Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a car in Bryson’s driveway.

There is a car in Bryson’s driveway.

There is an unknown vehicle that by all accounts seemingly got through the gate, which showed no sign of forced entry, and past all the automated defences, which are designed to take out any unauthorized presence on his property. And now it’s parked at the end of Bryson’s driveway. Unscathed.

However, the car is the least of Bryson’s problems, given that there is a light on in his house.

His house, which is supposed to kill everybody but the three people registered in the system the second their hand touches the door handle. Bryson is outside, and his parents are in California, and he did not leave the lights on when he left this morning.

Bryson leaves his own car in the driveway so as to not alert the intruder with the sound of the garage door and unlocks one of the side doors as quietly as he can. He takes off his dress shoes, and silently makes his way towards the kitchen with his gun drawn.

There’s no sign of Wedge, which is a concern. He’s a retired K9, so if he isn’t raising hell, Bryson fears for the worst. If this asshole killed his dog, he’s going to make their death as painful as possible.

He peeks around the opening to the kitchen, scanning for the intruder. It doesn’t take long, given that he’s sitting at Bryson’s kitchen table with one of Bryson’s rifles dismantled in front of him, Wedge’s head in his lap. Wearing a fucking cardigan.

Bryson feels–no, he doesn’t feel anything. He steps out from around the corner with his gun aimed at Rory’s head. “What the fuck are you doing here.”

Rory just looks up from the gun parts he’s examining, the picture of unbothered. “I was expecting you back earlier. Is this a new prototype? How much have you tested it?”

“How did you get into my armory?”

“The same way I got into your house, Bryson. I had a whole plan, but then I found out that you haven’t changed any of your passcodes or kicked me off of your biometric recognition in the last five years. Really irresponsible.”

The fucking accent is grating on Bryson’s ears so badly he’s contemplating just killing Rory right now so he doesn’t have to hear it insult him. Unfortunately, that would leave him with one very important question unanswered, and that would be even worse. “Tell me what you’re doing here or get the hell out.”

Rory drums his fingers against the table, looking past the barrel of the gun at Bryson. Finally, he sighs. “I need your help with something.”

That stuns Bryson enough to freeze everything roiling inside of him. “What?”

“Please put the gun down, Bryson, we both know you’d never actually hurt me. There’s really no need for it, anyways; if you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll leave without a fuss. You have my word.”

Bryson’s hands tense on the gun, and he wants to pull the trigger so, so bad, just to prove Rory wrong.

He can’t, and he hates himself for it.

He puts his gun on the table and takes a seat across from Rory. “Alright, let me guess. The Tour needs their best agent for a specialty mission, so they called him back from the admin job that’s been keeping him complacent for the last three or so years, but he’s out of practice, so he’s come to his old partner to help with his training montage. Unfortunately, his old partner is with 54 now and hates his guts and says no, fuck off. Does that sound about right?”

Rory laughs. Tips his head back and smiles and everything. It’s a real laugh, Bryson knows that, and that’s what pisses him off the most. “Not at all, really. I never stopped running missions after I started helping with administration, you just never heard about them. Not all of us do work as…public-facing as you. Also, why would I train with you when I could train with Scottie instead? This visit isn’t actually Tour sanctioned, either. I’m working on a, let’s call it a personal project, and your lack of respect for human life is unfortunately necessary for its success.”

Bryson is upset. Bryson is really fucking upset. He can feel his heartbeat, which is bad, because that means he’s not calm and if he’s not calm he’s off his game and if he’s off his game that means he’ll make a mistake. He’s already made a mistake, because Rory has always been able to live in his blindspot and slip between cracks that Bryson desperately tries to fill but never can. He showed his hand too early and now Rory holds all the cards, and really Bryson just needs him and his cardigan to get out of his house as soon as possible.

“Right, because all I am to you is a killer, thanks for the reminder.”

“You left the Tour and joined 54 because you wanted to be a hitman, Bryson. It’s not all you are, but it’s certainly what you want to do. If you want to keep doing it, you may as well do it once for the greater good as opposed to the people with the deepest pockets.”

“Is it a snipe? Because if it is, I don’t understand why you need me for it when you’re just as good at long range as I am.”

“It is, but I need to be in the building when the shot is fired, so obviously I can’t be the one pulling the trigger.”

“Alright. I can only assume Scottie is involved, too. How is he, these days?” Bryson makes an effort to imply as much as he can with his tone.

“He’s doing well,” Rory offers, perfectly bland. “He’s not involved, though. Like I said, it’s a personal project.”

It does not say anything about if they’re fucking and even if it did Bryson would not care at all.

“Hm. So I'm the first person who's hearing about this?”

“The second. Tiger knows, and now you. Now are you going to keep guessing around the mission, or are you going to let me explain it?”

What does it mean if fucking Tiger is the only other person who knows about this? Bryson knows he’s not going to get all of the details here. It’s rare that he loses the information war, and it’s pissing him off that he’s on his off foot here, working off of what are probably incorrect inferences. Tiger and Rory are close, he knows, so it makes sense that of anybody, Tiger would know, but you still don’t just tell Tiger fucking Woods everything, no matter how close you may be.

“Fine, what is it?”

“Well, Tiger knows because he’s the hit. There’s gonna be–”

Bryson puts his hand back on his gun. “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to kill Tiger Woods and take the fall? Because I will take the fall, if I’m the one killing him while you have your pretty little alibi in the building, and the Tour will not take kindly to me killing their leader in a way that will clearly look like an assassination, no matter how badly he wants to die.”

“Of course you’re not taking the fall, Bryson, I’m taking the fall. You’re gonna turn yourself in right before they find you and tell them I coerced you into doing it, and by then all the pieces will be in place for them to believe you.”

Bryson squeezes the grip as his throat closes up. It’s an obvious tell, but Rory could just read his face and know, anyway. “I’m not doing that, either.”

“Why not? You don’t give a shit about me. What happens to me has no bearing on what happens to you.” Rory sounds genuinely confused, like he doesn’t know and is trying to get Bryson to say it outright, which of course he would never.

Still. That doesn’t leave Bryson with many good responses. “If we’re partners in this, I’m responsible for making sure you get out safe.”

“This will be getting out safe, Bryson. You just have to trust me and play your part, and everything will turn out fine for everybody.” Rory smiles, small and honest. Bryson can’t stand him.

“Except for Tiger. What if I respect him too much to kill him?”

“You don’t. Any other token protests?”

At some point, in some circumstances, folding is a good move because it’s the only move you have left. “I don’t– I don’t fucking get you, Rory. You’re in my house after however many years and you’re asking me to kill one of the most important people in your life, and you want me to just trust you? Accept that you’re going to take the blame for something you could easily hang me out to dry for? I’m sure that I’m just a cog in some big machine you’re keeping hidden from me, because that’s the way it always is with you, but this time I’m not forced to follow along. And I say no, I’m not doing it. Got it?”

Rory closes his eyes and breathes deep. When he opens them again, he looks towards Bryson’s dismantled rifle and starts piecing it back together. “Fine. I respect your decision.”

Bryson watches Rory’s hands, strong and sure with a weapon they can’t have been familiar with for more than a few hours, probably less than that. He thought he’d never see them again, and he thinks that it’ll actually be true this time.

When the rifle is reassembled, Rory stands with one last pet for Wedge, and pauses by Bryson on his way out. One of those hands comes up to squeeze Bryson’s shoulder. Bryson looks down at it, at the tendons and the knuckles and the rough skin.

“It’s been nice seeing you, Bryson.”

And truly, honestly, fuck Rory McIlroy for still knowing Bryson so well after all of these years, for knowing he’d be distracted enough to not notice the needle full of sedative in his other hand until after it’s already too late.

Chapter Text

Bryson’s headache wakes him up. With every beat of his heart, blood hammers the backs of his eyes. He’s absolutely parched, too, which is an incredible combination. He doesn’t even remember going out, much less drinking enough to have a hangover this bad.

He tries to roll over and throw an arm over his face, but something stops his arm in the middle of the movement. Upon further consideration, there’s something around his wrist. That’s not a good sign.

His well-honed survival instinct forces his eyes open, and it takes a while for his vision to clear. He’s in bed, in a bedroom, but it’s not his bed or bedroom. Fuck.

He scans the room as he waits for his memory to come up with how he might have gotten here. It’s a nice room, but it’s got all the personality of a hotel. There are two doors, one which Bryson assumes leads to a closet and the other to the rest of whatever building he’s in. A window with drapes that block out most of the light, but the light coming through the gaps is bright enough to tell Bryson that it’s daytime. A heavy wooden dresser on the wall opposite the bed with no mirror above it and a dish with a silver bracelet in it the only thing on it. Looking up, his wrist is cuffed to the bedframe, which is also ornate and wooden. There’s nothing on top of the nightstand. He spots his shoes on the floor against the wall, but he’s still wearing the same suit he wore to that event yesterday. He didn’t go home with anybody, right? No, he went back to his own house, because that’s when–

Rory.

Bryson goes slack against the bed again. Fuck. He’s so fucking stupid.

He could slip the cuff, but it’s not worth dislocating his thumb when Rory will probably just let him go after the mission. To kill Tiger. So much for respecting Bryson’s decision.

One of the doors opens and Wedge bolts through it, just to sit anxiously on the floor next to the bed, looking up at Bryson.

“It’s alright, up.”

Wedge immediately jumps up and lays down on Bryson’s chest. Bryson looks past the mound of dog on top of him towards Rory, who leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and his expression inscrutable. “Why’d you bring my dog?”

“I didn’t want to leave him alone this long. Sorry about all this, by the way. I wish you would’ve come along the easy way, but I need you for this whether you want to do it or not.”

