Puzzle by Nora Phoenix
8
They had a name. Holy shit, they had a name.
Branson blinked, unable to believe his eyes. But no, he’d been right. The facts were irrefutable. A week ago, they’d made the breakthrough discovery on Winkelmann’s presidential campaign, and now he had a name. Justice would be served. It had taken them much longer than it should have, but by god, they would nail these bastards for the lives they had taken.
He wanted to tell someone. He wanted to tell…
Why was Ryder’s the first name that popped into his head? Why not Weston, his team leader, or even Seth or Coulson? It made little sense. It had to be because they worked so well together. Ryder was just as stubborn in resisting Branson’s teasing as Branson was in calling him Ry. He didn’t know why, but he liked to press his buttons. A flustered Ryder was even cuter than a normal one.
“Do you have a copy for me from—”
Branson spun his chair around at the sound of Ryder’s voice. If he was here, no way was Branson not sharing his news with him. “I have his name.”
Ryder frowned for a moment, but then his face lit up. “You found him? Hamza Bashir?”
“Yes. Look…” Ryder peered over Branson’s shoulder as he turned back to his screen. “It has got to be him. He was in Qatar when Muhammed Bhat had his meeting in the mall. He was in Oman in September 2014 when Basil King and Kurt Barrow were there. And he was in Yemen in December 2014 when King traveled there.”
He pulled up the picture he had found. “His picture matches the man we saw on the security footage from the mall in Qatar. His name is Yazid El Sewedy, and he’s a citizen of the UAE, born in Dubai. He’s thirty-one, he studied at Oxford, he’s single…and he’s rich.”
Behind him, Ryder gasped. “It’s him. It lines up.”
“Yes, it does. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s him. We have our man.”
He pushed his chair back and got up, joy flooding his system. He had him. After six years, they had the real name of Hamza Bashir. His face split open in a grin so wide it almost hurt. He’d done it. Not by himself, of course. It had been a massive team effort from people from all agencies within the intelligence community…but he’d been able to piece the final bit together.
On impulse, he hugged Ryder, then lifted him off the floor for a second. Ryder laughed, not giving any indication he didn’t want the embrace. Why wouldn’t he? It was just a friendly hug between coworkers, a celebration of a major triumph. A hug that, admittedly, felt surprisingly good, but that had to be his high from the discovery. Branson held on a moment longer, then released him.
“Congratulations, Branson. That’s fantastic work,” Ryder said, beaming.
Branson raised his hands in the air. “Victory is mine! I drink from the keg of glory.”
Ryder giggled, a sound that always settled deep inside Branson, maybe because it was such a rare occurrence. Ryder was usually so serious. “It’s a good day when you’re quoting the West Wing.”
“It’s the best day ever. We should celebrate.”
“You should celebrate. My work is only just beginning. You found a name. Now I have to tie him to Kingmakers financially.”
Branson waved his words away. “Details. You’re brilliant at what you do.”
“Thank you.”
He put his arm around Ryder. Yup, he really liked touching him. Still riding that high, probably. “Now let’s celebrate. I’ll treat you to the best lunch we can get in the cafeteria.”
Ryder laughed again, and Branson loved the sound. “Don’t go crazy now.”
“I can afford this. I think. And after lunch, I’ll set up a meeting with Coulson so we can update him.”
He should remove his arm, though Ryder didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was leaning into Branson’s touch a little, and Branson filed that fact away to ponder later. For now, he’d settle for a fun lunch.
His phone rang, and while he was tempted to let it go so they could leave, he had to at least check to see who it was.
Mom.
His heart skipped a beat. She never called him at work. Ever. And he’d talked to his parents two days before, since they were on a brief vacation in the US. He let go of Ryder and picked up. “Mom? Everything okay?”
“Branson, sweetie, I need you to be strong now, okay?”
Icy fear replaced the joy he’d felt only seconds before. “What's wrong, Mom? Did something happen to Brenda?”
“No, it’s your father. He hasn’t been feeling well lately and had some complaints, so we had him checked out while we were stateside on a quick visit. I don’t know how to say this, but he’s… He has cancer.”
Ohgogohgodohgod. He reached out, and Ryder grabbed his hand, stepping so close to him Branson could lean against him. “What kind of cancer?”
“Colon cancer. It’s… It’s bad, sweetie. I’m not gonna lie. He’s determined to beat it, but he’s in for the fight of his life.”
