"I'm not apologizing," Nick snapped and waved away her waggling accusatory finger. He thought about it for a moment and grudgingly added, "It's 'cause you're so fucking good at being a secret agent." That was his excuse for what, in retrospect, was a really stupid mistake for a seasoned spy and commander not to recognize one of his own. Always expect the unexpected and always be prepared. Constant vigilance. All that bullshit, those were the rules to live by and here Morse had fooled him with a tight suit and some god damned goggles. Fuck those goggles. He reached over and snapped the strap lightly against the back of her head out of spite.
"What do you think he's gonna tell you?" he asked, serious now. "That motherfucker won't talk and even if he does, do you think he's got any intel we can't get ourselves?" Fury wasn't criticizing her now, he was genuinely curious. Given what she'd set out to do, Morse might have informants that even Nick couldn't manage and might know something he didn't. As far as he was concerned, this French Fucker was a big prize to bag, and not for the information he might give them. He hadn't considered that LaCroix might be able to get them some even bigger fish to fry.