“Apology not accepted. You’re not sorry. Where the fuck did you take me?”

Rory moves towards the window, pushes one of the drapes halfway to the side. After his eyes adjust to the sudden influx of light, Bryson catches a glimpse of some evergreens and a Southern style white house a bit in the distance. “Currently, you’re in my apartment at the Augusta complex.”

“So if I try to escape, I’m guaranteed to get killed on sight. Great.”

“Just an extra precaution. I really want this to be as painless as possible. I’ve got everything planned out for you, all you need to do is take the shot. Tonight, if possible, but I can make tomorrow work, too.”

Bryson closes his eyes, focuses on the weight of Wedge on him. “I guess I don’t really have a choice about trusting you, then. You better have been telling the truth.”

“Have I ever let you down before? I’m going to uncuff you, please behave.”

After Rory unlocks the shackle, Bryson rubs his wrist to get full bloodflow going again. Wedge hops back onto the floor when he starts to sit up, then trots over to Rory because he’s a little traitor.

Rory gives the dog some fond scratches and starts walking out of the room with Wedge on his heels. “I’ve got food if you’re hungry. Take your time. We’ve got a few hours until we need to leave.”

Bryson doesn’t bother with an acknowledgement. He sits on the side of the bed with his feet firmly on the floor for a few minutes, trying to suppress the self-hatred for being stupid enough to land himself in this situation. Rory only amplifies all of those feelings, and they’re not useful in his line of work.

He’s a 54 agent, and a damn good one. He will do this job, and then he will go home, and then he will finally be free of Rory. If he manifests it, it will come true.

Bryson silently takes a seat at the kitchen table and watches Rory move around the kitchen. He looks healthy. Solid. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and dress pants, presumably half dressed for whatever thing he and Tiger will both be at tonight. He clearly wasn’t lying when he said he’s still in shape. He doesn’t have any weapons on him that Bryson can see, which means he probably has at least a knife tucked away somewhere, but it’s inaccessible enough that Bryson could get a jump on him before he could draw it. He could subdue Rory pretty easily. He doesn’t know how he would get Rory to stay there so Bryson could get out, though, and even once Bryson did leave the apartment how he would escape Augusta, so the visualization of his escape plan buffers at Bryson pinning Rory’s hands above his head and straddling his thighs.

Rory puts a plate in front of him, pulling Bryson back to reality. It’s just an omelette, but Rory makes really good omelettes, and Bryson kinda misses them when he’s on long missions even now.

Bryson eats and Rory does something on his phone. Answering messages, if Bryson had to guess. They don’t talk.

When Bryson puts down his fork, plate empty, he asks, “what’s the plan?”

Rory looks up at him. “I’m so glad you asked.”

Approximately seven hours later, Rory leads Bryson onto a rooftop in Atlanta. “You can see it, right over there.”

Bryson does see it. A series of windows that Tiger will walk past at some point tonight, almost three miles away. An impossible distance for anybody but Bryson.

Rory hands over the gear he helped carry up, also kidnapped from Bryson’s house, and a bullet, provided by Rory and the only one Bryson will need. He wishes he could be using his own, but Rory reassured him it will perform exactly the same way; the main difference is that one of Bryson’s bullets isn’t evidence of Rory’s involvement.

“You’ll be fine getting out?”

“I’m not an amateur.”

“Of course. Thank you for doing this, really. Through the heart, remember.”

“Couldn’t forget. Go, I need to set up.”

Rory nods and leaves.

Now Bryson is alone. It feels better this way, when he’s on the verge of a kill. He clears his mind as he assembles his rifle and positions it on the edge of the roof. He becomes nothing but endless patience and a trigger finger.

Time is meaningless while waiting for a target. The target is constrained by its passage while he is outside of it, looking at its stream.

Different people pass through the hallway. None of them are the target. When the target finally does come into view, he becomes a statue, waiting for his crosshairs and the target to meet.

The target stops and turns to face a not-target, in the middle of a conversation. The target’s back is to the window.

He pulls the trigger. The window shatters, the target collapses, and Bryson stands up and starts disassembling his gear as quickly as he can. He tucks the casing into his pocket as the last order of business before he heads towards the stairs.

There's a car parked in the alleyway next to the building he just killed Tiger Woods from. Wedge is waiting for him in the passenger seat. They’ve got a long drive ahead of them to get back to Texas.

Chapter Text

Bryson is not thinking about it. It’s been three days and he hasn’t looked at his phone. He does not want to read the messages from friends and colleagues who are reeling in shock at Tiger’s sudden demise. He does not want to know how the Tour’s investigation is going. He does not want to know if Rory has been caught yet. He does not care if Rory has been caught yet.

But he isn’t thinking about it. He’s just waiting. He knows whoever is looking will probably find him first, and it’ll probably happen sooner rather than later. The entirety of the Tour’s many resources are surely behind the hunt for the killer, and that much power could find anybody on Earth in a matter of minutes. The ax will fall soon, he knows it. He’s out of his skin, anxious and restless. For no reason at all, really, since he isn’t thinking about it.

There’s a buzz from the gate. A voice comes over the speakers.

“It’s Scottie. Can you open the gate? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Bryson lets him through. There’s no point resisting.

He waits in the threshold for Scottie to pull up the drive. He’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants, but couldn’t be assed to prepare further despite the likelihood this meeting ends in violence.

Scottie gets out of his car, and he looks like shit. There are bags under his eyes, his shirt is wrinkled, and it looks like he hasn’t shaved in three days.

Bryson frowns when Scottie gets to the stairs. “You look like shit, Scottie.”

“Well, yeah, when Tiger Woods is assassinated you get run a little ragged. You don’t look too good, yourself. What’s your excuse?”

It’s been two years since Bryson and Scottie last saw each other, officially. It was coincidence that he was scouting a hit at the same time Scottie was lifting some information, or something. Bryson didn’t care then and he doesn’t care now. Off the books, Bryson called Scottie five months ago to ask if he could petsit Wedge since they live half an hour away from each other and it was an emergency. Calling them friends would be a bit of a stretch, but they’ve always been friendly. Scottie wasn’t one of the ones who hated him after he left the Tour, and Bryson has always respected Scottie’s ability to get shit done.

“Just a bit under the weather, I guess. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks. I assume you’ve already figured that I’m here to talk about Tiger, though?”

“I gathered as much, yeah. We can chat in the living room.”

Scottie sits on one couch, Bryson sits on another. Wedge pads over and lays down next to Bryson, glaring at Scottie with suspicion. Finally he learns loyalty.

“So. I’ve been leading the investigation into Tiger’s murder. We’ve found no evidence of any snipers within a two mile radius, which is making a lot of people really frustrated, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Bryson nods. Tour agents are notoriously pissy when things don’t go their way.

“Well, I decided I would swing home for a couple days to grab some more of my stuff, since I originally wasn’t planning on being in Atlanta for this long. I was reviewing everything on the plane when I realized that maybe we weren’t finding anything within two miles because the shot was taken more than two miles away, and if anybody would know anything about pulling that off, it’d be you. So here I am, straight from the airport. I’m not making any accusations, I just want to hear your thoughts breaking down what might have been possible.”

Bryson looks at Scottie as he takes a second to figure out the best way to go about this. “You’re just here to talk, right? I’m not going to face any retribution for what I may or may not know?”

“Of course, man. You have my word.”

Bryson trusts Scottie’s word a lot more than he trusts Rory’s. “Well, then, I can probably tell you whatever details you want to know about the shot itself, since I was the one who took it, but if you want to know why, you’ll have to ask Rory.”

Scottie sits there, stunned. Then he smiles, like Bryson just told a joke. “What the fuck are you talking about, Bryse?”

Bryson doesn’t smile back. “Last Friday, Rory McIlroy broke into my house and told me he wanted me to kill Tiger Woods. I told him no, since why would I willingly bring the whole of the Tour on my head, so he drugged me and I woke up in Augusta, where I really didn’t have a choice. He had the whole thing planned out, all I had to do was sit on the rooftop he had chosen and take the shot. After I did, I left. I should have the security footage of him in my house, if you’d like to see. I have the casing, too, since you know I keep them for all of my kills.”

Scottie isn’t smiling now. He’s got on a blank mask to hide whatever he’s feeling, which Bryson guesses is some mixture of betrayal and despair. “Show me.”

Bryson does. He hasn’t gone through it himself, couldn’t bear to, and as he watches it back with Scottie he remembers just how unflattering of an encounter it is. He cringes when he puts the gun on the table, when he sounds hysterical and on the verge of tears as he unloads at Rory, when Rory catches him completely unawares with the sedative, when Rory drags him out with Wedge sniffing curiously at his limp form.

Bryson pauses the footage after Rory is out of frame. “Need anything more than that?”

It’d probably be rude to laugh at the absolutely devastated look on Scottie’s face, wouldn’t it? He gives Scottie a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“I don’t understand,” Scottie says, voice small. “I need to sit down.”

Bryson pulls the rolling chair behind him so Scottie can collapse into it.

“I don’t understand any more than you do. I’m sorry about this.”

Scottie calls somebody who doesn’t pick up. Rory, Bryson assumes. Then Scottie calls somebody else and waits for them to pick up with a hand covering his face. “Hey. Do you know where Rory is right now?”

There’s a pause as Scottie listens.

“Right, thanks, Sam. Send out an alert that he’s a fugitive and the prime suspect in the Woods investigation. He needs to be brought in alive for questioning and should be assumed to be hostile.” Scottie hangs up and rears his arm back as if he’s about to smash his phone on the floor, before he freezes and collects himself. “Can you send me the footage?”

“Sure.”

