Chapter 8
Wyatt
I’m working remote today, joining the call from the back patio, bundled in a sweatshirt against the November chill.
The air’s sharp enough to keep my head clear.
The white noise app on my phone barely rises above the rustle of the breeze through the trees, but it’s enough to keep the line clean.
The signal’s hardwired, the VPN stacked—precautions, not paranoia.
It’s quiet here. Open. Nothing between me and the sky.
Chris loads in first. Blurry for a second, then sharpens into focus.
The background behind him is CIA-issue beige, blank and bloodless.
He’s got a tie hanging crooked at his neck, like he threw it on without checking the mirror or the clock.
He probably forgot what time zone we’re in.
Hell, he might not even be in Langley. That’s not his apartment, I’d bet on it.
He looks untethered. Disconnected from place, time, maybe even himself.
There’s no indication he planned to be anywhere at all. And I shouldn’t care, except I do.
Then Mason joins, and the contrast hits. Zoey’s on his lap with a juice box sandwiched between them. She’s babbling in Spanish, pointing at something offscreen. Mason keeps one hand on her and uses the other to unmute.
“Evening,” he says. Calm. Too calm, his eyes flicking between us, already sizing up the rift. He doesn’t comment on the tension. But it’s already in the air, thick enough to taste. And he’s not a man who misses details.
Chris doesn’t answer.
I do. “Welcome back.”
Mason blinks once, then smiles faintly. Not amused. Just confirming what we all know: something’s off.
“I’ve got a hard out in thirty,” he says. “Callie and Nina went out to pick up dinner. Zoey’s bedtime’s at seven. Let’s move.”
Chris still hasn’t said anything.
I glance at his window again. His jaw’s tight. Eyes unreadable. He hasn’t stopped looking at me since the moment I joined the call.
And it’s not the kind of look that says I’m glad you’re here.
Mason clears his throat. “Chris, you want to start?”
Chris finally blinks and nods. “Vicente and Arturo are scheduled for their first session in two days. Logistics are locked. Nina’s team reports the setup passed internal sweep and all hardware’s running clean.”
I nod like I didn’t already know that. Not officially, but Darius and Lucia have kept me close enough to feel the pulse of things.
Chris continues like he’s reading from a clipboard. “Arturo’s been cooperative. Vicente less so. No active resistance, but we’re watching for signs he’ll bolt.”
He’s still adjusting to the arrangement.
House arrest at Arturo’s compound. After the DEA dismantled his cartel in Mexico, he cut a deal—inform in exchange for his freedom.
But that freedom’s provisional. A promise, not a gift.
He hasn’t delivered yet, and if he vanishes, the whole operation collapses.
Arturo’s the only tether holding him in place, and even that feels tenuous.
As an asset with a proven track record going back more than five years, Arturo has built more trust with the agencies than Vicente, but trust isn’t the right word.
They’ve invested years into Arturo’s cooperation, into grooming him as a stable conduit.
This isn’t about faith. It’s pressure applied in the right direction.
Mason knows all of it. Hell, he helped build the case that brought Vicente in.
Three years undercover in Mexico, walking a wire between cartels and federal backchannels.
Those years bought this setup, and nearly broke him.
They also gave him Zoey. You’d never know what it cost, looking at him now with his daughter happily babbling away in front of him.
Mason shifts Zoey a little, murmurs something under his breath to her in Spanish, then glances back up. “Nina’s ready?”
“She’s always ready,” I say before I can stop myself.
Chris flinches. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I almost regret it.
Almost.
He doesn’t comment. Just moves on. “I’ve pulled two analysts from Behavioral to run silent observation on the sessions. Mason, they’ll route you transcripts after each meeting, with flagged indicators.”
Mason nods. “Good. I’ll compile and send feedback within twenty-four. I want eyes on any mention of Rafael’s contacts in Mérida or Puebla. Arturo’s still being cagey about whether or not he knows Rafael.”
