Hard duty, eh?” Mark had his mouth full of delicious, thick lamb stew and couldn‟t speak. He chewed faster, but Hunter beat him to an answer. “Let the man eat, Greg,” he said, and to Mark, “Like it?” Mark only grunted, helping himself to another serving. Hunter nodded. “Thought as much. Greg, what‟s the weather forecast?” “Occasional rain tonight, heavy rain tomorrow till noon, should brighten up after that. Walt said he‟d come here by noon, anyway. Micky took the day off. You okay with that?” “That‟s fine with me,” Hunter said. Turning to Mark, he explained, “There‟s no falcon patrol in hard rain. No point risking losing a bird, for gull activity is also low.” With a wink to Greg, he added, “Perfect day for changing the litter in the mews tomorrow, don‟t you think?” Greg quickly waved him off. “Count me out! I‟ve got the new statistics to work on. Been waiting for a rainy day to do that.” The falconers talked shop while they ate. Greg kept rustling among the papers he had thrown to the floor earlier, liberally dotting them with grease spots while discussing things with Hunter that were mostly Greek to Mark. It didn‟t bother him. He let their conversation wash over him while he savored the best food he‟d had in forever. No wonder Hunter didn‟t care for burgers. Mark closed his eyes, chasing a

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particular aroma which reminded him of… oh, of how Hunter‟s skin tasted right behind his…. A chuckle brought him back to the present. “Seems to me you like Hunter‟s cooking, Mark,” Greg said. “Better than sex, isn‟t it?” Mark almost choked on the bite, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Perhaps at your age, you old fart,” Hunter chided. “Wait till I tell Lucy you said that.” “I‟ll show you an old fart, brat! Besides, Lucy knows what I think of your stuff. I was actually quoting her, here.” Mark had regained his breath by then. “Makes one think, doesn‟t it?” he said, aiming at casual. “As for me, it‟s a close second.” He dared a glance out of the corner of his eye at Hunter, enjoying his stunned expression, which gave way to amusement a heartbeat later. Greg barked a laugh and dealt Mark a hearty slap on the back. “I like you better every time I see you, Mark, I really do.” With a silent sigh of relief, Mark resumed eating. Still, his appetite wasn‟t as great as it had been before. Eventually, Greg pushed his plate away and sat back with a loud belch. Hunter laughed, gracefully rising from his crouch. “Seems you‟ve had enough, Greg.” The head falconer burped again and grinned. “Don‟t they use that expression where you come from, Hunter?” he asked, unapologetically. Hunter shook his head and gave Mark a questioning look before he started gathering the dishes. “I‟m fine,” Mark said. “Need a hand?” Hunter waved him off at the same time that Greg said, “Leave him, Mark. He believes in Arabic hospitality. One of the few good things he brought back with him from renegading me for the wonders of One Thousand and One Nights.” “Shut up, Greg,” Hunter called back from the kitchen sink. “That reminds me, I found a picture of you two in one of your books,” Mark said. He lifted the stack from the couch and placed it on the empty table. “A picture? Which one?” Greg asked. Hunter came back to sit on the armrest of the couch next to Mark, leaning casually over behind

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him. His fingers brushed the nape of Mark‟s neck, almost making him jump. Mark took refuge in the book. “There,” he said. Greg took the booklet out of his hand. “Indeed. Look at that, Hunter! How old were you then, twelve?” “Thirteen,” Hunter said, reaching for the book. He braced himself on Mark‟s shoulder with his other hand, and as he leaned in, Mark found himself suddenly immersed in Hunter‟s scent. He took a deep breath and had to blink as the headiness of it made him sway. “This was taken where we first met, at Morón Air Base in Spain,” Greg said. “God, that was, what, twenty-two years ago? Hunter was just a bored Air Force brat back then, nothing but knees and elbows and insatiable curiosity. He followed my every step like a puppy, until I took pity and apprenticed him.” Hunter lunged over Mark to punch Greg, supporting his weight on Mark‟s shoulder. Under the cover of giving him purchase, Mark leaned back into the physical contact, his heart almost missing a beat as his cheek rubbed against Hunter‟s midsection. He had to force himself to focus on Greg, who ducked Hunter's blow, grinning and holding up his hands as Hunter said, “Admit it, Greg, you were thrilled to have an apprentice of your own, and you were damn glad you had someone who could translate for you. Particularly with the senoritas. If you must tell the story, tell it right, or else.” He straightened and stood, squeezing Mark‟s shoulder and mock glaring at Greg. “I give, I give,” Greg laughed. Hunter returned to his chores and Greg launched himself into the tale. “I had just taken my degree in biology and was on a post-graduate program with the US Air Force. I didn‟t speak a word of Spanish, and the local falcon keepers I was supposed to work with hardly spoke English. The first few days were really, really frustrating. I think my Air Force contacts bitterly rued the day they‟d agreed to the program.” He rolled his eyes, and Mark‟s lips twitched. Grinning, Greg waved the booklet. “However, there was this shaggy, scrawny kid who always ghosted around the mews and the birds. He used to make himself scarce when I as much as looked his

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way. But one day when I was busy kicking some of the keepers‟ asses, this kid just ripped at me, shouting, „Don‟t you see they can‟t understand you, asshole!‟ Needless to say, I was speechless, but at least I had the presence of mind to get the brat by his collar before he could slip away again. After I talked to his father, I had gained my first apprentice. Young as he was, he taught me a thing or two about wicked, I must admit, although I think I did plenty of teaching in return.” “That you did,” Hunter said, the smile he gave Greg full of affection. “My mother had died only a few months before, and my father was more than happy to hand me over to you. I guess I was quite a handful back then.” “Your father still with the Air Force?” Mark threw in. Hunter shook his head. “He died too, when I was eighteen. Left me without a penny. If not for Greg, I‟d probably never have gone to college.” “Don‟t speak of it,” Greg waved him off. “I was only being selfish. Didn‟t want to domesticate another assistant.” “Greg, what did I tell you about bragging?” Hunter said. “Who domesticated who needs discussing.” Ignoring him, Greg leaned in to Mark and stage whispered, “And what good did it do me? Just when I had trained him right, he fell for some almond-eyed Arabic beauty and gone was he.” Mark looked at him in disbelief, and Greg made a speaking gesture with his hand. “But in the end, he came back to the glove when I twirled the lure.” He tipped his chin and looked at Mark meaningfully. “Domesticated.” Hunter called, “Greg, I heard that!” Moments later, a damp dishtowel followed his words, hitting Greg squarely in the face. Greg threw the towel back with a scowl. “Mind your work, Cinderella!” Hunter merely raised an eyebrow, waving the towel, and Greg sighed and set about gathering his scattered papers from the floor. Mark laughed so hard, his sides hurt.

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GREG moved the papers from the floor back onto the coffee table, but that seemed to be the extent of his idea of cleaning up. He sorted through them and set some aside in a stack, occasionally scribbling something down. Mark stood to stretch his legs, idly wandering along the bookshelves. Mostly textbooks, some tattered paperbacks, a few illustrated books. Some of the books were in Arabic. He took one of those and opened it at random. Someone had scribbled translations in the margins. “… I die of love for him, perfect in every way, Lost in the strains of wafting music. My eyes are fixed upon his delightful body, And I do not wonder at his beauty….” Arabic Poetry. Amazing. I wonder if this was written by a man. Shaking his head, he put the book back. “I‟m done here,” Hunter said a few minutes later. “Coffee, anyone?” Considering his wristwatch, Greg gave a grunt and put his pen aside. “Not for me. I‟d better head home,” he said, pushing himself up from the sofa with a yawn. “Mark, seems you‟re out of luck bringing back your bike in this kind of weather. Should I take you back with me?” Mark looked at Hunter, who was busy with the coffeemaker. “Thanks, but I don‟t mind rain,” he said. “Besides, it‟s letting up already. I think I‟ll just have coffee and wait it out.” He was proud that his voice sounded almost normal. “Suit yourself,” Greg said, shrugging into his coat. “Are you on duty tomorrow?” “No, I‟m free, and Thursday too. Night shift leave,” Mark explained. Greg nodded. “You‟re welcome to come back, of course, although we might not be able to go on patrol until noon, mind you.”

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“He can help me with doing the mews,” Hunter said, grinning at Greg as he passed Mark a mug of coffee. The older man grinned back and pointed his finger at Hunter. “Busted,” he said. “But, you must admit, it‟s a kind of physical exertion better suited for younger bones.” “Nothing wrong with your bones,” Hunter shot back. “You just hate it.” “As you hate working tabulations.” Greg gathered up his stack of papers. “See you tomorrow, then. I‟ll come in at eight, I think. Mark, see you don‟t be a stranger again.” “I will, thanks,” Mark told Greg‟s retreating back. They could hear Greg cursing the rain, then his footsteps down the stairs. A car door banged shut, the engine revved a few times as the tires spun on the wet ground, and finally the car left, its sound fading away. It was so silent in the trailer that Mark could hear the faint buzz of the neon light tube and the soft splatter of the rain. In the distance, airplanes took off or landed, a noise Mark was so accustomed to he hardly heard it anymore. Hunter was leaning against the kitchen counter, cupping his coffee mug, watching Mark, who stared down into his own mug, occasionally casting a glance at Hunter when he took a sip. Every time Mark met the unwavering gaze of the light-gray eyes, he had to look down again. The easy, companionable mood had given way to an awkward tension, which grew in the silence between them until Mark could taste it in the air. Eventually, he couldn‟t stand it anymore. “That almond-eyed beauty Greg mentioned earlier….” he said hesitantly. Hunter shifted. “It was Faris, as you might have guessed. We were lovers almost from the day we first met.” His eyes didn‟t leave Mark‟s face. “It‟s okay, Mark. Ask. As I said, it was a long time ago.” Mark swallowed. He said it’s okay. He spoke into his coffee mug. “Did he… did Greg know?”

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Obviously not the question Hunter had expected, because he gave a noise, half snort, half laugh, which made Mark look back at him. “I really can‟t see how he couldn‟t. We had only been together for two weeks the first time I took Faris back to Greg and Lucy‟s for vacation.” His face took on a dreamy look of nostalgia. “We were young and newly in love. We could barely keep our hands off each other, which didn‟t go without notice. Neither Greg nor Lucy ever said a word, but from then on, they always addressed us as an item. I don‟t think it came as much of a surprise to Greg when I followed Faris back to Kuwait.” His gaze focused on Mark‟s again, curious now. “What made you ask this?” Mark looked down at where his hands turned and turned the coffee mug around. “He said something on the way over… I thought he suspected something.” Thankfully, there was not a trace of annoyance in Hunter‟s voice. “I see. You needn‟t worry, though. Whatever you think he knows or doesn‟t know, he won‟t meddle. He never does.” So you say, Mark thought, but decided to drop the subject for now. After all, Greg‟s idea of tact was very different from his own. It could have been a simple misunderstanding on his part, for all he knew. “I wonder what it must have been like. Living as a gay couple in Kuwait, I mean. How did you manage?” he asked. Hunter heaved a deep breath, almost a sigh, which brought Mark‟s eyes up once more. “Not good enough by half,” Hunter said, again with that distant air about him. “While we were in Amherst, we didn't need to worry overly much about who knew about us, but there…. In Kuwait, we took great pains to make everyone believe that we were nothing but friends. We had to. We could've been dead if anyone suspected about us. Besides, he was married, you know. Ahmad was born the year Faris came to the States. No way could we be together there, so we weren‟t.” “But you still went with him,” Mark said, digesting this. Hunter shrugged. “Where there‟s a will….” At Mark‟s disbelieving huff, he added, “I knew from the beginning what I was letting myself in for. I didn‟t care that we had to hide. The less you

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have of a good thing, the more does it matter, don‟t you think? At least if you make it so.” Mark took it all in: Hunter‟s familiar crooked smile, which couldn‟t conceal the sadness in his eyes, the tension in Hunter‟s shoulders, the way he held his mug in a white-knuckled grip. You better haul ass, Bowman. This is way too much. Way too intense. You’ll never walk away from this if you don’t right now, and fast. Funny how his heart almost stopped at that thought. Mark forced himself to put his mug down, to stand up from the sofa, to pull on his jacket, his limbs leaden. “Where are you going?” Hunter asked softly. “It‟s getting late,” Mark said, turning away from him, heading for the door. “I‟d better be going too, if I‟m supposed to be back by dawn tomorrow.” Hunter‟s clothing rustled, but he didn‟t say anything to keep Mark from leaving. Mark didn‟t look back. At least we can talk to each other now. There’s nothing wrong with being friends. As he reached for the doorknob, the light went out. Mark closed his eyes and stopped, his hand falling off the knob. He could feel Hunter close behind him. Hunter‟s hands touched Mark‟s shoulders and slipped beneath his jacket, gently but without hesitation, easing it off along unresisting arms. A moment later, he felt Hunter‟s breath fanning across his neck and then the warm, damp touch of Hunter‟s mouth. Mark‟s head dropped back against Hunter‟s shoulder as he leaned into the other man, almost against his will. This hot, hungry mouth nuzzled beneath Mark‟s ear, soft beard rubbing against tender skin, hands roaming Mark‟s hair, his arms, down his chest and up again, under his shirt in an unspoken request, and Mark obediently lifted his arms and let Hunter pull his shirt off, chest heaving now. Mark‟s lips parted as he tipped his head back again, his body pliant like clay under those big, callused hands, which molded the planes of his limply dangling arms, his shoulders, his exposed throat.

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Purposeful fingers traced Mark‟s jawline, one catching on his dry lips, slipping between them. Mark sucked the digit in, salt and spice and the bitterness of soap caressing his tongue, piercing through the rapture. Suddenly he was starving, latching on with greedy need, first his head, then his body following when Hunter‟s finger pulled back, urging him to turn until mouth met mouth in a ferocious kiss. Need flooded Mark as if a dam had burst within him, the need to touch, to taste, to take. He ripped Hunter‟s shirt off with fluttering hands, pouncing onto that smooth expanse of pale skin with tongue and teeth as soon as it lay bare before him, fumbling Hunter‟s pants open as he licked a wet trail across the hairless chest. Hunter arched his body into the attack, head dropping back for a deep exhale before his hands went for Mark‟s fly with matching urgency. Hands tangling in long strands of hair, Mark cupped the nape of Hunter‟s neck, mouth snatching at Hunter‟s lips like a predator at his quarry. Teasing, Hunter bounced back, once, twice, until Mark caught his head with both hands and crushed their lips back together. They pulled back at the same time, still holding each other, their foreheads still touching, both gasping for air. Hunter trailed a finger along Mark‟s cheekbone. “Do you want me, Mark?” he asked, his breath warm on Mark‟s face. God, yes. Mark‟s body answered before he could say the words, swaying against Hunter, clinging to him with both arms, their mouths locked together. Things became a bit blurred after that. Mark was mostly aware of hands, his own and Hunter‟s. Hands were everywhere, stroking, kneading, grabbing, and there were lips, and tongues. Somewhere along the line, Mark felt jeans and underwear hampering his knees, and he quickly toed off his boots and kicked free of the clothing, holding on to Hunter‟s shoulders for purchase. At some point, Hunter was gone for a second, and when he came back into Mark‟s arms, nothing but skin separated them. All the time they moved—through the door, along the short, narrow hallway into Hunter‟s bedroom.

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They went from upright to lying down without Mark being sure how that had happened. All he knew was Hunter beneath him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Groin to groin, cocks lined up alongside each other, a perfect fit, they rocked together. Hunter spread his thighs and arched up, choking out a half-stifled noise that could have been a moan or a laugh. One of his legs came up to hook over Mark‟s hips, pulling him closer still, forming that perfect groove for Mark‟s cock again. The familiar pressure built in Mark‟s groin, almost to the edge, making him moan, “No, stop this!” Hunter let him off immediately, and Mark pushed up on his elbows, breathing hard. “Not like this. I‟m not going to last if we… keep this up. But this time, I want more.” Hunter‟s face was hardly discernible in the dim light, but Mark saw his teeth flash in a smile. The strong, rough hands stroked down his flanks and settled on his hips, holding him loosely. “Tell me what you want,” Hunter said. Mark swallowed. “You,” he said. “Everything. I want….” Jesus, when had he become a schoolgirl? He‟d never been shy about putting his needs into words. This shouldn‟t be different. Except that it was. He swallowed again. “I want to fuck you.” Hunter‟s hand came up to cup Mark‟s face. “I hoped you‟d say that.” He pressed a short kiss to Mark‟s mouth, then nudged him toward the nightstand. “Look there, will you?” As Mark stretched over, his scrabbling fingers hit the base of a small night lamp, then the switch. In the weak, yellow light Mark saw a handful of condoms and a white plastic tube, which he took with a sigh of relief. Hunter rolled over, cradling the pillow in his arms, his face turned sideways. He watched Mark putting on a condom, a fine, sphinx-like smile playing on his lips. He looked calm, relaxed. Trustful.

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Mark straddled Hunter‟s thighs, hands trailing down his spine. He took hold of himself, stroked with the tip of his penis between those firm, yielding mounds, smeared lubricant into the hot, delightfully hairless groove and around the oh-so-tight little opening, until he heard Hunter‟s breath going deeper and faster. Muscles twitched under Mark‟s hands as Hunter‟s ass pushed up against his weight with short, jerky jabs. But when Mark tried to penetrate him, Hunter gave a painful hiss and flinched, his body tensing up. Mark recoiled immediately. None of his former partners had prepared him for this. Sure, some of them had been tight, and sometimes there hadn‟t been any lubrication other than spit. However, no discomfort on either part had ever been able to keep Mark from getting what he wanted. But this time he cared. “We needn‟t… we can stop,” he stammered, the words almost choking him, he wanted Hunter so badly. But not at the price of hurting him. “Just say the word. I can stop.” Instead of the rejection Mark had been afraid of, he got a breathless laugh. “Don‟t you dare,” Hunter said, reaching for Mark‟s wrist. “It‟s just… maybe go a bit slower. Give me your fingers first. It‟s been a while.” “How long?” Mark asked curiously, following Hunter‟s lead and stroking between Hunter‟s legs. Hunter huffed another short laugh and turned his face away for a moment. “Longer than I thought, obviously.” “Easy, then,” Mark murmured, searching for that sweet spot behind Hunter‟s sac. His reward was a jerk and a breathy laugh. “If you keep this up, I won‟t last long enough,” Hunter warned, his voice husky. “Promises, promises,” Mark muttered, but he let up on the teasing and went for his main purpose instead. His fingertip dipped in for a second, making Hunter hiss again. This time he didn‟t flinch away, but pushed back, encouraging Mark without words.

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Mark watched his finger disappear inside Hunter‟s body. He closed his eyes to enjoy the feeling, the clenching muscle, then velvety heat beyond. Extending his other fingers, he stroked forward, feeling for that little spot again…. Hunter took a deep breath, and the tight grip of his body around Mark‟s finger eased. Mark opened his eyes in time to catch the blissful expression on Hunter‟s face. There. Mark angled his fingers, prodding inside and out, and Hunter arched up and shoved himself against Mark‟s hand with a gasp, his eyes, huge and black with rapture, burning into Mark‟s. Jesus, he’s so… as if he’s dying from thirst, and I’m the well. Staring back, Mark took himself in hand again, aroused to the point of aching. No one had ever looked at him like that. Best turn-on ever. Hunter pushed back rhythmically now, fucking himself on Mark‟s fingers. His face fell slack, breath coming in ragged gasps. One of his hands went up, groping, reaching for Mark, wide open eyes pleading wordlessly. Mark hurried to move behind him, tugging at his hips. “Up, up,” he urged, pulling Hunter to his knees and kneeling between Hunter‟s spread calves. That tight butt, sticking out like this, open and vulnerable—it was perfect, just perfect. Mark put both hands to Hunter‟s ass cheeks, just for a moment amazed by the feeling of taut muscles beneath rough skin, and traced his thumbs down the crack to the center. Hunter shook all over when Mark touched him there and pressed his face into the pillow, and suddenly Mark couldn‟t wait any longer to be inside him. Still very tight, but it was much easier this time. Jaw clenched against the overwhelming urge to plunge, to possess, Mark pushed in, struggling to go slow, to mind Hunter‟s reactions, the way his body opened, the way he breathed in short huffs, the way his fists bunched the bed linen. When Mark‟s groin finally lay flush against Hunter‟s backside, he was shivering. Tight heat clutched him, squeezed him. Nothing new,

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but different all the same, since it was Hunter, giving himself to Mark on nothing more than an unspoken plea and an undemanded promise. “You okay?” Mark rasped. Hunter‟s head jerked once, a sharp nod against the pillow. Mark had wanted to keep it slow, but he lost control almost immediately. He dug his fingers into Hunter‟s hips with bruising force and thrust in wild abandon. It was hard enough to keep his eyes open, but he managed, unwilling to miss even a second of the sight Hunter made. Hunter‟s face was turned away from the lamp, but there was enough light to see how the vein on his forehead stood out, how he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He looked taut and pained, but his body met Mark‟s every thrust, taking it all and demanding more, more, and Mark held on and complied with him, his grunts getting louder until he nearly growled with every push. Hunter made a low, keening noise deep in his throat, his lips opening in a silent scream, convulsions rocking his body. Inside Hunter, Mark felt himself gripped in pulsing waves, the sensation flaring a white-hot jet up his spine, shoving him over the edge. Shouting his own release, he came on a few last erratic thrusts, then dropped down, taking Hunter with him, both still shuddering. For a while, they stayed joined like that, their heaving breaths the only sounds in the room. Eventually, Mark reached between them and pulled out, mindful of the condom. He rolled to his back and pushed up with a groan. Hunter‟s hand shot out, closing on Mark‟s wrist with unexpected force. Mark paused, looking back at Hunter, at the barely veiled alarm in his questioning face. “Bathroom,” he explained. The wariness gave way to slight embarrassment as Hunter‟s hand slipped from Mark‟s arm. “Down the hall, door to the right.” Mark couldn‟t resist a short kiss to that adorable, crooked, almost-smile before he left.

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The bathroom was a cubbyhole with barely enough room for a small sink and a toilet. A curtained hole in the outer wall hid a makeshift shower, its walls made of the same corrugated iron as the mews. After a look at the drafty construction, Mark settled for a quick cleanup at the sink. He stared at himself in the tiny mirror of the cabinet over the sink, waiting for the usual self-disdain, the urge to run, to kick in. But there was nothing but warmth—a deep, comfortable tiredness buzzing in his limbs, like after a long, exhausting run. He even found himself smiling at his reflection in the mirror, and it took him a moment to identify the feeling. Happiness. When he came back into the bedroom, Hunter hadn‟t moved, his long body stretched prone on top of the comforter, face turned to the door. His eyes were closed. Mark paused to look at him, drinking in the sight. The yellow light of the night lamp hued Hunter‟s pale skin golden, the light fuzz on his arms and legs adding a soft shimmer. His tangled mane covered the pillow and half his face, loose strands wafting in the breeze of his breath. He didn‟t seem to sleep but looked utterly relaxed. Mark found himself longing to touch him again, to taste the shimmering, golden expanse, inch by inch. No need to hurry. He won’t go anywhere, and neither will you. When the mattress dipped down under Mark‟s weight, Hunter opened his eyes and smiled lazily at him. With a slight nudge to Hunter‟s hips, Mark stretched out beside him. “Scoot over.” Tugging and pulling, they managed to scramble under the comforter and shuffled around until Mark was lying on his back, Hunter half on top of him, head resting in the hollow of Mark‟s shoulder. “This thing is too small for two people to sleep in,” Mark grumbled. “We have already, remember?” Hunter said. Mark just gave a grunt, pulled him closer, and switched off the lamp.