Scottie provides background noise as Bryson works. “I don’t get it. I don’t get any of this. None of it makes sense. Why did Tiger have to die? Why was Rory the one who masterminded the whole thing? I thought I knew him, Bryson, how could he do this?”

Bryson hits send with more force than necessary. “Your first mistake was ever thinking you understood Rory. I’ve made that mistake before, and I’ve paid the price. That man is only ever what he wants you to see. You shouldn’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. Even if he does tell you the truth, it’s only as a misdirection.” He grips the edge of the desk, lets it dig into his palm for a second before he lets go.

When he composes himself enough to face Scottie again, he’s looking at Bryson with something uncomfortably close to pity on his face. “I’ll make sure the Tour doesn’t target you for your involvement, though I can’t imagine they would. You know how they are about justice, and you’ve been cooperative. I’ll let you know if they want to ask you more questions. Thanks a lot, man.”

“Yeah, well, good luck catching the son of a bitch.”

Scottie offers a half smile as he leaves the room, leaving Bryson with the monitors and his thoughts.

He can’t stop thinking.

What happens between Rory and the Tour is none of his business. If he gets involved more than he already is, he’d be setting himself up for a world of hurt. And yet.

Scottie’s right, it doesn’t make sense. There’s a master plan, a larger purpose that Tiger’s death serves, that’s obvious, but there’s no way that the Tour finds it out. They’re way too close to it, and Rory was surely preparing with them in mind.

Bryson has a sniper’s view, far above it all. Bryson is the hairline fracture in the plan, a loose end that could quickly turn into a weak point, something Rory is counting on going away now that his job is over.

Rory can get fucked. Bryson is going after him, just to prove that he can, just to prove that Rory can’t just kidnap him with no consequences, just to show Rory that Bryson is in his blindspot as much as Rory is in his.

Alright. Bryson starts by identifying everything he has to work with. He knows what Rory told him, which should all be taken with a grain of salt. He has a bullet casing. He can tap into Tour gossip, since everybody is bound to have a theory about why Rory ordered the hit, and some of them might even have a grain of truth to them.

He knows about Rory himself, things that he suspects not a single other person on this planet knows, things that exist at the core of him that he obfuscates with the character he plays and the lies he tells. Not everything, but maybe enough.

It’s something to start with. He’s got to make some calls.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since Tiger, and the world Bryson lives in is in shambles.

It’s not a pleasant world, but it is a small one. There’s only so much room for the work that they do, so nobody’s more than a connection or two away from anybody else. Tiger was a massive presence in the scene, an unstoppable threat while he was on active duty and no less dangerous when he decided he was content to retire from field work in order to command the Tour. His sudden removal completely shifts the layout of the playing board.

On the Tour’s end, he hears their leadership is desperately trying to patch the massive hole Rory ripped through their core. Apparently the members of their board barely managed to organize Tiger’s funeral, and the one thing they’ve agreed on since was completely handing over the reins of the hunt for Rory to Scottie. The bulk of their resources have been diverted towards the effort, though Bryson doesn’t really see the point in it. Rory hasn’t left enough leads to warrant two dozen Tour agents working the case. If they actually find a promising lead, maybe they’ll need the manpower to make sure they don’t all get taken down as they follow it, but Bryson is pretty sure that within another week Scottie will dismiss most of them back to regular duty and shoulder the workload himself.

The whispers within 54 circle more around the power vacuum that’s been left. If they’ll find themselves with more elbow room, if they’ll be able to keep that space once the Tour course corrects, who will position themselves as top dog now, will there be a fight for that spot. All members are called to attend an organization-wide meeting, which 54 almost never has. He almost wants to ask if it’s a bad idea, considering what just happened when the Tour had one, but holds his tongue. They discuss concerns, threats, and guidelines for the near future, which Bryson tunes out. When they’re released, it all turns into gossip, which Bryson listens to until it starts to piss him off because there is no way in hell Rory had Tiger killed to clear the way for Scottie to ascend to Tour leader as some grand declaration of love. Now he's just trying to make it out of the conference hall.

Brooks stops him with a hand on Bryson’s arm as he walks by. “Hey, man. You doin’ alright?”

Bryson shifts away just enough so Brooks’s hand slides off of him. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one who looks pissed off. My guess is it’s because Rory is involved, but maybe you cared about Tiger more than I thought.” Brooks gives him a shrug and a slightly knowing look, and it’s hard to decipher if it stems from genuine compassion or it’s just a front for his desire to pull information from him. You never know with Brooks; Bryson thinks they’re friends, most of the time, but at 54, that doesn’t really mean much. Everyone here values their own work and their own hide more than anyone else’s.

“Rory may as well be dead to me, and Tiger is dead. You should know just as well that it’s no use giving a shit about people who aren’t here. If anything, I’m pissed that management dragged me to this pointless meeting when I could be in Dubai right now.”

“What’s in Dubai?”

“Guy I need information from. I’ll be on a plane in five hours, so if anybody needs me, tell them that’s where I’ll be.”

With that, Bryson walks away.

Dubai is lovely pretty much year round, the people are nice, the food is pretty good, and Bryson fucking hates it. It feels like he’s constantly following behind a memory of Rory, taking him here to meet who Rory had called the greatest ballistics guy in the world. Bryson still takes a bit of offense to that, but he hasn’t been able to get anything out of the bullet casing burning a hole in his pocket on his own, so he figured he should talk to possibly the only man on Earth who can get something out of it, if there’s something to be gotten at all.

Jumeirah is a pretty area, and Bryson parks in front of a nice house in a nice neighborhood that is not noticeably different from any of the other houses nearby. Before he can knock on the door, it opens, revealing the disgruntled resident. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Bryson DeChambeau. We’ve met before. I’ve got something I’d like you to look at.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “I’ve got kinda a bit on my plate at the moment, so unless it’s the bullet that killed Tiger, I’m really sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Well, it’s the casing, is that close enough?”

Tommy’s eyes go dinnerplate wide immediately. “Yeah, come on in.”

Bryson steps inside and follows Tommy to his lab. He’s struck by the same sense of envy he felt the last time he was here, seeing all of the R&D going on to create some of the most advanced weapons in the world. His own tools are perfectly suited to him, of course, and he wouldn’t trust anybody else to make them, but he’s sure there’s technology that Tommy’s working on in here that could improve his maximum range by a mile.

Tommy flicks on a desklamp near an empty bit of workbench and pulls out a toolbox. “Alright, give it here.”

Bryson takes the baggie with the casing out of his pocket and sets it on the table in front of Tommy. Tommy takes it out, pulls out a hand lens from his toolbox, and starts turning it over.

“Assuming you’re telling the truth, how did you get your hands on this? Usually, if the Tour has work for me, they let me know they’re coming in advance. I can’t imagine Scottie would have forgotten, which means you don’t represent the Tour, which means you must have done something crazy to find this before they did.”

“Well, I was the one who fired it, so it was pretty easy to pick up before I left.”

“Yup, that would do it,” Tommy says absently, seemingly having found something on it as he’s stopped turning it over to look at one spot for a while. “I guess you don’t need me to tell you anything about the gun it was fired from, then.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So what do you want to know?”

“I want to know about the bullet itself. It isn’t mine. I know there’s something that makes it unique, but I don’t know what. Is it the composition?”

Tommy finally looks back up at Bryson. “Well, you’re certainly right about it being unique. Even if I hadn’t already heard the rumours, I’d have been able to figure out this was given to you by Rory.”

“How?”

“It’s got his signature on it. Look here. It’s not obvious, but if you hold it the right way in the light, you can kinda see it.”

Bryson takes the casing and the hand lens and tries to mimic what Tommy was doing; after a moment of struggling, eventually he sees the slightest shadow that indicates RORS.

“Do you make his bullets?” Bryson asks.

“Nah, I outsource that. I give my guy all the information they need, I get sent a box a couple weeks later with my order. It’s a very low contact relationship. If you fired your own gun, I assume it was tailored to that weapon, though, which means Rory probably gave them your info directly to get this made.”

“So it’s just a replica of one of my bullets with Rory’s signature.”

“Yeah. The differences between bullets are on a micrometer scale, though, and firing warps them a bit, so it’ll be hugely difficult to track a bullet back to you solely based on design. Especially if you’ve got a unique weapon. Speaking of, is that where we’ve met before? Are you that guy who makes his own guns? And you came in with Rory way back when, oh, yeah, I remember now. You were a twat. Still are, really. Guess that would explain how you got roped in, then. So you’re really not with the Tour anymore?”

Bryson elects to ignore the insult. “I’m not with the Tour.”

“Do I need to keep this under wraps for you when the Tour comes knocking, then?”

“No, Scottie already knows about my involvement. I was the one who told him about Rory in the first place, so feel free to confirm what he already knows.” Bryson puts the casing back in its baggie, which in turn goes back into his pocket.

“Convenient. Well, that’s all I’ve got for you, so if there’s nothing else you needed, you can get out now.”

Tommy pushes Bryson’s shoulder. Bryson doesn’t move. “I have one more question. When was the last time you heard from Rory?”

Tommy sighs in frustration but considers a response anyways. “Right, because you’re trying to find him. Good luck with that, mate. My answer’s not gonna help you; he was here a couple months ago to test some sniper rifle prototypes for me. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. Can you leave, now? I’m busy. Who would have thought that somebody killing Tiger Woods would make everybody want to upgrade their armory?” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Fine, I’m going. I appreciate your cooperation.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Tommy sees him out to make sure Bryson actually does leave, then closes the door with a touch of extra force when Bryson’s past the threshold.

It’s not like Bryson was banking all of his hopes on that meeting, but it’s still a disappointment that he’s not leaving with anything particularly interesting. At least it’s an item checked off the list. He’s heard that Scottie should be finishing a progress report any day now, but until he can see what the Tour has come up with with their near infinite resources and talent, he can do some investigating of his own.

