"Elliot matters to you," Jinx says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"More than the mission?"
"The mission is getting him out. So yes."
Jinx nods slowly. "I've never seen you like this. Fifteen years, and you've never once deviated from protocol. Never once put anything above the objective." He pauses. "It's strange. Watching you become human."
"I'm not becoming human. I'm becoming something else."
"Something better?"
I consider the question. The honest answer is: I don't know. The tactical answer is: it doesn't matter. The only answer that means anything is the one I give.
"Something worth destroying to become more."
Jinx's mouth curves. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Then let's go fight for it."
"The facility," I say, pulling up the schematics on the main screen after the SUV stops just beyond the camera sensors and idles quietly. "Walk me through the layout again."
From the outside, it's unremarkable: twelve floors of corporate anonymity, the kind of place where accountants and middle managers shuffle through fluorescent-lit days without ever suspecting what happens beneath their feet.
Below ground, it's something else entirely.
"Three levels," Landon explains, highlighting sections of the blueprint. "Level one is processing: intake, medical screening, initial assessment. Level two is holding: individual cells, interrogation rooms, the neural extraction suite." His voice tightens on those last words. "Level three is disposal."
"Elliot is on level two," Briar adds. "Room 7-C, according to my contact. Webb's been keeping him isolated from the other assets."
"Security?"
"Twelve guards on rotating eight-hour shifts. Biometric access at every checkpoint. Cameras in every corridor except the interrogation rooms." Landon pulls up another screen. "But here's the vulnerability… the shift change at 0200 creates a twenty-three minute gap in coverage. Half the guards are leaving, half are arriving, and the overlap means everyone assumes someone else is watching the monitors."
"That's our window."
"It's also when Webb typically does his late-night sessions." Briar's jaw tightens. "He likes to work when there's minimal oversight. Fewer questions about his methods."
I absorb this. File it. Add it to the growing list of things I will make Webb answer for when this is over.
"The collar," I say. "We need to get it from him. What are the mechanics?”
Landon brings up another schematic, this one showing the internal mechanics of the compliance device. "It operates on a specific frequency band, controlled by a handheld transmitter. Range is approximately fifty meters."
"Webb carries the transmitter personally."
"Which means we need to take it from him before we can safely remove the collar." Briar straightens, rolling his shoulders. "That's where I come in. You deliver my body as proof of completion. Webb will want to verify personally. He'll get close. And when he does—"
"I inject you with the adrenaline. You waking up creates a distraction and I take the transmitter."
"Exactly."
It's a good plan. Clean, simple, minimal variables. It’s solid, but if we are off by a few seconds, it could mean death. For all of us.
"What if I don’t get the needle into you fast enough?" I ask.
"Then you improvise." Briar meets my gaze, steady and unflinching. "You're the Reaper. Improvisation is what you do."