“Mom…” His voice broke.
“He needs you to be strong. I need you.”
“I’ll be there. Does Brenda know?”
“I’m calling her next.”
His twin sister, an Air Force pilot, was stationed overseas in Incirlik, in Turkey. He checked his watch. It would be early evening there, so still plenty of time to call. “Where’s Dad now?”
“Georgetown University Hospital. They’re running more tests today, and they want to schedule surgery as soon as possible to remove part of his colon.”
Ryder nudged him, and when Branson looked, he held up his phone with a word scribbled in a notes app. Metastasis? Oh, good question. “Mom, has it spread? Is it metastatic?”
“That’s what we’ll find out after today, but the surgeon said it won’t change the initial treatment plan. It might mean he’ll have to undergo more radiation and chemo, but we don’t know that yet.”
“Okay. What can I do? What do you need?”
“I’d love for you to come to the hospital if you can, but I understand if you can’t get away.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Branson, you have an important job. Make sure it’s okay to leave.”
“I’ll be there, Mom. They’ll understand.”
“Okay. I love you, sweetie. We’ll get through this.”
“Love you too, Mom. See you soon.”
He hung up, dazed. Cancer. His father, the picture of health even at sixty-three, had cancer. How was that possible? The man drank infrequently, ate super healthy, ran five miles every other day, and was still in phenomenal shape. How could this happen?
“I gotta go,” he said to Ryder, who was still holding his hand.
“I heard. Georgetown University, right?”
Branson nodded.
“I’ll drive.”
“You don’t… I can drive myself.”
Ryder’s eyes were endlessly kind. “You just heard some devastating news. You shouldn’t be driving now.”
He had a point. “I need to tell Weston I’ll be gone for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll let him know when I tell him I’m out for a bit.”
Branson packed his bag, only vaguely registering Ryder making a quick call, then hurrying out to get his own briefcase before coming back for Branson. He felt like he was sleepwalking when they made their way out into the parking lot. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a bad dream, the worst nightmare he’d ever had. Except it was real, wasn’t it?
He didn’t say a word as Ryder drove him to the hospital, his Tesla barely making a sound as he weaved in and out of lanes, driving as smoothly as a cab driver. Branson cleared his throat. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yeah. My erm… My ex works there, and I often picked him up from work.”
His ex? That confirmed Branson’s sense that Ryder was gay and answered his question about whether he was single. “What does he do?”
“He’s an attending surgeon, hoping to specialize in cardiothoracic procedures.”
His tone was clipped, his face tight. Oh, there was a story there, but Branson let it go. Now wasn’t the time. “You can drop me off at the entrance,” he said.
“Okay.”
Ryder navigated to the main entrance, then found a spot where Branson could get out.
“Thank you for driving me. I’m—”
“You’re welcome. Go.”
Branson sent him a look of gratitude, then got out of the car and hurried inside. With help from a kind receptionist, he found the waiting room where his mom sat by herself, leafing through a Vanity Fair. “Mom.”
She looked up and rushed to him, then enveloped him in a tight hug. “Hey, sweetie. Thank you for coming.”
He held on to her for a moment, giving in to his need for her touch. She’d always been a hugger, someone whose love language was touch, and Branson was the same. His father and Brenda were different, both focusing more on words, but Branson had always felt that one hug could affect him much more than an entire speech. And so he clung to her, allowing her subtle perfume to surround him, her soft arms to hold him.
“Did you manage to reach Brenda?” he asked when he could let go, his eyes moist.
“Yes. We agreed we’d wait on the results of today’s tests, but she’ll talk to her CO so he knows what’s up.”
“She should be granted emergency family leave under these circumstances,” Branson said. “She’s not in a war zone.”
His mom nodded. “She didn’t expect it would be an issue, but we wanted to wait until we had a clear picture of what the situation was.”
They sat down on a pair of burgundy red, uncomfortably hard chairs. “How’s Dad dealing with it?” Branson asked.
His mom smiled at him. “What do you think? Your dad’s a fighter. He always has been. To him, this is just another battle he has to win.”
Branson should have known. His father, a former Marine, had never backed down from a challenge. He always faced adversities head on, choosing to deal with reality rather than delude himself. In college, Branson had learned about the stages of grief and of coping with severe setbacks, and one of them was denial. Even then, he’d realized his father always skipped that phase. He accepted the truth…then went on to badger it, mold it, shape it purely by the power of his will until he’d made it palatable.