Chapter Text

Bryson knows that every place Rory has ever spent significant time has been combed through already in an attempt to find any spare scrap of information. He also knows that Scottie and his crew haven't found shit. Rory may be many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He would never leave evidence in obvious places.

Bryson's pretty sure he'll have more success than Scottie.

Scottie’s already done the hard task of dismantling the security in Rory’s Florida home, which makes it easy to slip inside. Doing it without appearing on the Tour’s surveillance of the house is a bit trickier, but not impossible since it’s not like they actually expect Rory to return to any of his bases. There are enough gaps to take advantage of.

It’s been a few years, but it’s still pretty much how Bryson remembers. It’s not cold by any means, but there’s still a lack of sentimentality that Bryson always found strange. There are blankets and throw pillows on the couch, there are paintings on the walls that Bryson knows Rory picked up from small galleries to support up and coming artists, but there’s only one photo in the whole place, and it’s of Rory and his parents from when he was a kid. It sits on the dresser in the bedroom. There aren’t any trophies or memorabilia from missions, any retired weapons on display, any of Rory’s personal history preserved here.

The thing is, Rory is a massively sentimental person. He has a favorite handgun that’s nicknamed after his childhood dog, and it comes on every mission. Bryson knows he has all of that stuff somewhere, it’s just a matter of finding it.

Fortunately, he’s been thinking about how to do just that for years. He always used to check for things that didn’t quite line up, but all of the rooms are the right size and all of the walls are the right length and there are no windows seen from the outside that he’s never looked out from the inside. It’s Florida, so there’s not going to be a secret basement. However, there just might be a secret attic, and Bryson relishes the chance to finally poke around and find it.

It’s not at all obvious, Bryson will give him that. The hatch is practically seamless, only visible on the ceiling of Rory’s closet if you’re looking very hard for it. Bryson has to grab a stepladder from the garage, but he’s able to push in the square of drywall and haul himself into the attic.

There’s a light that he clicks on. It illuminates what looks like an average attic, if a whirlwind had gone through and torn the place apart. There are books scattered across the floor, a couple odd lamps and chairs that were moved around if the tracks in the dust are any indication, artworks exposed after their protective paper was torn away.

It seems the Tour beat him here, then.

Saves him the hard work of making sure the real payload isn’t among all this crap. Bryson turns to the walls again, running his fingers along the plywood to try and find a second secret entrance.

There’s a square of plywood that feels like it moves when Bryson applies some force. Bryson pushes harder, and it falls over, revealing a hidden crawlspace.

Bryson has to get on his knees to poke his head in and uses his phone flashlight to illuminate his treasure. The space isn’t more than three feet wide, but there are a bunch of boxes. Bryson drags them all out into the main attic and starts to dig.

Most of it is all the trinkets and knickknacks that Bryson had been expecting. A couple of knives, magnets from tourist traps across the world, several collections of martial art belts, a few shirts that must have been worn by important people or at important moments.

There’s one box full of photo albums, each with a year on its spine. The most recent is dated to four years ago. Bryson wants to look through all of them, but he probably doesn’t have time. Just one, then.

He pulls 2016 from the box. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous, doesn’t know why his heart is beating so hard in his chest.

He opens the cover carefully, forces himself to turn each page only after having looked at the photos. He doesn’t recognize a lot of the people, he only recognizes some of the places.

He turns the page again, getting closer to the end, and he freezes at the sight of his own face staring back at him. He doesn’t know if this is what he was hoping for or dreading.

God, he looks young. Scrawny, awful haircut, hasn’t managed to clear the shock and awe of being in Rory McIlroy’s presence out of his expression. Bryson is showing off his freshly earned Tour medallion to the camera with a huge smile, and Rory is at his side with a smile of his own. Rory had been the one to supervise his first mission and ascertain he was ready to be a full agent. It was another year before they worked together as partners for the first time.

Bryson doesn’t have that medallion anymore, gave it up when he left the Tour.

He slaps the album shut and shoves it back into the box. It takes a minute to get himself back under control. It doesn't even mean anything.

There's a lot of fun stuff in the boxes, but none of it provides any insight into where Rory might be or why he did what he did. If anything, the motive is even less clear when Bryson pulls a little tiger stuffed animal out of one of the boxes. Probably a joke originally, but still worth keeping.

In the last box Bryson looks in, the one that was tucked the deepest into the secret space, Bryson finds DVDs. About a dozen of them, the cases labelled with what look like dates. Bryson flips through them, sees the earliest is dated 20.7.2007 and the latest 10.4.2010.

Well, it’ll be a hit or miss, but it’s at least the potential for something useful, whereas everything else is definitely useless. Bryson returns all of the other boxes, seals everything back up, and gets out with the DVDs in tow.

It’s a shorter flight from Florida to Texas than from Dubai to Florida, but it’s still been a long few days, so his body doesn’t give him a choice in waiting to watch the videos until after he sleeps.

In the morning, he discovers that he does in fact still have a DVD player, and he decides to start with the most recent and make his way back. He slots 10.4.2010 in and sits back on the couch as it starts to play.

The video starts with the camera, shaky and handheld, panning up to a Rory McIlroy Bryson has never seen before. His curls are grown out, he’s wearing a necklace with a square pendant that sits just over his collarbones and a half-open gi that exposes the sweat glistening on his chest, and he’s standing on the mats in a training room, listening to somebody talk unintelligibly off camera. He hasn’t been polished into the cunning man that ruined Bryson’s life yet, and it’s throwing Bryson for a loop.

Bryson’s pretty sure he would recognize any Tour facility, but the big windows lining the wall behind Rory aren’t ringing any bells, so either this is the one Tour facility he doesn’t know or it’s not a Tour facility at all.

The person off camera stops speaking, and when Rory looks away, he notices the camera and gives the videographer a crooked smile.

“Recording this one?”

“After last week, the council wanted a progress check. I’d imagine it’ll be the last one before you’re officially instated.” The man behind the camera also sounds Irish.

Rory laughs on screen. “I’ll have to give them a show, then.”

He moves into position, and his opponent comes into the frame across from him. Bryson is struck with a strong sense of recognition, but his brain can’t quite make the final connection to figure out where he knows him from. He looks like more of a bruiser than Rory, though Rory’s leaner figure surely hides the same surprising power Bryson has always known.

When they start sparring, Bryson gives up on trying to figure out how he knows the other guy in favor of sitting back and watching Rory fight.

Unfortunately, nothing will ever change the way Bryson feels about the sight of Rory in motion. He’ll look like he’s floating one moment, then he'll crash down on his opponent with all the force of a meteor the next. He’s always a step ahead, twisting out of way of fast, solid strikes with no effort, and he doesn’t finish it even with clear openings to do so. Instead, he glances back at the camera and smirks, knowing he’s being evaluated.

His opponent isn’t even bad, far from it. He’s better than a lot of people Bryson has trained with, which is saying something when he’s worked with a lot of talented combatants. Still, Rory is in complete control of the situation the whole time.

Bryson feels warm. He realizes he’s digging his fingers into his thighs, and he forces himself to relax and take some deep breaths. He wipes his hands on his pants and resists the urge to adjust himself. He should not be–

Rory finally pins his opponent, and when he stands and holds out his hand to help his opponent up, he says, “you’re getting slow, Graeme.”

“I think you’re just getting fast, kid,” fucking Graeme McDowell laughs. Holy shit. Holy shit. That’s where Bryson fucking knows him, holy fucking shit.

Then Rory turns to the camera again and asks, “how was that?”

“I thought that was fantastic,” says the cameraman. “What about you?”

The camera pans to fucking Tiger Woods of all people. What the fuck. “He’s been ready for months, and last week just proved that. The council would be crazy to not instate him, and he could join the Tour tomorrow, if he wanted. He’s more than qualified.”

“Well, you heard the man. Now, how do I turn this thing off, again–”

The video stops.

Bryson stares at the last frame of the video still on his TV, trying to process everything.

Rory’s development was overseen by a council, which Bryson suspects is different from the Tour’s board. Tiger Woods knew about this council. So does Graeme McDowell, who currently works with 54. Under Brooks.

He sighs as he grabs his phone. He covers his eyes with a hand as he waits for Brooks to pick up.

“Bryson, to what do I owe the pleasure? Are you still in Dubai?”

“I need a favor,” Bryson forces out.

Brooks doesn’t say anything for a second, then starts laughing, loud and obnoxious. “Of course, I’m always willing to help the less fortunate. What do you need?”

Chapter Text

Bryson is supposed to meet Brooks and Graeme at a bar outside of Miami, which he only agrees to because it’s less of a bar and more of a pub. He would rather die than go to an average bar in Miami.

Brooks, though skeptical, agreed to not tell Graeme that Bryson wants information. Ideally, Graeme will never realize this is actually an interrogation, and he’ll just let something slip after Bryson asks some leading questions. Bryson knows he isn’t great at delicate conversations, so his best bet is to not let it become a delicate conversation.

The pub isn’t half bad at replicating the places he’s been to in the UK, but there’s still a shine of Miami to it that puts a bad taste in Bryson’s mouth. He goes to the bar and orders a drink, takes a sip as he looks around for Brooks and Graeme. They’ve been here for a while already, hopefully a couple drinks in. Just enough to hopefully make Graeme forget to think before he speaks.

He spots them and makes his way over to slide into their booth. “How’s it going, boys? Staying alive?”

“Unfortunately,” Brooks says, rolling his eyes. “One of these days I’ll pay you to kill me.”

