Page 17 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Seven

The van doesn’t stop for a long time.

Long enough for the vibration of the engine to sink into my bones and the pain in my ribs to dull into something heavier. Meaner.

At first, I count the seconds between turns, track the shifts in speed, and the grade of the road, building a map the way I was trained to.

My injuries keep interrupting, stealing my focus so I lose the thread and have to start over again. We hit a pothole, and my vision collapses inward. It’s not worth trying again. The effort costs more than the information is worth.

When the van finally slows, we could be anywhere.

The doors open, and air rushes in, cold enough to burn my lungs.

An older man grips my arm and pulls me forward. “Step down.”

Gravel crunches under my shoes. My gaze sweeps automatically, searching for edges, landmarks, exits—but we’re moving too fast. I register a harsh glow cutting through the night, industrial concrete, and the sour tang of oil.

Then a hood drops over my head.

The world simply…disappears into total darkness.

My pulse spikes.

The fabric presses close to my face, damp with the faded smell of detergent and the pungent odor of old sweat.

Reused.

Stiff from someone else’s fear.

Seams press against my nose, my lips, and my neck, the sensation scraping my nerves raw.

Hands guide me forward, pressure landing at my elbow and shoulder. They adjust automatically around the dislocation, compensating before my body can.

A door shuts behind us.

The air changes. Filtered. Warmer. Almost thick under the hood. My lungs don’t think they’re getting enough oxygen, and they try to compensate with deeper breaths, but my ribs lock in protest.

The bottom drops out of the floor for a moment. An elevator. We’re going down. I count twelve seconds before we move again.

Without sight, my sense of distance collapses inward. I start tracking my steps anyway. Ten. Fifteen. At twenty-six, we turn. I almost miss it until my shoulder is redirected. Then we stop.

“Stand still for intake,” a calm voice says.

They don’t rush the pat-down.

Hands sweep from my shoulders to my arms, along my ribs, over my hips and thighs. Fingers press at specific points, deliberate enough that my breath catches despite my control.

My eyes strain uselessly beneath the hood, my brain reaching for a frame of reference that isn’t there. With vision gone, everything else rushes forward to fill the gap. The rough drag of fabric against my cheek. The way my bra strap bites into my injured shoulder. The sharp, chemical edge of someone’s cologne that burns my nose.

Someone lifts my bound wrists. Pain flares down my arm, but I’m braced for it. I keep my breathing even.

Fabric tears, the sound too loud in the small space. Cool air brushes the back of my neck. Two more rips, and the skin on my arms prickles as my jacket is pulled free and dropped behind me.

My shirt is next. Cut straight down the front, then at each shoulder.

Breathe. Focus.

I press my thumbs together until I can feel my pulse.