He wasn’t going to tell Patel about the bed, the kiss, or how close it had come to going further. Not because she’d think it was a breach—Christ, she’d probably say it was good tradecraft. Exploit the attraction. Use him to get to Reid. Use Reid to get to Radley. But that was the problem. Warren didn’t want it to be an order. He wanted it because he wanted it.
Which meant he couldn’t give her that leverage.
So instead, he said, “I saw a tattoo. Lower back, V-shape, barbed wire. Classic gang property mark. That placement’s not decorative, it’s territorial. In some crews, it’s the visual shorthand for ‘kept boy.’”
Patel sat back, letting that settle. “And you think Reid put it there?”
“I’d stake good money on it.”
“And how exactly did you come to see this tattoo? Not the sort of thing you spot on playground duty.”
Warren kept his face neutral. “School trip. Overnight stay. Accommodation mix-up meant we ended up sharing a room. He came out of the shower, towel slipped. I clocked it.”
Patel’s gaze stayed locked on him, weighing the answer. “Convenient.”
He gave a small shrug. “I wasn’t looking for it. But when you’ve worked in Covert for as long as I have, you don’t forget certain markers when you see them. And this one’s textbook. Not artistic, not subtle. Designed to humiliate and to warn others off.”
Patel sipped her tea, still watching him. “And Ellison’s reaction?”
“Embarrassed. Guarded. Like I’d just dug up something he’d buried.” Warren took a measured sip of coffee, masking the memory of Jude’s eyes in the dark, the shift in the bed between them. “Didn’t want to talk about it. Changed the subject fast.”
“Could be nothing.”
“Could be.” He met her eyes. “Or it could be the cleanest link we’ve had between Reid and a current vulnerable. And he’s in his house.” Warren clenched his fist under the table. “Right now.”
“And you know that for certain?”
“I saw him. Yesterday. Went to drop something off, he was looking out the window and Jude wouldn’t open the door more than an inch.”
Patel tapped her teaspoon on the rim of her mug, thinking. “Jude?”
“First-name terms outside the classroom, obviously. Keeps cover authentic.”
Patel shifted, leaning back in her chair. “If you’re right, you’ve got an angle.”
An angle. Warren knew what that meant. Not extraction. Not safeguarding. Leverage. His gut twisted. “How so?”
“We use him.”
Warren clenched his jaw, forcing his voice low. Controlled. “He’s already been through enough. We get him out.”
Patel tipped her head. “Since when do you make the operational calls?”
Warren exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of his nose before sitting back. “He won’t do it.”
“And you know that how?”
“I know him.”
“You’ve known him less than a month. Is this the same way you ‘knew’ that girl on your last job needed pulling out?”
The words landed heavy. Warren met her stare head on.
“Yes, DS Beckford, I read the file. I also signed off on your second chance here. Don’t mistake that for authority to blow an operation because you’ve decided someone’s worth saving on your own timetable. You don’t get to pull a live asset because you feel protective. This isn’t your call. It’s mine. And right now, he stays in place.”
Warren kept his posture straight, voice even. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Good. Now, what we need to establish is how much Ellison knows. If he’s got leverage over Reid, if he’s protecting him, or if he’s sitting on something we can use. Then we decide: do we pull him in to flip, or do we move him straight to a formal statement?”