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They were silent for a while. The distant runway lights shining in through the small window bathed the room in a weak, grayish light. Mark closed his eyes against the gloom, reveling in the feeling of Hunter‟s hand stroking his stomach and chest, the fingertips combing through his wiry body hair causing a low rustling noise. Mark could feel Hunter‟s heartbeat against his own chest, even and strong. “How do you feel now?” Hunter finally asked. “Good,” Mark said, pressing a light kiss to Hunter‟s temple. “Sated. Sleepy.” Hunter‟s hand tightened for a moment on Mark‟s chest, fingers tugging sharply at chest hairs. “That‟s not what I was asking.” Mark winced. Actually, he didn‟t want to talk about it now. He hesitated, looking for words. “I‟m still here, am I not?” he finally said, stroking Hunter‟s shoulder to take the edge off of his words. “No freaking out this time.” Hunter‟s lips moved against Mark‟s skin. “You‟re not afraid anymore?” He won’t let me get away with anything but honesty. Mark‟s hand tightened around Hunter‟s shoulder. “I didn‟t say that. But I won‟t run.” He nudged Hunter until they were face to face. “I just… I don‟t know how to make it work. I am scared, Hunter, but I want to give this a try. With you. This could be… good, don‟t you think?” Hunter‟s eyes locked with Mark‟s, the light gray almost gleaming. “Are you serious, Mark?” he asked. Mark frowned. “Didn‟t I just say that?” he answered, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. Hunter nodded slowly. “I needed to ask you that. Because I don‟t mind if we do this your way, on your terms. I don‟t mind if you need to take your time. It‟s not as if I wasn‟t… used to it, in a way. But I need you to mean it. Because if you don‟t, and you stay… now….” He hesitated, swallowing. “I won‟t be able to go back to being friends.” A rush of emotion made Mark‟s chest tighten and his heart beat faster. It was hot and soft and he didn‟t have a name for it, but it scared

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him even more. Still, he knew he was unable to leave, even if he had wanted to, and he didn‟t. That’s it, he thought. I knew. Jesus, I knew. His lips numb, he leaned in for a kiss, speaking the words into Hunter‟s mouth. “I‟m sure.” They fell asleep to the soft splattering of rain and the distant noise of planes landing and taking off every few minutes and woke to the same noises a few hours later, seeking passion and release within each other‟s bodies once again. They went back to sleep, their limbs still tangled, their lips still touching, breathing each other in.

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Chapter 8

WHEN Mark woke the next time, the weak light of dawn already filled the small bedroom. He was alone. For a moment, he closed his eyes again, recalling the past night, which he felt, pleasantly heavy, in his entire body. It’s morning, and I’m still here. Naked in Hunter’s bed. He sat up, oddly grateful for the momentary solitude. Would I rather not be? Full of amazement, he realized he didn‟t have second thoughts. This could work. Fuck damn, this could actually work. Mark took a moment to look around himself in the small room. It was tidy and somber like a monk‟s cell, a stark contrast to the cluttered office down the hall. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks on the surfaces of the dresser or the nightstand, not even a book or magazine lying around. The window above the bed had been opened a crack, letting in crisp morning air. There was no way of telling how long Hunter had been up, but it must have been a while, considering the chill in the room and the smell of coffee that wafted in from the open door. Mark squinted at his wristwatch. Five o‟clock. Plenty of time until Greg would show at eight. He tried to lie back and relax again but found he was beginning to feel cold without Hunter‟s body heat. Besides, the thought of Hunter‟s warm body prompted other desires than going back to sleep.

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Shivering in his nakedness, he closed the window and went looking for his clothes. He found them in a neat stack on the dresser, a slip of paper on top. JUST US HERE. With an amused snort, he took his clothes and padded into the bathroom. The office was as cold as Hunter‟s room with the door standing open. The mingled smells of coffee and cigarette smoke led Mark outside, where Hunter leaned against the trailer, cradling a hand-rolled in his palm. At the sound of Mark‟s footfalls, he turned, smiling his real smile, the one that made Mark‟s heart beat faster. “Morning,” he greeted, saluting with his coffee mug. Mark couldn‟t help but smile back, returning the greeting. The rain had let up to a fine but persistent drizzle. Despite the damp chill, Hunter wore only jeans, his hair a tangled, stringy mass down his bare chest and back. He looked ruffled and savage and irresistible. Mark wasn‟t inclined to resist. He took the few steps down the stairs, leaned into Hunter and kissed him, tasting smoke and coffee over a residue of mint toothpaste. Hunter‟s laugh spilled into Mark‟s mouth as he kissed him back. “Found my note, then,” he said, when Mark let him go. Mark grinned. “And I listened to Greg. And I‟ve got my watch.” He took the mug from Hunter‟s hand to steal a mouthful of coffee, put it down carelessly, and took hold of Hunter‟s wrists. Pressing them back against the trailer with his body weight, he nuzzled his face into the groove between Hunter‟s neck and shoulder. Hunter squirmed as Mark breathed in deeply. “What‟re you doing?” “You smell like rain,” Mark said. “And you. Turns me on.” Just for emphasis, he ground his erection into Hunter‟s groin, finding to his pleasure that Hunter was hard too.

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The cigarette went flying as Hunter flicked it away and tilted his head backward to give Mark better access. He started to hum when Mark mouthed the crook of his neck, the hum turning into a low, purring moan as Mark moved lower and found Hunter‟s nipple. Mark‟s hands left Hunter‟s wrists to burrow into the messy strands of hair as he kissed his way across Hunter‟s chest, to the other nipple and up his throat to his lips again. Hunter hooked a leg around Mark‟s hip to pull him closer. “Why are we making out here in the rain when there‟s a bed only a few steps away?” Mark asked after a while, around a mouthful of collarbone. Hunter‟s soft chuckle tickled his lips. “Don‟t know. Except that I don‟t want you to stop what you‟re doing.” “Well, I won‟t stop then. But inside,” Mark said, dragging him up the stairs. This time, it was different. For one, the room was still damn cold, even with the window closed. It hadn‟t bothered Mark last night, but now he made sure he had the covers firmly around them. Last night‟s urgent need replaced by lazy pleasure, they cuddled close together, stroking and caressing, learning each other‟s bodies with hands and mouths. As he had wanted to last night, Mark took his time to explore Hunter‟s body, following his hands with lips and tongue. Hunter writhed and arched beneath Mark, hitching breaths hinting at how much he relished being touched like this. Mark was buried under the covers, immersed in the mixed scents of both their aroused bodies, licking Hunter‟s taste from his skin, the combination going straight to his head and making him moan from pleasure. He pressed his nose into Hunter‟s stomach, inhaled deeply, dipped his tongue into the divot of Hunter‟s navel and enjoyed the shivers this caused in the muscles under his face. Hunter‟s cock brushed against Mark‟s cheek, and he turned his head to squeeze it between his face and Hunter‟s belly. He rasped morning stubble against tender skin, like a cat rubbing its head on its owner‟s leg, grinning as Hunter jerked and spread his thighs wide. Mark‟s searching fingers found him still open and relaxed. When he slipped in, that sweet, low keening sound came again, reverberating

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through Hunter‟s stomach, and suddenly there was a cool draft as Hunter shoved the covers down and tugged urgently at Mark‟s shoulders, telling him with looks and hands and harsh breaths to stop teasing now, right now, and hurry up. The bother with putting on the condom, his naked body exposed to the cold air as he straddled up over Hunter, could have been a turnoff, but not with Hunter‟s eyes burning into his, with Hunter writhing and arching beneath him, with Hunter‟s hands between them, grabbing and stroking and getting in the way. Mark slapped Hunter‟s hip with a chuckle. “Lie still, you! You‟re not helping here, you know?” Hunter smiled sweetly and turned over. He wiped his hair aside and looked back over his shoulder as Mark pushed in, everything he felt plainly written all over his face. Mark almost felt it himself, the short, sharp pain at the first push in, the jaw-locking effort to hold on, to breathe through the intrusion, the relief as discomfort gave way to delight, and the sheer bliss as pleasure took over. Buried as deep as he could get, Mark paused, closing his eyes and pressing down, just feeling. He wanted to move, knew he‟d have to very soon, but not yet, not yet—this was delicious. The boundaries of their bodies seemed to blur as they joined, united, becoming one. Hunter arched his back, and Mark settled down onto him, wrapping his arms around Hunter‟s chest and burying his face in the crook of Hunter‟s neck to hold him still. “Just give me a minute, okay? Just hold on for a moment. This feels so good. You—” He cut off on a moan, bringing one hand up to turn Hunter‟s face up, to kiss him. Hunter returned the kiss, his eyes wide open as Mark blinked at him, and even the kiss was unhurried and gentle and alarmingly tender. Hunter‟s body gripped him tight and clenched around him. The need to thrust shot through Mark‟s spine, making his hips jerk, breaking the spell. Mark pushed up on his fists and started to fuck, deep and slow at first, rapidly getting faster until he was bucking wildly and grunting with every thrust, feeling Hunter come but unable to stop until he found his own satisfaction with a hoarse cry.

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They were huddled up against each other, both sated and pleasurably spent once more. The room reeked of sex and sweat, and the sheets were a damp, tangled mess. Mark sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “We‟re both quite ripe, I think,” he said. “I‟m all for a shower now. You?” “You can if you want,” Hunter said. “The shower actually works, although it doesn‟t look like it. But there‟s no point to showering before doing the mews. You‟ll only have to do it again afterward. That‟s why I didn‟t yet. Couldn‟t know there‟s a reckless caveman all over me, smelly or not.” Mark smacked Hunter‟s hip, grinning. “Caveman, my ass. That‟s all your fault, standing there in the rain like a noble savage, shirtless, hair and all.” “I was shirtless because I‟m a bit short on clothes here. My skin is easier to clean up than a shirt.” Hunter pressed a short kiss to Mark‟s shoulder and slipped past him to get up. “Go ahead, then, take your shower. I‟ll be in the mews.” Mark stood, watching as Hunter pulled on his pants. “Any chance you‟d join me?” Grinning, Hunter gave him a light shove. “Another time. Right now, I‟m going to get myself nice and filthy to make the effort worthwhile.” The falcon station‟s makeshift shower was indeed not a pleasure to use. Mark stood shivering under the trickle of lukewarm water, hurrying his ablutions, listening to Hunter moving around on the other side of the corrugated iron wall. When he entered the mews a few minutes later, he found himself forced to admit that Hunter had been right about the dirt. All the birds were hooded and sat on their perches, very upright and very still. Hunter stood in a cloud of dust and feathers, shoveling used litter into a bucket. As Mark took hold of the full bucket‟s handle, Hunter gave him a smirk that clearly said “See?”

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Mark nudged him. “Shut up,” he said grumpily. Hunter only laughed. Although both worked hard, it took them almost an hour to change the litter. By the time Hunter spread the last bucketful of fresh wood chips Mark carried in from the heap in a lean-to behind the mews (where he found his bike, too), they were both covered in tiny pieces of wood, feathers, and dustified bird droppings. The dampness of their sweat and the rain had helped to turn the dust into a fine, solid layer of grit, which clung to their skin, hair, and clothes like icing to a cake. “Damn, that‟s icky,” Mark said as they finally left the mews, patting himself down in a futile attempt to get a bit cleaner. “How often do you have to do this?” “Only once a month,” Hunter said, raking his fingers through his hair. “We usually wait for a rainy day, because the dust isn‟t as bad then.” “For me it was bad enough,” Mark grumbled, brushing dirt from his hair and jacket. Hunter stepped in front of him and took hold of his hands, smiling. “Your help was most appreciated,” he said. “And now we‟re both as filthy as we can get, I‟d love to hit the shower with you and help you get clean again.” “Get us both clean in that thing?” Mark protested. “Good luck with that. We‟d still be at it by noon, if we‟d even make it that far. And as much as I wouldn‟t mind that, we‟re a bit gross by now, even for me.” He pulled his hands free to place them loosely on Hunter‟s shoulders. The falconer looked even wilder now, still shirtless, dirt on his pale skin and in his messy hair, his light eyes sparkling in his rainstreaked face. Mark simply had to haul him close and kiss him, dirty or not. Hunter returned the kiss for a moment, then broke away, holding Mark at arm‟s length. “It must be after seven already,” he said, the sparkle slowly fading from his eyes. Mark nodded, knowing full well what Hunter was saying.

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“We better get going, then,” he said. “Is it all right with you if I come back by noon? ‟Cause I sure as hell won‟t use that shower of yours again. Besides, I need to change.” “Sure, go ahead. If we don‟t patrol today, you can watch me train the birds.” He hesitated for a moment. “Greg and Walt will be around, though.” Mark nodded. “I‟m aware of that. We‟ll handle it, won‟t we?” He tried to smile, although he was aware it came across a bit crooked. “Besides, it‟s about time I started learning something about falcons, aside from cleaning up behind them.” Hunter‟s smile was as weak as Mark‟s. “Still the falcons? And here I thought you were here for my beautiful eyes.” “That, too,” Mark said calmly, and for once, Hunter didn‟t have a smart retort handy. They stood like that for a long while, holding each other‟s gazes, heedless of the rain. Mark felt words rising in his throat, but he was unable to get them past his lips as Hunter‟s eyes spoke to him of things he wasn‟t ready to hear yet and maybe never would be. Still, he couldn‟t turn away, had to take in what Hunter was telling him without speaking. In the trailer, the radio came alive with a crackle. The sound startled them apart. “That‟s Greg,” Hunter said. “He always calls when he drives into the airport.” Mark nodded, dropping Hunter‟s hands and turning away. “„Later, then,” he said casually. He made it two steps away before Hunter grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him in for a quick, hard kiss. Mark responded with matching fierceness. But a moment later, Hunter shoved him away again, his mien bordering on desperate. “Go,” he hissed, shoving Mark again. “He‟ll be here any minute now.”

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Bewildered, Mark obeyed. As he drove away from the falcon station, he saw Hunter in the rear view mirror, standing where he‟d left him, arms crossed, face frozen into a mask of stone.

THE red light on his answering machine indicated new messages. Mark tossed his keys onto the dresser. With a frown, he pressed the button and started to undress. “Where the fuck are you, Mark? Answer the fucking phone,” Sean‟s voice demanded. He sounded furious, and his next words told Mark the reason. “She said no. Fuck! Answer the fucking phone or I‟ll break something.” He paused. Right, Sean said he wanted to propose to Alice yesterday. Mark could hear Sean‟s harsh breath over the line, then the sound of shattering glass. “Fuck! Where are you? Need a fucking drink. Move your ass over to Hardy‟s, will you?” The connection broke abruptly. Mark could almost hear the receiver hitting the cradle. The timer read 7:30 p.m. Guiltily glad he hadn‟t been home by then, Mark pulled off his shoes and headed for the bathroom, only in his filthy jeans. The beeping of the machine stopped him. Sean again, and this time he sounded decidedly drunk. Mark could hear bar noises in the background. “Mark, buddy, can you imagine? She turned me down. Told me she needed to think about it and walked out on me. I‟m so pissed, bud, I threw the ring away.” He chuckled drunkenly. “Guess I‟m pissed at you, too. Why‟re you not home yet, God damn? Got lucky, you bastard? Bet you‟re fucking your brains out right now while I‟m in the doghouse. Fits my luck.” Mark could hear him swallow, then, “Doesn‟t matter. Don‟t need you. Don‟t need her. Go fuck yourself, asshole.” Mark looked at the timer—2:20 a.m. As he pushed rewind, he couldn‟t help a grin, despite his sympathy for Sean. I was most probably indeed fucking Hunter about that time.

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The memory caused a familiar and now welcome tingle in his groin. I really got lucky. Good thing Sean doesn’t have the slightest idea how very right he is. On the occasion of a fellow officer who‟d been foolish enough to come out at work, Mark had been given a considerable bit of Sean‟s mind concerning homosexuals. The other officer had disappeared not much later, rumored to have been encouraged to quit. Since then, Mark had stayed even more tight-lipped about his private life, which in turn drove Sean to wild speculations and endless teasing. He‟d call Sean back, but not yet. Sean was more than likely dead to the world by now. An hour more wouldn‟t make that much of a difference. Besides, this wasn‟t the first time Alice had left him. Usually, their split-ups didn‟t last long. They‟d probably already made up by now. No reason to postpone his much-needed shower. As he was standing under the hot spray, Mark recalled two or three other times Sean had drunk-called him at the weirdest hours of the day or the night about Alice. Theirs was a rather stormy relationship, and Sean was never shy about sharing even the goriest details. The thought hit him, that he would never be able to talk to Sean about Hunter the way Sean talked about Alice to him. He wondered for a short moment why this bothered him at all.

SEAN picked up the phone at the second ring. “Sweetheart?” His voice sounded gravelly, but eager and hopeful. “Hate to disappoint you, but it‟s just me,” Mark said cheerfully. “Mark, you asshole,” Sean groaned, voice dropping down at least another octave. This wasn‟t gravel anymore, rather broken glass. Mark winced in sympathy. “I take it she didn‟t come back to you yet?” he said.

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“Shove that,” Sean barked. “Last thing I need‟s you being a smartass right now.” “No, I guess you rather need, oh, about a gallon of water? And a few painkillers would be nice too.” “Shut the fuck up,” Sean grouched. “Ow, my head. God, I‟m so hung over.” “Could tell,” Mark said. “Called to say I‟m sorry I wasn‟t there yesterday.” “No, you aren‟t, but you‟d be sorry now if you had been.” Mark couldn‟t help a chuckle, which had Sean cursing him again. When he paused, Mark said, “Seriously, Sean. You know she‟ll come back soon. She always does.” “What if she doesn‟t this time?” The half-drunk wail made Mark rub his forehead. He knew this string of conversation. He‟d had it with Sean often enough that he was growing fed up with it. “She will, Sean. If she doesn‟t, you know you‟ll call her.” “But—” Sean started again, but Mark cut him off. “In any case, you better sober up fast. So take a shower, brush your teeth, and take those painkillers, will you? And call her.” “You sound like my mom. Or Alice,” Sean said, still whiny. “Shut up! I‟m trying to be a friend here.” Mark felt his impatience grow. He almost regretted having called Sean. “I‟ve got to go. You know I‟m right, so get in gear, okay?” “A fine friend you are, hanging up on me like this,” Sean snorted. “Where you going, anyway?” “I‟m not hanging up on you! Not yet. And even if it‟s none of your business, I‟m going on falcon patrol again.” Sean gave another snort. “Falcon patrol, yes, sure. Tell that to the marines. What‟s her name?” Mark shook his head, even if Sean couldn‟t see it. “Fine. Don‟t believe me. Gotta run. Call her, okay?” “Will do,” Sean said, still grumpy. “And Mark?”

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“Hm?” “Thank you.”

BETWEEN one thing and another, it was past noon before Mark made it to the falcon station again. The rain had let up by then, and the sun was poking golden fingers through the clouds. It was windy but considerably warmer than in the morning. Only one car sat in front of the trailer. Mark parked his bike next to it, making sure with a look it was Greg‟s. The messy back seat was unmistakable. He found Greg in the trailer, gesturing and pacing while shouting into the telephone. Greg had his back to him, and Mark got to witness a one-sided conversation that made him squirm in sympathy for the person on the receiving end. “What do you mean unavailable? A visitor? Look, I don‟t give a shit if he‟s busy fucking Madonna right now, I need him here… what, rude? Lady, if you think I‟m being rude, you‟re in for…. Fuck! Don‟t you hang up on me…. Fuck!” Greg slammed the receiver down. “Fucking dorm phones!” He started to punch numbers into the set again, still muttering expletives. Mark coughed tentatively, and Greg jumped and spun round, glaring at him. “Mark, watch it, God damn! I almost had a heart attack here!” Mark felt his hackles rise. “I‟ll go if this is a bad moment,” he said, but Greg had already put the receiver down and was coming to him, hands spread wide in greeting, the glare replaced by a broad grin. “Ah, screw that. I‟m damn glad you‟re here, and Hunter will be too.” Mark felt his eyebrows lift in confusion, but Greg didn‟t give him a chance to ask questions. “C‟mon, hurry up! Let‟s get the birds in the car.” He gestured at Mark to follow him and ran out of the trailer and into the mews, speaking as he went. “Couldn‟t get ahold of Micky, but now you‟re here, it‟s just as well; you‟ll do.” He shoved the old falconer‟s glove and a hood into Mark‟s hand and jerked his head at one of the falcons. “Hood her and

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take her out, will you? I‟ll take care of the other two.” Already, he had one of the other birds on his wrist and was on his way out with her, leaving Mark no choice but to obey. Mark approached the Peregrine, holding the hood in his right hand. With the other falconers, hooding had always looked easy and effortless, but it wasn‟t, obviously. Every time Mark reached out for the falcon with the leather pouch, she jerked her head away, getting more upset by the minute, until she was shrieking and flapping her wings, tugging at the mews leash. “Like a fish with a bicycle,” Greg muttered behind him, taking the hood from Mark and putting it on the agitated falcon in a smooth one-handed move while he carried the third bird on his other wrist. Mark‟s bird stilled immediately, and Greg gestured at Mark to take her up. Mark took a step back instead. “I‟ve never hooded a falcon,” he said, carefully reining in his temper. Greg cast him an impatient glare. “You haven‟t? Okay, I‟ll show you another time. Stop making a fuss already and take her out, will you? We don‟t have all day.” And he was gone. Mark considered getting angry for a moment, until he realized that this was just Greg being Greg. No need to take offense. With a shrug, Mark went through the recalled movements of taking the last Peregrine to his wrist, getting it over with surprisingly smoothly. After he transferred his falcon to the beam in the car, he literally had to run after Greg as the head falconer bounced up the stairs back into the trailer. “Care to tell me what‟s going on?” he asked. Greg was rummaging through papers and odds and ends on the desk, cursing under his breath. He spoke without looking at Mark. “The weather cleared up too fast. Hunter and Walt are out with the other falcons, and I was supposed to get the last three to Hunter but was summoned to the DES for… oh, whatever, some shit… right now, they‟re gonna pick me up any minute… where the fuck—ah!” He held up the car keys, waving them triumphantly at Mark. Right at that moment a car pulled up outside, honking, and Greg tossed Mark the keys. “Hunter‟s out by 4L near Duck Creek Marsh, moving along the fence. I‟ve just talked to

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him. Handheld‟s in the car. Get him the birds, will you?” All this came out on one breath, as Greg was already heading out, taking the stairs two at a time and yelling at the people in the waiting car, “Coming, coming!” The car door slammed shut, and Greg was off. “Wha—” Mark couldn‟t help feeling steamrollered as he was left standing in the trailer, keys dangling from his hand. He shook his head, shrugged, and left the trailer a bit slower than Greg, smiling at the thought of being alone with Hunter again so soon. The handheld came alive as Mark was pushing back the driver‟s seat to accommodate his long legs. “Talon One for Falconer. Greg, are you coming, or what?” Glad he‟d learned the falconer‟s radio handles the other day, Mark took the device, starting the car with his other hand. “Falconer for Talon One. Hunter, it‟s Mark, Greg had to go to DES. Name your position.” There was a short pause, then, “Falconer, meet me two miles north from Duck Creek Marsh, inland side. Over.” He sounded cool and formal. Mark confirmed the meeting point in turn, putting the radio on the passenger seat with a slight frown at himself. What had he expected? Hunter was working. Others could overhear the radio traffic. There was no reason to get all worked up about that. He could see Hunter from afar, twirling the lure for a falcon circling high above him. When Mark stopped Greg‟s car next to Hunter‟s, the falcon had already returned to Hunter‟s wrist and received her piece of dove. Hunter hooded her and returned her to the beam before he turned for a greeting. Mark got out of the car, still feeling a bit at a loss, despite his earlier reasoning. But all his misgivings were forgotten when Hunter gave him a happy smile and, after a short glance around to make sure they were alone, pulled him in for a kiss. It was Hunter, though, who broke the kiss all too soon.

