“I’m regretting that you volunteered her without thinking it through.”
There’s no point in reiterating that my recommendation was far from the deciding factor in choosing her. I signed off because she was perfect for the job, because her skills were exactly what we needed. But I didn’t consider that her connection to Chris might make her a target instead of an asset.
“So what do we do?”
“We protect her by keeping my past out of it. Let her work. Let her be brilliant. And we handle Vicente ourselves if he tries anything.”
“And when she figures it out anyway?”
Chris turns to look at me directly. “Then we deal with the fallout. But at least she’ll be alive to be angry at us.”
His words cut through all the justifications. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Not just operational integrity or professional ethics. It’s about the fact that we’re both terrified of losing her, and we don’t trust ourselves to keep her safe if she knows how personal this could become.
“I know you think I made the wrong call,” I say quietly. “Putting her forward for this. You need to know I didn’t do it on a whim.”
Chris is quiet for a long moment. “I think you made the call that felt right at the time. With the information you had.”
It’s not absolution, but it’s not condemnation either. It’s Chris trying to be fair when fairness is the last thing I deserve.
“Ready?” he asks, reaching for his door handle.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
He opens his door. I follow.
We start toward Nina’s front door when Chris suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me back.
“What—” I start, but he puts a finger to his lips, nodding toward the discreet security camera mounted above the door.
“Let’s not use the front,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
I frown. “Why not?”
He takes a step back, scanning the exterior of the building. His assessment is automatic, instinctive—finding weaknesses I’d walk right past.
“This place is wired tighter than Langley,” he mutters. “Camera above the door. Another by the mailbox. Motion sensors along the walkway.”
“It’s a secure residence,” I say. “That’s the point.”
“Yeah, and I’d rather not have our bosses watching us show up at her doorstep at ten o’clock at night looking like we’ve been in a bar fight.”
I touch my split lip. It’s stopped bleeding, but it’s definitely swollen. The cut on Chris’s cheek has started to bruise.
“Fair point.”
He gestures for me to follow him, moving away from the front of the building and toward a narrow path that runs along the side.
“Where are we going?”
“Around back.”
The property is larger than it appears from the street—a sprawling, single-story, mid-century modern home that follows the natural contours of the land, all clean lines and large windows. The main structure is low, almost hugging the earth, but extends in multiple directions, creating private courtyards and secluded outdoor spaces.
“Nice place for a government salary,” Chris murmurs.
“It’s not hers. Agency property. Part of the cover.”
