Chapter 13 Chris
Chris
I told myself this was about Petrov.
I’m still telling myself that. But I knew the second I took Tatiana from that junior agent what this was really about. Professional oversight had nothing to do with it. I manufactured the thinnest excuse I could to get myself in the same city as Nina Palmer.
I probably shouldn’t be here. I definitely shouldn’t be sitting in her waiting room watching her face cycle through surprise, confusion, and what might be relief. But showing up unannounced was better than the alternative.
Which was what, exactly? Lurking outside her office building? Following her home?
“You’re not going to LA for me,” Tatiana had said somewhere over Nevada, her pale eyes cutting straight through my bullshit. “So stop pretending this is about professional oversight and tell me who she is.”
I’d lasted another hour before I cracked.
Now Nina’s standing in her doorway, one hand still on the handle, looking like she can’t decide whether I’m a crisis or a complication.
Her hair is pulled back, a few dark curls escaping around her face.
She’s wearing a cream-colored blouse and a charcoal skirt that hits just below her knees—professional, controlled, but soft enough to remind me of the woman I had in my arms two weeks ago.
“Hello, Nina,” I say, because someone has to fill the silence.
“Chris.” Her voice is steady, but I know her well enough to hear the tremor underneath. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. I’m sorry for the surprise. Can we talk?”
She glances toward the reception desk where Darius is suddenly very interested in his computer screen, then back to me. I can see her calculating—the surveillance, the professional boundaries, the fact that this is her workplace and I’m disrupting her carefully constructed day.
“I’m between appointments,” she says carefully. “A few minutes.”
She steps back, gesturing me into her office. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and suddenly we’re alone. Not really—I can sense the weight of the recording equipment, the invisible eyes watching every move we make—but alone enough that the air between us shifts.
The office smells like her. Bergamot and cinnamon.
There are books on the shelves—some I recognize from her apartment in Denver, others that must be new.
I try to reconcile the Nina from the wedding and the fresh college graduate Nina with the accomplished woman standing here now.
The room is likely just set dressing for the op, but she’s real, and seems very much in her element.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe someone who needed rescuing. Instead I’m looking at a woman who doesn’t need a goddamn thing from me, and that’s worse.
She doesn’t sit. Neither do I.
“How are you?” I ask, because it’s the only question safe enough to express that I care without demanding specifics. But it’s nothing compared to what I want to know. Not here.
“I’m well.” She folds her arms across her chest, a barrier that wasn’t there the last time we were together. “Working. Settling in.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Christ, I sound like an idiot.
She’s watching me, reading every micro-expression. I can see her shifting into therapist mode, the way she tilts her head slightly, the softening around her mouth that says she’s about to ask the kind of question that strips away all pretense.
“Chris,” she says gently. “Why are you here?”
How do I answer that? How do I tell her that I’ve been falling apart since I left her bed—left both of them sleeping in that tangle of sheets while I dressed in the dark and disappeared? That I manipulated an entire operation just to get in the same room as her?
I can’t. Not here. Not with them listening.
“Work,” I say instead. “I’m handling a new asset. Tatiana Petrov. She’s your next appointment.”
Her lips tighten, her gaze narrows. It isn’t surprise—she was expecting Petrov.
“I see.” She glances toward the door, then back to me. “That’s... unexpected.”
“Last-minute assignment change.”
“Is she...” Nina pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Should I be concerned about anything specific?”
Yes. She’s dangerous. She’s unpredictable.
I recruited her out of Corluka’s organization six months ago—my first real win as a case officer—and she’s been testing my limits ever since.
She spent forty minutes on the plane reading me like a case file, and now she knows more about my psychological state than my own handler ever did.
“She’s complex,” I say. “Trauma history. Trust issues. She’s been cooperative so far, but that could change.”
Nina nods, filing the information away. “I’ll be careful.”
I know you will. But careful might not be enough.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we can’t say. I want to touch her, want to ask if she’s okay. There’s more underneath, a tightness around her eyes and carefully controlled stillness that speaks of recent strain. Something I put there, or something new?
The old instinct surfaces from before deep cover rewired everything I knew about human connection.
When Nina hurt, I held her. Simple as that.
Fourteen, eighteen, twenty-two—every time the world cut too deep, she’d show up at my door or, if I could, I’d show up at hers, and I’d pull her in and she’d let go of whatever she’d been white-knuckling.
I was her safe place before Wyatt existed, before the DEA or the Agency, before Vicente Amador turned me into someone who flinches at his own tenderness.
And right now, I can see her wanting it—the almost-imperceptible lean toward me, the way her fingers press into her own arms like she’s holding herself together because no one else is.
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and try to look like this is just business.
