“I don’t give anyone reasons, Davis.”
The corner of his mouth moved, which was as close as he came to expressing approval. “Cover details.”
He clicked through the rest of the folder. Diplomatic credentials, embassy housing in the visitor wing, accredited language certifications dated three years too early to be the truth, a cleared travel history that erased the eighteen months I had spent in Macau. The cover was tight. It was the same cover I had used in Tromsø in ’23, albeit with a different last name and a different set of paperwork.
Davis liked covers that had been pressure-tested. He used the same family of legends across operations. It was cheaper than starting fresh.
“The embassy translator pool will read your name on the State Department roster Tuesday morning. They won’t have been briefed and will assume you transferred over from Mandarin support.”
“Got it.”
“Last thing: you don’t have an exfil contact in the building.”
I met his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“There’s no asset on the inside. No friendly face. The Norwegians caught our last one in ’21 and the Ashenmere council watched us pullhim out. We haven’t put another in. You’ll be running cover for the duration with no fallback.”
That wasn’t in the prelim, which explained why he had been standing.
“And if it goes sideways?”
“You walk into the consulate in Seattle. Ask for the regional security officer. You say the wordCordillera. He’ll know what to do.”
“And if I can’t get to the consulate?”
He paused for three seconds, maybe four. “Then you don’t.”
I raised my brows.
He didn’t blink. He wasn’t, I noticed, apologizing for it. He was telling me, in the cadence we had built between us over six years, that the operation was important enough that the ordinary safety nets had been removed, and I was walking in knowing it.
“Understood.”
He let the word settle, then closed the folder. “Good.”
I picked up the folder and walked out.
* * *
My apartment was thirteen minutes from headquarters by any route that respected traffic laws.
Mine did not.
There were six ways home. The fastest required a left turn that was technically illegal between four and six p.m., which was simply a scheduling disagreement.
Eleven minutes and fifty-three seconds, door to door.
Today, I was Catalina Cordero: professional rule-bender, tactical optimist, and woman willing to save herself ninety seconds on principle.
I took the stairs, rounded the second-floor landing, reached for my keys, and then the smell found me. Garlic. Wine. Something herbed and slow-cooked.
He had been home for hours.
I stood outside my own door with the classified folder under my arm and breathed it in. A whole life, soft in all the places I wasn’t. A life that made me feel guilty for not wanting more of it.
“Hey.” Nate looked up from the stove, smiling easily as I walked in. He was wearing the gray shirt he had owned since grad school, with the fraying collar I had suggested throwing away twice and would probably suggest again. “Good timing. Twenty minutes.”
“You didn’t have to.”
