“I’ve done extractions before,” he says quietly.
His tone shifts into something more personal, even though it’s work related.
“But nothing like tonight,” he adds.
I watch him over the rim of my glass.
“What was different?”
“You.” He doesn’t smile when he says it. “This wasn’t just about keeping you breathing,” he continues. “I knew that halfway through the first flight we took.”
I don’t interrupt.
“When I left the military,” he says, “I told myself I was done with gray missions. Done with the kind of work where you don’t get the full picture and you’re expected not to ask for it.”
He takes a slow breath.
“I’ve watched good people get burned because they trusted the wrong intel. Or the wrong chain of command.”
His eyes meet mine directly.
“I won’t let that happen on my watch again.”
“You don’t even know what you stepped into,” I say softly.
“No,” he agrees. “So tell me.”
“I wasn’t recruited,” I say. “I was cultivated.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“From a young age?”
“Yes.”
I set my glass down.
“If a man needed something — information, influence, leverage — I was positioned to obtain it.”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
“I was good at it,” I continue evenly. “Good enough that I became valuable.”
“And when you’re valuable,” he says quietly, “you get owned.”
“Yes.”
Owned-- the word tastes bitter.
“I escaped. It was nearly impossible to accomplish, moving through various countries until I sought refuge at a U.S. Embassy. Russia was never going to let me retire. The United States offered a deal.”
He doesn’t move.
“What kind of deal?”
“One final operation. Cooperation in exchange for severed ties.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