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“Later,” he said, cupping Mark‟s face with his hand for a moment, eyes making a reassuring promise. “We‟ve got work to do first. Where did you say Greg is?” “DES, he said. I don‟t know exactly. He was in a terrible hurry when I came over,” Mark said, reluctantly letting go. “He told me to bring you the falcons and was gone before I could even catch my breath. So what‟s that all about?” Hunter wrinkled his brow. “That‟s most inconvenient,” he said. “After it stopped raining this morning, we had reports about increased gull activity and prematurely incoming migratory geese. Walt is out east, closer to the migration routes, with the Harris hawks and Iman. I‟ve been riding along the fence for three hours now, trying to keep the gulls at bay, and my birds are quite done in. Been flying them every ten minutes or so.” At Mark‟s blank look, Hunter explained, “The sight of a falcon keeps the gulls away for about two hours. But you‟ve got to show them a falcon every, oh, half a mile or so, and that fence is awfully long. It‟s quite stressful for the falcons to take off and land in such a short order, over such a stretch of time. Besides, they‟re fed after every flight, and by now they‟re quite full and don‟t want to fly anymore. Since I have to cover two sectors, I‟m glad to have the fresh birds, but I can‟t send the others back when there‟s no one to take care of them.” He paused, thoughtfully tracing his thumb along his lower lip. Mark wanted to follow the path of the digit with his tongue. “Would you ride along the fence with me? You‟d have to drive the other car. Maybe you could hand me the falcons and put them back. We‟d actually be faster that way. You could be of great help to me.” “Of course I‟m helping you. That‟s why I‟m here,” Mark agreed immediately. Hunter raised an eyebrow at him, the familiar spark of mischief flashing up in his eyes for a second. “So you say.” Not leaving Mark a chance to comment, he turned and clapped his hands. “Yalla, let‟s go!” Hunter hadn‟t been exaggerating. They drove up and down the airport boundary fence all afternoon, stopping every few minutes to fly one of the falcons. Mark drove ahead, stopped on Hunter‟s signal, and readied a bird. He carried her about fifty yards away from the car,

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where Hunter took the falcon, unhooded and threw her, lured her in again, and put her back into the car, so Mark could drive on until Hunter got back into his own car and followed. After the first few times, Hunter showed Mark how to unhood the falcon so they could work faster. Mark‟s left arm grew heavy, just from lifting the birds out of the car and carrying them around for Hunter, and his admiration for Hunter‟s endurance grew. Hunter threw the falcons and mostly caught them out of the air, again and again, without showing any sign of fatigue. Mark made a remark about it, and Hunter answered with a smile, “It‟s mostly technique and long years of practice. I‟ll show you how it‟s done, and the rest will come. After all, I‟ve been doing this since I was little.” He bumped Mark‟s hip with his own. “Besides, there‟s nothing wrong with your endurance, as far as I‟m concerned.” Mark raised an eyebrow, and Hunter laughed, his amusement irresistible enough for Mark to lean in for a kiss, in spite of the falcon on Hunter‟s wrist. “Are we almost done here?” Mark asked, their faces still only inches apart. “Until sunset. About an hour from now,” Hunter said. Mark turned away, heading for his car. “Feel like a vampire here,” he muttered. “Have to wait until after sunset for what I need.” “I heard that,” Hunter called after him, laughing. Eventually the sun took pity on Mark and descended toward the horizon. For all it had been a cloudy, overcast day, the sunset was beautiful, with the last sunrays painting the horizon a spectral violet and bathing the underside of the clouds in orange and gold. It made for an impressive spectacle. They were back at runway 4L by then, standing at its very end where it jutted out into Jamaica Bay. The landing lights were already on, and airplanes landed and took off half a mile behind them. Hunter used his field glass to scan the skies above Joco Marsh, speaking into his handheld, his voice occasionally drifting back to Mark between the roar of the planes.

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Mark was leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed, watching him. Hunter was a dark silhouette against the dramatic sky, hair and beard hued a coppery, golden red by the sun. The wind caught in the loose strands that had escaped his braid and tugged at his loose pants, outlining his long legs. He looked like something not quite from this world, some ancient spirit turned corporeal maybe, ready to leave solid ground at any moment. He is gorgeous, thought Mark. A desire to touch, to make sure with his very own hands Hunter was solid and real, grew on Mark until he couldn‟t stand it any longer. They were all alone out here. The only ones who‟d be able to see them were the pilots of the planes above, and they were supposed to be busy with other things. He pushed off the car and closed the distance between them, enfolding Hunter in his arms from behind. Hunter lowered his field glass and leaned back into Mark‟s embrace. “I just called Greg,” he said. “We‟re done here.” Mark pressed a small kiss to the corner of Hunter‟s mouth, pulling him a bit closer. “Good.” They didn‟t move, though. Mark‟s hands rested on Hunter‟s chest, his fingertips stroking lazily, back and forth. Hunter‟s free hand covered Mark‟s, thumb brushing the back of Mark‟s hand. They watched the sun set in silence. “This is beautiful,” Mark said softly, not only referring to the spectacle before them. Hunter leaned his head back, searching for Mark‟s lips. They kissed long, but gentle, without urgency, their lips barely open, painfully tender. “You‟re a romantic, Mark Bowman,” Hunter said, but he smiled as he turned his face to the horizon again. Mark trailed his lips up and down the side of Hunter‟s neck. “Is this bad?” Hunter tilted his head to give Mark better access. “No, it is not. Not at all,” he said.

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After a while, Hunter started to hum, that low, calming sound he used with the birds. He threaded his fingers through Mark‟s and squeezed. Mark wished he could stop time. He could have stood there forever, holding Hunter in his arms, with the wind caressing them, surrounded by peace.

EVENTUALLY they had to come apart. Mark held on to Hunter‟s hand and pulled him in for another kiss when they were back at the cars. This time it wasn‟t about communion and tenderness, but deep and passionate and met with matching hunger. “Greg‟s waiting,” Hunter murmured against Mark‟s lips. He reached down to cup Mark‟s groin, rubbing gently but firmly. Mark looked down, biting his lip. He caught Hunter‟s hand and pulled it up to kiss the palm. “Fuck Greg.” Hunter grinned, and Mark put his fingers to that grin before he could say it. “I know. Me, too.” He hesitated. “So how…?” he asked, trailing off, suddenly uncertain. Hunter took his hand. “I don‟t care. My nights are nobody‟s business. Except yours.” “My place, then,” Mark said. “Come when you can.” “I so will,” Hunter said.

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Chapter 9

MARK leaned back on the sofa, sated and comfortable in nothing but his boxers, enjoying the sight of Hunter wandering about his apartment naked, hair still damp from the shower they‟d shared. It was amazing how self-confident Hunter was in his nakedness. Comfortable in his own skin, that was the expression, moving with careless grace. He hadn‟t been shy to explore either, opening drawers and cupboards in Mark‟s small kitchen and chuckling when he came across Mark‟s collection of about ten different kinds of breakfast cereal, trailing fingers along Mark‟s bookshelves and occasionally pulling out a book. Right now he was crouching down, leafing through Mark‟s meager collection of CDs. They‟d put music on. Dire Straits‟s Brothers in Arms was playing softly over the background noise of the tumbler in which Hunter‟s clothes dried, comfortingly slow. Mark loved the thought that Hunter wouldn‟t go anywhere soon without them. He shifted on the cushions, recalling how Hunter had relished the luxury of taking a shower in a real bathroom with lots of hot water. They‟d used up all of it, and not only for cleanliness‟s sake. The moment Hunter walked through the door, they'd been all over each other. Mark had Hunter pinned against the wall, mouths locked together, hands desperately working to get each other out of their clothes. They'd stumbled into the bathroom, unable to keep their hands to themselves, barely taking time to undress before they stepped under the spray.

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Hunter moaned with pleasure, rolling his shoulders under the warm caress of the water and Mark‟s hands. After a while, he slid down to his knees, lips closing around Mark‟s cock. It cost Mark dearly to resist the lure of this eager, hot mouth. He indulged in it a few seconds before he pulled Hunter reluctantly back up, allaying a bemused look with another deep kiss. Passing the soap back and forth between them, they‟d lathered up, only to lose themselves in the rapture of touching, of feeling, of groping the other, until they were entwined again, cocks squeezed together in their joined hands, hips swiveling in time, crying out in unison in the end. Hunter getting loud for the first time during sex was an incredible turn-on for Mark. Only thinking about it made him want to hear those noises again, and soon. Hunter stood and turned to face Mark, smiling. “You‟ve got a nice place,” he said. Mark couldn‟t tear his eyes away from him, the fascinating contrast of pale body to darker hands and face, the long, slender legs, the cut cock, sizeable even when flaccid, like now, appearing even bigger by the lack of pubic hair. All by itself, Mark‟s hand closed around his own hardening member, heat rising in his cheeks. Hunter‟s eyes widened as he noticed the state Mark was in, his lack of clothing doing nothing to hide his body‟s response. “You haven‟t seen all of it yet,” Mark said, voice already thick with desire. Hunter extended a hand. “Come on then, show me your bedroom.”

THEY curled up in Mark‟s bed afterward, Mark spooned against Hunter‟s back, one arm under Hunter‟s head, the other across his waist, hand drawing small circles on Hunter‟s stomach. Hunter wriggled closer to Mark with a contented sigh. “I wish I could fall asleep like this, now.”

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Mark kissed his shoulder. “Sleep, if you want. I can set the clock.” Hunter shook his head. “Need to go back soon. Can‟t risk not being there tomorrow when the others come in.” Mark knew he was right. Nevertheless, it stung, even more so because Hunter‟s reason was due to rules Mark had set himself. He pulled him closer. “Not yet, though. You don‟t have any clothes.” Hunter chuckled, the sound ending in a yawn. “That‟s no small obstacle, indeed. Still, I‟m getting sleepy. I‟d better get up and do something.” He pulled away, but Mark tightened his arms. “I like you right where you are.” “So do I,” Hunter said. “But.” “But,” Mark said. “I‟ll talk to you to keep you awake. Stay right here.” He waited until Hunter was once again comfortably cuddled up against him. “Mm, a bedtime story,” Hunter purred. Mark bit his shoulder gently, immediately kissing the spot. “Shut up. Will you listen?” “Shutting up.” “This was my uncle‟s place,” Mark began. “He used to live here with his partner. I inherited it in the end.” “His partner?” Hunter echoed curiously. Mark nudged him. “I‟ll come around to it. Let me tell my story now. Anyway, when I was little, my uncle Harry visited with us on a regular basis. He was my mom‟s elder brother, and he was big and strong and funny. I‟ve always wanted to be like him. Back then, I thought he hung the moon.” Mark smiled fondly at the memory. “He was with the New York Police Department and lived in Greenwich Village then. I got to spend my holidays with him twice, here in the city, and I‟ve loved New York ever since. Those holidays were the best I‟ve ever had. The first time, it was just Harry and me, but by the second time, he had a roommate, Nick, another cop. One night when I

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woke up thirsty and went to the kitchen, I saw them kissing. They didn‟t notice me, and I watched them, thinking it was the most beautiful thing I‟d ever seen. It was tender and comforting and arousing, somehow, although back then I didn‟t know exactly why watching them made me ache, and what for. I was eleven.” Hunter chuckled. “Must have been hard for them, having the brat around, if they were forced to secret kisses in the kitchen at nighttime.” Mark snorted. “You bet. They slept in separate rooms the whole time I was around, and except for that one time, I never saw them touch like… well, you know. I never told anyone I‟d seen them, ‟cause it had felt so special, and I wanted this to be my secret. But it came back to bite me in the ass.” He turned to meet Hunter‟s eyes. “My parents and I were invited to Harry‟s retirement party, shortly after I‟d turned thirteen. He and Nick had already moved here, and the place was full of people. My mom took one look at the apartment, at the single big bed”—he patted the mattress beneath him—“and at the other bedroom, which they‟d turned into a studio, and then she started yelling at the top of her lungs, calling them filthy perverts and child molesters. I stepped between her and them and yelled that they hadn‟t molested me and she should leave them alone and that they couldn‟t be filthy perverts because I was just like them.” “Wow,” Hunter said, when Mark paused. “I guess that made quite a splash.” “You can say that again,” Mark sighed, shifting and pulling Hunter a bit closer. “It silenced everybody, and I think I heard a number of jaws hit the floor when all the people in the room suddenly turned to me. My father dragged me out to the car, kicking and screaming, and we headed straight home. I wouldn‟t stop arguing though, and so my father stopped and beat the shit out of me until I shut up.” Hunter flinched, and Mark shrugged at his startled expression. “What? I was used to it. My father beat me on a regular basis, for a lot of reasons. Anyway, this was the first time he beat me for that particular reason, so it kind of stuck.”

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Hunter muttered something under his breath that Mark couldn‟t understand. He shrugged again. “It didn‟t matter, either way. What happened at Harry‟s only added to what I‟d already figured out, that keeping things to myself and flying under everybody‟s radar was safer all around. So I didn‟t mention Harry ever again, or New York, for that matter. I took up football in high school, dated girls, and generally tried to merge with the woodwork. I even buried my dreams of the NYPD and joined the Ohio State Highway Patrol instead, like my father wanted me to, since he was a trooper himself. I hated myself for cowering before my father, but when I became too big for him to beat, he took it out on my mom when I angered him, and I couldn‟t let him do that.” This time, Hunter‟s nasty hiss was clearly a curse. Mark nodded. “I don‟t know what that means, but you‟re probably right. Anyway, the next time I saw Harry was at my mother‟s funeral. I was with the OSHP, and my father had retired from them only a year before. So the church was full of troopers when Harry came down the aisle toward the coffin. My father saw him and started roaring. He called him a shame to the entire police force, a pervert and a faggot, and threw him out, right out of the church, and none of my fellow troopers so much as lifted a finger to interfere. I tried to stop my father, and he slapped me in the face, right in front of half my department. That was when I‟d had enough. I told him to fuck off and left. It was the last time I ever saw him.” Mark rolled over onto his back, facing the ceiling. Hunter followed suit, pillowing his head on Mark‟s shoulder. The light touch of his hand as it moved in slow circles on Mark‟s chest felt calming and reassuring. “I went after Harry and finally caught up with him in his hotel. I hadn‟t seen him in more than ten years. He was only fifty-seven, but he looked like an old man, frail and sick. Turned out he and Nick both had AIDS, and Nick was already too weak to travel. They‟d been infected for years, but it hadn't broken out until recently. They‟d even written me about it, but since I‟d always thrown away their letters unopened, I hadn‟t had a clue. Can‟t even begin to tell you how much it bothered me that I didn‟t know.” He spoke faster now, in a hurry to finish his story, to get the worst part done before he had to meet Hunter‟s eyes

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again. “From that day on, I went to see them as often as I could, and I applied for every police department around here, even though both Harry and Nick tried to talk me into a change of occupation. When I finally got the placement with the PAPD, I didn‟t care that I had to go through the Academy once again. I moved in here with them, and I cared for them until they both died.” “Was your uncle the man you told me about? The one whose doctor….” When Mark nodded, Hunter tightened his arms around him and kissed him silently. “I‟m so sorry, yarouhi.” “Aren‟t you going to ask me?” Mark asked. Hunter lifted his head and looked him in the eye. “You‟re kidding, right?” “But—” Mark said, and Hunter punched his shoulder, hard enough for Mark to feel it, but not hard enough to hurt. “I can see now why you wouldn‟t let me suck you off, but you‟re not infected. You wouldn‟t even have kissed me if you were.” “You can‟t know that,” Mark argued, but it came out lame, and Hunter shook his head. His eyes were dark, the most serious Mark had ever seen them. “I do,” he said, “because I wouldn't have kissed you if I was.” Mark closed his eyes. It hadn‟t occurred to him, and the realization made him feel weak. All the months of ingrained caution. All the warnings from the two men who‟d loved him like a son but had been so afraid of making him sick they‟d hardly dared to touch him with bare hands. And there he was, all control blown to pieces by this man he hadn‟t known a few weeks ago. What the fuck is wrong with me? Quickly, before his stunned amazement could turn into anger, he got up and went into his home office. He found the folder blindly. Hunter stood behind him. Mark thrust the folder into Hunter‟s hands. “There,” he said. “Last test was a month ago.” Hunter set the folder aside, unopened, and reached out. “Mark—”

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“Read it!” Hunter shrugged, opened the folder, and took a look. “You‟re negative. So?” “I‟ve been….” Mark swallowed, took a deep breath and started again. “I‟ve been with someone since. I used protection, but….” There they were again, those dark, serious eyes, capturing Mark‟s. He couldn‟t look away. Like a deer in the headlights. Hunter closed the folder and put it back on the desk. He took Mark‟s hands. Helplessly, Mark let him. “I‟ve learned something from the Bedouins,” Hunter said, his voice low and husky. “Insh’Allah. What is to come, will come. You can only have so much control over your life before you stop living because you‟re too afraid to.” “But….” Mark began. Hunter took a step closer, ignoring him. “This doesn‟t mean taking insane risks, like having unprotected sex with a stranger. But sometimes you‟ve got to stop thinking and just trust what you feel. Sometimes all you need is faith. Insh’Allah, that‟s what it says.” He took another step. His face was so close to Mark‟s, it blurred. Mark shut his eyes and felt Hunter‟s arms close around him. “Stop fighting, Mark,” Hunter said next to Mark‟s ear. “Live.” Choose… Hunter‟s lips found Mark‟s, coaxed them open. Hunter‟s tongue slid between Mark‟s teeth, licked, caressed, filled his mouth. …or life will make the choice for you. Yes, Uncle Harry.

LEANING in the bathroom doorframe, Mark watched Hunter dress. Loose jeans, undershirt, long-sleeve Henley. Piece by piece, the gorgeous body disappeared from Mark‟s sight, leaving him bereft.

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Hunter‟s long hair was a tangled mess. He combed it with his fingers, giving an occasional “harrumph” when he got caught. “That hair of yours is quite a job,” Mark observed. “Too right.” Hunter tugged at a snarl impatiently, muttering something under his breath. “Why do you wear it like this, anyway?” Mark asked. Hunter hissed and tugged at a knot again. “Sometimes, I do ask myself that." “Let me help you,” Mark offered, reaching for him. Hunter rested his fists on the rim of the sink and bowed his head, eyes closed. Hunter‟s hair felt silky and soft and smelled like Mark‟s shampoo. Mark raked his fingers through it, gently working out the tangles until the heavy waves fell loose. Even so, Mark didn‟t stop. Didn‟t want to stop touching Hunter‟s hair, for when he did, Hunter would leave. Eventually, Hunter opened his eyes. Smiling at Mark in the mirror, he pulled away and braided his hair with quick, practiced movements. “Thank you.” “You‟re welcome,” Mark replied helplessly, stepping aside to let Hunter pass. Mark followed him to the living room, where Hunter pulled on his Docs. He didn‟t wear socks. No coat, but a black fleece and a khaki vest with many pockets. Mark noted every little detail, as if he was supposed to write a report. It didn‟t help, though. Hunter turned to him. Mark‟s reluctance to let him go seemed to show, for Hunter raised an eyebrow at him, lips curling up in his trademark half-smile. He reached up to touch Mark‟s face in that nowfamiliar way. “Your rules, Mark,” Hunter said softly. Mark sighed, leaning into the touch. “I know, asshole. Sucks, anyway.” Hunter snorted. “You don‟t say. Now you know how I felt this morning.”

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Oh, really? Only when Hunter said, “You bet,” did Mark realize he‟d said it out loud. Mark caught Hunter‟s hand and pressed a kiss to his pulse. “I‟ve got another day off tomorrow. And another night.” Hunter put his hand back to Mark‟s cheek and turned his face until Mark‟s eyes met his. “The day for the falcons, the night for me.” He pulled his hand back with a smile. “See you tomorrow, Mark.” The door closed behind him with a soft click.

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Chapter 10

“YES, sir,” Mark said to a red-faced, elderly man in a station wagon. “There‟s a parking space over there. You need only follow the signs.” He pointed. The man squinted through his bifocals. “What signs?” he grumbled. “There ain‟t any signs.” “Over there.” Mark leaned in and pointed again. An angry cab driver had called on the PAPD, claiming the old gentleman was obstructing the cab stand. The station wagon indeed blocked two pickup spots at once, messing up the waiting lines and forcing the cab drivers to swerve around him. Several cabbies had already tried to talk him into leaving, most of them not too politely. But instead of giving in to the volley of oaths hurled his way, the old man sat stubbornly in his car, doors firmly locked, squabbling with everybody through the barely opened driver‟s side window. While Sean went to keep the waiting lines in order, Mark tried to talk some sense into the traffic block. Not very successfully so far, or so it seemed. “I don‟t understand why they can‟t make proper signs anymore, these days,” the man ranted on, his face darkening another shade. “These are much too small. And why can‟t I just stay here? Can you explain that to me? My knee bothers me a great deal today, and my wife here‟s got a back issue. She can‟t do heavy lifting. It won‟t take me long, just to help my wife with the luggage.”

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“I‟m afraid it still isn‟t possible, sir,” Mark repeated, for the third time in as many minutes. “This area is for pickup and drop off only. It‟s against the regulations. Look, there‟s a parking spot right around the corner, with skycap service available—” “Yes, yes, you told me that already,” the older man interrupted. “I may be old, but I‟m not deaf, young man.” Mark heaved a silent sigh. “Sir, if you could please clear the way now. Just straight on and next turn right, please.” “You saying I‟m supposed to walk the entire way back here from that darned parking lot? I ruined my knee in the service of our country when you were still in diapers, sonny, so I‟d suggest you show some respect, and don‟t you tell me what I can or can‟t do….” At that point, Mark had had it. The cab passengers were throwing scowls and growls the old geezer‟s way, not to mention the increasingly annoyed cabbies. Mark forced his features into his nononsense face. “You‟re obstructing the traffic, sir,” he said, “please clear the way, right now.” The senior leaned back, glowering up at him. “Or what? You‟re going to write me a ticket?” He looked like a stubborn old owl. A particularly ugly one. Or more like Pleasant, the biggest of Greg‟s Peregrines, who detested the hood and always fought it. The comparison jumped to Mark‟s mind, making him smile. All of a sudden, the picture of the bird appeared before his eyes, as he‟d tried to hood her. Yes, she had looked at him exactly like that old buzzard in the station wagon did right now. “No, I won‟t, sir,” he said, with his brightest and sunniest smile, jerking his head at a beefy cab driver who was approaching them, obviously steaming. He must have escaped Sean‟s attention. “I think I‟ll just walk away whistling and call the cleaning service. They‟ll be needed after that gentleman over there gets done with you.” The man cast a glance back over his shoulder, face going from red to an angry purple. “You‟re mocking me,” he choked, a slightly

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panicky edge creeping into his voice. “Norma, he‟s mocking me. That policeman….” “Shush, Elmer,” his wife chided, speaking up for the first time. She nudged her husband‟s ribs with her fleshy elbow. “You deserve no better. Stop braying, old mule, and get your ass in gear already! There‟s a skycap, you heard him, and will you fucking move the fucking car right now or I‟ll miss my flight.” When suddenly-very-subdued Elmer was well out of sight, Mark allowed himself a short laughing fit. The big cab driver frowned, and Mark saluted him, still chuckling as he joined Sean for their return to Terminal Four. The laugh was just what he‟d needed on that dismal day. Going back to normal hadn‟t been easy for him after the last few days. Mark had spent his additional day off almost entirely on falcon patrol, at first with Greg, and in the afternoon, with Hunter. That day had been perfect. True to his word, Greg had taught him how to hood a falcon (which was really not as easy as it looked, by far), and in the afternoon, it had been only him and Hunter and the falcons again. They barely touched the entire day, even when they were out alone. Hunter kept to his promise religiously, keeping Mark at arm‟s length when there was only the remotest chance they could be seen. It drove Mark crazy, while at the same time, it helped his own resolve greatly. In the evening and during half the night, though, they more than made up for it in Hunter‟s narrow bed. Mark left way past midnight, with the promise of meeting again after his shift today. He came to work after hardly enough hours of sleep. It didn‟t help that Sean met him in the locker room, a spring in his step and a goofy grin plastered firmly to his face. “Don‟t say a word. Alice‟s back,” Mark guessed. Sean‟s grin threatened to split his cheeks. “And imagine, she said yes! The new ring cost me a shitload of green, but man, it was so worth it! She wants a summer wedding, so we‟re planning for July. Consider yourself invited,” Sean gushed out, all on one breath. Mark shook his head, aiming to look sorrowful. “Now you‟re toast, man,” he said.

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Sean scowled, and Mark laughed and slapped his back. “Joking, Sean, joking! Congratulations, anyway.” He said all the right things, but his heart wasn‟t in it. As he merely went through the moves of well-wishing, he wondered why it irritated him so, the way Sean smiled and boasted about his engagement to everybody within earshot. The odd awkwardness lingered the entire day. For a while, Mark would feel at ease, even happy, his thoughts frequently going back to the previous days as he went about his duty. Then something would throw him for a loop, like seeing a man and woman embrace or hearing Sean talk about Alice once again, or even some ad poster for toothpaste picturing a couple trading kisses, and he would lapse back into his former brooding. For most of the day, Sean was too giddy to notice anything strange about Mark. But when the third funny anecdote he told during their coffee break only brought forward a grunt, not even a smile, Sean finally asked, “What‟s wrong, bud?” “Nothing,” Mark grumbled. But Sean wouldn‟t let him off, now that he smelled something in the wind. He shoved Mark‟s forearm slightly with his fist. “Don‟t give me that, buddy, I know you better than this. Something‟s off. Come on, spill. Trouble in paradise?” Mark winced involuntarily, and Sean leered, shoving him again. “Ha, I knew it! Things haven‟t looked all golden between you and the dog handler lady as of late, am I not right?” “God, Broderick, do I have to spell it out for you? We‟re friends, nothing more! Besides, there are people who actually think about other things than tits and ass all day long,” Mark snapped. He could have bitten his tongue immediately when Sean flinched back, looking hurt for a moment before his face flushed an angry red. Mark reached out across the table. “Sorry, Sean, I was way out of line there,” he tried, but Sean had already straightened up and slapped his hat back on. “Never mind. Thank you for reminding me that there‟s a time and place for everything. Besides, we‟re back on duty now.”