“I’d kill you for free, don’t worry. Graeme, sorry I missed you at the fullstaff. How’ve you been?”

“As good as anybody can be in this shitstorm. With the drop in vigilance from the Tour, I feel like I can move around without worrying I might run into one of those motherfuckers. It’ll be nice while it lasts.”

“God, yeah. I could probably find a really sweet contract right now without a single worry somebody would swoop in and fuck up the deal. You know how the market is, though.” It’s rare somebody needs a hit that requires Bryson’s skillset, and it’s rarer still that he’s not stopped from fulfilling his end of the deal. Rare enough and important enough that all of the bullet casings Bryson’s saved represent at least a few million dollars each, except for one.

“Is it really that bad? The rumor mill is saying you had a very important job, recently,” Brooks says, barely bothering to disguise his curiosity.

Bryson is out of the loop for what, four days, and now apparently his name is in the mix. Fuck. He really doesn’t need to be associated with this. “Is it, now?”

“It is. How Scottie figured out Rory’s involvement was a bit of a mystery to the world at large, but a lot of the evidence sure does point to you. You killed Tiger, didn’t you? Because Rory asked you to? And then you told Scottie. And that’s why you were so fucking weird at fullstaff. I was worried, you know, I didn’t know you could get weirder, but it all makes sense now.”

Bryson glances at Graeme taking an interested sip of his drink before looking back at Brooks. “It’s something I really don’t need credit for, you know.”

“I would imagine not. If you know anything about Rory, it’s the first conclusion you come to, though. Of course he’d pick you,” Graeme chuckles.

Bryson’s face feels warm, suddenly. He hopes he doesn’t look red. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Graeme shrugs. “It means that I’d never expect him to go to anybody but the best person for the job, and he knows that’s you.”

Bryson will accept it for the opening it is. He raises his eyebrows and rests his chin on the hand he has propped up on the table. “So you know him pretty well, huh? I guess the circles for our line of work in Northern Ireland are probably pretty small.”

“You could say that. We would train together when he was coming up. Ended up on separate paths, so it’s been a while since I would say we were friends, but he was a good kid back then. It’s crazy to think that now he’s conspiring to assassinate Tiger Woods. That’s one thing I never saw coming.” Graeme’s looking off into the distance past Bryson, which is perfect.

“I don’t think anybody expected it,” Brooks says into his glass.

“Anybody in our world, definitely,” Graeme muses.

Bryson waits to see if Graeme will elaborate. Graeme doesn’t, so it looks like Bryson will have to keep poking. He’s afraid asking directly about where they met will shut the conversation down, so it’s safer to go in at a different angle. “Do you think he’s changed a lot since then?”

“I think he understands the importance of how he presents himself more. He seems like he’s changed because he only shows the mask these days, so it’s less obvious when he’s being a cocky bastard, but he’s still a cocky bastard. He’s still emotional. I mean, he has grown up. He doesn’t need me to protect him anymore, but I’m sure you know he would still prefer to go to Harry over anybody else when he’s hurt, so he hasn’t outgrown everybody from those early days,” Graeme says, fondness evident in his voice.

There’s an ugly knot of jealousy tightening in Bryson’s chest. He doesn’t like being reminded that there are things important to Rory that he doesn’t know about. “Harry?”

“Harry Diamond?” When it’s clear the name isn’t registering with Bryson, Graeme’s eyes go wide. “Oh, fuck, Rory didn’t tell you about him. I should have guessed. I’m probably next on his hit list, now, pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“I’m not stupid enough to do anything to piss off Rory, don’t worry. Bryson, on the other hand, needs to have a warning stapled to his forehead,” Brooks says.

Bryson scoffs. “I do not. Why would I want anything to do with, what, Rory’s childhood doctor?”

“He’s not–well, I’ve already said enough.”

“Aw, c’mon, we already promised mum’s the word. You can tell us who the guy is,” Brooks needles. Bryson doesn’t know if he’s doing it out of genuine curiosity, because he thinks it’s in line with the information Bryson was going after and he's trying to help, or if he just wants to talk about Rory more to piss Bryson off, but no matter the motive, Bryson is reluctantly grateful.

It takes a second of wavering, but eventually Graeme sighs. “Well, if you find my body washed up on the beach tomorrow, you’ll know why. Harry is probably the only guy who has ever and could ever be considered Rory’s best friend. I don’t know how long they’ve known each other, but I know it’s a long time. They’re closer than brothers. Harry probably knows more details about the Tiger assassination than you do, Bryson. I think he’s probably a doctor now, he was studying to become one last I heard, but that was ages ago. He’s not a part of our world, other than his connection with Rory, so Rory’s pretty protective over him.”

Harry Diamond. Bryson thinks he might hate him on principle. What principle, he's not sure. “Huh. I didn’t know Rory was capable of having a best friend.”

“Yeah, well. Rory’s got some hidden depth to him. I feel like he’s listening when I talk about him, though, I gotta stop. How’s Wedge?”

Well, that’s Bryson’s window gone. Nothing about the council, but he did get a very important name, if he’s all Graeme says he is.

When he gets back to his hotel from the bar, he boots up his laptop. Everybody else can be afraid of Rory, but Bryson refuses to be cowed.

A doctor named Harry Diamond, close friend and confidante of Rory McIlroy. Civilian. Probably knew additional details about the Tiger case, specifically.

Call it a hunch, but Bryson starts with the registry of licensed medical professionals in Georgia. Everybody in this job has to be able to get backdoor access to private websites, these days. Bryson isn’t known as a hacker, but he’s more than capable of getting basic information.

Lo and behold, there is a Harry Diamond working at one Grady Memorial Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. What a coincidence.

Neither the license registry nor Grady Memorial’s staff directory have Harry’s personal address from what Bryson can see, but if he’s going to be heading to Atlanta anyways, it won’t be a big deal if he makes a quick stop at the hospital in person to check their files. Hospitals are always busy, so nobody will notice somebody making a quick stop to look through their records, especially if they keep physical records that nobody references in favor of an electronic system. It should be a quick and easy in and out; Bryson can’t imagine anything going wrong.

Chapter Text

As long as he looks the part and acts like he belongs, it’s really not hard to get into places he shouldn’t be. It’s a strategy that continues to work now as he strides down the hallways at Grady Memorial. He doesn’t look lost because he knows exactly where he’s going, which is their file room.

It’s tucked out of the way in some random back corner that doesn’t see much activity, which is just fine in Bryson’s book. He swipes the access card he nicked earlier and pushes open the door.

There’s somebody sitting at the computer against the near wall. A blonde lady wearing a lab coat, scrubs, and glasses, because of course that’s just his luck. As she turns towards the sound of the opening door, Bryson turns and power walks down the aisles of medical records, hoping she wasn’t fast enough see his face and that he’s not moving suspiciously.

Theoretically, she should leave him alone. It’s not like a doctor here would know every other employee in the place, he just has to find the employee records and–

“Excuse me, what are you doing in here?”

Bryson turns on his heel to face the woman, who is standing at the end of the aisle he’s in.

Well, fake it ‘til you make it. “What do you mean? I’m looking for a patient file.”

She frowns. “You’re not an employee here, you can’t just waltz in here and look at people’s files. How did you even get in here, anyways?”

He really doesn't have the patience for this today, especially when he's not going to be able to talk his way out of this. He draws his gun from his holster and points it at her. “It really doesn’t matter, I just need some information, and then I’ll be out of here. We don’t need to make this difficult.”

To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch. She raises her hands placatingly and starts taking slow steps toward him. “Now, I don’t really see why violence is necessary here. Can you just–”

Bryson has no idea what she’s trying to do until he’s forced to the floor after being disarmed a second earlier. He’s only able to react when he’s halfway to being immobilized, and by then it’s too little, too late.

“What the fuck,” he says, cheek pressed to the ground. The side of his face is going to be bruised to hell tomorrow.

“Ok, Bryson, what are you actually doing here,” the woman says as she keeps a hold on Bryson despite his efforts to wiggle out.

That gets him to freeze. “How do you know my name?”

“We were coworkers before you quit the Tour. Kinda hurt that you don’t remember me, actually, though I’m not surprised. You’re a terrible liar, by the way, I hope you don’t do undercover work. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

Bryson doesn’t really see a way around answering. Plus, if she’s Tour, it’s not like it’ll really matter. Maybe she’s here for the same thing. “I’m looking for information on Harry Diamond. He works here. There you go, now can you let me go and tell me what you’re doing here? And also who you are?”

There’s a second of silence before she releases him from the hold. Bryson rolls over and sits up, and she’s already on her feet looking down at him. “I’m Brooke. I have reason to believe that Tiger Woods isn’t actually dead, so I’m looking into what happened to his body after it left the conference.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but Tiger is dead. I killed him, I would know.”

Brooke raises her eyebrows. “Then it means nothing that the guy you’re looking for signed his death certificate?”

“...huh.”

“So please enlighten me, who’s Diamond?”

“Rory’s best friend,” Bryson says slowly. It’s suspicious that it was Rory’s guy in the hospital who got the paperwork sorted without bringing the authorities' attention to the death, but it’s not unreasonable, and it definitely suggests they could be as close as Graeme said they are.

“So he’d be willing to help fake Tiger’s death.”

“I still don’t know where you got Tiger’s not dead from. Once again, I shot him in the heart, and I don’t miss.”

“And why did you shoot him in the heart, instead of the head?”

Bryson blinks. “Because Rory asked me to. He said it was important.”

“And that wasn’t suspicious to you?”

“No, I figured he just thought it would be easier to see his friend’s chest blown open instead of his head.”