“Mrs. Grove?” A doctor stepped into the waiting room, her face professional but kind. “I’m Dr. Porterfield, the attending oncologist.”
“Yes. I’m Lisa Grove, and this is my son, Branson.”
Dr. Porterfield took a seat across from them. “I have some first results of your husband’s MRI, and he gave permission for me to share these with you.”
She had bad news. To others, her expression might’ve been neutral, but Branson picked up on the subtle signs of sadness and stress. She seemed young enough to still be bothered by having to deliver bad news. Branson mentally braced himself.
His mom took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Unfortunately, it’s more widespread than we thought, which means we’re now at a stage III colon cancer. It’s spread to lymph nodes nearby, but his lungs and liver are clear, so that’s the good news.”
Branson swallowed. It had metastasized. Goddammit.
“Are you still operating?” his mom asked.
“Yes. Our first step is to perform a partial colectomy, so we’ll remove part of his colon, which in itself is a complicated surgery that has serious risks. Tumors are unpredictable, so we won’t know how much we can take until we can see it on the table. Depending on what we face, we may have to do a total colectomy. Regardless, your husband will have to use a bag for the foreseeable future to collect his stool, either a colostomy or an ileostomy bag, depending on where we can place it.”
His father would hate that. He’d always been so proud of his body, of his health.
But Branson’s mom waved her hand dismissively. “That’s a small price to pay if it means he’ll survive.”
“We can do the colectomy the day after tomorrow, so we want to keep him to prep his bowels. He’ll have to stay for at least four days after, depending on how well he recovers.”
“And after that?” Branson wanted to know. “Can you say anything about his prognosis?”
He was afraid to ask because the answer could crush him, but he still needed to understand what they were dealing with.
Dr. Porterfield shot him an apologetic look. “The most likely next step is chemotherapy, but we’ll have to take it one day at a time. I wish I could give you a comprehensive treatment plan, but we won’t know until we’ve seen the tumor. And even then, colon cancer is a type of cancer that’s unpredictable, so our approach will always have to be flexible so we can adapt if necessary. That’s also why, in this stage, I’m not comfortable yet talking about a prognosis or statistics.”
“Thank you,” his mom said, sounding tired. “When can I see him?”
“We’re doing some last tests, but he should be back in his room in half an hour. I’ll have a nurse come get you when he’s done.”
With that, Dr. Porterfield walked off, and Branson took his mom’s hand. “We’ll get through this.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “We will. Your dad is the strongest man I know. If anyone can beat this, it’s him.”
They sat quietly until a nurse came to tell them they could go up to his dad’s room. Branson had to fight back his emotions at the sight of his father in that hospital bed. He looked too frail, too old all of a sudden. His hug was still strong, though. “Thank you for being there for your mom.” He squeezed Branson’s shoulder. “She’s gonna need you.”
“I’m here,” he promised.
“Don’t neglect your work,” his father warned him, as always clear in his priorities. Branson’s parents knew what he did, though obviously not the details. “The world needs people like you to keep us safe.”
“I’m only an analyst, Dad.”
“No, you’re not. If people had listened to analysts in 2001, 9/11 would never have happened. Don’t ever forget the power you have.”
His father, always the man to offer inspiration. “I know, Dad.”
“Make time for your friends as well,” his mom said. “Especially in hard times, you need friends.”
His friends. Now there was a sobering reality. What friends? He had coworkers, guys he hooked up with, acquaintances, but that was it. Somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten how to make friends…or how to be one, maybe. But he had a fulfilling career and a wonderful family, so it would have to be enough.
After meeting Seth, he’d hoped that maybe he’d found someone he wanted to get to know better, someone kind and loyal, strong and honorable. But alas, Seth’s heart belonged to Coulson, and honestly, after meeting Coulson and seeing the two of them together, Branson couldn’t deny what a perfect pair they were.
Maybe he should resurrect his profile on that hookup app. He’d called himself SpookyBigDick in a lame attempt at an inside joke combined with his best-selling feature. After what had happened with Seth, he’d deactivated it, but he could sure use a good, hard fuck right now, something to take his mind off the thought of his father fighting for his life. He might not have friends, but he’d never had trouble finding a hookup.
Sex, the ultimate distraction. It would have to be enough.
