Chapter 16 Chris
Chris
Tatiana slides into the booth across from me, pale eyes scanning the room once before settling.
She’s changed since I cut her loose after the session and let her settle in at the safe house the Agency assigned her.
She traded the careful professional attire for dark jeans and a leather jacket that makes her look like she could disappear into any crowd in Eastern Europe.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Vodka would be better.” She picks up the laminated menu, grimaces at something, sets it down. “But coffee will do.”
I signal the waitress, who doesn’t look up from her phone as she approaches. We order two coffees, black. She’s ready with the pot, flips over and fills the two presumably clean mugs that were resting upside-down on saucers in front of us, then shuffles away without a word.
“So,” Tatiana says, leaning back. “Dr. Palmer. She’s smart.”
I don’t respond. She shifts forward and lifts her coffee, sniffs it cautiously.
“Very professional. Very... careful with her questions.” She’s watching me over the rim of her mug. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? From before.” She sips, wrinkles her nose, then sets the mug down.
“We’re not talking about this.”
“Why? Because it’s personal?” She smirks.
“How was your session?” I ask, voice flat.
She laughs. “It was fine. Dr. Palmer is very good at making you feel safe while she picks through your brain. I can see why your handlers value her.”
“I have access to the recordings,” I say. “But I haven’t reviewed them yet.”
“Why not?”
“Other priorities,” I say instead.
She studies me for a moment. “Your boss must be breathing down your neck. You have that look—like someone’s given you an impossible deadline.”
She’s fishing now, but she’s not wrong. McIntyre called three times while I sat in that waiting room, each message more pointed than the last.
“Deputy Director McIntyre,” I admit, keeping my voice low. “Wants actionable intelligence within the week or I’m off the case.”
She laughs, short and bitter. “A week. These people think intelligence grows on trees.”
“Can you deliver?”
“The Serbs are scattered but not broken. Everyone’s scrambling to fill the vacuum the Corlukas left.” She wraps her hands around the mug again but doesn’t drink. “There are three factions forming. Two are amateurs—former lieutenants with more ambition than brains. But the third...”
“Dragonov.”
She nods. “Vasili Dragonov. He was Bogdan’s enforcer before he got ambitious. Smart, connected, and careful. He’s been consolidating quietly while the others fight over scraps.”
“You have access to him?”
“Not directly. But I know people who know people.”
“I need a week,” she says. “Maybe less. There’s a network forming—money launderers, trafficking coordinators, the infrastructure guys who actually make organizations run. They’re all looking for new leadership. I can get close to them. Make myself… available.”
“How close?”
She meets my eyes. “Close enough to matter. Not close enough to get killed. Probably.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You want reassuring or you want results?” She leans forward. “I’ll get you names, routes, financial structures. Enough to make your boss happy. But I do it my way.”
“Within reason.”
“Your reason or mine?”
“Mine,” I say. “You’re my asset, my responsibility.”
Amusement flickers across her face, or maybe pity.
“We both know that’s not why you’re here,” she says quietly. “In LA, I mean. This isn’t about me or the Serbs or your career.”
I don’t answer.
“The woman,” she continues. “Dr. Palmer. She’s why you manipulated this entire operation.”
“Careful.”
“Or what? You’ll pull me from the field?” She shakes her head.
“Get me the intelligence,” I say finally.
“If you say so.” She stands, gestures at the untouched coffees. “You’re paying. Consider it a handler expense.”
I pull out my wallet, but she’s already halfway to the door.
Wednesday morning, I drive past Nina’s house. Just reconnaissance, I tell myself. Checking the security, the exits, the vulnerability points. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s in there, probably in a session, probably wearing that cream blouse that makes her skin glow.
I park down the street and watch for twenty minutes before I realize what I’m doing. Before I recognize this for what it is—the same surveillance mindset that kept me alive undercover.
I drive away before she can look out a window and see me.
