Chapter 12
TWELVE
zane
The hotel room feels smaller tonight, the air suffocating as I dress for my meeting with Agent Morrison. My eyes fall to his message on my phone screen.
I stare at my face in the mirror. There are lines around my eyes that weren’t there before Vegas.
The scar on my temple has faded, but I can still see it.
I look older than my thirty-two years but then again, being on the run from some of the most dangerous criminals in the world can do that to a man.
I finish getting dressed and grab my keys. A glance at the clock tells me it’s six forty-five. Fifteen minutes to get across town to Giuseppe’s.
The drive gives me too much time to think about this afternoon’s practice. About the way Tate looked at me when I caught him. The fierce surge of desire that passed between us when we were pressed together, both wanting something we couldn’t have.
And the way his eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second before Carter walked in and shattered the spell.
I’ve been trying not to think about it. Trying to focus on anything else. Christ only knows, there are enough other distractions in my life…Morrison’s demands, my father’s condition. But none of it can get the image out of my head.
Tate in my arms, looking at me like I was someone worth wanting.
He’s finally beginning to trust me just as I’m being asked to betray that trust.
Giuseppe’s is busy when I arrive, which is good. Crowds make surveillance harder.
I’m five minutes early, so I take a table in the corner where I can see all the exits. I order a drink I don’t want and arrange the salt and pepper shakers in a straight line.
My knee throbs where it presses against the table leg, and I shift to relieve the pressure. The pain is worse when I’m stressed. I guess it’s my body’s way of reminding me what happens when I make the wrong choices.
When was the last right one I made?
I scrub a hand down the front of my face.
Vegas.
There was a reason why we were there in the same place, why we found each other. It was the first right thing I’d done in a damn long time, even though it turned out to be wrong on so many levels.
Morrison shows up at exactly seven o’clock, sliding into the seat across from me. Everything about the guy is designed to be forgettable - average height, brown hair, gray suit that could have come from any department store. The kind of man you’d walk past on the street without a second glance.
Except for his eyes. They see everything.
He signals the server. “How’s the coaching job working out?”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Morrison’s eyebrows raise. “That’s not what I’m hearing from my sources.”
My pulse jumps. “What sources?”
“The kind that pays attention when a struggling NHL goalie suddenly starts improving at a private practice after weeks of looking like he belongs in a beer league.” Morrison leans back in his chair. “Interesting development, don’t you think?”
“Players have good days and bad days. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it means you’re getting too close to your assignment.”
I should deny it, but he probably already knows.
“What do you want, Morrison?”
“Results. It’s been weeks, and you’ve given me nothing useful. No potential targets, no vulnerabilities, no intelligence I can use.”
“There’s nothing to give you. These players aren’t criminals. They’re not looking to make deals with betting syndicates.”
“Everyone’s looking to make a deal if the price is right and the pressure’s high enough.” Morrison’s voice drops. “The syndicate’s been quiet for too long. That means they’re planning something, and Oakland’s the most likely target. When they make their move, I need to be ready.”
“And if they don’t make a move?”
“They will. These people don’t just disappear. They regroup, they adapt, they find new ways to make money. And right now, sports betting is a billion-dollar industry with too much money and not enough oversight.”
The server takes his drink order, and Morrison waits until she’s gone before continuing.
“I’ve been reviewing the Oakland roster,” he says, pulling out a tablet. “Interesting group of guys. Young core, lots of potential, but also lots of pressure. Contract years, performance anxiety, family obligations.”
He turns the tablet toward me, Tate’s photo open on the screen. My breath hitches.
“Barnes, for instance. The guy you are supposed to be watching closely. Four-year veteran having the worst stretch of his career. And it’s a contract year. His performance issues started before you showed up but lately they seem to be getting worse.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that struggling players make attractive targets. Someone in his position might be open to suggestions about how to improve his game. Performance enhancers, insider information, connections with people who could help his career.”
“Tate’s not that kind of player.”
The words come out harder than I intended, and Morrison’s eyes narrow.
“Tate? Interesting that you’re on a first-name basis with a target.”
Fuck. I’ve been thinking of him as Tate for so long that I forgot Morrison would notice.
“All the coaches use first names with players. It’s not unusual.”
“Really.” Morrison takes a sip of his drink. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you might be developing an emotional attachment to someone you’re supposed to be monitoring.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Then explain why you’ve been protecting him. Why every report you file emphasizes his integrity and minimizes his vulnerabilities.”
Because he trusted me once, and I walked away from that trust.
Because watching him struggle feels like watching someone drown while I hold the life preserver just out of his reach.
Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about survival and started being about something I can’t afford to feel.
“I’m just being objective.”
“Bullshit.” Morrison leans forward. “You’re compromised, Christensen. And compromised assets are liabilities I can’t afford.”
The threat hits like a sledgehammer to the chest. Morrison’s not just talking about pulling me from the operation. He’s talking about pulling my father’s protection, cutting off his medical care, leaving both of us exposed.
“I understand the assignment,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Glad to hear it because your assignment isn’t to protect these players. It’s to help me catch the people who corrupt them. If that means letting some of them get dirty in the process... ”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication is clear. The FBI doesn’t give a shit who gets hurt as long as they build their case. Players, families, careers…they’re all acceptable casualties in the war against organized crime.
“What are you asking me to do?”
“Your job. Watch for anyone who looks out of place and makes contact with a team member, document vulnerabilities, and report back to me when someone makes contact. When they do, you let it happen.”
“Let it happen?”
“Yes. You don’t get in the way. We need them to commit crimes so we can prosecute. That means letting them recruit someone, letting them make their pitch, letting them get in close.”
My stomach turns. “And if the player says yes?”
“Then we have a case. Everyone goes to prison, including the player who chose to take the deal.”
The casual way he talks about destroying lives makes me want to put my fist through his face. But I can’t. Because he holds my father’s fate in his hands, and he knows it.
“I need more time,” I say, trying like hell to keep my voice even.
“You have two weeks. After that, I bring in someone else to do what you couldn’t.”
His eyes scan the dining room, and I follow his gaze, my breath catching when I see what caught his attention at the large table near the front window.
Tate Barnes sits at the center of it.
Fuck.
Morrison nods at the table. “Family dinner.” He leans forward. “I can observe him in his natural environment.”
“Morrison... ”
“Relax. I’m just watching.”
Morrison’s settling in while Tate’s fifteen feet away, unaware that he’s being observed by a federal agent who’s cataloging his every move.
“We should go,” I say. “This is too risky. I don’t think we should take a chance to be spotted.”
“We’re just two guys having dinner. Don’t overreact.”
That’s when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Tate stands up, saying something to his family. As he turns, his eyes land on us.
A shadow instantly eclipses Tate’s relaxed expression. The smile fades, replaced by shock.
Our eyes tangle across the restaurant. But it’s long enough for me to see the questions forming. Long enough for me to realize how this must look.
He heads toward the back of the restaurant, his spine rigid.
“I’ll be back,” I say, standing.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Morrison asks.
“Bathroom.”
“Sit down. We’re not done.”
“We are done.” I drop my napkin on the table. “This meeting’s over.”
I’m tired of being his fucking marionette. Sick of him reminding me over and over how he’s the one pulling the strings, how he’s the one who can cut them at any time if he doesn’t think I’m cooperating.
Screw him.
Right now, all I care about is getting to Tate.
Because I know exactly what he’s thinking. I know how this looks. And I know that every step he takes away from that table is another step farther away from any chance we might have had.
The question is whether I can catch him before he disappears.
Or whether I’ve already fucked this whole thing up beyond repair.