8
Wyatt
The secure call goes live at 18:00 sharp.
I’m working remote today, joining the call from the back patio, bundled in a sweatshirt against the November chill. The air’s sharp enough to keep my head clear. The white noise app on my phone barely rises above the rustle of the breeze through the trees, but it’s enough to keep the line clean. The signal’s hardwired, the VPN stacked—precautions, not paranoia. It’s quiet here. Open. Nothing between me and the sky.
Chris loads in first. Blurry for a second, then sharpens into focus. The background behind him is CIA-issue beige, blank and bloodless. He’s got a tie hanging crooked at his neck, like he threw it on without checking the mirror or the clock. He probably forgot what time zone we’re in. Hell, he might not even be in Langley. That’s not his apartment, I’d bet on it. He looks untethered. Disconnected from place, time, maybe even himself. There’s no indication he planned to be anywhere at all. And I shouldn’t care, except I do.
Then Mason joins, and the contrast hits. Zoey’s on his lap with a juice box sandwiched between them. She’s babbling in Spanish, pointing at something offscreen. Mason keeps one hand on her and uses the other to unmute.
“Evening,” he says. Calm. Too calm, his eyes flicking between us, already sizing up the rift. He doesn’t comment on the tension. But it’s already in the air, thick enough to taste. And he’s not a man who misses details.
Chris doesn’t answer.
I do. “Welcome back.”
Mason blinks once, then smiles faintly. Not amused. Just confirming what we all know: something’s off.
“I’ve got a hard out in thirty,” he says. “Callie and Nina went out to pick up dinner. Zoey’s bedtime’s at seven. Let’s move.”
Chris still hasn’t said anything.
I glance at his window again. His jaw’s tight. Eyes unreadable. He hasn’t stopped looking at me since the moment I joined the call.
And it’s not the kind of look that says I’m glad you’re here.
Mason clears his throat. “Chris, you want to start?”
Chris finally blinks and nods. “Vicente and Arturo are scheduled for their first session in two days. Logistics are locked. Nina’s team reports the setup passed internal sweep and all hardware’s running clean.”
I nod like I didn’t already know that. Not officially, but Darius and Lucia have kept me close enough to feel the pulse of things.
Chris continues like he’s reading from a clipboard. “Arturo’s been cooperative. Vicente less so. No active resistance, but we’re watching for signs he’ll bolt.”
He’s still adjusting to the arrangement. House arrest at Arturo’s compound. After the DEA dismantled his cartel in Mexico, he cut a deal—inform in exchange for his freedom. But that freedom’s provisional. A promise, not a gift. He hasn’t delivered yet, and if he vanishes, the whole operation collapses.
Arturo’s the only tether holding him in place, and even that feels tenuous. As an asset with a proven track record going back more than five years, Arturo has built more trust with the agencies than Vicente, but trust isn’t the right word. They’ve invested years into Arturo’s cooperation, into grooming him as a stable conduit. This isn’t about faith. It’s pressure applied in the right direction.
Mason knows all of it. Hell, he helped build the case that brought Vicente in. Three years undercover in Mexico, walking a wire between cartels and federal backchannels. Those years bought this setup, and nearly broke him. They also gave him Zoey. You’d never know what it cost, looking at him now with his daughter happily babbling away in front of him.
Mason shifts Zoey a little, murmurs something under his breath to her in Spanish, then glances back up. “Nina’s ready?”
“She’s always ready,” I say before I can stop myself.
Chris flinches. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I almost regret it.
Almost.
He doesn’t comment. Just moves on. “I’ve pulled two analysts from Behavioral to run silent observation on the sessions. Mason, they’ll route you transcripts after each meeting, with flagged indicators.”
Mason nods. “Good. I’ll compile and send feedback within twenty-four. I want eyes on any mention of Rafael’s contacts in Mérida or Puebla. Arturo’s still being cagey about whether or not he knows Rafael.”
Rafael Marcano. A name that didn’t exist six months ago. He appeared in Mexico in the power vacuum left behind by the near simultaneous destruction of the two largest cartels in the country, and he’s been moving too fast. His record’s spotless, like someone wiped it clean, but he’s been quietly picking up Vicente’s old territory and contacts one by one. The agencies haven’t confirmed a link yet, but it’s not hard to guess where this might be heading. Vicente never worked with the Serbs, but his network would be a perfect fit for their trafficking routes. If Rafael’s connected to them, this whole arrangement could blow sideways fast unless we pin down who he is.
I glance back at Chris’s window. His posture is stiff, spine straight like he’s bracing against something. He still hasn’t looked away from me. There’s a tension sitting between us, not overt, but present. Static that hasn’t found a place to land yet. It’s there in the silence, pressing in around the edges of the call, growing heavier with every minute we pretend it isn’t.
Zoey screeches, high and sharp, and smacks Mason’s chest with both hands. He winces and hits mute fast, but it’s like the moment ripples through us. Not a warning, but I flinch anyway, like the pressure in the room spiked and I’m the only one bracing for a blow.