“It’s a nice thought, but it’s probably because it’s easier to fake a shot to the heart than a shot to the head. You didn’t see how quickly the body was taken off site, plus–”

“You know, I don’t really care if Tiger is alive or dead," Bryson snaps. "That’s not what I came here to find out. I just need to find Harry’s information, and then we don’t have to see each other ever again.”

“His info is wiped online?”

“Yeah, Rory is probably protecting him from exactly what I’m doing. Harry’s a civilian, but if he’s signing death certificates with his real name, he hasn’t given up his identity or anything, so he should be on file here. Listen, if you’re so invested, you can tag along when I go and interrogate him, and you can ask whatever questions about Tiger you want. Sound good?”

“Fine. I already got everything else I needed. You’re looking for employee information, right?”

It doesn’t take long to find the file and in turn the home address Harry has registered with his employer. He’s only been working at this hospital for six months, so Rory must have been planning this for those six months, plus all the time it took to pull the strings to get Harry this job, plus all the time he probably spent planning before that. If there is one thing to admire about Rory, it’s that he can play the long game.

As they’re walking out of the hospital, Brooke asks, “so, we’re meeting at the address to check it out?”

“Yeah, did you drive here? Wait, work’s calling, give me a second.” Bryson digs his phone out from where it was vibrating in his breast pocket, but freezes when he sees it’s an unknown number. His work phone is on a closed circuit: only people in 54 should be able to call him, and all of them should have caller ID. “Not work, actually, which isn’t good.”

Brooke eyebrows furrow as Bryson hits the accept call button.

“Hey, Bryson–”

Bryson’s heart leaps into his throat. “Rory? Hey, what the fuck–”

Rory's voice immediately hardens. “No, no, listen to me. If you go after Harry, I will kill you before you find him. Do you understand me?”

“I understand that you’ll damn well try, sure. Since when do you make threats?”

“This isn’t a threat, this is a warning. If you know I don’t make threats, you should know I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t serious.”

“I’m not afraid of you, you know that, right?”

“Then that’s your mistake to make. Tell Brooke what I said, too. She deserves to be able to make an informed choice. Goodbye, Bryson.”

The tone beeps in Bryson’s ear, telling him Rory hung up. Bryson stuffs his phone back into his pocket and storms off to his car.

“Wait, Bryson, was that Rory? What did he say?” Brooke asks, trailing after him.

Bryson stops in the middle of the street and turns around to face her. “He wants us to know that he’ll kill us if we go after Harry. I think he’s full of bullshit, like he usually is, but he said that you should be able to make your own choice. Are you still in?”

Just from the look on her face, Bryson can tell she isn’t. “I don’t think a guy who knows we’re together right now when we ran into each other fifteen minutes ago and can make Tiger Woods disappear is bullshitting when he says he’ll kill us. Didn’t you say Harry is his best friend? I know Rory’s usually against killing, but maybe killing us isn’t too far when it comes to protecting Harry.”

“Alright, then, I’ll do it alone. And, you know what, I’ll even ask Harry about Tiger for you and let you know what he says.”

Brooke looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “It’s your life. Here’s my card.” She produces a business card from her pocket and offers it to Bryson, who takes it and sticks it in his pocket alongside his work phone. “I guess I’ll either hear from you soon or you’ll be dead. Good luck.”

Bryson just grunts and turns away.

Chapter Text

Bryson parks a few houses down from the address in Harry’s file, close enough to see the house but far enough away to avoid suspicion.

It’s a nice house in a nice neighborhood. It’s perfectly appropriate for a doctor, and it doesn’t bear any of the usual markings of a safe house. There are a couple windows that aren’t covered by drapes or blinds, and since it’s the middle of the day, natural glare makes it difficult to see in, but what can be seen looks like a perfectly ordinary interior.

Harry is still a civilian. Rory probably didn’t want him to sacrifice more than he had to for this job, despite how risky it would be to not take every precaution. Rory must have been willing to bet that nobody would get far enough in unraveling the case to figure out Harry’s involvement, and that if they did, a simple threat would be enough to scare them away. The arrogance pisses Bryson off.

After pulling out his computer, Bryson finds that there’s a commercial security system, but that’s pretty easily disabled from the car. A few other checks come up clear. It really does seem like this is just a regular ass house.

It doesn’t look like anybody’s home. Bryson may as well go in and poke around for a bit, just to see. He did spend yesterday driving up from Miami, and Rory may be tracking him somehow, but the chances are slim that Rory could have gotten here from wherever he’s hiding between when he might have started suspecting Bryson was going after Harry and now. It takes time to plan movement over long distances when the Tour is doing everything they can to find you. Unless, of course, he’s been shacking up with Harry this whole time, but Bryson doubts that.

Bryson gets out and starts making his way down the street, then very nonchalantly moseys into Harry’s backyard. It looks equally dark inside from here. Harry’s probably at work; Bryson could have found him there, sure, but it’s generally frowned upon to interrupt the function of hospitals by kidnapping one of the doctors. Besides, he’s not in any hurry to find the guy.

It’s an older house, so it doesn’t take much to open a window old school style: by wedging something underneath the frame to flip the latch and then hauling it up.

He lifts himself into the house and looks around. Still perfectly normal. He’s found himself in the living room; there’s a couch and an armchair and a coffee table and a TV. To one side is the kitchen, open concept and fairly recently updated, it would seem, and there’s a hallway down between them. Stairs up are on one side, and a door is on the other. Bryson’s willing to bet either bathroom or closet. Upstairs seems more interesting, so that’s where he goes.

There’s a hallway with a few doors. One of them will definitely be a bedroom, and another one might be an office, and both are worth searching. The first door he opens is a bathroom, and the second door he opens has somebody behind it holy shit.

Bryson barely has enough time to process that before scrambling backwards to dodge a fist aimed at his stomach. He’s horribly undergeared compared to this guy, who’s wearing a full tactical suit, including a smooth helmet that hides his face. Bryson’s lucky this bastard didn’t immediately draw a gun and shoot him, though that could still happen at any moment.

The foot that comes flying towards Bryson’s head is ducked much more smoothly than the surprise attack, and the lower position allows Bryson to go after the leg still bearing his opponent’s weight. He falls backwards into a roll and springs back up like it’s nothing. Bryson hates gymnasts.

That makes Bryson wonder if this could be Rory. In the space of a heartbeat, Bryson considers it: the size seems right, but as his opponent comes back at him to reengage, Bryson knows it’s not. He knows how Rory moves, and this isn’t it.

Bryson meets his opponent head on. He’s got this if he can turn it into a wrestling match, but for that to happen he needs this guy to stop being so fucking slippery. He’s wearing too much armor for Bryson to try and hit him, and even though Bryson has longer reach he can’t get in close enough without exposing himself to the quick jabs his opponent keeps aiming at his torso.

The other guy seems reluctant to take Bryson down, though. He has a lot of advantages right now, but he seems content to keep the fight going, landing the occasional hit on Bryson but mostly just evading everything Bryson does to try and get him.

The momentary attrition ends when a second pair of hands grab Bryson out of nowhere and pull him back into another body, restraining him. Bryson grunts in surprise and tries to wrestle his way out, but the newcomer just tightens their grip.

“Fucking–let go of me, jackass,” Bryson spits, craning around to try and see the guy. It’s somebody in an identical uniform and helmet as the first guy.

“Took you long enough,” says the guy Bryson had been fighting, completely ignoring Bryson. “You won the bet, though. Scottie is always letting me down.”

“We both know you took the riskier bet on purpose. Just admit you don’t want to stay in Oklahoma.”

“There’s literally nothing wrong with Oklahoma. I love Oklahoma.”

“Everything is wrong with Oklahoma,” Bryson mutters.

“Everything is wrong with Oklahoma,” agrees the guy restraining Bryson. “And you just said you love Oklahoma, not that you want to stay there.”

“Ok, well, we can continue this discussion in the car. We still have an interloper to deal with.” He gestures at Bryson before the angle of the helmet changes, which Bryson assumes means the guy is now looking at him. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Bryson. We’ve heard, well, not actually that much about you. Now, Rory gave us clearance to, like, actually kill you if you got close to Harry, but you’re not actually that close to Harry right now, so I figure we can give you a choice. If you promise to never go after Harry again, we’ll let you go, no harm, no foul. Or, if you’re really dead set on finding him, we can just kill you now and get it over with. Obviously, that’s not the option I’d prefer, and I assume it’s not the option you’d prefer, either. Oh, and it should be said that if you promise to not go after Harry and then you do go after him again, we’ll also kill you for that, and without this nice conversation beforehand. So what’ll it be?”

Bryson knows when he’s beaten, but the day Bryson finally tracks down Rory is going to be so sweet for moments like these. “Fine. I’ll leave Harry alone.”

“Great! That’s really good to hear. It would’ve been really inconvenient if you had chosen death since we would’ve had to take you to a second location to avoid getting bloodstains on the carpet.”

Suddenly Bryson is being dragged backwards, and it takes a second for him to get his feet back under him as he’s maneuvered back towards the stairs. He’s rotated forward to go down them, at least.

“So you guys are Rory’s henchmen?” Bryson asks as he’s forced down the stairs.

“You know, I never thought about it that way, but that’s got a nice ring to it,” says the chatty one.

“We’re not henchmen, and he’s not our boss,” says the one still restraining Bryson.

“But he can still order you to be his friend’s bodyguards?”

The guy laughs in Bryson’s ear just as they stop in front of the front door. “He’s just as willing to do something for us as we are for him. Man, all that time in 54 has really done a number on you. Have you forgotten that sometimes people are nice to each other and treat each other well?”

“Don’t talk down to him, I’m sure he knows what friendship is, even if he doesn’t have any friends,” the chatty one admonishes.

“Oh my god, do you guys ever shut the fuck up?”

