Chapter 31 Zane
THIRTY-ONE
zane
The coffee in Morrison’s office tastes like sludge, but that’s probably because everything tastes vile when you haven’t slept in thirty-six hours and the person you love just told you he never wants to see you again.
Morrison’s been staring at me from across his desk for the longest couple of minutes of my damn life without saying a word. Just sitting there with his hands folded.
“So,” he says finally. “Want to explain why our timeline went to hell?”
“Timeline?”
He opens a folder, pulls out surveillance photos. Recent ones - Tate at the grocery store, Tate leaving practice, Tate outside his apartment. “No syndicate approach, no contact, no progress on our case. Right? That’s what you reported.”
I shrug. “Maybe they changed their minds.”
“Cut the bullshit. They didn’t change their minds.
You know how I know?” He shoves another photo across the desk at me.
This one shows Tate sitting in a restaurant with someone I recognize.
Viktor Petrov, the syndicate contact who approached Tate.
“Because we’ve been watching. We know contact was made. ”
Shit.
“When?” I can barely squeeze out the word.
“Four days ago at a restaurant downtown. It was an hour-long meeting.” Morrison leans back in his chair. “What I want to know is why you didn’t report it.”
My mouth feels dry. “I didn’t know about it.”
“I wasn’t fucking born yesterday, Christensen. You’re his coach. You see him every day. You’re supposed to be monitoring his activities, his mental state, and his contact with outside parties.” His voice gets harder. “You’re supposed to be doing your fucking job.”
“I am doing my job.”
“Really? Because from where I sit, it looks like you’ve been jerking us around since you started on this assignment. Giving us useless reports, avoiding our calls, acting like this operation is some kind of inconvenience instead of a federal investigation.”
A shudder runs through me as my mind trips back to Tate walking away from me in that parking garage.
“Maybe I have been.”
Morrison’s expression darkens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I take a deep breath. “It means maybe I’ve been having second thoughts about using someone I care about as bait.”
“Someone you care about.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Just a nasty edge. “Right. The target you’re not supposed to be emotionally involved with.”
“His name is Tate.”
“His name is irrelevant. He’s a means to an end.”
“He’s a person.”
“He’s a person who’s about to get recruited by criminals who fix hockey games for money.
And thanks to your cooperation, we have a chance to stop that from happening.
” Morrison stands up and starts pacing behind his desk.
“Unless you’ve decided your feelings are more important than federal law enforcement. ”
“What if I have?”
The words tumble out before I can stop them. Morrison stops pacing, his head slowly turning to look at me.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you, I just can’t believe you’re stupid enough to say it out loud.
” He sinks back down in his chair. “Let me remind you of your situation, Christensen. You’re a cooperating witness in a federal investigation.
You’ve been given immunity in exchange for your assistance.
That immunity goes away the moment you stop cooperating. ”
“I know.”
“I’m not sure you do because it sounds like you think you can pick and choose which parts of our agreement you want to honor.”
“What if I told him about everything?”
Morrison’s face goes completely blank.
“Told him what?”
“Everything. About Detroit, about the syndicate, about this operation. About the fact that he’s been a target since before I took the coaching job.”
“You didn’t.” Morrison’s jaw twitches, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“I did.”
Rage seeps into his expression. “You compromised a federal investigation.”
“I protected someone who didn’t deserve to lose his livelihood.”
“You obstructed justice. You violated the terms of your cooperation agreement. You committed a federal fucking crime.” He’s standing again, slamming his hands flat on the top of his desk. “Do you have any idea how serious this is?”
“Yes, and I should have done it a long time ago.”
“You’ve completely fucked yourself beyond all recognition.” He reaches for his phone. “I’m calling the DA. Conspiracy charges, obstruction of justice, breach of agreement. You’re looking at ten to fifteen years.”
I hold out a hand. “Wait.”
“Wait for what? For you to compromise another investigation? For you to decide which laws you feel like following?”
“I can fix this.”
“You can’t fix this. It’s done. The operation is blown, the target is compromised, and you’re going to prison.” He starts dialing. “And just so we’re clear. Your father’s medical care gets cut off today. Hope he enjoys the state facility.”
My stomach roils at the mention of my dad.
A lump forms in my throat. “What if I could give you the syndicate?”
Morrison’s finger freezes over the phone screen. “What?”
“What if I could give you everything? Names, operations, evidence of past game fixing. Everything you need to bring them down.”
“How?”
“By going back to them.”
“Going back to them, how? They know you’re FBI now. Your cover is blown.”
“They don’t know I’m FBI. Only Tate knows, and he’s not going to tell them.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he hates me and never wants to see me again. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
Morrison studies my face like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying or just desperate enough to hand myself over on a silver platter.