Rafael Marcano. A name that didn’t exist six months ago.
He appeared in Mexico in the power vacuum left behind by the near simultaneous destruction of the two largest cartels in the country, and he’s been moving too fast. His record’s spotless, like someone wiped it clean, but he’s been quietly picking up Vicente’s old territory and contacts one by one.
The agencies haven’t confirmed a link yet, but it’s not hard to guess where this might be heading.
Vicente never worked with the Serbs, but his network would be a perfect fit for their trafficking routes.
If Rafael’s connected to them, this whole arrangement could blow sideways fast unless we pin down who he is.
I glance back at Chris’s window. His posture is stiff, spine straight like he’s bracing against something.
He still hasn’t looked away from me. There’s a tension sitting between us, not overt, but present.
Static that hasn’t found a place to land yet.
It’s there in the silence, pressing in around the edges of the call, growing heavier with every minute we pretend it isn’t.
Zoey screeches, high and sharp, and smacks Mason’s chest with both hands. He winces and hits mute fast, but it’s like the moment ripples through us. Not a warning, but I flinch anyway, like the pressure in the room spiked and I’m the only one bracing for a blow.
Chris exhales hard. Something more brittle than a sigh, not as resigned as fatigue.
“You could’ve said goodbye,” I say. Quiet. Even. The words aren’t meant to be a weapon, but they hang there, heavy, but honest.
Chris doesn’t answer. Just holds my stare like I’ve said something unforgivable. Like goodbye would’ve made it real.
Mason unmutes again with a sharp click.
“Okay,” he says, like he’s trying to referee two drunk uncles at Thanksgiving. “What the hell is going on with you two?”
I glance at Chris. His jaw’s tight, shoulders locked. He’s not going to let this go.
“Nothing,” Chris snaps. Too fast. Too loud. It’s a tell.
Mason raises an eyebrow.
I open my mouth to tell Mason this isn’t about the op, that it can wait, but I already know I’m too late. Chris is coiled tight, and I’ve been in enough situations like this to recognize the moment someone decides not to hold back.
Chris’s jaw flexes. “You knew what she was walking into. And you didn’t stop her. You didn’t even try. I know Vicente. He’ll chew her up and spit her out.”
I swallow hard. “They’re not going to touch her. She’s not unprotected.”
He laughs, short and humorless. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to guarantee that.”
“I never did,” I say. “She made the call.”
“Yeah, she made the call,” he snaps. “And you just stepped aside. Held the door open like a goddamn gentleman while she walked straight into a den of fucking vipers.”
“Chris,” Mason warns.
Chris powers through. “I flew to Denver to stop her. She was already gone. And you were there, packing up her apartment. Playing the dutiful ex. She dumps you and you just volunteer to ship her life across the country. Like that’s normal.”
I’m stunned at first, not because what he says is true, but because they hit a nerve I’ve already touched too many times myself.
I’ve gone over it again and again. Wondered if I framed things too cleanly.
If I was too calm when I should’ve pushed back.
If, by helping her move, I made it easier for her to walk into something she shouldn’t have had to face.
But I didn’t put her there. Nina came to me after Mason offered her the position.
She’d already decided. She wanted my support, not my permission.
And I gave it to her. I gave her space when she asked for it, trusted her to know her limits.
She’s not someone you protect by making choices for her.
She’s someone you back when the choice is already made.
Chris thinks I should’ve fought harder. That standing aside while she walked into that room makes me complicit. Like this is about possession for him. Mine or his, I don’t know.
But I saw her the night she decided. The fear, yes, but more than that, the certainty. She knew what she was walking into. And she wanted it to mean something.
Chris isn’t mad because she left. He’s mad because she didn’t tell him herself.
I exhale slowly. Ground myself in the silence. Let the sting settle before I open my mouth again.
“She asked me to pack up her place,” I say quietly. “They needed her in LA fast. She didn’t want to leave it sitting there.”
