“One more word from the front row, and I will fire you all on the spot,” McCoy threatened. “Now. We have a speaker from Public Relations here to have a talk. You can all thank Special Agent Grady after its over,” he announced to the room, then stalked off the stage and told the guest speaker to go on.
The PR guy started by replaying the news broadcast for them. When Ty and Zane came on camera and Ty spoke this time, his finger pointing at the camera, the room of agents erupted into cheers, whistles, and applause. Ty sank lower and covered his face again so McCoy wouldnt see him smiling and fire him. He felt a nudge of a toe to his foot. A sideways look at his partner earned him an amused wink. Zane had told him last night that he agreed with what Ty had said and the delivery of the message, despite the fact that McCoy would blow a gasket. Zanes prediction had come to pass. There were gaskets galore this afternoon.
“Now, while I must agree that Special Agent Gradys phrasing could have been more diplomatic,” the PR rep said, showing off his perfectly aligned, extra-bright white teeth, “I do have to say that the image being presented can only help us. People have been demanding action, and theyve just been given some big and bold action.”
“Now that is what they should call us,” Ty said with a satisfied nod.
“Oh Jesus,” Alston muttered. “And to be frank,” White Strips continued, “procedural and agency shows are all over TV and are big hits, and Grady and Garrett here looked just like the rogue agents do on TV.”
Zane choked on his sip of coffee, setting off a round of tittering and outright laughter.
“Well,” Alston said, just loud enough for Ty and Zane to hear, “McCoy did say you two were pretty.”
Ty reached over and flicked him on the tip of his nose. Alston laughed even as he turned his head away.
“… and we estimate public opinion of the FBI rose as much as 8 percent after the very first broadcast,” White Strips continued. “Ooh, so Garrett and Grady are sexy TV stars now,” Special Agent Michelle Clancy crowed as Zane talked over her, saying, “Those percentages dont mean anything.”
“It means, Special Agent Garrett,” White Strips said with a smarmy smile, “that due to your sudden rise in popularity, you and your high-profile partner just earned another three months of community class duty.”
“Oh son of a bitch!” Ty blurted out with a flurry of hand motions and stomp of one foot, sending another ripple of laughter through the entire conference room.
“I didnt even say anything,” Zane objected. “Your bad-boy biker image did your speaking for you, Special Agent Garrett,” White Strips pointed out. “You should have thought of that before zooming however-many hundred feet down the pier on that motorcycle.”
“Yeah, Garrett, next time curtail your hotness,” Ty sniped. He crossed his arms and slumped in his seat like a sulking child. More classes, more lectures, more dealing with people and being nice to them. He was going to go insane. “And do I get no credit at all for running the same distance in the same amount of time that he rode? Come on!”
There was a brief chorus of pandering, unsympathetic “awwwws,” followed by Alston drawling, “And why is it—” “We shop at the same grocery,” Zane said sweetly, cutting off whatever Alston was starting to spin out. “Ty doesnt eat real food,” Alston observed with a frown. Ty waved him off.
“Back to business,” White Strips insisted, picking up a stack of thick manuals and starting to pass them out. “Time for a general review of agency public-relations guidelines.”
Ty groaned inwardly. He hoped the sudden support from his fellow agents would hold after being bitch-slapped with a regulations manual for the next hour. He doubted it.
Z ANE parked near the ambulance that sat to the side of the softball field and climbed out, leaving the truck running with the heater on. It only took him a few steps to get to the open back doors of the ambulance where Ty sat, looking awfully dejected. He wore a loose blue and gray baseball jersey with the word “Feds” written in cursive across the chest, and he was covered in red dirt almost from head to toe. The number twelve and the name “Bulldog” were stitched on the back where his last name should have been. The jersey had come untucked from a pair of gray baseball pants, revealing a dark blue Under Armour shirt that hugged Tys torso.
When Zane stopped at his side, he turned his head and gave Zane a sheepish smile. “Hey,” he greeted.
After looking Ty up and down, Zane smiled. “How you feeling?” “Had better nights.” Tys words were slow and careful. Then he held up his right hand, which was wrapped up in white athletic tape. His pinkie finger was almost indiscernible. He held a disposable ice pack in the other hand, pressing it to his ribs. “Got run over by a fireman.”
Zane couldnt help but laugh.
An EMT wrapped up in a heavy jacket nodded solemnly. “Im shocked he remembers it.” “You hush,” Ty grunted at her.
“Can he leave?”
“Ive done all I can do for him,” she answered with a nod and a pat to Tys shoulder.
“Cmon, your chariot has arrived,” Zane said, stepping back and waving the way to his truck. “Did you get the trucks number?” “What truck?” Ty asked as he slid carefully from the ambulance and trudged around it. He wasnt entirely steady as he stepped past Zane; his cleats dragged through the gravel. He seemed to be moving on autopilot as Zane steered him to the passenger seat.
Zane helped him in, pushed the door shut, walked around to the drivers side, and climbed in. “The firemans truck.” “He didnt use a truck,” Ty answered with all sincerity. “His jersey says hes Tank. I got jacked, man. Dude picked me up and threw me down. Gave me Vicodin,” he told Zane with a deep frown, not appearing to notice his thought processes hopping around.
“Whatd you do? Break it?” Zane asked, reaching out to try to catch the flailing hand that was all wrapped up. “They told me what was bruised and cracked. Dislocated finger, maybe a cracked rib. I tried to listen, but the EMT had this….” Ty put his hand up near his throat and seemed to search for the right word, his hazel eyes not quite focused. “Really low-cut… I got distracted.”
Zane pressed his lips together to keep back the smile. “And they counted the run! I had him out at the plate, though. I held onto the ball. Well, it stayed in my glove, anyway. Glove got knocked off. Should have been like half a run.”