Chapter 8 The Line I Choose
THE LINE I CHOOSE
DOMINIC
Istand in the office of Director Han—my supervisor—hands loose at my sides, posture straight.
She’s at her desk, glasses perched low on her nose, reading my resignation letter like it’s just another Tuesday. For her, it is. I’m not the first agent who, out of the blue, decided “the hell with it.”
She looks up slowly. “And here I thought you were a lifer.”
“You and me both,” I admit.
She studies me for a long moment. Not my face—my tells. The things she’s learned to read over the years. “This about the Cahill op or Paris?”
I’ve worked with Director Han for six years. We’re not friends, but we’ve survived enough lie detectors together to earn a version of intimacy.
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Happens. I worried when you started right back up after Paris.”
Getting shot is never fun. Getting shot because you stood in front of an innocent you put in danger in the first place is justice…but still not fun.
“I didn’t need much physical therapy,” I remark.
Her expression softens, surprise melting into more warmth than she usually allows. “And you conned the psychotherapist.”
“He’s new.” I smirk. “He hasn’t learned to read the bullshit yet.”
She braces her forearms on the desk, her gaze steady on me. “You sure about this, Dom?”
I tip my chin in acknowledgment.
“Yeah.” I have spent four weeks thinking about this non-fucking-stop, and I know it needs to be done.
“You understand what you’re walking away from.”
“I do.”
She gives me a measured look. “Your clearance. Your trajectory. Your pension. All gone.” She lets out an elaborate sigh. “Not that you need the money.”
“No, ma’am.”
My parents own restaurants in Louisiana, and my sister is a Hollywood producer who invested her and my money wisely. I could sit on my ass and do nothing, and live a life most people only dream about.
“But staying will cost you too much, is that it?”
Bullseye! “That’s it.”
She gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit your ass down.”
I do as she instructs.
She opens the bottom drawer and brings out a bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail and two whiskey glasses. It’s her favorite. She calls it, “Peat, smoke, and regret.”
I prefer my whiskey not to taste like an ashtray, but my soon-to-be-ex boss doesn’t share her liquor lightly. This is her way of showing me respect, so I’ll drink the fucking Scotch—I’ve drunk worse things in the name of peace and politics.
She pours the amber liquid, and pushes a glass toward me.
“Sante.” She clinks her glass to mine.
“Slainte.”
We’ve always done this. She’s half French, and I’m half-Irish and half-Creole.
After a few sips, she says, “You did your job.”
“I did.” I hesitate, and add, “I hate that she was a job.”
She grimaces and then gives a weary nod. “Happens to the best of us. Happens to Ruiz a lot.”
I grin. “He says he’s got a big heart and bigger…ah…equipment.”
“That man falls in love at the drop of a security clearance.” She takes another long sip. “He mistakes exposure for attachment.”
I know what she’s implying. “I’m not doing that.”
“Then what are you doing?” she challenges.
“Ma’am, at the risk of sounding like I’m leading with sentiment instead of tradecraft, I want to earn the right to be with her.”
Director Han groans in exasperation. “Didn’t take you for a sentimental fool.”
“I’m a man in love, ma’am.”
She downs her scotch. “I met my husband during an op. Been married ten years now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Director Han is married to a career DOJ official.
“She’s a civilian.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And that’s why you’re quitting.”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am. I’m quitting because I’m burned out. I’ve been at that precipice for a while. But, honestly, if it wasn’t for her, I’d stay, power through it. I need to go so I can win her back before it’s too late.”
My boss furrows her brows. “Ruiz says she held herself together. Says she forgave you.”
My throat tightens. “That doesn’t mean she’s going to let me—the real me—into her life.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agrees. “Damn it, Dom, you’re one of the best. We don’t get many agents who can disappear the way you do.”
I think of Enya’s laughter, of her ability to see me even when I was trying to hide. “I don’t want to disappear anymore.”
“You know, this door doesn’t reopen, no matter who your brother-in-law is,” she warns.
“I know.”
“Alright then, finish your scotch and leave your weapon, badge, blah blah with my assistant, and get the fuck out.”
I finish my scotch, as she ordered, and rise. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s been an honor.”
She smiles faintly. “I want an invite to the wedding.”
“If there’s one, yes, absolutely.”
“There will be.”
I want to believe her, but what I did to Enya isn’t something you can come back from.
It was…morally reprehensible.
Fuck.
“There will be,” she repeats. “I know you, Dom, you only lose when you want to. And you don’t want to lose her.”