“You asked,” the one behind Bryson says. “Do you need us to walk you to your car?”

As much as Bryson would love to see how the neighbors react to two heavily armored men walking down the street, he wants to get away from these guys more. “No, just let me go,” he growls.

“Alright, then.” He lets Bryson go, and Bryson scrambles away from him. “See you later.”

“Remember, you’re dead if you get within a hundred feet of Harry. Drive safe, ok?”

Bryson doesn’t dignify that with a response and storms out the front door. As soon as he gets back to his car, he peels out of the neighborhood.

So Harry’s another dead end, it seems, even if Bryson would still love to find him. He does value his life, and he should’ve guessed that this mystery council would have agents at Rory’s beck and call; everybody seems to be at Rory’s beck and call, everywhere he goes, and getting cut off from the Tour’s resources doesn’t mean anything, apparently.

They mentioned Scottie, too, when they were talking about their strange bet. If the two conditions were Bryson and Scottie, and Bryson won when he got to Harry, then they must have been expecting both Bryson and Scottie to come looking for Harry. Scottie probably hasn’t been able to find the Harry connection yet since he has no reason to know about Graeme, but Brooke might end up telling him. Bryson wonders if he’ll also be met with those two freaks when he gets here, or if Bryson was just unlucky.

What Oklahoma has to do with anything is still a mystery, though. Maybe it doesn’t matter, if the chatty one might be leaving.

After this, though, he doesn’t really have any other leads. Unless he counts Brooke’s theory about Tiger being alive, which he isn’t. Because that would be ridiculous, since Bryson shot him. Not in the head, maybe, but still through the heart. With a custom-made bullet.

Against his will, Bryson starts thinking about how you could fake a death like Tiger’s. He knows there’s some crazy tech out there, and Rory would definitely have access to it.

And Rory would never kill somebody outside of the most extreme circumstances. Despite his threat, Rory didn't even tell those guys to actually kill Bryson, just gave them clearance to, if they're to be believed. Bryson knows that, has always known that, has never thought the mission made sense since Rory showed up in his kitchen. If he wouldn’t kill some of the awful people he’s come across, he wouldn’t kill the guy who practically raised him in this world. Just because reality didn’t seem to align with that truth doesn’t mean anything, since reality and truth mean nothing when it comes to Rory. Bryson shouldn’t have forgotten that.

So maybe now he has to find Tiger, and Tiger will lead him to Rory.

As he prepares to return home, he does remember to send a message to Brooke.

It was a trap but I got out fine tho. I think ur right about Tiger

All he gets back is a simple lol.

Chapter Text

A call comes in when Bryson’s about two hours away from Atlanta.

“Scottie? What can I do for you, man?”

“Hey, Bryson. Brooke says you’re in Atlanta?”

“Just leaving, actually. Why?”

“The board wants to talk to you, so it’s probably easiest for you to come to Augusta when you’re already in the state.”

Bryson grimaces in the privacy of the car. He’s in Alabama already. Augusta’s on the border with South Carolina. “Do they.”

“Yeah. Told you it might happen.”

“You did. Fine, I guess I’ll turn around. You’re paying the extra day of dogsitting fees, though.”

“Sure, Bryse. Do you have a suit with you or do I need to find one for you?”

“Of course I don’t have a suit with me, dude, who do you think I am?”

“Alright, just asking. Do you have an estimate for how long it’ll take for you to get here?”

“I don’t know, probably at least four hours. I’ll let you know when I’m close.”

“Sounds good. See you soon, then.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

Scottie hangs up.

Bryson swears in frustration and waits for the next exit.

He had left Atlanta in the morning, so it’s just about evening when he makes it to Augusta. He hadn’t thought he’d be here again so soon, if ever again, but it’s not like anything makes sense these days.

Bryson’s never really understood how they’re able to disguise the Tour’s operations when the Augusta complex is situated essentially in the middle of town. You can only hide so much in plain sight, but he’s sure they’ve got it figured out so that there’s not a hint of suspicion that the headquarters of a vigilante organization are located here.

The first gate opens automatically for him, but the second gate, further into the property and much more intimidating compared to the public-facing gate, has a guard waiting for him.

Bryson rolls his window down when they walk up to his car. “I don’t have my medallion anymore, if you’re about to ask for that.”

“Bryson DeChambeau, you’ve been given exception to enter the complex. You can park on the drive next to the main house. Somebody is waiting there for you. Please proceed.”

The gate opens, Bryson’s sign to continue. He does.

It’s really a beautiful place, all white buildings and pine trees and flower beds. Bryson can never feel at ease here. Between the threat of being in the heart of enemy territory and the memories that come with this place, one step out of line means danger.

Scottie’s waiting for him on the porch of the main house. “Hey, man. Grab your stuff, we can drop it off in your room.”

“I suppose I should thank the Tour for not making me sleep in the car.”

“Well, hold off on any thanks, actually.”

Bryson understands why when Scottie takes him to Rory’s apartment.

When Bryson glares at him, Scottie sighs. “There aren’t a ton of guest spaces here, and they’re all full with everybody in town. Sorry.”

“Y’know, I left the Tour exactly because of things like this. You guys really are a bunch of assholes.”

“You could still sleep in the car, I guess.”

“Like hell I am.”

Bryson’s surprised that nothing seems to have changed since his brief visit here. It’s not like Rory kept a lot here, but what little he had hasn’t been disturbed.

“I would’ve thought you’d have torn the place apart and dumped all of his shit,” Bryson remarks as he deposits his bag in the bedroom. The bed’s still unmade from when he woke up in it, but there’s a garment bag hanging on the back of the closet door. His suit, Bryson assumes.

“I went through it just like all of Rory’s other known personal spaces, but getting rid of all of his stuff has been low on the list of priorities. It’s a bit taboo, now, anyways, so nobody’s been in a hurry to claim this apartment.”

“So they put me in the taboo room. I see how it is.”

“I wish I could tell you it isn’t like that, but it is pretty much like that. I’m sure you’re familiar with how they are, though.”

Bryson is familiar, unfortunately. Turning your back on the Tour isn’t taken lightly. Honestly, Bryson’s more surprised that they haven’t drywalled over Rory’s door.

“I’ll have somebody come by and bring you something to eat. Your hearing is at 10 tomorrow morning, I’ll come and get you around 9:30. Call if you need anything else. Sound good?”

“Absolutely fantastic. I owe my life to the hospitality of the Tour,” Bryson mutters.

Scottie laughs as he heads out. “See you tomorrow, Bryse.”

The door closes behind Scottie, and Bryson is left alone in Rory’s apartment.

It’s still not much, just a hotel-like combined living and kitchen space, a bedroom, and a bathroom. People don’t often spend a lot of time in Augusta, Bryson finds. Probably only board members spend more than a week a year here.

Despite the lack of his personality present, it still feels like Rory’s haunting this place. The ghost of him feels like it’s suffocating, squeezing, something Bryson has to force himself through as he walks in circles around the main room.

Bryson only came here a few times when he and Rory were partners. Bryson never earned high enough clearance to come here on his own, outside of the ceremony where they gave him his medallion, so it was always to attend to business of Rory’s. Bryson would take advantage of the complex’s practice facilities while Rory was in his meetings or whatever he needed to do, and then they would be gone as soon as Rory had taken care of what needed to be taken care of. Rory had never actually shown Bryson his apartment before the Tiger mission.

Even still, Bryson can imagine Rory with his coffee in the chair by the window. Rory checking and cleaning his gear at the kitchen table. Rory coming back from a meeting and making sure his suit jacket and pants were hung up properly before taking a shower to wash off the feeling of bureaucracy. A dozen little memories of Rory, superimposed on this place that feels so representative of how Bryson knows him.

He’s distracted from this torture by a knock at the door. There’s a guy with a covered tray waiting outside. Bryson takes the tray and can’t even get out a thanks before the guy has disappeared down the hallway.

Apparently, dinner is what looks like tortilla soup. Scottie’s choice, then. It’s spicy enough to clear Bryson’s sinuses, that’s for sure.

There’s not a whole lot for him to do, since he has a suspicion that any digital activity will be tracked and the apartment is devoid of all other forms of entertainment, so he takes a shower and goes to bed early.

He notices immediately that the sheets still smell ever so slightly like Rory. He keeps noticing it to the point that it keeps Bryson awake. There’s a part of his brain imagining Rory in bed with him, soft and vulnerable in a way he never is, and Bryson can’t shut it away.

He hates it. He hates it, and he hates himself. It’s absolute weakness when he slips his hand into his briefs. He punishes himself by keeping it fast and rough, the slide of his hand more uncomfortable than pleasurable in an effort to keep himself out of his own mind. It’s better if he doesn’t think of Rory, young and full of fire in those recordings of him practicing, or as he is now, a bit more grey but just as sharp, like a knife you want to cut yourself on. He can’t think of the point of his nose digging into Bryson’s neck, the muscles of his legs squeezing around Bryson’s hips, the pain of his nails scraping across Bryson’s shoulders. The feeling in the pit of his stomach is just as much nausea and shame as it is arousal.

It isn’t satisfying when he comes. He forces himself out of bed immediately to clean up, not able to stand the wet feeling on his hand and stomach, the evidence of his transgression. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and forces himself to meet his own gaze, searching for accountability but unable to find it. He shouldn’t have done that. He hasn’t allowed himself to do that in a very long time.

He hates Rory for the way he makes him feel. It’s terrible. He wants to cut out his own heart and shoot it until it stops feeling.

He sleeps on the couch.

In the morning, he walks into the hearing room with Scottie at his side. The suit doesn’t quite fit, but it’s better than nothing. He’d rather not give these guys another reason to look down on him.