“Chris,” Nina says suddenly, her voice softer.
I look up.
“Callie texted earlier. Mason’s doing a barbecue sometime next week.” She pauses. “If you’re still in LA, you should come.”
The invitation stops me cold. Not because I don’t want to, but because it means I’ll have to tell my sister I’m in town. I’ll have to explain why I didn’t call.
And Mason. Fuck. Mason’s going to take one look at me and know exactly what I’ve done. He’s going to see through every professional justification I’ve constructed, straight to the messy, desperate truth underneath.
But Nina’s offering me something here. A safe space where we can actually talk without the weight of surveillance and professional boundaries pressing down on us.
“I...” I start, then stop. Clear my throat. “I didn’t tell her I was coming.”
“I figured.” There’s something almost gentle in her voice. “But she’d want to see you. They both would.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, which is a lie. I’m already thinking about it. Already running through the logistics, the risks, the way Callie’s face will look when she realizes I’ve been keeping secrets.
“Good.” Nina glances at her watch. “I should—”
A soft knock interrupts us. The door opens slightly and Darius pokes his head in, his eyes flicking briefly to me before focusing on Nina.
“Ms. Petrov is ready,” he says quietly.
Nina’s head turns toward the door, then back to me. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
I nod, stepping back. Creating distance. Returning to the professional space we’re supposed to inhabit.
“I’ll be in reception,” I say. “When you’re finished.”
“Of course.”
She moves to the door, her hand on the handle. For a moment, she pauses.
“Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
And then she’s opening the door, transforming back into Dr. Nina Palmer, trauma specialist, as she greets the woman who spent the better part of six hours systematically dismantling my emotional defenses.
I follow her out, watching as she extends a professional hand to Tatiana.
“Ms. Petrov. Please, come in.”
Tatiana’s pale eyes flick to me briefly with a look that says This is what you came for, before she follows Nina into the office.
The door closes.
I sit in one of the chairs by the window, trying to look casual. Professional. Like I’m not coming apart at the seams.
I stand, pace to the window, then drift closer to Nina’s office door. The wood is thick, the frame solid, but maybe if I—
“The walls are soundproof,” Darius says without looking up from his screen. “In case you were wondering.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I was wondering. And apparently, I wasn’t being subtle about it.
“Good to know,” I mutter, retreating to my chair.
I try to settle, but my eyes keep wandering to the coffee table scattered with mental health pamphlets and magazines. Psychology Today sits on top, the cover asking “Are You Self-Sabotaging Your Relationships?” in bold letters that feel like a personal attack.
Underneath, a brochure about trauma recovery. Another about attachment styles. A laminated card listing warning signs of PTSD.
I look away.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number, but I recognize the area code. Langley.
Shit.
I glance at Darius, who’s pointedly not looking at me, then step toward the far corner of the room.
“Longo.”
“Chris.” The voice is Deputy Director McIntyre. Not good. “Care to explain why you’re in Los Angeles when you should be at Langley?”
I close my eyes. Here we go.
“Sir, I’m handling the Petrov asset. I needed to brief the therapist before the first session.”
“Bullshit.” McIntyre’s voice is flat. “Agent Nakamura was assigned to Petrov. You reassigned yourself without clearance.”
“Nakamura is green. Petrov’s too valuable to risk with someone who doesn’t understand her psychological profile.”
“And you do?”
“I extracted her. I debriefed her. She trusts me.”
“This isn’t about trust, Longo. This is about protocol. About chain of command. You spent five years deep cover with Amador and now you’ve got a team in LA for a reason. Let them do their job instead of inserting yourself every time something connects back to that operation.”
Heat flares in my chest. He thinks this is about Vicente.
Good. Let him.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Granted.”
“Tatiana Petrov is the most valuable intelligence asset we’ve had in years.
She has information about Serbian trafficking networks, weapons pipelines, and financial structures that could cripple organized crime operations across three continents.
If she walks, if she decides cooperation isn’t worth the risk, we lose all of that. ”
I pause, letting that sink in.
“She’s also psychologically fragile, distrustful of authority, and prone to violent reactions when she feels cornered. The wrong handler could set her off. Could make her run. Could get people killed.”
“And you think you’re the right handler?”
“I know I am. Because I knew her when we were both trapped working for people who’d kill us for disloyalty. That’s why I could recruit her—she knew I understood. She knows I’ve been where she’s been. That matters.”
“Convenient justification.”
“It’s the truth.”
Another pause.
“You have one chance, Longo. One. Petrov delivers actionable intelligence within the next week, or you’re off the case.”
“Understood, sir.”
“See that it is.”
The line goes dead.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and stare at the closed office door.
Be careful.
Good advice.
Too bad I’ve never been very good at taking it.