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With that, Sean walked stiffly over to the trash can and chucked his half-empty Styrofoam cup in. He waited, tapping his foot, until Mark joined him to resume patrol. For the rest of the day they only talked about business matters, if they talked at all. Mark didn‟t try to apologize again, and Sean didn‟t seem to expect him to. They parted ways without so much as a “goodnight.”

SHORTLY before sunset, Mark pulled the blue plastic bag with the dead doves from the freezer at the customs kennel. Evie was nowhere to be seen, for which he was oddly glad. When he drove out to the falcon station, all the falconers' cars were already parked in front of the trailer. Mark cursed under his breath. The day had left him slightly unsettled, and he‟d hoped for a short while with the birds out in the field to help him calm down. He kicked down the stand of his bike with unnecessary force, cursing again when the jerky movement threatened to topple him over with the unwieldy weight of the bag. Greg appeared in the trailer door as Mark pulled off his helmet. “Evening, Mark,” Greg called. “Get the doves into the mews for now, will you? Then come join us in here for the briefing.” Mark put the bag down on the workbench and turned, leaning his butt against the steel edge. Gripping it with both hands, he closed his eyes and rolled his head back, inhaling deeply. Wood and leather and animals, a trace of dust and ammonia, and a coppery hint of blood. The very smell that clung to Hunter‟s clothes and hair and mixed with Hunter‟s own darker scent. The birds had stirred at Mark‟s entry, but now they settled in again, disturbing the silence only with an occasional flap of wings or jingling of their bells. Mark breathed in and out, listening to the soft nightly noises of the mews. The place cloaked him in warmth and peace. He felt his unease flow off him like a chilly stream.

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After an unmeasured while, he pushed off the workbench and rolled his neck with a sigh to work the cricks out. “Better?” a most welcome voice asked softly. Mark opened his eyes, blinking to adjust. Hunter leaned against the inside of the door, arms crossed, looking on impassively. “How long have you been there?” Mark asked. “A while. Didn‟t want to disturb you,” Hunter said. He nodded at the birds. “When I‟m upset, I come here too. Being around them helps. A great deal.” “It does,” Mark admitted. He wanted to touch Hunter, lean back into the comfort of those strong arms around him. But Hunter didn‟t move. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Mark shook his head. There was nothing to talk about, actually. In fact, nothing worth being upset about. “Come on in then,” Hunter said, holding the door for Mark. As Mark passed him, Hunter‟s hand brushed the small of Mark‟s back for a second, the light touch ridiculously reassuring.

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Chapter 11

April, 1994 “HOW anyone could name that bitch „Pleasant‟ is beyond me,” Mark complained as he closed the transport box behind the very misnamed Peregrine. Hunter chuckled, folding the collapsible bird-catching net down. “That was Lucy‟s doing. It‟s supposed to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Mark took up the wooden crate, heading for the rooftop stairs. “So, is it? Didn‟t work, then.” Thanks to Walt Rawlins and his research project, all the birds wore high-end radio transmitters. Even so, it had taken Walt and his network of amateur CB operator volunteers the better part of a week to track the breakaway down after she‟d failed to return to Ruiz‟s fist following a flight. When one of Walt‟s radio buddies finally alerted the falconer team to Pleasant‟s transmitter signal, coming from the roof of a building on Central Park West, it was high time. She‟d almost lost the tail feathers on which her transmitter was mounted. Probably in a quarrel with the pair of kestrels that currently circled above them, shrieking with indignation. However, she‟d been easier to catch due to her ruffled state. With an indulgent look at the protesting locals, Hunter followed Mark to the staircase door. Walt had left ahead of them with the rest of

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their equipment and the building manager. “Let‟s wait and see. She‟s perhaps a late bloomer.” “Insh’Allah,” Mark muttered, cracking Hunter up. That deep, rich sound never failed to send a hot stab of desire through Mark‟s guts. Taking advantage of the fact that they were all alone right now, Mark stole a quick kiss. Well, he‟d intended to keep it quick, but Hunter‟s mouth was too addictive, Hunter‟s body too tempting. They were on a deserted rooftop, bathed in the warming rays of the April morning sun, far above the hustle and bustle of the city, and the cherry trees bloomed in Central Park, way, way down at their feet. What reason did they have to hurry? The kiss went on and on until Hunter finally broke it, gently pulling back. “They‟ll wonder what keeps us so long,” he said, voice husky. Mark made a protesting sound, embarrassingly close to a whine, but Hunter was right, of course. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he forced himself to turn away, reaching for the doorknob. “Sometimes I wish I could send them all to hell. Or stuff you into my pocket and run away with you to a place… shit.” He yanked the door open with more force than necessary, stomping down the stairs. Hunter caught him halfway down, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. Mark turned into a quick hug, really quick this time, because they could hear Walt talking to his CB operator friend and the building manager at the foot of the stairs. “I know, yarouhi,” Hunter breathed, kissing Mark‟s forehead, and Mark closed his eyes, giving in to the demands of reality with a quiet sigh. Half an hour later, they were back at the parking lot, standing next to Mark‟s bike. “What now?” Mark asked after Rawlins had left, taking Pleasant and the equipment back to the station. “I‟m off duty until eight tonight. We could play tourists for a couple hours. What about a walk in the park? Or we could go for a ride, pay a call on Lady Liberty, and then hang out at my place.” During the last three weeks, they‟d spent as much time with each other as they possibly could. Mark would drive out to falcon station

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after his early shift and join Hunter for afternoon patrol, or they‟d meet after a late shift for a run or a workout at the gym. True to his word, Mark showed Hunter around a bit, surprised at how much fun it turned out to be to visit the familiar landmarks together. Occasionally, they joined Evie or the other falconers for a drink, reluctant to give up parts of their precious evenings to others but following the need to keep up their disguise. But it was Mark‟s apartment that had become their haven, their private place where they could give in to desire and need without restraint. Once they had a closed door between themselves and the world, they only belonged to each other. Whether they came together slow and leisurely or hard and passionate, it was always intense, yet never enough, leaving both men still yearning for more, always more, their hunger for each other never sated. No chance this time, though. Hunter shook his head, even while Mark still spoke. “I‟m afraid I can‟t, Mark. Both Greg and Walt will leave for the Easter holidays this afternoon, and I need to be there. In fact, I‟d better return right now. The weather is good enough for early migratory birds. We‟ll be quite busy today, if it holds.” Disappointment washing through him, Mark had to struggle to keep his voice even. “It‟s my last day off! I‟ve pulled Easter duty, twelve on, twelve off, back to back. We won‟t have more than one, two hours per day in the coming week, if at all.” Nevertheless, Hunter‟s face, regretful though it was, made clear Mark‟s arguing would take him nowhere. “I‟m sorry, Mark, but I can‟t help it. We‟ll find a way to make up for it later.” “Yes, sure,” Mark muttered, fishing out his keys. Hunter took the pillion seat behind him, the closeness of his body only adding to Mark‟s ill humor. When he reached for his helmet, Hunter‟s hand on his arm stopped him. “You could come out with me anyway. Fly Iman. You two went along well last time.” Yes, they had. Hunter had made sure Mark got the concept of falconry, fast. The basics didn‟t give him any trouble anymore. His mood brightened with the prospect of working with the sharp-witted

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Saker again, who‟d turned out surprisingly sweet natured. Putting on his helmet, Mark gave a long-suffering sigh. “She‟s a poor substitute for you, you know?” he said, wiggling his backside deeper into the vee of Hunter‟s spread thighs. “Then again, I‟ll cope with small favors.” Hunter scooted closer, his helmet bumping Mark‟s. “At least I get to grope you on the ride over. Take it easy on the gas, will you?” Pulling off into the traffic, Mark sighed again, a hint of delight lightening the sound when Hunter made true on his pledge. “Small favors, indeed.”

THE long hours Mark and Sean were forced to spend together led to them making up with each other, at the very least. However, the days of their best-buds routine were definitely over. Alice seemed unwilling to share Sean‟s rare free days. Mark could even sympathize with her. In fact, he didn‟t like to share his few precious hours with Hunter, either. His streak of overtime ending the week after Easter, Mark was more than happy to resume his daily visits to Falcon Station. Even more so since his dire premonitions had come true, and he hadn‟t seen more than short glimpses of Hunter during the entire week. Hunter‟s long figure leaning against the kitchen sink immediately made his fingers itch, and given the look Hunter cast him from beneath a veil of loose strands of hair, the feeling was mutual. But Ruiz was in the office, sprawled out on the couch, talking about nightlife. With his Latin-lover handsomeness and dark-brown bedroom eyes, Ruiz was never short of willing dates. Strangely, his various girlfriends seemed to accept his kiss-and-go policy with awesome easiness. Either he was very good at picking them or managed to make his intentions very clear right from the beginning. Maybe both, Mark thought, recalling his own hook-up habits of not so long ago. “I can‟t believe it,” Mark overheard, the moment he entered. “You don‟t know who Gwen Stefani is? Gloria Estefan? Don‟t you

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ever go out?” Turning startled eyes to Mark, Ruiz repeated, “Did you hear that? Hunter has been here for half a year and never—” “Leave it, Micky,” Hunter interrupted him, casting Mark an amused glance. “I said I don‟t need that kind of entertainment.” Ruiz sat up on the couch, throwing up his hands. “But you can‟t be serious! What kind of life is this? You‟re not that old, man. That can‟t be healthy. How the hell do you think you‟ll ever get laid?” Oblivious to the exasperated looks the other two men traded, Ruiz jumped up and started to pace as he rambled on, “Lucky for you, you picked just the right person to solve your problems. Leave it to Doc Ruiz. I‟ll think of something.” “I don‟t need—” Hunter started, but Ruiz cut him short, whirling around and pointing his forefinger at Mark with a triumphant cry. “That‟s it! I haven‟t got a clue on hook-ups for gays here, but Mark, he‟s a cop, he‟d know some bars or clubs where….” Something he saw on Mark‟s face must have given Ruiz pause, for he broke off with a facepalm, eyes widening. “Oh, shit,” choked out from behind his hand. Mark stared at the young man in disbelief. Hunter‟s eyebrows shot up. Ruiz turned to Hunter, face flushed. “Please tell me he knew already. Please tell me he doesn‟t mind. You‟re together on patrol all the time, so I thought he had to—” “You want to shut up right now, Micky,” Hunter cut him off. Ruiz looked from him to Mark and back, his eyes widening even more. “Shit, I‟m so sorry,” he said. He dropped back to the couch, covering his mouth with both hands. Mark coughed. “I‟ll wait for you in the car, Hunter,” he said, turning on his heel and leaving as fast as possible without making it look like a flight. They rode for about ten minutes in silence without looking at each other. Suddenly Hunter stomped the brakes and stopped the car, right in the middle of the deserted service way. His forehead hit the steering wheel with a thump as he buried his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Mark managed to maintain a straight face for about five seconds before he lost it too, cracking up.

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Eventually, Hunter wiped his eyes, still grinning, and shook his head. “That kid,” he said. “Never misses a chance to put his foot in his mouth.” “Luckily he doesn‟t know how deep,” Mark said. Relaxing back in his seat after their laughing fit, he rolled his head sideways to face Hunter. “Or does he?” he asked, still smiling. Immediately, the spark in Hunter‟s eyes died down. Sitting up, Mark reached out. “No,” he said, “I didn‟t mean… I mean, yes, I wanted to ask if he knows, but I mean, did I give myself away somehow? I mean, did he say… shit, Hunter, I‟m sorry.” He shut his mouth. His hand, not daring to move the few inches that separated it from touching Hunter‟s face, dropped back down. Closing his eyes, Hunter hung his head for a moment and exhaled a breath. When he looked up at Mark again, his features had softened. “It‟s okay, Mark. Sometimes I forget how it must be for you. How it was for me.” He cupped Mark‟s cheek for an instant. It was more like a light slap, but a caress nevertheless. “Right now, Micky‟s most probably kicking himself for outing me to you. He was actually fretting over having ruined our friendship when I left. Expect contriteness and awkward apologies when you see him next. And you should also expect some serious homo jokes from Greg, for Micky will never be able to keep this to himself. But I assure you, none of them suspects anything about you.” He grabbed Mark by the back of his neck and shook him gently. “Relax already, okay?” He held Mark‟s gaze steadily, and Mark‟s stomach did a little lurch of relief. “Okay,” he said. With Hunter‟s face so close, it was impossible for Mark to resist kissing him. Since they hadn‟t touched in a week, the kiss became heated in no time. In the end, it was Hunter who reluctantly broke it, although his hand remained where it had been the last few minutes, in Mark‟s lap. Mark, whose hand had been busy, the same as Hunter‟s, gave a protesting moan and leaned in, only to find himself stopped by Hunter‟s fingers on his lips.

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“Your rules, yarouhi,” Hunter reminded him. Mark groaned again and gave Hunter‟s erection a last squeeze before he leaned back in his seat. “I fucking hate that you‟re right,” he said. “I know, I know.” He held up his hands in defense at Hunter‟s eye roll. “Don‟t say it. It still sucks.” “Word,” Hunter said dryly and put the car into drive. Mark leaned sideways in his seat, watching him thoughtfully. After a while, he said, “I think Micky actually did have a point. When‟s the last time you were in a club?” Hunter cast him a curious glance. “A gay club? That was—oh, I can‟t even remember. Faris wasn‟t into it, and in Kuwait… well. But I quite enjoyed it back then.” “Do you like dancing?” Mark asked. “Why not?” Hunter replied casually, but his face lit up. Mark smiled brilliantly. When Hunter stopped the car in order to fly the first bird, Mark held him back. “Hunter, wait up.” “Hm?” Mark waited until Hunter fully looked at him again. He swallowed, wondering at his sudden nervousness. “I know it‟s a bit late, and I‟d fully understand if you said no, but I‟d like us to do it from the beginning. Right, I mean. I‟ll be off duty next weekend. From Friday night, exactly. Uh, I mean, if you want.” Hunter looked at him in confusion. “Mark, what are you talking about?” Mark blinked and swallowed again. He shook his head. “Fuck. I know I‟m better than this.” Taking Hunter‟s hand, he said, “Hunter Devereaux, would you have dinner with me? Next Friday. We could go dancing afterward, if you like.” Hunter‟s eyes widened. “You‟re asking me out?” Mark nodded, grinning broadly. “Dancing?”

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Mark nodded again. Hunter‟s eyes sparkled, but then his face fell. “But what if people see us together?” Mark gave Hunter‟s hands a squeeze. “We‟ll go to a place where it won‟t matter.” “Not even to you?” “Not even to me. Stop talking around it, Hunter! Will you come with me, or am I making a complete idiot out of myself right now?” Hunter sat up very straight. With a small smile, he said, “Mark Bowman, I‟d feel honored to go to dinner and dancing with you.” “Fuck yes! Thank God.” Mark laughed, dropped Hunter‟s hands after a last squeeze, and jumped out of the car.

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Chapter 12

HUNTER came to Mark‟s place wearing his usual outfit of jeans and khaki vest, but he also carried a clothes bag. “I see you brought a suit,” Mark said, still in his underwear after his shower. “I could‟ve lent you one, you know.” The one time they‟d gone shopping together wasn‟t one of Mark‟s fondest memories, since Hunter, on top of being an impatient shopper, had horrible taste in fashion. None, actually, as far as Mark was concerned. Neither of them had wished for a repeat. Hunter grinned and placed a kiss on Mark‟s lips. “Don‟t worry, it‟s a decent one. I didn‟t pick it. Still, I‟m curious where you‟re going to take me if the place requires a suit.” Mark peered into the bag, slightly suspicious, to his relief finding fine, dark cloth. “That‟ll do,” he said, peeling the plastic away to hang the suit up. “We have reservations for eight, so you‟ve got time for a shower. Then you‟ll see.” While Hunter was in the bathroom, Mark went through his closet. It had been Harry who introduced Mark to the world of men‟s fashion. Even weak and sick, Harry had always been mindful of his appearance, and he‟d made sure Mark met his high aesthetic standards. Mark had taken to it easily enough, and Harry had left him with a small but decent selection of suits in dark colors, fine cloths, and classic cuts. He trailed his hand over the sleeve of a suit jacket, rubbing the smooth fabric between thumb and forefinger.

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Fourteen months had passed since he‟d last worn that suit. Since Nick‟s funeral. Pulling on the dress pants, Mark allowed himself a short moment of grief. There were no graves, since both men had requested anonymous cremations, and no pictures because Harry had torn up every single one after Nick‟s death. All that was left of two men‟s lives were Mark‟s memories, which would fade and disappear with him. Mark experienced a quick moment of panic as he looked at himself in the mirror, tie in hand. Then Hunter stepped behind him, in all his glorious nakedness, and Mark‟s morbid mood vanished. His chest tightened for entirely different reasons. Hunter put his hands on Mark‟s shoulders, petting the fabric appreciatively. His eyes never leaving Mark‟s in the mirror, Hunter brought his mouth to Mark‟s ear, trailing his tongue along the rim. “You look good enough to eat,” he whispered. Mark let out a deep breath and leaned back, relaxing when Hunter‟s thumbs slid into the collar of his shirt, undoing the topmost button. Hunter‟s mouth followed suit, short beard whispering along with a damp hint of tongue from the tender spot beneath Mark‟s ear to the hollow behind his collarbone and back, making Mark shiver. He turned, grabbed Hunter‟s head, and pulled him in for a quick, hard kiss. “Stop that and get dressed already, or we‟ll miss our dinner,” Mark said, voice firm despite himself. Hunter brushed the back of his hand along the fly of Mark‟s pants. “I suddenly find myself not that kind of hungry anymore,” he mused. Mark gave a long-suffering groan. He caught Hunter‟s hand, pulled it up to his mouth, and placed a kiss on the knuckles. “I‟m the one who asked you out. I should be the one who gets to do the seducing. So cut that out and get your fine ass into that suit, so I can peel you out of it later tonight.” Hunter trailed his thumb along Mark‟s lower lip. “We could skip the part in between and go right to the point where I‟m naked again, you know,” he suggested thoughtfully.

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“We could, but where‟s the fun in that?” Mark swatted Hunter‟s butt. “Dress, my noble savage. We‟ll play later.” Hunter jumped, looking back at Mark with a curious expression, but he went about following Mark‟s orders without further argument.

HUNTER looked around himself unobtrusively. “This is a nice place,” he said, unfolding his napkin to place it on his lap. Mark followed his gaze. He‟d been there with Harry and Nick shortly before Nick‟s death. The Ganymede was still the same, with its finely decked out tables, spaced wide enough to grant privacy, and its soft-footed, attentive servers. Soft jazz played discreetly in the background, and well-dressed men sat at the tables in couples or small groups, talking quietly. The clientele was exclusively male and gay. The customers paid stiff prices for the privilege of moving freely and unguarded among people like themselves. In his charcoal-gray suit and bright-pink dress shirt, Hunter fit seamlessly into the sophisticated ambience, the perfect example of a gentleman. Luckily, he didn‟t quite behave like one. They flirted openly during their entire dinner, and for once Mark didn‟t have to be shy to respond to Hunter‟s innuendos. They touched, traded looks, laughed too loud, giddy from the freedom to do so. Just being here together was wonderful, relaxing and exciting at once, and Mark felt already half drunk from the sheer joy of it. After the waiter cleared their table, Mark slid a plain white envelope across the white linen. “What‟s that?” Hunter asked, turning it between his fingers. “A reason to celebrate. Another reason for this night to be special. If you want, that is,” Mark said. Hunter raised an eyebrow and opened the envelope. Mark watched, suddenly nervous when Hunter unfolded the piece of paper.

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“My latest test result,” he said when Hunter looked up. “Got it yesterday. Since I‟ve seen yours, and since we haven‟t been with anyone except—” “Shut up, Mark,” Hunter said, reaching across the table to squeeze Mark‟s hand, his gaze hot enough to melt glass. He leaned in and said, “Did you have to tell me that here? Now I know I can finally taste you instead of rubber when I suck you off, what am I supposed to do about that here, where I still can‟t?” There was a growl in his voice that made Mark‟s mouth go dry and his pants too tight, for all their loose cut. He licked his lips, forced his eyebrows down in a scowl, playing along. “What did I tell you earlier? My call. My seduction. I said we‟re going dancing, and that‟s what‟s gonna happen now. Focus, Mr. Devereaux!” Hunter threw his head back and laughed, his wonderful, deep, infectious laugh. Immediately, Mark regretted his little game. “Your bad,” Hunter said, eyes sparkling. “Dancing it is, then. Let‟s hope my body still knows how it‟s done, given the kind of noise they call music these days.”

AFTER one look at the writhing, stomping crowd, Hunter took a deep breath and dived right in, dragging Mark along behind him. Despite his earlier misgivings, Hunter‟s body immediately fell into the groove. Mark could only marvel, mouth getting dry and heartbeat speeding, at the sight of Hunter moving gracefully with the driving rhythm of the music, face rapt with pleasure. Mark danced behind Hunter, placed both hands on the gyrating hips and pulled. Hunter‟s ass immediately pushed back against Mark‟s crotch, escalating things from rather interesting to painfully urgent. Hunter threw his head back on Mark‟s shoulder and smiled up at him. His eyelids drooped and his tongue darted across his lips in a most sensual way, making Mark growl before he leaned in for a passionate kiss right in the middle of the dance floor.

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A strange feeling of possessiveness gripped Mark as he saw others watching. He realized that his hands on Hunter‟s hips, his mouth on Hunter‟s lips, the scowls he cast anyone who dared to come close, sent a clear message. This man belongs to me. To Mark‟s amazement, Hunter went along. He turned in Mark‟s arms and leaned against him, placing both hands firmly on Mark‟s ass, and put his cheek to Mark‟s. “Let‟s get out of here,” he hissed, his tongue making love to Mark‟s ear. It was too much. Mark steered them, none too gently, to the edge of the dance floor. Hunter came willingly, his arm around Mark‟s waist. They stumbled outside into the cold, damp April night and flagged down a cab. They barely took time to give the cab driver their destination before they were all over each other again, kissing fiercely. For this once, Mark didn‟t care that people on the sidewalk looked at them, some with amusement, others in disgust, nor did he care about the feisty cab driver leering at them in the rearview mirror. He didn‟t let go of Hunter as he paid the fare and walked him up to his front door, and he didn‟t offer any resistance when Hunter leaned against his back and nuzzled his neck while he fiddled with his keys. Once inside, Mark took Hunter‟s wrist in a firm grip and dragged him along the hallway to his bedroom. There he turned and then couldn‟t avert his gaze anymore. This beautiful man who stood proud and tall had allowed Mark to claim him, had given in to him. Those eyes were gleaming with lust for him, and inside those fine pants, Hunter was hard for him. This man was his. Mark swallowed hard, overcome with awe. When Hunter started to undress, Mark stilled his hands. He had to touch. He had to take care of his man. This was precious. “Let me,” he said. With a lazy smile, Hunter dropped his arms. Mark reached around him and pulled the leather band free of his braid, raking through the strands. Hunter shook his mane free. He watched from half-closed eyes as Mark slowly, piece by piece, undressed him.