Thursday is worse. I know she goes to that coffee shop on Pico around 3 PM. It’s in the operational files—her routine, her patterns, the kind of detail that helps establish cover. I tell myself I’m just verifying the intelligence.
But when I see her through the window, laughing at something the barista says, her hair catching the afternoon light, I have to grip the steering wheel to keep from going inside.
She looks good on the surface. Professional clothes, steady hands, that practiced smile she uses when she’s being polite.
But there’s something in the way she holds herself—too careful, too contained.
Like she’s managing herself in pieces. She turns away from the barista too quickly, the mask dropping the second she thinks no one’s watching.
She looks like she’s holding it together. And she’s good at it—good enough that most people wouldn’t notice the difference.
Which should be what I wanted, shouldn’t it? For her to be managing, functioning, building something here. But this careful version of her is wrong. Like watching someone I’ve known all my life play someone they’re not.
She orders, then moves to the condiment bar. The place is packed. Afternoon rush. She stands by the napkins, phone in hand, scrolling through something while she waits.
I should leave, but I don’t.
Then someone else steps up beside her. I barely register him at first—just another body in the crowd. My attention is on Nina, on the way she shifts her weight, on the small tells that say she’s managing more than she’s letting on.
But then he says something. Nina glances up from her phone. Polite acknowledgment, the kind you give a stranger making idle conversation.
That’s when I actually look at him.
Mid-twenties. Dark hair, expensive haircut.
Tailored charcoal slacks, white shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show toned brown forearms and an understated watch.
He probably knows exactly what he looks like and exactly what effect it has.
Handsome in that polished, successful way that probably opens doors before he has to knock.
My jaw tightens.
He’s smiling. Easy, confident. Neither aggressive nor sleazy—just the right amount of interested. Nina responds—probably something about the wait time or the weather, the kind of nothing that fills space.
But he doesn’t let it drop. Keeps talking. And something shifts.
Nina’s posture loosens. Not a lot, but enough that I notice. The careful containment I’ve been watching all afternoon eases. Her shoulders drop half an inch. The smile she gives him isn’t the polite one. It’s real.
He’s good. Whatever he’s saying, however he’s saying it, he’s disarming her. She’s laughing. They’re talking like they know each other, like this isn’t two strangers killing time waiting for overpriced coffee.
The barista calls two drinks. Neither of them moves immediately. They’re mid-conversation, and neither wants to break it.
Something hot and ugly coils in my chest.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? For her to be okay. To connect with people. To not carry the weight of everything alone. But watching her be genuinely at ease with this stranger makes me want to put my fist through the steering column.
She finally reaches for her drink. He says something else—probably asking for her number—and she hesitates. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a business card. Hands it to him with that real smile still on her face.
He takes it, glances at it, says something that makes her laugh again. She says goodbye—I can read it in her body language—and heads for the door.
I duck down in my seat as she passes. Heart hammering for no good reason. When I straighten up, she’s already out of sight.
But the man is still at the condiment bar. Watching the door where she left. Not moving. Just standing there with her card in his hand and an expression I can’t quite read from this distance.
He stands there too long. Staring after her like he’s memorizing something.
Then he pockets the card, collects his drink, and walks out.
By the time I could follow, he’s gone. No black Mercedes, no clear direction. Just vanished into the LA afternoon like he was never there.
And I’m sitting here with jealousy and something that feels uncomfortably like unease burning under my skin.
I don’t have any right to the jealousy. I chose this distance. Nina can talk to whomever she wants, give her card to smooth strangers who make her smile. It’s none of my goddamn business.
But that look. The way he watched her leave. The satisfaction in his posture, like she was the answer to a question.
I drive away, but his face stays with me. Dark eyes, confident smile, expensive watch. The way Nina’s careful mask slipped away for him when it hasn’t for anyone else all week.
Friday afternoon, my phone rings. Wyatt.
I stare at his name on the screen for three rings before answering.
“Chris.”