“What’s your play?”
“I contact Volkov, the guy who approached me back in Detroit. Tell him I’m desperate, that my father’s medical situation got worse, that I need money fast.” I lean forward. “He’ll know I have access to players through my coaching position. He’ll be interested. Trust me.”
“And then what?”
“And then I wear a wire. Get him to talk about Detroit, about current operations, about their plans for other players. Give you everything you need to bring the syndicate up on RICO charges.”
Morrison toys with the handle of his coffee mug for a long moment. “You realize what you’re suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting we finish what we started.”
“You’re suggesting suicide. These people killed your hockey career when you tried to walk away the first time. What do you think they’ll do when they find out you’re wearing a federal wire?”
“I don’t care what they do to me.”
“You don’t care.”
“I care about protecting someone who deserves protection. I care about making sure the syndicate can’t hurt anyone else the way they hurt me.” I meet his eyes. “I care about doing something right for once in my fucking life.”
Morrison stares at me for a long time. Probably weighing options and risks, trying to figure out if he should just cut his losses and throw me in prison.
“You know there’s no backup plan here. If this goes wrong, you’re dead. And even if it goes right, you’re still probably dead. These aren’t people who forgive betrayal.”
“I know.”
“You know, but you’re still willing to do it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
My heart clenches. Because I love him. I love him enough to decimate my own life to protect his. I love him enough to walk into a situation that will probably get me killed if it means keeping him safe.
“Because the syndicate destroys everyone they touch, and he deserves a chance to live his life without looking over his shoulder.” I pause. “And because someone needs to stop these fuckers, and I’m the only one who can get close enough to do it.”
Morrison picks up his pen and starts tapping it against his desk. “What makes you think Volkov will trust you?”
“I have something the syndicate wants. Access to NHL players through my coaching position. And because he thinks I’m exactly what I am - desperate, trapped, and willing to do anything to keep my father alive.”
“And you’re willing to wear a wire into a meeting with people who will kill you if they find it.”
I nod.
“Do you understand that this is likely a one-way trip?”
“I understand that if I don’t do this, they will go after Tate Barnes.” I stand up. “They’ve been destroying people’s lives for years while we’ve been playing catch-up. This is our chance to end it.”
“It’s likely you’ll die.”
“Everyone dies. Not everyone gets to go out on their terms.”
Morrison stops tapping his pen. The office goes quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
“If I authorize this, there will be conditions.”
“Name them.”
“You don’t contact Barnes. You don’t try to explain yourself or say goodbye. None of that soap opera drama bullshit. You made your choice when you told him the truth. Now you live with it.”
“Fine.”
“You follow our script exactly. No improvisation, no going off book, no trying to be a hero beyond the heroics you’re already attempting.”
“Fine.”
“And you understand that once you walk into that room with them, you’re on your own. We can’t extract you, we can’t save you if things go wrong, and we can’t guarantee your safety.”
“I understand.”
Morrison’s lips pull into a tight line. “Once you make this call, there’s no taking it back. You’re committed.”
“I’m already committed.”
Morrison stares at me for another long moment, then opens his desk drawer and pulls out a recording device. It’s small, wireless, and designed to look like a button or a phone charger.
“This transmits to our surveillance team in real time. It’s audio only, but enough to build a case if you can get them talking.”
“How do I activate it?”
“It’s always active once we turn it on. The battery lasts six hours.” He slides it across the desk. “Don’t touch it, don’t fidget with it, don’t give them any reason to look at you closely.”
I pick up the device. It’s smaller than I expected. Lighter, too.
“When do I make contact?”
“Tomorrow. I will confirm if we are a go. We will need time to set up surveillance, brief the tactical team, and get everything ready.” He lasers me with a stare that could slice glass.
“And Christensen? If this goes wrong, if you get yourself killed or compromise this operation any further, there’s no saving you.
Either way, you’re fucked. The only difference is whether you take them down with you. ”
“I know.”
“I hope you do. Because this is your last chance to back out. If we move forward, after tomorrow, you’re committed to seeing this through to whatever end it brings.”
“I’m ready.”
“No, you’re not. Nobody’s ready for what you’re about to do.” Morrison stands up and walks around his desk. “But sometimes being ready doesn’t matter. Sometimes you just have to do what needs to be done and hope you survive it.”
He extends his hand. I shake it, wondering if it’s the last normal human interaction I’ll have.
“Good luck, Christensen.”
“Thanks.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right choice. Stupid as hell, but right.”
I head for the door, the recording device heavy in my pocket.
Tomorrow, I will call Volkov and tell him I need work.
I will walk back into the world that destroyed my life once already.
And I will find out if love really is worth dying for.