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Mark slid Hunter‟s jacket down obediently slack arms and hung it on the back of a chair. He undid the buttons of Hunter‟s shirt one by one, pulled it free of his waistband, opened the cufflinks, and placed them carefully on the dresser. The halves of Hunter‟s shirt hung open, revealing smooth, pale skin. Mark reached out, his hands trembling, his eyes wide, but he stopped just shy of contact. Hunter took Mark‟s right hand by the wrist, lifting it to his face. He pressed a kiss to the palm and placed it right above his heart. Mark could feel the rapid hammering under his fingers. Mark slid both hands beneath the open halves of Hunter‟s shirt, stroked in small circles, the pale, flushed skin hot to the touch. Hunter closed his eyes and leaned into Mark‟s hands, shivering when Mark‟s fingers found and tweaked his nipples. “Please,” he croaked. The hoarse sound broke the spell. It went right down to Mark‟s loins, stoking up the simmering heat there to bright flames, which rapidly consumed all hesitation and insecurity. He shoved Hunter back and slipped off his own jacket, dropping it to the floor, and started to work at his shirt, giving up on the buttons after the first two and just jerking it over his head in impatience. “Get naked,” he demanded, but Hunter was already scrambling across the bed for the nightstand, his trousers and shoes a tangle on the floor. Just when Hunter slammed the drawer shut again, Mark grabbed his hips and turned him over. He fell on top of Hunter, pressing him into the mattress. Their hands met, their fingers laced together, and Mark stretched Hunter‟s arms above his head. For a moment their bodies were touching head to toe, every inch of Mark‟s skin feeling Hunter‟s heat except for their faces, which were only inches apart, their gazes locked. Then Mark lunged down for a messy, wet, open-mouthed kiss, devouring half of Hunter‟s face and not caring. Hunter spread his thighs wide and wrapped his legs around Mark‟s waist, arching up with a breathless laugh which reverberated inside Mark‟s mouth. They came apart, both breathing hard. Mark pushed up on their still-laced hands and smiled down at the sparkling eyes. His head spun

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in the best possible way, and his own need pulsed alongside Hunter‟s against their bellies. Both moved at the same time, unable to wait a moment longer. Mark knelt up, reaching for the bottle of lube. Hunter bit his lips, grabbed the back of his thighs and held them up and open for Mark, hissing as Mark dribbled the cool liquid onto him. Mark pushed fingers into Hunter, groaning when the muscles finally relaxed. Hunter‟s gasp, urging him on, got through the haze of lust. Following his need and Hunter‟s unspoken demand, Mark replaced the fingers with his member, sliding in to the root in one thrust. Hunter dug his hands into Mark‟s ass, face contorting with pain and body convulsing around Mark. Still, he pulled Mark closer, deeper inside him with hands and legs, pushing out against him. Oh. Oh! No wonder people always rave about doing it bare. This couldn‟t last long. Mark wanted it to last, wanted to savor the incredible feeling of being naked inside Hunter, of being sheathed only in tight, pulsing heat, but Hunter writhed and squirmed beneath him in silent demand. The need to move became too much to bear, and soon Mark was pumping, thrusting, his moans running together until his orgasm gripped him and shook him and poured out of him right into the core of Hunter‟s body, hot and claiming and unfettered. He slumped down on the bed, gasping for air. Hunter jerked his own cock, glazed eyes firmly on Mark‟s face, mouth open. Mark rolled over, shoved Hunter‟s hand away and took over, pumping firmly. He slid two fingers of his other hand into Hunter‟s stretched opening, which was slippery with Mark‟s own seed, and thrust into him, matching the rhythm of his hands. Hunter‟s head dropped back, his hips jerking and bucking as he fucked himself up into Mark‟s fist and back on Mark‟s fingers. The red tip of his cock glistened with wetness every time it pushed through Mark‟s fist. Mark licked his lips. Slowly, unable to resist, he lowered his head. A sound started low in Hunter‟s throat, that soft keening noise Mark loved so much, but this time it didn‟t stay soft. When Mark‟s tongue, broad and wet, made contact, Hunter shot up with a yell. He

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clawed at Mark‟s shoulders with both hands, yelling again as his release spilled, thick and warm, over Mark‟s fingers and chin. Hunter‟s head dropped to the crook of Mark‟s neck. Panting breaths cooled the sweat on Mark‟s skin as Hunter‟s member softened in his grip. “I love it when you get loud,” Mark said some time later, smoothing back Hunter‟s hair to kiss his neck. “You don‟t do that very often.” “Well, no,” Hunter admitted. His lips moved against Mark‟s skin as he smiled. “I was used to having to be careful. With you, I can… I needn‟t be watchful. I‟m safe with you.” “Yes, you are.” Mark‟s response was automatic. Only one moment later he realized what had been said, and the enormity hit him like a smack to the face. Slowly, he let Hunter slide out of his arms, turning to his side, spooning them together. Gathering a fistful of hair, he brushed it forward, exposing a pale shoulder. Wrapping an arm around Hunter‟s waist, Mark scooted closer, tangling their legs together, touching as much skin as possible. “Yes, you are,” he repeated, pressing a kiss to the back of Hunter‟s neck. Hunter sighed and relaxed in Mark‟s arms as sleep gripped him. Listening to his even breaths, feeling his sleep-soft, warm body against his own, Mark realized he didn‟t want to let go of this man. Ever. Fuck damn, I guess I’m in love with him, he thought, dread tightening his chest. How the hell could I let that happen? It’s never gonna work out. We can’t be together, no way. But how the fuck do I live on without him? What am I gonna do when he leaves in the fall? Seeking the answer to that question kept him awake for most of the night.

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Chapter 13

May, 1994

THE stench hit them as soon as they entered the customs booth in the baggage hall. Sickly sweet like decaying meat, mingled with excrement and tinged with alcohol. “Holy shit,” Sean said. He covered his mouth with his hand and turned green. Mark tried to breathe through his mouth, but he couldn‟t help gagging. The foul smell emanated from a small suitcase, packed tight with toilet paper tubes, each of which contained a parrot. Most of the birds were dead, the others apparently in very bad shape. His face set into a grim mask, Hunter was carefully pulling the birds free of their tubes, one by one, handing them to the APHIS veterinarian, who separated living from dead. Her vet tech wrote down the species notifications Hunter gave. Customs officer McNally, who‟d called in the suspicious load, leaned against the baggage x-ray machine, so pale that her dark face had turned gray. “They‟ve used too much alcohol to silence them. Goddamn traffickers,” the veterinarian muttered as she threw another little carcass on the growing pile in the biohazard container. “I definitely second that,” Hunter said, handing her the next limp little feathered lump. He was speaking through clenched teeth. Mark had never heard him so furious.

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Unable to stand the misery any longer, Mark turned to busy himself with the passenger list of the Aeromexico flight the suitcase had arrived on. In the normal baggage, no less, a six-hour flight from Mexico City to New York, and God knows how long the parrots had suffered before. Whoever had put those birds in there was in for some serious trouble as far as Mark was concerned. They didn‟t have much time. The baggage claim couldn‟t be delayed forever, and they couldn‟t withhold the bird-filled suitcase if they wanted a chance at catching the smuggler in the act. Luckily, Sean had already recovered enough to take up his share of calls. After a few short words with him, Mark cleared the operation with CPD to send in a detective, while Sean organized the hook-up with the Fish and Wildlife Service Agency. “Mr. Devereaux,” Sean called from his stench-safe distance by the wall-mounted phone. “Mr. Forster from FWS needs to know which species we have here, and how many birds.” “Rhynchopsitta and Amazona, mostly. Three Ara macao chicks so far, but they‟re dead,” Hunter said absently, focused on his task. “Did you get that, sir?” Sean said into the mouthpiece, receiving what appeared to be negative squeaks. Mark saw his pained wince. “Come again, Mr. Devereaux?” Sean said. Hunter looked up long enough to cast him an annoyed look, then started to repeat, “Rhyncho—” Slightly alarmed, Mark noticed the sneer forming on Sean‟s face. He took the three steps which separated him from Hunter and gave him a slight nudge. “English, please,” he urged quietly. Hunter cast him a bewildered glance, then a small, rueful smile. Turning to Sean, he said, “Sorry, Officer Broderick. Thick-billed parrot, red-crowned Amazon, scarlet macaw. Eight alive, thirty-six dead, and another sixteen to go.” Sean snorted but conveyed the information to his dialog partner without further comment, ending the call after some more affirmative noises. “FWS are on their way,” he said. “Mark?” “Detective Katz will meet with us at the baggage carousel. We‟re good to go.”

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“Doc?” “I‟m done here. What a goddamn shame. I‟m surprised some of the birds actually survived. Gotta run and look after the poor things.” “Right,” Sean said, taking charge. “Officer McNally, baggage cleared. Make sure our suitcase goes late, but not last. Doc, stay close to a radio. We‟re gonna want to take your statement later. Mark, move it. Let‟s go!” Not deigning to give Hunter so much as a parting nod, Sean swept out of the baggage hall. Mark exchanged a short glance with Hunter before following. Despite everything, the corners of Hunter‟s mouth twitched up to a short smile. “See you,” he mouthed. Mark felt his lips curl in response. He turned away before the smile could sneak out on him and hurried after Sean.

THE operation went down smoothly, right by the book. The moment the bird smuggler took hold of the suitcase, plainclothes Detective Katz stepped up, grabbed his arm, and declared him arrested. Of course the smuggler tried to bolt, only to run headfirst into the blue-uniformed wall that was Sean and Mark. He resigned himself to his fate on the spot. While Sean handcuffed him, Mark seized the now-empty suitcase as evidence. Sean also took on the task of driving the detective and his charge to headquarters, while Mark escorted Forster back to the baggage hall. The FWS agent wanted to speak to McNally first before proceeding to the Animal Import Center at Newburgh. They found McNally outside the open gate in the smoker‟s spot, with Hunter. McNally‟s coloring was back to normal, her eyes sparkling as she talked, gesturing wildly with one of Hunter‟s handrolleds. At the sight of Forster and Mark, McNally flinched and hastily stubbed out her cigarette.

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Mark gave her a small, reassuring smile before he turned to his companion. “Agent Forster, these are Customs Officer McNally, who reported the case, and Mr. Devereaux, ornithologist.” Forster spared hardly a glance for McNally. His face lit up the moment Mark said Hunter‟s name, and the FWS agent proffered his hand. “Devereaux? Hunter Devereaux? It was you who ran the determination? My, it‟s an honor to meet you, sir.” “The pleasure is all mine,” Hunter responded politely, stubbing out his own cigarette and taking hold of the agent‟s hand. Forster immediately engaged Hunter in a conversation, leaving McNally with Mark. The customs officer studied the pattern of cigarette butts on the ground. She was pretty, with her tight cornrows peeking out from under her hat, and she looked very young. Mark took pity on her bashful fidgeting. “Good job, Officer McNally. This wasn‟t pretty, was it?” he said. She looked up, surprised. “Thank you, Officer Bowman. Never saw something like this before. And that awful stench. Fucking assholes who stuffed those poor things in there deserve their sorry asses stuck into a sewer drain and left there to rot. Out in the sun with the whole city having the shits upstream.” She winced, her cheeks darkening a shade in what had to be a blush. “Pardon my French.” Mark had to fight a grin. “Couldn‟t have said it better,” he assured her. “A dreadful experience, for sure, but you seem to be over it now. The cigarette helped, didn‟t it?” This time when she glanced up at him, her smile was almost impish. She was cute—and she knew it. Mark found himself beginning to like her. “It did, thank you. I don‟t smoke very often, but today I needed it. I was real glad Mr. Devereaux had some.” She heaved a breath. “Although it‟d be nice if you wouldn‟t mention me smoking on duty.” Mark didn‟t bother to hide his amusement any more. He could very well picture Hunter unable to resist soothing the devastated young woman. She didn‟t need to know Mark‟s smile was not all for her sake. “I won‟t, Officer McNally. Special circumstances and all that.”

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Returning his grin openly, she said, “Thank you, Officer Bowman. Appreciate it.” She cocked her head. “I never got round to apologizing to you. You know, for missing that knife the other day.” Mark shrugged. “Not necessary. Mistakes happen to everyone.” “But—” she began, cutting herself off immediately when he raised an eyebrow at her. “Thank you. It‟s awfully nice of you to put it that way. Still, I feel like….” She took a breath. “Look, if you like, my friend Susan and I are gonna shoot some pool tonight. I asked Mr. Devereaux if he‟d like to come, and he said he would. I mean, wouldn‟t it be nice if you joined us too?” she blurted, blushing again. Mark blinked, momentarily at a loss for words, and her eager smile faltered. Mark had to say something fast. He cleared his throat. “Well, that‟s short notice. Tonight?” Sure, Hunter and he hadn‟t yet made plans for the evening. But McNally‟s offer came out of the blue, and he didn‟t know what to make of it. Before today, he hadn‟t exchanged more than a few words with her. Was she trying to hit on him? “Just some after-duty chill out,” she said, still looking at him hopefully. “Susan and I were going anyway, so…,” she trailed off. “Unless you‟ve got other plans, of course. It‟s no big deal, really.” But her expression belied her words, disappointment gradually drowning anticipation. When had this conversation stopped being a heads-up between colleagues and become a courtship dance? Mark cleared his throat again, seeking the right answer. Then she turned away from him as Hunter and Agent Forster approached them again, and Mark felt a malicious kind of amusement bubbling up inside him. The look McNally gave Hunter spoke volumes. “Tonight sounds good to me,” he said. McNally beamed. “It‟s O‟Reilly‟s on thirty-sixth. Say, eight?” A few minutes later, while Agent Forster was taking McNally‟s statement, Mark pulled Hunter aside. “So we‟re gonna play pool tonight?” he asked.

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Hunter shrugged. “She asked me if I wanted to come with her and her friend. I said I‟d think about it. Wanted to check with you first. What do you say?” Mark felt a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “You‟ve really let yourself in for it there,” he said. At Hunter‟s puzzled look, he jerked his head at McNally. “Didn‟t you see the dove eyes she made at you? That poor girl thinks she‟s lured you into a date with her, I bet. Good luck getting yourself out of that gracefully.” Hunter‟s eyebrows shot up. “What?” Mark laughed. Hunter looked at him for a moment, then smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I walked into that, didn‟t I? Honestly, I didn‟t think anything about it when she asked me. I‟m not accustomed to that kind of thing anymore, or so it seems, particularly when it comes to women. What now?” “We go, of course. It‟d be rude to turn her down, now that I‟ve said I‟d come, too. Besides, your social skills are badly in need of more training, don‟t you think?” “Yes, I recall someone promised me some teaching. Seems I‟ve been a poor student so far. Or maybe it‟s my teacher‟s fault? Should I look for another?” His grin was mischievous. Mark would have loved nothing better than wiping it away with a kiss. He settled for punching Hunter‟s shoulder lightly instead. “No way!” Hunter caught Mark‟s fist, presumably to shove him in turn, but he held onto it for a moment. “Won‟t,” he said with a firm squeeze of Mark‟s hand. Mark had to force himself to look away.

FOR the rest of the day, Sean and Mark worked separately at wrapping up the case. Although they talked several times on the radio or telephone, they only met again shortly before the end of their shift. Mark had just about finished his paperwork when Sean walked in and

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flopped down into the chair opposite their desk in the airport post, wearing a smug grin. “You know what?” he started without preliminary. “That small fish today might help us catch the big sharks for once. Like as not there‟s a collar in it for you and me. Nice, huh?” “How so?” Mark asked. Sean folded his hands behind his head and stretched comfortably, grinning even broader. “After Katz came clear with him, that guy almost crapped his pants. Seems he didn‟t even know that he had endangered species in his suitcase, thought we‟d let him off with a slap on the wrist. He started to sing like one of his birdies when he learned he was facing time inside. Right now Katz and Forster are busy preparing the bust of an entire ring of parrot traffickers FWS has been after for months now.” “Strike!” Mark high-fived Sean. “That‟s great. Good thing Hunter was there to identify the birds.” Sean‟s smile gave way to a slight frown. “I hate that you‟re right, but he helped a lot, actually. But fuck, what an arrogant bastard! Are you still at that falcon patrol thing you told me about? How can you stand that prick for any length of time?” Sean‟s words cut deep. Mark almost flinched at the strong urge to defend Hunter. He had to force a casual tone, but couldn‟t suppress a frown of his own. “Don‟t talk about him like that. He‟s a decent guy.” “That‟s what you say. There‟s still something shady about him, take it from me. Seems to me you‟d better not bend over around him, if you know what I mean.” Something shady, indeed. How dare you judge him? Damn your homophobic ass, Sean. You know fuck all about him. Fuck damn, it’s not fair that I can’t even shut you up. “Leave him alone, Sean! He did a good job today. Shouldn‟t that be enough?” Mark hadn‟t noticed he‟d clenched his fists. He leaned back in his chair, willing himself to meet Sean‟s narrow-eyed stare evenly.

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“You talk like the sun shines from his ass. What do you have with him?” Mark forced himself to remain calm. “Nothing, you guttermouth. I just think those falconers do a heck of a job here, and I won‟t have anyone busting on them, not even you.” Sean gave him a curious look, but when he spoke, his tone was different, mocking, but without malice. “Is that so? Strange hobbies you have, Officer Bowman. First dogs, now birds. What‟s next? No wonder you don‟t have time for a girlfriend.” Relieved, Mark gave him a wink. “We can‟t all be dumbass lovesick Irishmen.” Snorting a laugh, Sean reached across the desk to clap Mark‟s shoulder. “That‟s right, bud.” He sat back. “Reminds me, Alice is at her mother‟s tonight. Thought I‟d go for a beer or two. You game?” “I can‟t. I‟ve already made other plans.” Sean‟s eyes narrowed again. “With that friend of yours?” But there was only the slightest hint of venom in his voice, and Mark decided to let it pass. “Not as if it was any of your business, but yes. And with McNally and her friend.” “McNally? Isn‟t that the sweet little thing from customs?” At Mark‟s terse nod, Sean clapped his hands, leering. “Didn‟t think I‟d live through that day… Bowman‟s gotten himself a decent date! Well, make sure you get lucky, then. You‟ve been much too uptight lately.” Standing, Mark grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “You‟re so full of it. Nothing of the kind.” Sean grinned up at him. “I hear you, buddy.”

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Chapter 14

LEANING on his cue, sipping a Coke, Mark realized that the evening had turned out better than expected. Hunter had to be the worst pool player ever. For all his usual grace, he handled the cue like a battering ram, almost tearing the felt with every strike. Mark tried to get him to use less force, resulting in Hunter holding the cue like a china cup, with his little finger raised and scratching the balls rather than striking them. Susan, McNally‟s friend, was a tall, curvy woman who wore her golden-brown hair in an immaculate “Rachel ‟Do.” She had the face of an angel and the wit of a guttersnipe. Her wicked remarks at Hunter‟s fruitless efforts had them all laughing out loud more than once. The fact that Hunter laughed along with them turned what could have been frustrating into actual fun. Eventually, Susan seized the cue from Hunter‟s hands. Still laughing, the three of them joined Mark at the bar, Hunter next to him, the women paired up at Hunter‟s other side. For a while, they made small talk. As usual, Mark didn‟t contribute much, mostly contenting himself with listening. Now he watched with silent amusement how Susan and McNally (Tess, he reminded himself) steered Hunter subtly toward the one question they were interested in. Finally, with an air of complete innocence, Susan asked, “Do you have a girlfriend, Hunter?”

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Although caught unawares, Hunter recovered remarkably fast. “Well, actually, no.” Noticing the hopeful look in Tess‟s eyes, Mark turned and reached for his glass in order to hide his smile. Hunter continued, “He‟d rather I called him my boyfriend, I guess.” Mark's arm swerved with an uncontrollable whole-body flinch. The back of his hand hit his glass and would've sent it flying behind the bar if Hunter hadn't caught it, even managing to prevent most of the Coke from spilling. “You okay, Mark?” he asked innocently. The glare Mark shot him spelled trouble. Hunter gave him a sweet smile and a wink. “Told you so,” he mouthed, handing Mark the rescued drink. Mark snorted before gulping down half of the liquid in one go. For once at a loss for words, Susan blinked at Hunter. Then she chuckled, shaking her head. “Shit. Well, what about you, Mark?” Busying himself with a handful of napkins and the puddle of Coke on the bar, Mark gave a noncommittal grunt while his mind feverishly sought an answer. He was spared it by Tess, who leaned in to whisper in her friend‟s ear. Susan‟s eyes went big and round. She stared at her friend in disbelief before smacking Tess‟s thigh with the back of her hand. “Bitch,” Susan exclaimed. “One gay and one taken. What kind of a friend are you?” She cast a halfway apologizing look in Hunter‟s and Mark‟s general direction. “Sorry, I just realized I‟m not getting laid tonight. No offense.” “None taken,” Hunter replied casually. Mark downed the rest of his Coke, suddenly feeling parched. This couldn‟t have just happened, could it? Tess had her mouth covered with both hands. Susan glared at everyone. Hunter was looking from one to the other, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

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Then Hunter threw his head back and laughed. Nobody could resist Hunter laughing. Susan smacked her forehead with her hand and cracked up too, and Tess followed a moment later with a nervous giggle. Mark tried to keep up his scowl, but eventually the absurdity of the situation hit him full force, and he couldn‟t help joining in their hilarity. They ended up holding on to each other, everybody gasping and weak from laughing so hard. After they‟d recovered enough, they started another game. Although Mark readily joined in, he felt a lingering bewilderment about how easily Hunter had come out to Tess and Susan. He was even more thrown at how readily the two women accepted Hunter‟s revelation. It seemed no big deal for them. He wondered whether he would ever be able to be as open as Hunter. Or if he wanted to, in the first place. True to his promise, Hunter hadn‟t given Mark away, and he didn‟t give the slightest hint he and Mark were anything else but friends. But he behaved differently now. Although he was still far from flaming, his movements were less guarded, his gestures livelier. He even swayed his hips and hummed along with All-4-One‟s “I Swear,” making the women snicker and Mark roll his eyes. The women, on the other hand, were much less shy, touching Hunter like they constantly touched each other, a hand on the forearm here, a slight half hug there. It was unnerving. Mark had never before consciously watched the interactions between straight women and a man they knew and accepted as gay. He wasn‟t sure he‟d be comfortable with women treating him as if he was some strange kind of woman himself. It hit him then that he and Evie interacted in a quite similar way, only that he usually treated Evie as if she was an honorary guy. The only time he‟d behaved differently, the day he took her to dinner, had led to that kiss, and to a lingering awkwardness they‟d only recently managed to overcome. Thinking of Evie led to wondering what Tess might have whispered into Susan‟s ear. Before, Mark had been much too perplexed about Hunter to remember it. But now he realized that Sean‟s gossiping must have spread farther than Mark would have preferred.

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The thought startled him enough to make him fumble his next stroke. Missing the intended ball by several inches, the cue ball lurched feebly about the green, bounced off the cushion, and finally settled into the perfect position for Tess‟s next stroke, allowing her to sink five of her striped balls in a row. “Yes!” she called out, jumping up for a high-five with Hunter. Susan cursed and threw her cue across the table. She nudged Mark with her elbow. “Come on, Mark, that calls for a drink,” she said, dragging him back to the bar. "Have a beer. My call." Why not, he thought. One beer can’t hurt. Maybe it’ll help me relax. Sitting at the bar, Mark watched Hunter and Tess play. The sight stirred an uneasy feeling he wasn‟t quite able to place. Something between embarrassment and irritation, maybe. “He‟s actually quite obvious if you know what to look for, don‟t you think?” Susan remarked, following Mark‟s gaze. Mark gave a noncommittal grunt. Why were women always so keen on discussing gay men? But Susan didn‟t seem to get the message. Perhaps the white wine she drank emboldened her, or perhaps she was only attempting small talk. “I understand you two are friends. Doesn‟t it bother you that Hunter‟s gay? Did you even know?” Attempting to hide his growing irritation, Mark shrugged. “No big deal,” he said. She gave him a huge grin and raised her glass in a salute. “I like open-minded men.” Inching closer, she batted her eyelashes at him. “So, exactly how open-minded are you? Up for a little… adult fooling around?” He gave her a mock glare. “No chance, baby. I‟m taken.” She sighed theatrically. “A faithful one. Woe to me! Too late once again.” But the smile that accompanied her words was just a little lewd, and she didn‟t back away from Mark‟s personal space she‟d inched into. He couldn‟t help a little thrill at her antics. So, flirting it was. He could do that. Nothing wrong with it.