The board is sitting at a long table, and their whispers are silenced when Bryson sits down in the chair positioned in the middle of the room facing them. Scottie takes a place next to Brooke, who was already here, standing against the side wall.

Bryson recognizes all of the faces but has forgotten some of the names. He knows Keegan Bradley, Lorena Ochoa, Bernhard Langer, Steve Stricker, Juli Inkster, Brandt Snedeker. To his surprise, though, it’s Justin Rose sitting in the central chair, apparently ready to preside over the hearing. Bryson wonders if he got appointed as the next chairman after Tiger, or if this is just a temporary thing. He hasn’t been able to keep up with news about the Tour’s inner politics.

“Are we ready to begin?” Justin asks. “Great. Please state your name for the record.”

“Bryson DeChambeau.”

“Thank you. Mr. DeChambeau, what’s the history of your relationship with Rory McIlroy?”

“I met him when I joined the Tour. He was my supervisor to affirm instatement. Eventually, I was assigned to be his partner, and we worked together for several years until I left the Tour. I did not have contact with him between then and when he approached me about his plan to kill Tiger Woods.” The words flow easily despite not used in so long. He doesn’t think he could ever forget report procedure after being drilled so much on it.

“The board has the mission reports filed by this partnership, correct?” Justin asks, to murmured sounds of accord from the board. “The board has also seen the footage you gave Mr. Scheffler of your meeting with McIlroy. Would you walk us through what happened when you arrived home, through to your conversation with Mr. Scheffler?”

Bryson does. They stop him when he gets to the part about waking up in Augusta.

“Mr. DeChambeau, just to clarify, you got both into and out of Augusta without detection?” Brandt asks. “How?”

“I don’t know how I got into Augusta, I was unconscious. As for how we left, we walked out using the tunnels.”

Brandt raises his eyebrows. “Tunnels.”

“The ones under the Augusta complex, yes.”

“Were you not aware of the tunnels, Mr. Snedeker?” Justin asks. “They’re a remnant from the second world war. Their existence is noted in various Tour records. We can discuss it more after the hearing. Mr. DeChambeau, please continue.”

“Alright. There was a car waiting by the end of the tunnel, and we drove to Atlanta.” Bryson tells them about the rooftop, about taking the shot, about driving back to Texas with Wedge. About not thinking about it. About Scottie showing up.

“Thank you, Mr. DeChambeau. Now, you made the choice to tell Mr. Scheffler about your involvement, as McIlroy had instructed you to do. Why?”

“Because my choices were either to come clean or to have the Tour find out first and not believe me when I told you that I was coerced. I would rather have the protection of the Tour in that situation. It has nothing to do with what Rory told me to do.”

“How would you describe the current nature of your relationship to McIlroy?”

Bryson shrugs. “I’m just a tool to him, and I hate the way he manipulates me. I hate the way he’s above everything. I just hate him, honestly.”

“Ms. Henderson recently told us that she encountered you searching for information on a civilian you believe to be close to McIlroy. Would you explain why?”

Here’s where it gets harder to tell the truth. He doesn't want to give up everything to the Tour. “I’m also hunting Rory. I want to find him. I thought the civilian would be a good way to do so. It ended up being a dead end.”

“I see. Did Ms. Henderson tell you about her theory that Tiger Woods may not be dead?”

“She did.”

“What do you think about it?”

“I shot him, so I should have killed him. I’m not sure how they would have been able to fake that. I have no idea why Rory wanted Tiger dead, or why Tiger wanted to die if what Rory said about Tiger knowing was true. That being said, I’m never confident with anything when it comes to Rory.”

“Mr. DeChambeau shot a bullet, and we found it lodged in Mr. Woods’s heart. Mr. Fleetwood corroborated that the bullet matched the casing that Mr. DeChambeau had brought to him. Most of us saw the body before it had even left the building. There was no way it could have been faked. Can we put an end to this debate, now?” says one of the board members whose names Bryson has forgotten.

“Mr. Karlsson, as you well know, it is unwise to dismiss all options contrary to what you believe without considering them properly. However, if the members of the board believe that the weight of evidence is behind Mr. Woods being dead and we should not pursue further investigation into the possibility that he may be alive, say ‘aye.’”

Bryson doesn’t notice anybody who doesn’t say aye. Brooke looks unaffected from what Bryson can tell, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Then the members of the board are in agreement,” Justin says. “We may continue with the inquiry. Mr. DeChambeau, were you to find McIlroy, what would you do?”

That gives Bryson pause. “I don’t know. It would depend on the circumstances of locating him.”

“If you were to find him, would you turn him in to the Tour?”

“Again, it would depend on the circumstances.” Bryson doesn’t want to promise the Tour jackshit. He doesn’t fucking work for them anymore.

“I understand. Does anybody have further questions for Mr. DeChambeau?”

The further questions mostly consist of Bryson being made to repeat things he already said in new ways. It makes sense that they immediately lacked the ability to get things done without the steady hand of Tiger guiding them.

Eventually, though, they run out of steam, and Scottie and Brooke escort him out.

Once they’re outside walking to the apartments, Bryson turns to Brooke. “I still think Tiger is alive, I just didn’t want the Tour getting in my way when I go after him.”

“You say that as if you were concerned that I would be upset you didn’t support me, so let me reassure you that I don’t care what you say to the board or what the board believes.”

That stings more than Bryson would have thought. “Fine, then.”

Brooke peels off when they reach the apartments, but Scottie walks Bryson all the way to Rory’s door.

“Bryse, I know you’re not gonna stop until you find Rory, but I just want you to know that if you’re about to go into a dangerous situation, you can call me and I’ll be there to back you up. I have no idea what kind of shit Rory might have been involved with, so I don’t want you going at it alone.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m not rejoining the Tour.”

Scottie sighs. “This isn’t about the Tour, this is about me and you being friends. I’m not trying to get you to owe me or the Tour anything.”

There’s a part of Bryson that’s telling the freaks to suck it, he does actually have friends, and friends who would help him kick their asses, at that. “In that case, thanks. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“That’s good to hear. Go get your stuff, I’ll wait here.”

It’s not like Bryson really unpacked, so all he has to do is change out of the suit and into his own clothes and grab his toothbrush. It’s efficient, until he’s about to head out of the bedroom and he sees the silver bracelet on the dresser.

Bryson’s not sure why he’s surprised that it’s still here. He remembers Rory wearing it a lot, once upon a time, but maybe it’s not an every day piece anymore. It’s simple, just a flat chain forming a smooth circle.

Something about being in this place makes Bryson make bad decisions. He takes it from the dish and tries to put it on. At first he’s afraid it’s too small, but it does fit, albeit snugly. It’s probably tighter than it should be. Bryson doesn’t take it off.

When he opens the door, Justin is standing there, too, talking to Scottie. Justin cuts himself off in the middle of what he was saying. “Ah, Bryson, just the man I wanted to talk to. Would you mind if I walked you back to your car instead of Scottie?”

Bryson glances at Scottie, but Scottie just shrugs to say up to you. “Sure. I’ll see you around, Scottie.”

“Yeah, good to see you, Bryse. Say hi to Wedge for me.”

“Will do.”

With that, Scottie walks off, and Bryson is left alone with Justin.

“We can walk and talk. I just wanted to have a moment with you outside of the formality of the hearing. How are you?”

“Fine,” Bryson says cautiously. He doesn’t know if he’s ever had a one on one conversation with Justin before.

“Good, good. Listen, I don’t want to discourage you from your pursuit of Rory. You are well within your rights to do that. I suppose I just wanted to ask you what your next step will be, since you said the civilian was a dead end.”

Bryson raises his eyebrows. “Why do you want to know?”

“Natural curiosity. I trust Scottie’s process completely, but I’d also like to hear about yours.”

Bryson doesn’t want to show his hand. He doesn’t trust Justin at all, but there’s also a nonzero chance he might know something that Bryson doesn’t. “I haven’t decided my next step yet. I wish I could have talked to Harry, but instead I ran into a couple of Rory’s friends who were very insistent that I shouldn’t get close to him.”

“Rory’s friends?”

“Yeah. Two guys in full tactical armor, faces hidden. Strong opponents, too, I couldn’t take both of them. They were weird as fuck, they had some bet that had something to do with Oklahoma.”

“Oklahoma? Did they talk about living there?”

“One of them might have implied it, I really don’t know.”

Justin hums in consideration. “You know, I wonder if I might actually know who you’re talking about. Maybe they’re two completely different people, but I do know of one man who might match your description. He works to– well, first, are you familiar with the complexities of the relationship between tribal and federal law?”

“No.”

“Ah, then I won’t explain it to you, though it's worth looking into. About the guy, though, I tried to recruit him to the Tour a couple years ago, but he declined. I still have the information we collected on him. It might not be completely up to date, but it’s something, if you’re interested.”

“Sure, I’m interested.” It’s something to go off of. What Justin's saying doesn’t line up with Bryson's original suspicion that the freaks were associated with the mystery council, but maybe they’re honestly just be Rory’s friends. Rory still gave them information, and it’s information Bryson could probably use if he can get it out of them.

“I’ll email you the file, then. Good luck in your efforts.”

They’re at Bryson’s car now, so he tosses his bag in the back seat and offers a curt nod to Justin. “Thanks. Congrats on the promotion.”

“Thank you. It’s always been my life’s dream to wrangle cats,” Justin says wryly. “I wish I could still be doing the work of a field agent. Appreciate it while you can.”

“I do. That’s why I left this place.” Bryson slides into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut.

Justin still waves as Bryson pulls down the drive.

Well, the gamble might have paid off. It seems like he’ll be going to Oklahoma after finally picking up Wedge from the petsitter.