The Informant's Backhand

The padel ball smacked against the glass wall, a sharp crack that echoed in the indoor court. I watched Marcus wipe sweat from his forehead, his grin easy and unburdened. He'd been my friend for seven years—since we were both junior analysts clawing our way up the corporate ladder at Stratagem Global. Now he was VP of Operations, and I was... something else.

"Your backhand's sloppy today, man," Marcus called out, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just tired." Running surveillance on your best friend will do that to you.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Three months ago, the FBI had approached me with evidence of embezzlement in Marcus's department. They needed someone close—a spy, essentially. Someone Marcus would trust implicitly. They offered immunity for my own past indiscretions, a neatly wrapped package of coercion disguised as opportunity. I'd taken it, telling myself it was the right thing. Telling myself Marcus must have known.

After the match, we sat by the club's pool, legs dangling in the cool water. The surface rippled around our calves, distorting our reflections into something unrecognizable.

"You've been different lately," Marcus said, his voice low. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Distant. Distracted." He paused. "Running from something?"

The question hung between us like smoke. I looked at my friend—really looked at him. The gray threading his temples, the worry lines around eyes that had once laughed easily over cheap beer and loftier dreams. I thought about the dossier in my bag: photographs, financial records, timestamps. Evidence of a man who'd been stealing from the company for years.

But then I remembered something else. Marcus had covered for me when I crashed that company car in 2019, no questions asked. He'd loaned me twenty grand when my mom got sick, never asking when I'd pay him back. Friend, the word echoed in my mind, carrying a weight I'd chosen to ignore.

"Marcus," I started, my throat tight. "About Stratagem..."

He held up a hand, shaking his head. "I know why you're here, Sarah. Counterintelligence hired you last month. I've known for weeks." His expression was unreadable. "I also know I didn't embezzle anything. But someone in my department did—using my credentials."

The water seemed to still around us.

"I was waiting for you to come to me," Marcus continued quietly. "Instead, you went to them first. That hurts more than the investigation."

I stood up, water dripping from my legs, and realized I'd been running from the wrong thing. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he said, staring at the pool's unmoving surface. "Me too."