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Returning her salute, he said, “I‟d say, just wait and see what the evening brings next.” He drained his glass, and she chuckled. “A girl can always hope.” “Ahead you go. Next one‟s on me.” One beer became two, then three. Mark felt good. He felt great, in fact. It had been a long time since he‟d drunk that much, and now he couldn‟t even recall why he usually didn‟t. He was witty. And Susan was nice, laughing at his jokes, and she was really a beautiful woman. As they talked, a small but firm hand stole onto Mark‟s thigh. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to cover that hand with his own, to guide it further up, to turn to the warm body next to his, to try for a taste of skin. It took his beer-soaked mind a few minutes to notice that something was wrong here. There was something soft pressing against his chest that didn‟t belong there, and the skin his lips touched was much too smooth. The scent was wrong too, sweet and flowery instead of dark and musky. This wasn‟t what he wanted. Or was it? Did he even care? His searching mouth met another set of lips, which was soft and yielding and opened to his tongue. Tasted wrong, too. Much too sweet. Not right. Not good enough to make him hard. He was gripped at the shoulders and pulled back, and a firm, slender body came up against his other side. A deep voice rumbled next to his ear. Mark turned his head and sniffed. Oh yeah, that was the real deal. He nuzzled his face into the delightfully rough neck that smelled so good, like wood and leather, enjoying the brush of a soft beard against his ear. Strong hands caught him under his armpits and hauled him upright. “Mark,” Hunter‟s voice said, louder now. “Mark! You‟re drunk. Come on, I‟ll take you home.” Mark laughed, squinting at Hunter. His neck seemed to have turned to jelly, because it was unable to hold up his head. Or maybe his head was so heavy? “‟M not drunk,” he said, tongue oddly uncooperative. “‟M pissed. Piss-drunk. Pissed off. You‟re a jerk, Hunter.” He dropped his head

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back to its fragrant rest. Mmh, Hunter. Love his scent. Love his taste. His hands started to wander but were caught immediately. “Don‟t, Mark,” Hunter hissed into his ear. “Not here.” Why the hell not, now? Mark thought, and then finally the light dawned, sobering him a bit. “Oh, okay,” he said, making a serious attempt at sitting up straight. Straight. The pun made him giggle. “I‟m straight again,” he said, swaying, then toppled over backward, falling against Susan. She caught him in her arms, her full breasts pressing into his back. “No, you‟re bent,” she said. “‟M not,” Mark protested. “Hunter is. ‟M not.” He leaned his head back against her shoulder, grinning up at her. She shuddered and squeaked. “That tickles!” With an indulgent headshake, Hunter grabbed Mark‟s upper arms again and pulled him upright. “Yes, whatever. Come, you‟ve had enough.” “Who‟re you to get to say that?” Mark drawled, suddenly annoyed at Hunter‟s safeguarding act. “A good enough friend that I know to tell,” Hunter answered, still patiently. “Get moving now. Time to go.” Hunter put his arms around Mark‟s shoulders to steady him. Mark shoved him away, glaring. “No! I like it here.” Hunter wrinkled his brow, then shrugged. “Okay. Stay, then. But no way in hell are you riding home. I‟ll take your keys.” Susan cackled behind them as Hunter reached for the key ring pendant which dangled from Mark‟s jeans pocket. Very much aware of her and Tess watching them, Mark jerked away so violently he almost keeled over. He struck at Hunter‟s hand. “Hands off, fag!” Hunter‟s face went pale. Mark could see his jaw clenching, his throat working, as he swallowed hard. It scared Mark, although he couldn‟t quite remember why it should. On the other hand, seeing Hunter losing his serenity made Mark feel oddly satisfied.

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For an endless moment, Hunter stared at him. Then a small muscle in his jaw started to twitch. Mark felt a chill rising from his hands up his arms, spreading through his chest. He opened and closed his fists at his sides. Still, he lifted his chin and continued to sulk. Not his fault. Just like that, Hunter turned and walked away. Mark‟s mouth fell open, and his heart skipped a beat. His hand reached out all on its own. “Hunter…,” he croaked. But Hunter didn‟t react. He wound his way through the tables without looking back, opened the door and was gone. The chill settled down into Mark‟s stomach. His comfortable buzz vanished into nothingness, leaving him startled. He took a few steps after Hunter, but a touch on his arm stopped him. Whirling around, he came face to face with Susan‟s mocking smirk. “Not that open-minded after all, are you?” she laughed. Tess stood next to her, dumbstruck, looking between Mark and the exit door. Susan tugged at Mark‟s sleeve. “Good riddance, I‟d say. Come on, handsome, the three of us can have some fun now.” Mark jerked free of her grip and pulled out his wallet. As he slapped a twenty on the counter, Susan pouted and reached for him again. “Leave him be, Mark. He‟ll come around. Hell, the likes of him ought to be used to worse.” He flinched away, glaring at her. “Lay the fuck off!” Tess made a startled little noise, covering her mouth with her hands once more, and Susan‟s eyes widened. “Oh, now I see. It‟s not Evie, but Stevie, isn‟t it?” Mark should have frozen in shock. He should have denied it and made sure he pulled his cover back up. Instead all he could think of was Hunter‟s face, closing like a fist. Susan gloated, but Mark discovered, absentmindedly, he didn‟t care. Hunter. God, what have I just done? Like an evil genie, Susan‟s howling laughter chased him out.

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THE cold air outside hit him across the head like a club, sobering him enough to clear his blurry eyesight. He looked left and right, weakkneed from relief when he spotted Hunter‟s tall frame, only a few dozen yards away, on the sparsely populated sidewalk. “Hunter!” Mark‟s legs felt funny. It didn‟t matter. He stumbled and swayed as he ran, bumping into strangers. “Hunter, wait!” Hunter didn‟t react, didn‟t slow down, but didn‟t walk faster either, his shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. Mark lurched to a stop behind him and grabbed his shoulder. “Hunter, damn! I‟m sorry.” Hunter shrugged Mark‟s hand off and kept walking. “Fuck!” Mark jerked him around by the arm but stumbled back from the fury and pain Hunter‟s glare pierced him with. Still, he held fast to the limb he‟d caught, knowing without a doubt that if he let go, Hunter would vanish, disappear into thin air right in front of his eyes. Like a predator's claw, Hunter's hand clamped down on Mark‟s wrist. “Lay off!” No way. Mark tightened his grip, tried to pull Hunter closer, reaching out for him with his other hand, too. “Fuck damn, Hunter, listen to me! I‟m sorry, I didn‟t mean it. I don‟t know why I said it, but I didn‟t—” “Get your fucking hands off me!” Hunter shouted, shoving Mark back. “Only if you‟ll listen to me!” Mark shouted back. There was a short squabble, then Mark had both his hands firmly around Hunter‟s upper arms. Hunter pushed at him, but Mark held on tight, just shy of shaking him. “Let go, or you‟ll have a public scene!” Hunter hissed. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw people giving them strange looks and a wide berth. This was cop district. Sean‟s favorite watering hole was right around the corner. Hunter pushed him again, and Mark dug his fingers in. “Fuck that! Damn, Hunter, do I have to beg?”

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The taut muscles under Mark‟s hands relaxed as the fight left Hunter‟s body. With the sudden lack of resistance, Mark fell against Hunter, steadying himself with his grip on Hunter‟s arms. Hands on his waist helped him stay upright, pushed him back, but almost gently. “Would make a nice difference,” Hunter said. Mark loosened his grip but left his hands where they were, just in case. “Hunter, please, would you listen to me?” he said, searching Hunter‟s eyes with his own, relieved beyond relief when their gazes met and held and Hunter nodded. In mutual silent agreement, they walked along the street, close but not touching. Mark stopped in front of an all-night café. “I‟m still rather drunk,” he said. “Would you come in with me, for coffee?” They sat across from each other, Mark clutching a mug of plain black, Hunter looking down at his hands, which he‟d folded on the empty table in front of him. Mark cleared his throat. “Earlier, when you came out to Tess and Susan so easily, I was like… I don‟t know. Stunned. Shell-shocked.” “You were pissed,” Hunter said to his hands. “No!” Mark said quickly, too quickly. Hunter shot him a glance that made him wince, and he continued hastily, fishing for the right words. “Yes, I was, but not at you. Look, you were so matter-of-fact, and they simply accepted it. Like… just like that. It was so easy for you. And I was like… I wouldn‟t want to be like this, even if I could, that‟s not what I am, but if I wanted, I just can‟t…,” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I suck at that kind of thing,” he said. Hunter looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching down. “Oh, I think I get it. You, the tough, straight cop, can‟t be seen on too familiar terms with a fairy.” “You‟re not—” Mark started to protest, but Hunter talked right over him, his voice eerily calm. “You heard them speculate in their heads: What about him? Would he really go out with a homo if he was straight? You had to duck for cover as fast and as deep as possible, and that‟s why you took

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up with Susan. I get that, and I don‟t blame you for that. I even get why you had to kiss her, although I didn‟t like it. But when you—” “It wasn‟t as if—” Mark started to say, but caught himself immediately. He lowered his eyes to escape the pity he saw in Hunter‟s eyes. “Yes, I kissed her,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But when I did, I realized it felt so, so wrong. When you came up to me, you were… what I wanted. What I‟d wanted all along. It… scared me, I think. I didn‟t mean to hurt you, I never… I think I just… freaked. That's no excuse, I know, but... God, Hunter, I'm so sorry, I really am.” Silence followed his words. It lasted until Mark couldn‟t stand it anymore and lifted his head. Hunter was studying him. The pity had given way to a sadness so deep it made Mark‟s chest hurt. “You think that'll do? You apologize, I forgive you, and we continue where we left off? Just like that? I don't think so, Mark. You know as well as I do that such a thing can happen again anytime and most likely will happen, too. I‟m not sure anymore how much more of this I can take,” Hunter said, his voice thick with emotion. Mark wanted to say something, but Hunter raised his hand, stopping him. “No. I‟m not done yet. Believe me, I know what it means, being forced to wear a mask all the time. I‟ve done that for eight years of my life myself, until I came to realize that there was nothing left of me but the mask. Inside, I was dead. I found that nothing and no one could be worth that price. I'll never again deny who and what I am, for anybody. So that‟s where I am now.” Mark stared at him in disbelief. “This is the choice you want me to make? Come out, or it‟s over?” Even while Mark spoke, Hunter started to shake his head. “You‟re not listening to what I say, Mark. I said I know why you can‟t be out, and you can trust me on that. I don‟t need us to walk around holding hands or kiss in front of everybody. But closeted is one thing. Being ashamed of what you are is something else entirely. You‟re deceiving yourself, to a point where you won‟t be yourself anymore. It‟s going to kill you slowly, and it‟s going to kill me all over again, with you.”

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“I‟m not ashamed!” Mark snapped, too upset and confused to keep the anger at bay. “But I‟m a cop, Hunter, don‟t you get it? I can‟t afford to raise suspicion. Why can‟t we just go on like we did until now? We were good together, weren‟t we? We‟re friends, after all.” There was a decidedly defiant note in his voice, which he didn‟t like but yet couldn‟t help. Obviously, he was still drunk, despite the coffee. The sadness was still in Hunter‟s eyes. “Are we, Mark? If someone, let‟s say Officer Broderick, asked you if you were friends with the gay bird slinger, would you admit it?” Mark stared at him. Several times over he opened his mouth to say something but closed it again when no words would come out. Mercilessly, Hunter went on. “Can you even say it, Mark? Look at me, look me in the eyes and tell me what I am to you. What we are. Come on.” “You‟re…. We‟re—” Mark began, but broke off. Licking his lips, he cast a nervous glance around. The café wasn‟t full, by far, but the booths were squeezed together, and a handful of other patrons were well within earshot. Turning back, Mark saw Hunter standing, his face unreadable once more. “Make up your mind, Mark,” he said. “I‟ll be there. Come back to me when you‟re ready or leave me alone, but mean it this time. It‟s all up to you, now.” A cold fist grabbed hold of Mark‟s heart. He reached out, but his hand fell short. Hunter covered Mark‟s hand with his own for a moment, leaning in. “I‟d do almost everything for you. I don‟t want to lose you,” he said, his voice so low Mark could barely hear his words. “But I can‟t lose my soul. Not again.” Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, Hunter left. The door swung shut behind him. His stomach in knots, Mark saw Hunter pass by the cafe‟s window without looking back. The narrow back in the khaki jacket merged with the night crowd. When the heaves gripped him, Mark barely made it to the men‟s room. He dropped to his knees on the less-than-clean tiles and threw up

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until there was nothing left in his stomach, sobbing helplessly through his retching and gagging. Mark knew he was in no way fit to ride but did it anyway, managing to get home without being stopped for DUI by sheer luck. Normally, what sufficed to get him drunk was never enough to give him a hangover. Unfortunately, it wasn‟t enough for the mercy of a blackout, either.

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Chapter 15

MARK woke to a foul taste in his mouth, the memory of the previous evening painfully vivid in his mind. His first thought was talking to Hunter, making things up with him now that they‟d both had time to calm down. He squinted at his bedside clock. Past eight, falcon patrol had to be out by now. He tried to call Falcon Station anyway, uttering a curse when nobody answered the phone. After taking a shower and dressing, he tried again with the same result. He thought about driving by Hunter‟s usual route along Duck Creek Marsh, but he was running late for work already. Cursing some more, he headed out. Sean‟s mocking nosiness about the outcome of Mark‟s “date” was the last thing Mark needed in his current state of upset. Barely keeping his temper, he tried to put his partner off by grunting monosyllabic responses. But Sean was so used to Mark being buttoned about the topic that he kept needling him until by mid-shift Mark was about to lose it, right in the middle of International Arrivals. Just at that moment, McNally would have to chance along behind the customs counter. “Look who‟s there,” Sean said, loud enough for her to overhear. She turned, scowled at Mark, and immediately disappeared into the mail room. Sean looked after her, then at Mark‟s gloomy face, and smirked.

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“Oh, that‟s it now!” he said, barely hiding the glee. “She‟s sent you packing! No wonder you act like someone pissed in your cereal today.” Mark grabbed his belt with both fists to keep himself from lashing out at Sean. “Just shut it,” he managed between clenched teeth. “Tough shit, buddy.” Sean shook his head in mock compassion and put a hand on Mark‟s shoulder. Mark flinched away, feeling his self-control precariously slipping. “Gotta take a leak,” he murmured and hurried away without so much as a look back at Sean. In the men‟s room, he grabbed the rim of the sink with both fists, hung his head, and breathed, wondering what was wrong with him. Damn him for letting Hunter get under his skin that way. Another such stunt, and he‟d be turning into a pansy over that man, for sure. Why then would the lump in his throat refuse to go away, no matter how hard he swallowed? His radio crackled into his pondering. Sean‟s voice came through in a low and strained whisper, “Ten-thirty-five to all, eight-twentyseven at Ultra Diamonds, Terminal 4. Eight-fourteen, eight-fourteen.” Crime in progress, backup requested. Shit, Sean was all alone out there. With a start, Mark headed for the door, reaching for the call button of his radio, when it suddenly became loud outside, with screams and running footfalls, and Sean‟s voice came over the device, louder now, “Eight-eleven! He‟s got a gun! All take cover, now!” Mark threw open the restroom door and ran through the small alley toward the main lobby. He hugged the wall of the “Time To Fly” store, gun drawn, and darted his head around the corner, jerking back immediately. The short glance had been enough to take in the scene. Left side turned to Mark, a man stood half in, half outside the door of the jewelry store, a scared-stiff woman pressed to his chest with his left arm around her neck, pointing a gun at Sean with his outstretched right arm. The man was yelling at Sean to, “Drop it, drop it!” and Sean, his own gun aimed at the perpetrator, was shouting the same. All around them, people screamed and yelled, running around and diving for shelter or throwing themselves to the floor. Sean‟s radio was in voiceactivated mode, enabling Mark to follow the events without watching

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them. Suddenly the kidnapper barked, “Drop it right now or I‟ll kill her,” and Sean said, “Okay, okay, look, don‟t hurt her, calm down….” Time to get going. Silencing his own radio, Mark ducked out of his shelter and ran the few steps to the next cover in a deep crouch. He hid behind a garbage can, service weapon at the ready, all of six feet behind, but unfortunately slightly within the left field of vision of the man who now pressed the gun to his hostage‟s head. The kidnapper raged on while Sean held up his hands in defeat, slowly bending down to put his weapon on the floor. As quietly as possible, Mark put his gun away in order to have both hands free. A trembling woman who was lying flat on her stomach next to Mark stared at him with panicked eyes, sucking in a breath. He made small, frantic “shush” gestures at her, but she wailed anyway, covering her head with her hands. The kidnapper flinched and pivoted at the same time Mark jumped him. Several things happened at once: Mark caught the man‟s weapon arm, jerking it upward, twisting his wrist. The hostage screamed and dropped to the floor. A shot rang out. The kidnapper‟s gun clattered to the ground. Sean dashed against the man‟s legs, throwing him down, slamming his knee into the man‟s back and handcuffing him. Just as backup stormed in, Sean jerked the perpetrator to his feet. Mark knelt on the floor, arms around the whimpering hostage, who clutched the elbow she‟d hurt in her fall. He murmured soothing nonsense, and she sobbed her eyes out on his shoulder, hysterical and inconsolable. At least the bullet hadn‟t hit her, thank God. Later, an officer plucked it from the concrete of the stairs to the terminal‟s upper floor. An EMT unit with a gurney wheeled the woman away. Sean handed over the perpetrator and the man‟s weapon to a transfer unit to get him into custody. Other PAPD officers took care of the panicked passengers, with Mark and Sean joining them. It took about an hour to restore order, and another two until Sean and Mark had a moment of privacy.

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Sean rushed Mark through a “staff only” steel door. It had barely closed behind them when Sean fisted Mark‟s uniform blouse and backed him against the wall. “What the fuck took you so long?” he shouted into Mark‟s face. “That fucker could‟ve shot my ass off!” He shoved with both fists, his face red and blotchy. Mark grabbed Sean‟s wrists but otherwise didn‟t fight back. In Sean‟s place, he‟d be upset too, and he figured there was still a lot of adrenaline coursing through Sean‟s system from the way he felt it himself. “Calm down, Sean. I‟m sorry, okay? I came as fast as I could. Actually, wasn‟t it better I wasn‟t with you in the first place? Perhaps he‟d have shot earlier.” Sean scowled, shoving Mark again for good measure. “About that—why didn‟t you shoot that fucker when you could? Jumping him like that was risky, you moron! Not to mention the bullet that went flying. I dread to think what woulda happened if it had hit someone.” Mark had decided against shooting the guy from fear of hurting the hostage, and he told Sean so. Yet, in hindsight, he realized he‟d chosen badly, putting Sean, the hostage, and several dozen passersby in jeopardy in an unaccountable way. It made him cringe. “I see,” Sean said slowly, after Mark had ended. He was still frowning but at least had let go of Mark by then. “I can see why you felt you couldn‟t shoot him. Still, being the good shot you are….” He paused, working his jaw. “As your superior, Mark, I have to say I‟ve noticed you‟ve been behaving a bit strange, lately. Today was just one example.” He held up his hand to keep Mark from arguing. “You know I‟m right. I didn‟t say anything because I also consider you a friend after all. But you better listen to me when I tell you, as your friend, that you need to keep it together, or your ass is on the line.” Mark pressed his lips together. He‟d have loved to protest, but he couldn‟t deny the fact that Sean was right. With Hunter taking up so much space inside his mind, he‟d let things slide a bit. The falcons were part of it too, with almost every single one of his free hours dedicated to them. He wondered if all this could be worth risking his job, for that was what it threatened to become.

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It bothered him greatly that he didn‟t know the answer right away. As if reading his mind, Sean jerked him out of his thoughts. “There you go again.” He nudged Mark‟s ribs with his elbow. “Come on, Mark. No set of tits and ass, however pretty, is worth losing your job over. Get a grip, buddy! Plenty of fish in the sea.” Good bark, wrong tree, Mark thought, shocking himself by almost saying it aloud. Sean turned to leave, and Mark shook his head to clear his thoughts, then followed him back to duty.

MARK ached to talk to Hunter, but he didn‟t feel like facing him in front of the other falconers. On the other hand, he worked late these days. There was no point in visiting Falcon Station just shy of midnight when Hunter had to get up anyway a few hours later. This was too important. Two days later, Mark‟s shift changed, and he came off duty early enough for a visit to Falcon Station. It was dark already, the trailer deserted, the cars all gone, no light shining from the windows. Mark knocked anyway, calling Hunter‟s name, but no one answered. When he tried the door, it was locked for a change. The mews door wasn‟t. All the birds were perched up on their usual beams. The light, falling in through the small barred windows, reflected on several pairs of sharp eyes as the unexpected intruder caused some alarmed hissing and flapping of wings. Mark talked quietly, humming the way Hunter used to when he entered, and the falcons calmed down at the familiar soft tones. He spent a few minutes with Iman, humming to her and scratching her neck. She leaned into his touch, feathers fluffed, eyes closed, almost like a cat asking to be petted. After a while, though, she ducked her head away from his hand and hissed, claws opening and closing on her perch, and Mark left her alone.

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He considered leaving a note for Hunter but rejected the idea out of hand. He needed to talk to him in person. Sitting down on the stairs, he listened to the planes landing and taking off in the distance for a while, then got up again and paced. Hunter was long in coming, and Mark‟s restlessness of the last couple of days grew into seething anger. By the time a dot of light in the distance finally separated into the headlights of a Chevy, Mark‟s pacing had worn a trench into the gravel. He planted his feet wide, crossed his arms, and waited, scowling at the oncoming car. The car engine fell silent with a last cough, and the lights went out. A moment later the car‟s dome light revealed Hunter‟s face, sharp with exhaustion and pent-up emotion. Mark felt the rage he‟d worked himself into simmer down to anxious tension. Unfolding his arms, he took an involuntary step forward, reaching blindly for the darker silhouette in the suddenly restored darkness as Hunter banged the car door shut and came to Mark, each finding the other like iron finds the lodestone. Hunter‟s body, muscles tensed to the point of trembling, hit Mark hard enough to make him stumble backward, but Hunter‟s arms kept them both upright. Shaking hands clutched Mark‟s clothes, tore at fabric, worked their way frantically underneath. “You‟re here, you‟re here,” Hunter rasped, following with a stream of Arabic words as he backed Mark up against the trailer wall and pressed into him. Hunter‟s parted lips drew hot lines across Mark‟s neck and jaw, then found Mark‟s in a hard, consuming kiss, Hunter‟s desperation pouring into Mark‟s mouth. Mark held tightly, stunned by Hunter‟s rampant assault. His body took over, arching into the hard ridge of Hunter‟s need even as Mark tried to fend him off with the last dregs of will. “Hunter, slow down, we need to talk….” Mark managed, but Hunter slapped a hand across his mouth with an outright growl. “Fuck talking, later, I need… I want….” He shut himself and Mark up with another wild kiss, fumbling at Mark‟s fly, wrestling a hand inside Mark‟s jeans. When Hunter grabbed Mark‟s cock firmly and started to pump, wedged a leg between Mark‟s thighs and humped

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against him, Mark stopped thinking, burrowed both his hands into the hair at the back of Hunter‟s head, and let loose. He came faster than ever before and so hard his knees buckled, his cry of release colliding with Hunter‟s and jerking their mouths apart. They clung to each other for support, panting, until Mark got his grip back enough to push himself out from between Hunter and the wall. He tucked himself away with unsteady hands. Hunter turned, sagging backward against the wall with a tinny thunk. Mark stared at the wet spot on the front of Hunter‟s unfamiliar pressed chinos and realized in disbelief that Hunter was laughing, quivering from silent guffaws. “Hunter, what the hell?” Hunter shook his head, obviously struggling to get himself back under control. He covered his face with both hands. A moment later he flinched, jerked his hands away and wiped them on his pants. “Shit, oh fuck,” he said, with an amused chuckle, rubbing at his face with his jacket sleeve. Mark grabbed his shoulder and shook him, his anger flaring anew. “Will you fucking stop that and talk to me! What the fuck‟s wrong with you?” It took another good shake until Hunter was finally coherent enough to speak. He took a deep breath and turned his head to Mark, the faraway runway lights making his eyes glitter. “Nothing‟s wrong, Mark, nothing anymore, because you‟re here,” he said, voice still a little shaky. “Sorry, I let myself… get carried away a bit. I thought I‟d lost you too, along with everything else, but now I know I‟ll be alright. You came to me, and everything will be alright.” Mark banged his fist into the trailer wall in frustration and pushed off to stand in front of Hunter. “What‟s all this crap? What‟s lost? Get a grip, Devereaux! I‟ve been waiting my ass off here for hours, and I‟m in no mood for your fucking riddles, right now.” Hunter shook his head again, this time to clear it, or so it seemed. His tone was back to calm and even now. “I‟m sorry. I didn‟t think… anyway, Greg dragged me to a Port Authority board meeting today. I was supposed to be the last ace up Greg‟s sleeve but failed to take the trick, obviously. Weighed and found wanting, Mark. We‟re done here.”

