She studies me for a moment. “Your boss must be breathing down your neck. You have that look—like someone’s given you an impossible deadline.”
She’s fishing now, but she’s not wrong. McIntyre called three times while I sat in that waiting room, each message more pointed than the last.
“Deputy Director McIntyre,” I admit, keeping my voice low. “Wants actionable intelligence within the week or I’m off the case.”
She laughs, short and bitter. “A week. These people think intelligence grows on trees.”
“Can you deliver?”
“The Serbs are scattered but not broken. Everyone’s scrambling to fill the vacuum the Corlukas left.” She wraps her hands around the mug again but doesn’t drink. “There are three factions forming. Two are amateurs—former lieutenants with more ambition than brains. But the third...”
“Dragonov.”
She nods. “Vasili Dragonov. He was Bogdan’s enforcer before he got ambitious. Smart, connected, and careful. He’s been consolidating quietly while the others fight over scraps.”
“You have access to him?”
“Not directly. But I know people who know people.”
“I need a week,” she says. “Maybe less. There’s a network forming—money launderers, trafficking coordinators, the infrastructure guys who actually make organizations run. They’re all looking for new leadership. I can get close to them. Make myself… available.”
“How close?”
She meets my eyes. “Close enough to matter. Not close enough to get killed. Probably.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You want reassuring or you want results?” She leans forward. “I’ll get you names, routes, financial structures. Enough to make your boss happy. But I do it my way.”
“Within reason.”
“Your reason or mine?”
“Mine,” I say. “You’re my asset, my responsibility.”
Amusement flickers across her face, or maybe pity.
“We both know that’s not why you’re here,” she says quietly. “In LA, I mean. This isn’t about me or the Serbs or your career.”
I don’t answer.
“The woman,” she continues. “Dr. Palmer. She’s why you manipulated this entire operation.”
“Careful.”
“Or what? You’ll pull me from the field?” She shakes her head.
“Get me the intelligence,” I say finally.
“If you say so.” She stands, gestures at the untouched coffees. “You’re paying. Consider it a handler expense.”
I pull out my wallet, but she’s already halfway to the door.
Wednesday morning, I drive past Nina’s house. Just reconnaissance, I tell myself. Checking the security, the exits, the vulnerability points. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s in there, probably in a session, probably wearing that cream blouse that makes her skin glow.
I park down the street and watch for twenty minutes before I realize what I’m doing. Before I recognize this for what it is—the same surveillance mindset that kept me alive undercover.
I drive away before she can look out a window and see me.