“Hey.” His voice is careful, like he’s testing the temperature. “How are you?”
Not perfunctory—he actually means it. Wyatt probably always means things like that.
“I’m...” Falling apart. Watching Nina from a distance. Trying not to think about you. “Fine.”
A beat of silence that tells me he doesn’t believe me.
“Chris—”
“I’m managing,” I cut him off, sharper than intended. “What do you need?”
He exhales, recalibrating. “I wanted to let you know I’m being reassigned to LA. Long-term placement.”
I grip the phone tighter. “When?”
“Next week. Flying in Wednesday morning.”
Of course they’re sending him. The DEA wants their own eyes on the ground, someone to balance out my creative interpretation of protocol. And who better than the agent who actually follows protocol?
“They tell you why?” I ask.
“Officially? Operational expansion. They want someone with institutional knowledge of the players.” Another pause. “Unofficially? I think they want someone keeping tabs on the situation.”
“On me, you mean.”
“On all of it.” His voice is steady, not defensive. “Look, I know this complicates things.”
I laugh, short and bitter. “Things are already complicated.”
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “How is she?”
Of all the topics he could choose—the one we’re most at odds about.
Her assignment. The fact that he helped facilitate her presence here.
And yet... relief floods through me. Because talking about Nina, even arguing about Nina, is safer than talking about myself.
About us. About what happened in Denver.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve been... maintaining distance.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been watching her. Not talking to her, not approaching her, but watching. Because you can’t help yourself.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just recognition. “I’d be doing the same thing.”
The honesty is disarming.
“She seems okay,” I say finally. “From what I can tell.”
“But?”
“But something’s off. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I got that sense when I talked to her Tuesday. She said we needed to talk when I get there. That it wasn’t for a phone call.”
My pulse kicks up. “She reached out?”
“A text earlier this week. Before I knew about the reassignment.” He hesitates. “Chris, I’m worried about her.”
“So am I.”
The admission sits between us, weighted by everything else we’re not saying.
“Could be the operation,” I offer. “Something in the files. Vicente and Arturo aren’t exactly stable subjects.”
“Maybe.” But his tone says he doesn’t believe it any more than I do. “We both know it’s probably about us. About what happened.”
The reference to that night—to all of it—makes my gut churn.
“You’ll be good for her,” I say quietly. “Being out here. You’re better at...” I trail off.
“At what?”
At being present. At staying. At not letting yourself get spooked the moment things get too real.
“At being what she needs,” I finish.
There’s a pause, and I can almost feel him wanting to say something about Denver. About that night when I let him see exactly how broken I was.
But he doesn’t. Wyatt’s evidently someone who knows when to push and when to let things be.
“We can’t both hover,” Wyatt says. “She’ll see right through it.”
“You think that’ll stop me?”
“No.” There’s almost amusement in his voice. “But I had to try.”
“She invited me to Mason’s barbecue next Wednesday,” I say, not sure why I’m telling him.
“Mason invited me too. Guess we’re all going to be one big happy family.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Look, whatever’s going on with her, we’ll figure it out. But Chris—we need to let her tell us. Don’t push, just... be there when she’s ready.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But being right and being capable of following through are two different things.
“I’ll try,” I say.
“That’s all any of us can do.” He pauses. “See you Wednesday.”
“Yeah.”
He hangs up, and I’m left staring at my phone, trying to process the fact that Wyatt Booth just extended something that felt like understanding. Maybe even alliance.
My phone buzzes.
TATIANA: Tomorrow night. The Coterie. 11 PM. Wear something that doesn’t scream federal agent.
CHRIS: That’s a nightclub.
TATIANA: Yes. Problem?
I think about loud music, crowds, the kind of sensory overload that makes surveillance impossible and puts you at a tactical disadvantage.
CHRIS: No problem.
TATIANA: Good. Try to look like you’re having fun. I know that’s difficult for you.
I don’t respond to that.