Chris shakes his head, scoffs. “You don’t even see it, do you? You made it easy for her. Packed her boxes, kissed her goodbye, and called it support.”
“Enough,” Mason cuts in, voice steel. “Chris. Go cool off. Wyatt, hang back.”
Chris disconnects without another word. His window vanishes.
Mason reaches for something offscreen, and the small red recording indicator in the corner of the call blinks out.
Then he exhales, rubs his forehead, covers Zoey’s ears. “The fuck was that about?”
I don’t answer.
“Wyatt.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make it messier.”
“Well,” he says. “Mission accomplished.”
I half-laugh, but it comes out wrong. “It was one night. The wedding night. All three of us.”
Mason squints. “Wait—Chris, too?”
I nod.
“Damn,” he mutters. “I thought that tension at breakfast was just ‘oops, Wyatt banged Nina.’“
“It was more than that,” I say. “And less.”
He waits.
“It wasn’t just sex,” I add. “For any of us.”
Mason adjusts Zoey on his lap, sobering. “You think he regrets it?”
“I think he doesn’t know what to do with it.”
He nods once. “Was that it?”
I shake my head. “About a week later he showed up on Nina’s doorstep.”
I pause, trying to find the right way to say it. The right amount to say.
“I was packing up her things, but she was already gone. Headed to LA. He didn’t know that.”
The image is still sharp. Chris in the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes bloodshot. He didn’t look surprised to see me. Just disappointed it wasn’t her.
“He looked like hell. Maybe he thought he could stop her. Talk her out of it. But it was just me.”
Mason stays quiet, letting me work through it. His Zavala op may have ended, but our policy of brutal honesty seems to have stuck. Except now I feel like he’s the one handling me.
“We talked. Not for long. Mostly he asked questions. About her. About how she was while he was gone.”
I swallow.
“He didn’t say much about himself, but I could see it. He was coming apart.”
I remember the way Chris stood too still, like his skin didn’t fit. The way his voice caught when he said her name. The way he looked at me, like he was daring me not to understand.
“And then he kissed me.”
I shake my head, half at myself. “It wasn’t impulsive. Not really. It felt... deliberate.”
“Didn’t end well I take it?” Mason asks gently.
I shrug. “He stayed the night. Then left before sunrise. No note. We haven’t spoken since.”
Mason sighs. “Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“Nina’s been quiet,” he says, shifting Zoey again. “Callie mentioned it during our trip. Said she’s usually quicker to respond to texts.”
Guilt tightens my chest. I’ve been giving her space. Maybe too much.
“You gonna text her?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good. And Wyatt—” He pauses. “I’ve been where Chris is. The reintegration, the anger... I know what that does to a person. But you getting tangled up in it right now isn’t going to make it easier for him. It might make it harder.”
“I know.”
He softens. “You’re allowed to care. Just don’t be the thing that keeps him from doing the work himself.”
I nod, but the words settle wrong. Like they’re meant for someone who doesn’t already know what stepping back costs.
I watched my stepfather disappear into that distance.
People call it “space” when they don’t want to call it what it is.
I swore I’d never do that to anyone. Stand close.
Stay visible. Make sure no one confuses silence for not giving a damn.
But Mason’s not wrong. There’s a difference between standing close and standing in the way.
Mason studies me for a moment, and his expression eases.
“But if it’s already too late for that—and it sounds like it is—he’s going to fight you on this.
Whatever’s happening between you two, he’s going to make it harder than it needs to be.
That’s what we do when we come back.” His gaze drops to Zoey.
“Callie never chased me. But she never walked away either. She just stayed.”
That lands harder than anything Chris threw at me tonight.
He leans in and kisses Zoey’s forehead. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my daughter’s about to throw her laptop at the cat.”
He logs off.
I sit there for a long moment, still bracing like there’s more coming.
Then I grab my phone, pull up my text thread with Nina.
WYATT: Shipping the last of your stuff today. You good?
I don’t hit send right away. I just stare at the words.
Then I tap the screen.
And wait.