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His words sucker-punched Mark, making him sway. “Does that mean….” He swallowed hard. Hunter nodded, a grim edge creeping into his voice. “Too expensive, they said. Too little additional positive effects compared to the cost. Ignorant idiots! Gull nesting season has only just begun, and the grey goose won‟t migrate properly until next month. We tried to convince them we needed more time, but they refused to listen. I‟ll be cast adrift by the end of the month, no work, no place to stay, not even a falconer‟s license anymore.” Mark felt the blood draining from his face, from his head. It’s over. “That‟s it, then,” he said, surprised his numbed lips would move at all, surprised the words came out clear and steady. Not yet. Jesus, not so soon. Not now. Unbelievably, Hunter laughed again. He pushed off the trailer and came to Mark, took Mark‟s cold, unresisting hands in his warm, firm grip. “Not necessarily, Mark,” he said, his teeth flashing in a broad, careless smile. “Remember that FWS agent the other day? He gave me his card. I called him today, and he told me about a possible job offer. It‟s at Newburgh, so I asked for a respite, since I didn‟t want…. I didn‟t think I‟d want to stay around here if you decided against me, but since you came here tonight…. I don‟t mind if you still want me to hide. I don‟t care anymore. It‟s better than losing you. And I‟ll get my license back. It will take time, a year maybe, but we‟ll be together, and I‟m sure we‟ll…. Mark, what is it? Is something…. Mark, what‟s wrong?” Mark started to shake his head as Hunter spoke, and now he stepped back slowly, eyes wide, unfeeling feet moving of their own volition. His hands slipped from Hunter‟s grip, dropping to his sides. “This won‟t work,” Mark said in a small voice. “It will. We only need to make it,” Hunter said. He reached out again, but Mark flinched back another step, his movement carrying him into the pool of light from the only streetlamp by Falcon Station. Hunter followed him, nevertheless, face hued a sickly greenish yellow by the neon light. “Mark, yarouhi, talk to me. You‟re scaring me, here,” he said, his smile fading. Mark swallowed. A church full of policemen nodding approval at the manhandling of a weak, sick man. The suspicious look

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in Sean’s eyes. Two pale, nameless faces, turned to him in a silent plea. Susan’s cunning contempt. The words almost choked him, but he needed to get them out anyway. “Without the falcons, I won‟t have an excuse to be with you anymore. People will gossip about me… us. McNally… what you said the other day… it‟s all over the place already. If we continue seeing each other, everybody will know…. I can‟t let that happen.” He swallowed back the bitterness that rose in his throat. Hunter jerked as if Mark had hit him, a bout of raw pain twisting his face. “You can‟t be serious,” he whispered, his voice so forlorn it cut Mark like a knife. The numbness spread further, gripping Mark‟s heart, slowing it down. His ears rang with the silence as the pounding of his blood subsided. “You heard me,” he said. “This has to be over. I won‟t let you ruin my life.” Hunter closed his eyes. Mark watched with morbid fascination as those features settled, hardened into a mere mask of stone, cold and unforgiving and painfully beautiful. The eyes staring at Mark from the mask were cast-iron marbles. “Is this your last word?” Hunter asked, eerily calm. Mark‟s jaw had locked by then. “Yes,” he hissed, forcing the single word past his clenched teeth. Hunter nodded once and turned, leaving the pool of light, taking out his keys as he went up the stairs. He opened the trailer door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

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Chapter 16

MARK knew he should feel something. Sadness, perhaps. Maybe even pain. Or a little tinge of regret, at the very least. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. He went to work, went through the motions, went home, ate if he remembered to, slept, and went to work again. Sean didn‟t reprimand him on his lack of focus anymore, so Mark figured he was doing okay, if he bothered to think about that at all. They didn‟t talk a lot, outside duty lately, what with Sean obsessed with the wedding and the house he and Alice were going to buy and Mark often volunteering for overtime. It didn‟t matter. He didn‟t consciously avoid the customs gym and the kennel, either. It was just that he didn‟t feel like working out lately or like dealing with other people, even Evie. Come to think of it, he didn‟t feel like anything at all, recently. It was odd, really. Then again, he couldn‟t bring himself to worry about his lack of emotional reaction. Hunter was gone. The falcons were gone. His life was back to normal.

IT WAS past nine in the evening on a slow day, and Mark‟s shift was almost over. Sean was talking about his upcoming wedding, once again. Mark tuned out Sean‟s chatter, absentmindedly scanning the International Departures hall.

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His sweeping look caught on two elderly gentlemen pushing a luggage cart together. They both appeared to be in their late sixties, were well-dressed, well-groomed and so obviously a couple that the sight sent a hot twinge through Mark‟s frozen heart. As Mark watched, they stopped in front of a departures schedule. The taller one, a fraillooking, pale man, his bald pate peeking out of a fringe of silvery-white hair, put an arm around his short, chubby, dark-haired companion and smiled down at him. How long must those two have been together? A lifetime, based on the silent understanding passing between them. Mark could follow them as clearly as if they‟d conversed with words. Don’t worry, love. I’ll be okay. I hope so, love. I’ll count the seconds until you’re back, though. The tall man bent down to touch foreheads with his companion. Both men had their eyes closed. Witnessing this incredibly intimate moment between strangers made Mark‟s ears heat up with embarrassment. At the same time, his chest went tight with something he refused to acknowledge. He clenched his jaws and turned away. No, goddamn, he wouldn‟t go there. “Oh, cripes,” Sean muttered next to him, startling him. “Look at those flamers. You‟d think, at their age, they‟d know better.” The tightness in Mark‟s chest congealed into a burning hot lump of instant fury. For once forgetting where he was, forgetting the uniform he wore, Mark jerked around, ready to lash out. Sean had his back turned though, staring openly at the two old men. Right when Sean said, “Now, if that isn‟t too much….” Mark followed Sean‟s gaze and saw the tall man stagger. His companion caught him, the questioning look on his face turning to alarm when the tall man slowly but inevitably sank to the ground, dragging them both down. Mark was running before they hit the floor. By the time Mark reached them, they were already a panicked tangle. The taller man clawed at his chest, struggling for breath. Holding him in an one-armed clasp, the shorter man fumbled at his friend‟s collar with jittery hands. When Mark put a hand to his shoulder, he jerked around, wild-eyed and desperate.

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“Oh, thank God you‟re here! He‟s been unwell the entire day, but he wouldn‟t listen, wouldn‟t stay home, please, will you help him, Officer—” He broke off on a sob. His companion‟s face was ashen, bloodshot eyes wide open in panic, irregular breaths rasping between slack lips which rapidly turned blue. Just as Mark knelt down beside them, the painful sounds stopped altogether. The silver-haired head lolled back as the man‟s body went limp and lifeless. The other man cried out. “Arthur! Art! He‟s not breathing. Do something, do something!” “You need to let go of him now, sir,” Mark urged, easing Arthur‟s unresponding body gently away from the other man‟s death grip. While he laid Arthur flat and worked to undo his tie and shirt with flying hands, he wondered briefly why Sean wasn‟t already beside him. “He‟s ill, you say?” Mark asked, tilting Arthur‟s head back. His ear at the unconscious man‟s open mouth found no breath. “It‟s his heart,” the other man blubbered out. “He had an attack half a year ago, and now his sister‟s got cancer, and he wanted to go see her, even though the doctor told him he wasn‟t fit for travel yet, but he wouldn‟t listen, and now look at him….” Mark pressed the tie he‟d finally managed to get loose into the fluttering hands of Arthur‟s friend and put two fingers to Arthur‟s neck. Nothing. He cast the other man a quick look. “Any transmittable diseases?” Arthur‟s friend pressed the silken tie to his lips with both hands, tears streaming down his flabby cheeks. Closing his eyes, he wordlessly shook his head. Mark bent down again. Not a single move in the bony chest. All right. No time to lose. Mark took a second to flip the switch on his radio to voiceactivated mode before he covered Arthur‟s lips with his own. His breaths lifted the old man‟s chest, but there was still no pulse. Cursing inwardly, Mark knelt up and started chest compressions. “Arthur, love, don‟t leave me,” the other man croaked, helplessly clutching the tie. “Don‟t leave me alone.” Mark gasped out his report in fits and starts as he worked.

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“Ten-sixty-two for CPD, Eight-twenty BC at Terminal 7. Eightnineteen. Hurry!” Unconscious person, cardiac incident. Emergency rescue required. “Ten-sixty-two, no read. Come again,” CPD said. Clean out your ears, fucking deaf old bat! Shit, shit, shit, shit! Finally, finally Sean was there, his calm voice answering the dispatcher‟s questions. Not a moment too early, or Mark would‟ve burst. Sean reached past Mark to feel at Arthur‟s neck and then closed a hand over Mark‟s shoulder, pulling him back from his rescue breaths. “Medical help will be here in a minute, Mark,” Sean said. “Keep it to compressions.” Mark flinched, jarred out of his rhythm. “No! He‟ll die if you stop!” Arthur‟s friend cried, reaching out for Mark. “Can‟t you see he‟s not breathing? Please, Officer, don‟t stop!” What the fuck? The man was right. Arthur‟s chances for survival would drop rapidly without rescue breaths, and Sean knew this as well as Mark did. But Sean wouldn‟t let go of Mark‟s shoulder. “You‟re unprotected,” he said, his voice low, probably courtesy of the growing crowd of bystanders gathering round them. Not low enough for Arthur‟s friend, though. The man‟s jaw dropped as he stared at Sean. Casting Sean a cold glance, Mark jerked his shoulder free. “No TDs. No breath, no pulse,” he announced, loud and clear. “Continuing CPR.” Sean made a disgruntled noise but didn‟t try to restrain him again. Arthur‟s friend buried his face in his hands. A small crowd of gazers had gathered around their little tableau by then. “I‟ll cordon off the area,” Sean said, and Mark resumed his efforts, to the quiet sobs of Arthur‟s friend. Some friendly soul among the crowd, a grandmotherly-looking woman, helped Arthur‟s friend stand up. “There, there, let the officer work,” she said, patting the devastated man‟s hand as she led him away. “Come on, dear, sit down over there. Everything will be fine.”

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After that, Mark stopped thinking entirely, focused only on his rhythm of two breaths, fifteen pumps. He didn‟t even notice that Sean failed to relieve him. The next few minutes were about the longest in Mark‟s whole life, but by the time the Emergency Rescue Unit rushed in with their gurney, Arthur was breathing on his own again, and his pulse was back—weak, beating a weird tattoo, but there and counting. The ERU hustled Arthur and his still-nameless friend away, and Mark stumbled into the nearest restroom to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. Black dots danced in front of his eyes, and his head swam from the effort of being Arthur‟s circulation. When he came out again, Sean was waiting. They walked out and got into their cruiser in mutual, brooding silence. After Mark pulled away from the curb, Sean turned halfway in the seat to look at him. “What‟s gotten into you, Bowman? You could‟ve waited for Rescue.” His voice resonated with barely controlled anger. Mark stared straight ahead through the windshield. “Back at you. What the hell kept you from helping me?” Years of deeply ingrained training kept his voice equally low, even though he was fuming. Sean snorted but didn‟t answer. When Mark drove into the parking lot behind the PAPD building, Sean spoke again. “Where do you think you‟re going?” “Home. My shift‟s over,” Mark shot back. He pulled into a slot and reached for the keys in the ignition. “Like hell you will.” Sean caught his arm, stopping him. “We‟ll go to the medical building right now. Rescue told me the old guy will be right at hand there, too.” Mark turned to face him. “Why in all the world should I go there now?” he asked, already knowing what was coming but still not quite able to believe this was actually happening. “For post-exposure procedure, of course,” Sean said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Were you born yesterday? Ever heard about AIDS?” Technically, Sean was right. After all, Mark had been exposed to an unknown stranger‟s bodily fluids, which meant he had to have a

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medical evaluation within twenty-four hours. Yet Mark was sure Sean wouldn‟t have been so insistent he go immediately had their patient been, say, the little old lady who‟d taken care of Arthur‟s friend. In that case, anyone would have settled for Mark seeing the doctor the next day, as was customary. “I told you before, I wasn‟t exposed to anything. I asked his friend,” Mark snapped. Sean snorted. “Yes, sure. As if he‟d say anything else. With those fags, you never know. There‟s always a risk.” Mark shut off the engine with a jerk of his hand. “That man could‟ve died. How‟s that for a risk?” he snarled, barely able to control himself. “Acceptable, all things considered,” Sean replied with a shrug. Mark‟s mouth fell open. He can’t just have said that. He can’t be serious. Except he was fairly certain that Sean was. Something that had been coiled up tight within Mark‟s chest unraveled, tearing through him like a whiplash. The final straw was the casualness of Sean‟s statement. This man, a public servant like Mark himself, was sworn to serve and protect anyone who needed help, supposedly regardless of who the person was. Well, impartiality would always remain a pious hope, since policemen were human beings, after all. But hearing his fellow officer dismiss a life so easily, based only on superstition and prejudices, made Mark finally realize which path it was he‟d chosen, mere days ago. He had preferred hypocrisy over unconditional acceptance. He was trying to fit into a world that would think him expendable, just because a small part of what he was didn‟t meet other people's expectations. This wasn‟t him. This wasn‟t where he belonged. If this turned out to mean he didn‟t belong in a police uniform, so be it. Fuck that. Harry had been right, after all. In the end, it was as easy as that. Mark was out of the car and halfway across the lot before Sean caught up, holding him back. “What the fuck, Bowman? Haven‟t you heard me? You‟ll get your ass back into that car or I‟ll drag you!”

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With a dry, humorless laugh, Mark jerked himself free. “Did you sleep through medical emergency training, Broderick? Or do you think being gay is catching? Tell you what, I‟m immune to that, buddy. I can‟t catch something I already have.” Sean flinched back, holding up his hands in shock, sputtering. “Are you saying you are….” “Gay, yes, Sean. And my hearing‟s fine, thank you very much. That old man‟s friend said he wasn‟t infected, so fuck off, now.” Sean gasped, but then his startled expression turned into a sneer. “Oh, now I see! Falcon patrol, my ass. No wonder you and that Devereaux fag were as thick as thieves.” “Hunter has nothing—” Mark started, but Sean cut him off. “Officer Bowman, you‟ll go to the medical building right now. You won‟t come back to duty until after you test HIV negative. That‟s an order.” Mark shook his head. “Sean, come on. I‟ll see the doc first thing tomorrow, but this is ridiculous, and you know that.” This time, Sean‟s sneer bordered on vicious. “Make my day, Bowman. Refuse my order. Give me a reason to have you suspended.” “Fine,” Mark replied mildly, surprised at how little he actually cared. “Knock yourself out. But leave me the fuck alone now. I‟m busy.” He turned and walked away. This time, Sean didn‟t follow. Mark‟s radio started to make squeaky noises. When he took up the device, he saw that the switch was still turned to voice activated. Way to go, Bowman. Could’ve just as well advertised in pink letters six feet high. Well, fuck that too. “CPD, you‟ve heard everything, I assume?” he said, for once dismissing code. “I‟ll follow through with the procedure before my next shift. Over and out.” “Ten-sixty-two, hold on,” the dispatcher said. “The fuck I will,” Mark said, switching off the radio as he fished his keys out of his pants pocket.

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Chapter 17

HE

DIDN‟T bother changing out of his uniform, just got on his bike

and drove out to Falcon Station. But when he tried the door of the trailer, it was firmly locked, and the mews were empty. The steel workbench, the wall chart, even the beams had been removed. What remained was a damp layer of decomposing wood chips on the ground and a lingering stench of ammonia and mold. Standing in the deserted mews, Mark realized he‟d lost count of the days. What day was today? Friday, but—oh, Jesus. Friday, the ninth of June. The falconry project had been closed over a week ago. Hunter wasn‟t here anymore. He circled the trailer, peered into the windows. From what little he could make out, the furniture was still there, the coffee table and desk still cluttered with papers, leatherwork, and technical devices, the bookshelves still full of books and folders. Someone would have to come back for that, most probably Greg. It was just a question of when. However, Mark couldn‟t very well sit here till doomsday and wait for him, could he? Evie, he thought. She‟d know how to reach Greg. Greg would direct him to Hunter. He needed to find Hunter. Try and make good on what felt like the worst mistake he‟d ever made in his life. He could only hope Hunter would listen to him.

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EVIE wasn‟t at the kennel, and she wasn‟t in the gym. Unwilling to ask around, Mark decided to take his chance with her home. She answered his first ring, her voice eager and happy through the intercom. “Yes?” Mark bent down and spoke into the grille. “Evie, it‟s Mark. Can I come in for a minute?” Her answer was suspiciously long in coming and sounded considerably less excited than her greeting. “What do you want?” There’s someone else I managed to piss off, he thought. Well, can’t help it now. “I need your help. Please, Evie, I won‟t be long. Just give me a minute. I don‟t know who else I could turn to.” The ensuing pause was even longer, but at last, a long-suffering sigh carried through the speaker, followed by the buzzer. “Come in, then.” The staircase was dark, but Mark knew his way well enough. Evie leaned in the doorframe, her arms crossed, a shadowy form lit from behind by the light from her apartment. “Well, well, look at you,” she said. “The elusive Officer Bowman. Need me as your disguise again? In that case, you can fuck off. I‟ve taken my share of shit for that, thank you very much.” Her sarcasm stopped Mark dead in his tracks. “I‟m sorry, but I‟ve no idea what you‟re talking about,” he said. She gave a short, harsh laugh. “I bet! After all, I had to learn by way of the rumor mill that I‟m supposed to be your bed bunny.” She hit the light switch, bathing the landing in harsh neon light. “Cradle robber….” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Mark, what happened to you? Are you ill?” “I don‟t know,” he said dumbly. “Why do you ask?” Frowning, she shook her head. “Your coloring is off, you‟ve lost at least ten pounds, you look like… oh, forget it. Just come in already.” Before he knew what was happening, she had him curled up in a corner of her big couch, two fingers of whiskey warming his innards and a second helping in his hand. She sat down next to him and gave

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him a stern look. “The whole story, if you please. And don‟t you dare leave anything out.” So he told her everything, haltingly at first, but once he‟d started, it was a relief to finally confide in someone. At the end, she raised a mocking eyebrow. “So if I get you right, Hunter offered you his heart on a silver platter, but you trashed it, and now you‟ve finally made up your mind the offer wasn‟t that bad, and you want it back. Only, the garbage truck beat you to it. No wonder you look like someone kicked your puppy.” When she put it like that, she made him sound like the pathetic idiot he was. His anger boiling back up, he banged down his glass on the coffee table and stood, scowling. “Fuck you, Jakkelsen! I don‟t need you to make fun of me, on top of everything. I‟ll find him by myself!” In an instant, she was on her feet too, reaching out for him. “Calm down, Mark, I didn‟t mean it. Come on, sit down. I apologize.” She looked seriously contrite. He allowed her to urge him back into his corner. She shook her head. “I‟ve known for ages that you‟re gay, but I‟d never pegged you for such a drama queen, honey.” Forgetting his anger, Mark jumped. “You… knew?” Laughing softly, she patted his knee. “Of course, Mark. I had an inkling pretty much from the day we first met. After all, you never stared at my boobs, even though I waved them at you often enough, when we worked out together. When you turned all gentleman on me after I practically threw myself at you, I knew for sure.” He wrinkled his nose. “Classic giveaway, huh?” “Dead.” She winced. “I guessed there was something going on with you and Hunter, you know. After all, you practically dropped from the face of the earth as far as I was concerned. The falcons alone couldn‟t be that interesting, could they? When I heard the rumors about you and me, I figured you had spread them as a disguise, and I was quite pissed at you. And now that the project is closed, the first thing I see is you on my doorstep. Could you begrudge me a little gloating? Though I can see now how serious you are.”

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Her hand still rested on Mark‟s knee. He covered it with his own. “Apology accepted. For the record, I didn‟t start those rumors, but I didn‟t stop them either, so I can‟t hold that against you. Now, do you by any chance know where Hunter is?” “As a matter of fact, no, I don‟t. Greg most probably does, but I don‟t think he‟d tell you,” she said, watching him closely. “When I last talked to him, Greg cursed you to hell and back. Now I know why, of course. That man loves Hunter like his own son.” Mark buried his face in his hands when the glimmer of hope her words had sparked was doused immediately by cold reality. “God, is there one person left I didn‟t piss off? I don‟t deserve any better, but still….” Her hand came down on his bowed head, ruffling his hair with surprising tenderness. “You were scared. I get that. If it helps, I don‟t think you were afraid for no reason. This could actually end your career with the PAPD.” Mark looked up, his lips twitching. “Tell me something new, Jakkelsen.” She shrugged. “Just saying.” Sitting back, she folded her arms and looked him straight in the eye. “You tell me something, Mark. Is he worth it?” This gave him pause. He shifted, averting his gaze, fiddling with the glass he‟d taken back up, knowing exactly what she was asking. Eventually, he said, “Yes and no, in a way. Is keeping my job worth living a lie forever? No, it‟s not. Is Hunter worth losing my job over? I don‟t know, although there‟s one thing I know for sure now: keeping my secret wasn‟t worth losing his….” He swallowed hard. “Him, I mean. Losing him. I need to tell him that, do you understand? Make sure he knows. It‟s out of my hands now, and I need him to know. Need him to decide, since I did. Do I make any sense, here?” A slow smile spread across her face as she listened to him. “No worries, Mark, you do. And I might even be able to help you.” There it was again, a hot burn behind his breastbone, speeding up his heart. He waited for her to continue, literally holding his breath.

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“The falcons are still here, over at the Animal Import Center. Greg decided to have them airlifted back to his place, but this requires a bunch of paperwork. As it happens, most of those papers have to pass by my desk, at some point.” She paused, most probably for the dramatic effect. Mark could have strangled her. “I don‟t know where Hunter is now, but I know where he‟ll be tomorrow. Hunter will accompany the birds on the cargo flight, and he‟s supposed to pick up the freight papers at my office tomorrow afternoon.” It took Mark a while to calm down after that. “You‟ll have plenty of time,” she assured him. “The cargo flight leaves on Monday morning. Time enough to talk to him. All you have to do is make him listen to you.” She saw him to the door, waving off his belated apologies for disturbing her at that time of the night. A surprising blush rose in her cheeks. “Actually, I was still up because… there was a pleasant surprise for me in the whole mess.” “Do tell,” Mark said, smiling at her shyness. “Do you know Peter Stevenson, the Mail Control chief? He overheard me giving those chatterboxes in his department a piece of my mind. Seemed to like it.” Her blush deepened. “We‟ve been dating for two weeks, now. He just left before you came.” Mark had to hug her. “I‟m so happy for you, Evie. My best wishes for you two.” She hugged him back. “Everything took a turn to the better for me. It will for you, too.” When he was back on his bike, Mark realized he still had his uniform on, complete with his service weapon and his radio. For a moment, he pondered heading home anyway but then thought better of it. He knew he wouldn‟t be able to sleep tonight, so he could just as well heed Sean‟s order, stupid as it was. With CPD listening in on his big revelation, he figured he had enough on his plate anyway and didn‟t need to add disobedience. If they were going to fire him, they‟d need a better reason than that.

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IN THE end, Mark wore his uniform until well into the next day. The night shift at the medical building was short-staffed, which wasn‟t noteworthy in itself, but today, they seemed flooded with emergencies. “Must be the moon,” the reception nurse said, with an apologetic smile, as she handed Mark his Unprotected Exposure form. “Please sit over there and fill out the form, Officer. Dr. Palshevsky will be with you shortly.” Mark glanced over the papers. “I don‟t know the victim‟s name,” he said. Her professional smile turned a little stressed. “We‟ll find out for you,” she said, her eyes flickering past Mark to the glass door, which opened yet again to admit another help seeker. “If you‟d just sit there and wait, please.” Get out of my hair already, Mark translated to himself and retreated into his indicated corner. A couple of hours later, the stream of twisted ankles, crushed thumbs, alcohol-induced comas, and nervous breakdowns died down. The reception nurse had been called away a while ago, and for the moment Mark was alone, except for a worried younger couple who‟d brought in a wailing infant with a bloodied mouth. The quiet murmur of their conversation and the familiar background noises of the airport soothed Mark into a light doze despite the uncomfortable plastic seat which numbed his ass. He woke with a start at a gentle touch to his shoulder. “The doctor is now ready for you,” the reception nurse said, smiling down at his bleary eyes. He followed her into a curtained cubicle, answered her questions, and winced through the brief sting when she pulled a handful of vials of blood from his arm. Finally, the curtain parted again for a tired-looking man in a white lab coat, who introduced himself as Dr. Palshevsky and apologized for the delay. After a brief physical examination, the doctor sat down to ask Mark a few more questions, scribbled some notes on the papers he had on a clipboard, and finally leaned back with a sigh.

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“I‟d rather you‟d have come to me immediately after the incident, as protocol provides,” he said, massaging his temple. “Then again, I agree with your assessment of risk. Besides, given how busy we were tonight, it probably wouldn‟t have made much of a difference if you‟d arrived earlier.” Although he hadn‟t really worried, Mark was still relieved to hear this official confirmation. He nodded his thanks. Leafing through papers, the doctor continued. “The victim‟s not yet up to giving his consent for testing, but I‟m sure this won‟t be a problem.” He flipped his notes shut and stood, holding out his hand. “We‟ll keep you informed, Officer Bowman. I can reach you through the department, I assume?” Well, that remains to be seen, Mark thought, but he didn‟t voice it. Taking the doctor‟s hand, he said instead, “May I ask about the victim? How is he?” “Fine, considering the circumstances,” the doctor said. “He‟s still in the ICU, but our cardiologist already cleared him for transfer to a general ward by tomorrow. He‟ll make it.” Suddenly, he winced, pulled his hand free of Mark‟s grip and shook it. “Ow, man, my hand‟s not a lemon! No wonder his thorax x-rayed like a pile of jackstraws!” “Sorry,” Mark murmured, embarrassed, but the doctor just waved him off, his detached expression replaced by an entirely unprofessional grin. “Don‟t worry, I bet he‟d rather feel his broken ribs for a couple days than nothing at all. You did a good job there, Officer Bowman. I‟ll make sure he knows that, if needs be.” Just when Mark was about to thank him again, a wide-eyed young nurse yanked back the curtain. “Quick, Doctor, that body packer in seven‟s freaking out!” “Oh, shit,” Palshevsky muttered, confirming he was human, after all, and threw his clipboard aside. “Come on, Officer, looks like those muscles of yours might come in handy.”

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THE doctor‟s premonition proved only too right. It took their joint forces the better part of an hour until the drug smuggler was back under control and could be left with the customs officer who‟d brought him in. By then, Mark was so exhausted that Dr. Palshevsky offered him a cot in an unused examination cubicle before he could fall asleep standing up. The day nurse shooed him out a precious few hours later. At least she had a cup of strong coffee for him, with the doctor‟s compliments, she said. Mark‟s plans of going home for a much-needed shower went up in smoke as soon as he entered the police station. Front desk informed him that he‟d been summoned to headquarters, and pronto. There‟d been a bit of an irritation already, since nobody had been able to reach him so far, neither by phone nor by radio. So he headed for Jersey City instead of his apartment, reported at CPD, and was told to sit over there and wait, please, for the second time in twenty-four hours. He was getting quite fed up with that. Inspector Jacobs‟s verdict, when it finally came, was worth the wait. “A lot of attention to draw during your probational year, Officer Bowman,” Jacobs said, thrumming his fingers on the manila folder with Mark‟s name and badge number. “Quite the achievement, although not in your favor. What were you thinking?” Mark, standing on alert since the Inspector hadn‟t offered him a seat, straightened some more. “This man was dying. I applied first aid, as it is my responsibility.” “That‟s not what I asked you, Officer! You should have listened to the better judgment of your senior officer. It's his responsibility to keep you safe. Instead, you chose to disobey him, twice, if I‟m informed correctly.” “I‟m afraid you aren‟t, sir,” Mark replied with as much indifference as he could muster. “I actually went to the medical building like Officer Broderick ordered me to, only a short time later. The doctor said it didn‟t make a difference. As for better judgment, I‟ve got six years of experience I can draw on. I did what I thought right.”

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“This decision wasn‟t yours to make! Unconsidered behavior appears to be a recurrent issue on your part, according to your record, so far. If this doesn‟t change in the near future, I‟m afraid the Port Authority Police Department isn‟t for you, and vice versa. Do you get me, Officer?” “Yes, sir, I do,” Mark said. He fought to keep his face blank and his hands from curling into fists. The Inspector nodded and bowed his head to make a note in Mark‟s file. “Your supervising officer suggested putting you on suspension. Given the fact that you went through with the required procedure after all, I‟ll change that to forced medical leave, for the time being.” He wrote another few words and continued without looking up. “However, I second Officer Broderick‟s request for your reassignment. The matter will be finally decided after your doctor confirms you fit for service again, but I think Traffic Control Squad might be better suited for a man of your previous experiences.” Traffic control. The back burner. “I won‟t have that,” Mark said. Inspector Jacobs‟s head jerked up. “What did you say?” Mark felt strangely calm, detached, as if he was watching himself in a movie. “This is a sham, and you know it as well as I do. I applied for Airport Division, I was accepted, and the PAPD‟s got nothing on me to change that, unless they want to own up to the real reason why they‟re trying to kick my ass out. Which they won‟t, because then I could claim discrimination. Which I will do, count on that. So, no, sir, I won‟t reassign, and whoever feels like making me can go fuck himself.” Inspector Jacobs‟s face was almost worth the entire mess. Almost. “Sir.” With a terse nod, Mark turned to leave. “We‟re not done yet, Officer,” the inspector barked. Ignoring him, Mark reached for the doorknob. “You come here and sit your damn ass right down, or I‟ll drag you back by the collar!”

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Mark pivoted. Jacobs was out of his chair and had rounded his desk, seemingly ready to make good on his threat. Oddly enough, he didn‟t look angry. “What—” Mark started, but Jacobs cut him short. “You do Harrison Sheldon proud, Officer Bowman. You‟re really cut from the same cloth. Sit down now, and listen to what I have to say.” Stunned, Mark plopped down on one of the visitor‟s chairs. “You knew my uncle?” “I worked with him for a while before I transferred here from the NYPD. He was a good cop and a decent guy. You‟re his spitting image, by the way.” The inspector returned behind his desk. “Now listen to me, son. You know that Officer Broderick was right to reprimand you. You‟re still on probation, after all. Rules and protocols are there for a reason, and you didn‟t keep to them.” Mark drew a breath to speak, but Jacobs held up his hand. “Let me finish. I can‟t approve of your behavior, but I can understand it. Hell, I‟d have probably done the same. But with men like you and your uncle, keeping the rules is paramount, if you want to stay with the force.” “‟Cause everybody will lie in wait anyway, for the likes of us to slip, you mean,” Mark said, carefully keeping any bitterness out of his tone. Jacobs winced, but he continued evenly. “Yes. You know it‟ll be a tough act for you to follow. You wouldn‟t be the first good man I've had to watch breaking under that weight. All I want to say is, put this leave to good use. Reconsider. But if you think you can handle it, come back to me.” He stood and held out his hand. It took Mark a moment to get to his feet. “Thank you, sir.” Jacobs squeezed his hand, let go, and turned back to his papers. “That is all, Officer Bowman.” Mark was reaching for the doorknob again when the Inspector‟s voice held him back once more. “Just for the record, don‟t expect undue preference. But I won‟t give you hardship, either.” “Understood, sir,” Mark said, still a bit stunned.

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The Inspector nodded without looking up. “Dismissed.”

AFTER all this, noon had passed before Mark finally made it to the customs kennel, back in his civilian clothes but still unshowered and unfed. A note on the door to Evie‟s office asked him to meet her at the clearance desk, so he took the shortcut through the service hallways, stepping out into the American Airways departure area. “Yo, Mark,” someone called. Turning, he saw Micky Ruiz waving at him from the waiting line. “Micky,” he greeted back. “What are you doing here? I thought you were long gone.” “I helped Hunter look after our falcons over at the AIC,” the young falconer said. “You know they‟re still here, don‟t you? I half expected you to turn up. We could‟ve used a hand in keeping them occupied. Anyway—” “Hunter‟s here?” Mark cut in. Micky‟s eyebrows went up. “Didn‟t you know? I thought the two of you were so chummy?” Mark could have kissed him. “We… he… fuck, it doesn‟t matter now. Do you know where he is, right now?” “Yes, of course, he‟s at the station, closing shop with Greg. Mark, what…?” The latter came out rather muffled because Mark indeed kissed him, smack on the lips. An instant later he was off, back through the service hallway, leaving poor Micky staring, bewildered, after him.

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Chapter 18

GREG‟S familiar battered Chevy was parked in front of the trailer, next to an equally battered pickup truck with New York State plates, both cars loaded with aluminum cargo boxes of various sizes. The mews were gone, and the trailer had been mounted on a flatbed truck, ready to be hauled away. Soon, nothing would be left of Falcon Station but a patch of devastated grass and some holes in the ground between runway 31L and the seashore. An airplane roared down the runway, drowning out the sound of Mark‟s bike. Greg had his back to Mark and was struggling to lift a box to the pickup truck‟s bed. “Let me help,” Mark said, reaching out for it. The box was heavy. Caught by surprise at the sudden strain on his arms, Mark failed to brace himself when Greg‟s fist hit him hard and fair in the face. The world tilted, and the grey metal of the box disappeared from Mark‟s field of view. He suddenly looked up into the blue, cloud-ridden sky, at a vee of geese passing overhead. Iman would love to go after them, he thought incoherently. Then Greg‟s face blocked out the birds, looming above Mark. “What the fuck do you want here?” Behind Greg, the box teetered precariously on the edge of the truck bed, ready to topple down and hit him in the back of his neck. “Watch out,” Mark croaked, pointing. Greg looked up, snorted, and gave the box a shove. He stepped back, and Mark sat up with a groan.

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Greg stood, arms crossed, legs locked wide apart, an archangel in cargo pants, guarding the Pearly Gates. “So?” Mark pulled himself up by the truck‟s side. Something warm trickled into his mouth. He licked it off, unfazed by the metallic taste of blood. “I need to talk to Hunter,” he said. “Fuck off.” Greg turned away. “The hell you say. This is none of your business.” Mark took a step toward the trailer, or wanted to, anyway. His head spun, and he had to steady himself against the truck. “Fuck damn, you almost broke my nose!” In an instant, Greg was right in Mark‟s face. “I‟ll break something else if you don‟t—” “He‟s right, Greg. Back off.” Hunter‟s voice, tight like a strung chord. There he was, coming down the stairs, straightening his shoulders as he came. He‟d shaved off his beard, and the black bandana framed his stark, emotionless features. Mark forgot Greg, forgot the blood, his throbbing nose. Hunter, stony face, thunderstorm eyes and all, was all that mattered. They stood only inches apart, Mark slightly swaying, Hunter poised on the balls of his feet. Mark wanted to reach for him, keep him from bolting, as he clearly would at the first slip. He didn‟t dare. “What do you want from me?” The same question Hunter had asked only a few weeks ago. Seemed like a lifetime now. This time, Mark had the answer ready. “Everything.” Hunter cocked his head, his shoulders coming down a fraction of an inch. Mark took a deep breath. “I want to be with you. I don‟t care about other people anymore. All I want is you, in any way there is. I want you in my life, Hunter, and I want to be in yours. If you‟ll still have me.” For a moment, Hunter closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the storm clouds hadn‟t cleared up a bit, but now there was clearly lightning in the back. “Changed your mind, have you. Once again.”

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Thank God, Mark thought. Anger was good. Anger he could deal with. He spoke on, faster now, aware that he sounded desperate and not caring about that, either. Pride could wait. “I‟ve messed up things with you worse than I can say. I don‟t know if you‟ll ever be able to forgive me. Hell, I could totally understand if you told me to fuck off. But things have changed. I have changed. Hunter, I swear, if you give me another chance, I won‟t let you down this time.” The frown on Hunter‟s face gave way to something Mark couldn‟t quite name. Yet Hunter‟s words were clear enough. “It must have cost you to say this to me in front of Greg, I‟ll give you that. You probably do believe what you say right now,” he said, and Mark recognized his expression. Sadness, decision, a closure. “But you and I both know it‟s not for real. How long will your resolve last in front of others, your colleagues, your friends? I told you I know why you have to be this way, and I thought I could take it, but I‟ve found I was wrong. You were right to end things with me, and just in time, at that. So don‟t ask this from me now. I can‟t bear living like that anymore, always waiting for the next time you…. I just can‟t.” He wiped Mark‟s stuttering protest away with an impatient gesture of his hand. “Besides, your timing is bad. I‟m about to leave, and I‟m not coming back. You‟re too late. Goodbye, Mark.” Payback’s a bitch, Bowman. He stared after Hunter‟s retreating back. Seeing him walk away hurt a lot more than a slap in the face. Mark couldn‟t let it happen. A dreadful sense of déjà-vu haunting him, he grabbed Hunter‟s arm. “Fuck damn, Hunter! You can‟t just brush me off like this!” Hunter waited passively, not shaking him off, not turning. As if Mark wasn‟t there. Mark‟s ears rang with a distant noise, maybe just another airplane, maybe the thunder of his own heartbeat. “I love you, Hunter,” he said. That got a reaction, all right. Hunter jerked around, eyes flashing, teeth bared, his hair billowing out behind him like an electrically charged cloud. “Don‟t you fucking dare!”

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Hunter‟s fist hit true, and Mark‟s world tilted again, for the second time in the last half hour. He stumbled backward, tasting fresh blood. Why do they always have to go for my nose? he thought angrily. Cradling the abused body part with both hands, he squeezed out, “I came out to the whole fucking PAPD last night. That real enough for you?” Hunter said something in response, but his words were drowned out by the growing roar of an approaching airplane‟s jet engines. Mark recognized it now, a Concorde in its final descent, the noisiest fucking aircraft on earth, not half a mile away from them. Why now, of all times? He cursed, wiping at the involuntary tears that blurred Hunter‟s image for him. It seemed that Hunter wasn‟t even looking at him, but past him, totally inadequate shock clearly written all over his face. What the fuck? Mark followed his gaze. Oh, Lord Jesus, have mercy. The flock of geese he‟d seen passing earlier must have been followed by a couple of dawdlers. Just when Mark looked, the leading bird was sucked into the Concorde‟s number three jet engine. A burst of red-hot fire shot out of the jet, setting it ablaze in the wink of an eye. The airplane lurched, ten feet above ground, its noise amping up another few hundred decibels in a sickening shriek. It devoured the second bird with a loud slurping sound, audible even from that distance, even over the deafening roar, and then the Concorde hit the ground and screeched past on the tarmac, much too fast, trailing smoke and fire and destruction in its wake. Mark was running, reaching for the radio that went with his uniform and cursing when he grasped at nothing, since he wore civilian clothes. His bike came alive at first kick, and Mark took off, almost before he was seated properly. Behind him, a car engine revved loudly, but he didn‟t look back, busy keeping his bike steady on the slippery concrete. The Concorde fishtailed, slowing down. The jets were still running. Just when the airplane skidded to an angled standstill on the runway, engine number four caught fire. Mark dropped his bike, dodging the glowing shrapnel which hurled at him from the turbines. He watched the rear emergency exit crack open and the slide pop out,

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inflating with illusive tardiness. For a split second, the fat gray tongue teetered at the edge of the delta wing before it lolled down in slow motion, right next to the smoldering jets which still vomited red-hot metal shards. Small, moving figures appeared in the doorway overhead, oblivious to the impending doom, which the wide planes of the Concorde‟s right wing obscured from their view. Mark ran, windmilling his arms, shouting as if his small, lone voice could be heard above all that uproar, as if his weak powers could hold up the disaster he saw unfolding in front of his eyes. A giant fist hit his side and sent him flying, smashed him into the landing gear. He was flat on his back, looking up at the metal squares of the fuel tanks high above him, wondering for a split second how he‟d got there, and then a fireball came rushing down at him, and he scrambled backward, trying to escape with his last scrap of conscious mind. There was Hunter‟s face, just like he remembered it, framed by a golden halo, but strangely, it was upside down. He smiled up at it, at the beautiful, beloved features, pulled taut in distress. Why was Hunter upset? Mark wanted to reach up, soothe him, but his hand wouldn‟t move. Strange. Something hooked under his armpits and yanked, hard. A flash of blinding pain seared down Mark‟s left leg. The last thing he knew was a piercing scream, so loud it drowned out everything else and sent him into merciful blackness.

THE scream was still there when he woke, and the pain too, only worse. There was commotion, he was moving, a white flicker of lights above him, on, off, on…. Loud voices shouted commands, and a burnt smell tasted bitter on his tongue. Someone shut off that noise, Mark thought, and then Hunter‟s eyes filled his vision, bright and filled with concern, and the screaming stopped, and everything went black again.

QUIET. Mark was somewhere quiet. He was lying down, and there was a dull ache in his left leg. Actually, he ached all over, and his limbs felt

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heavy. Must have seriously overdone it yesterday, in the gym, he thought drowsily, trying to rearrange himself more comfortably. His body wouldn‟t move. The shock jerked him fully awake. In an instant, everything was back, the pain, the noise, the fire, Hunter… Hunter‟s face, surrounded by flames…. Mark opened his eyes to a dimly lit room. “Hunter is dead,” he said, his voice ringing loudly in the silence. “I‟m not, and neither are you, thank the Almighty,” Hunter‟s soft voice came drifting from somewhere to Mark‟s right. He turned his head, meeting light eyes which were heavy lidded with tiredness. “You burned. I saw you burn,” he said, full of awe. Hunter smiled and leaned forward. His lips brushed Mark‟s, a featherlight touch. “I‟m still here, yarouhi.” “Thank God,” Mark sighed. A warm hand caressed his face, and he reached up for it, the move stopped short by a painful tug on the back of his hand. “Easy, Mark. You‟ll pull something out.” Mark looked down his body and sucked in a sharp breath. There were lines and cables everywhere, coming out from under his bedcover, some hooked to infusion bottles, some to monitors. His left leg hung in some kind of contraption. “Are you in pain?” Hunter asked. “No,” Mark said, still trying to make sense of all this. There was even a tube sticking in his penis, from the feel of it. Holy shit. “What the fuck happened?” “The Concorde crash, remember? The emergency slide must've caught you mid-run when it came down. It knocked you right off your feet.” Hunter paused, searching Mark‟s gaze. “As far as I know, your thighbone broke when you crashed into the landing gear. They say the fracture dislocated when I pulled you out from under the plane, and they had to operate on you to fix it. I‟m sorry, Mark.” Mark stared at him. “You pulled me out.”

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“Well, yes.” Hunter shrugged, the movement cut short by a flinch. “The fuel tanks were leaking. No time to wait for the rescue team.” “The fuel tanks,” Mark echoed, finally realizing that Hunter wore a hospital gown too, and that his head was nearly bald. He gasped. “How bad?” “No deads. No one seriously injured, either. The Concorde—” “Fuck the Concorde! What about you?” Mark struggled to sit up, and Hunter took him gently by the shoulders and supported him, leaning closer. “Don‟t worry. It‟s nothing, really. Only my hair and a little skin off my shoulders.” Bile rose in Mark‟s throat, gagging him. He couldn‟t breathe. He reached for Hunter, clawing at his arms, his flanks. Hunter held him, rocked him lightly. “Shh, yarouhi, nour’eni, I‟m here, I‟m here….” “I could‟ve lost you,” Mark sobbed, his face buried in the crook of Hunter‟s neck. “And I you. Didn‟t happen,” Hunter said, stroking Mark‟s hair, easing him back. “Although it took a plane crash to make me see reason.” He kissed Mark‟s forehead, his temples, his cheeks, speaking the words against Mark‟s skin in a half-choked mumble. “I was so… it hurt so badly, Mark, pushing you away…. I could only lash out at you, ‟cause it all but killed me… and when that fireball came down at you… ya Allah, what have I done, what have I done to you….” It was Mark‟s turn to soothe him, to caress his trembling arms, the narrow cheeks. They were wet, Mark realized, and when he traced his lips softly along Hunter‟s jaw line, he tasted salt. He whispered mindless endearments until Hunter pulled back and sat up, gazing down, his eyes shimmering in the weak light. “Forgive me for asking you this, but did I really hear you say that you came out to the entire PAPD?”

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Their hands were still holding onto each other‟s arms. Mark gave him a gentle squeeze. “Yes, I did. It‟s a long story.” He coughed weakly. Hunter picked up a glass of water and held the straw for Mark. “You can tell it to me later. I‟m not going anywhere.” Mark‟s hands slid down Hunter‟s arms as sleep crept back over him. “Do you promise?” he murmured, already halfway in a daze again. He felt Hunter‟s lips moving against his own, as if from far away. “Yes, I promise.”

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Author‟s Note

BIRD strikes cost military and civilian aviation over $400 million a year in the US alone. Although it might be hard to believe that a fewpound gull or goose striking a thousands-of-pounds aircraft might cause any fundamental damage, such collisions could have fatal consequences. The most recent and most well-known plane crash caused by bird strike happened on January 15th, 2009, when US Airways Flight 1549 from New York‟s La Guardia Airport, destined for Charlotte, North Carolina, hit a flock of Canada geese shortly after taking off. Both engines were disabled. Thanks to the amazing skill of Flight Captain Charles Sullenberger, who managed to land the Airbus A320 on the Hudson River, nobody had to die, but the dramatic pictures of the emergency ditching made their way around the whole world. No other airport worldwide has a greater potential for bird to airplane collisions than JFK International Airport, New York. The airport borders on a bird sanctuary, the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, home to more than 300 different species. Kennedy also lies directly in the path of two major bird migration routes along the Atlantic coastal flyway. From 1979 until the late 1980s, there have been nearly 4000 recorded incidents of birds damaging aircraft at Kennedy. The airport tried to scare the birds away from the runways with acoustic devices, such as booming propane cannons, fireworks, and recorded gull distress calls. When these measures proved of limited effect, since the birds became inured to acoustic signals, the United

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States Department of Agriculture resorted to having marksmen‟s teams patrol along the fences. By 1988, those teams had shot an average of 10,000 birds per year during the nesting season, March through September. Not only was this approach management expensive, it also caused a considerable amount of friction between airport security officials and National Park scientists. In 1991, the National Birdstrike Committee was formed to work out an, in all respects, acceptable solution. Among other things, the idea of using falcons to keep the runways bird free came up once again. The Port Authority hired a wildlife biologist and falconer in order to conduct a first field test during the nesting season of 1994. Yet, the additional positive effects of the falconry project were considered insignificant compared to its cost, and the field test was cut short due to financial issues. In June 1995, an Air France Concorde, on approach to JFK Airport, was struck by a flock of geese. Two of the birds were inhaled into her jet engines, shredding them into pieces. Luckily, the aircraft had been descending. During takeoff, a similar occurrence would probably have caused a fatal crash. The resulting damage was still approximately $5 million, at least that‟s the sum on which the Port Authority and Air France are said to have agreed. Mostly, Air France claimed the Port Authority had not taken all possible measures to keep the runways bird free. The cancelling of the falconry project is said to have worked in Air France‟s favor. The matter was eventually settled extrajudicially. It would most probably have been even more expensive for the Port Authority had it been taken to court. In 1996, the falconry program was established anew. To this day, John F. Kennedy International Airport is the only commercial airport in the USA which regularly uses falcons as a means to prevent bird strike. Today, the falconry program is run by a contracted company, Falconry Environmental Services, that links to the Port Authority via a manager of operations.

CITY FALCON is a fictional novel, although it‟s roughly based upon the events mentioned above. I took the liberty of placing both the field

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trial and the Concorde crash into the same year for dramatic purposes. Nevertheless, the falcons at John F. Kennedy International Airport are an amazing reality, and so are the men and women working with them for the well being of us all. Everything else, including all characters, is pure fiction. This book wouldn‟t have seen the light of day if not for some incredible people. Mara, thank you for your patient company along the way. Eden, thank you for teaching me how to read with my eyes open. I‟d like to dedicate it to them.

Feliz Faber March 2011

About the Author

FELIZ FABER has moved more often than she feels like thinking of and has worked more jobs than she can remember. A restless traveler for all her life, she's still wondering how she ended up putting down roots in the tranquility of the south German countryside, but she's even come to like it by now—most of the time. It certainly helps that she's got the world's wisest man to support her as her partner and the goofiest, sweetest pair of Cocker Spaniels to fool around with. She works quite a lot to make ends meet, reads, or plays the flute whenever she needs to escape for a while, and, now and again, rides her motorbike as fast as it will go when even the music can't take her far enough. Visit Feliz's blog at http://felfaber.blogspot.com.

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