Page 187 of Operation: Defiance

“You were on sublevel three. The computer terminal was in a central hub with a couple of desks and a single security camera. The rest of the floor was arranged around it. I counted eight cells and three interrogation rooms before I found the one they’d left you in at the very end of the hall.”

I swallow hard, the memory of my life fading away too close to the surface. “So they couldn’t house more than ten detainees.”

“Not unless Coherent Path has access to the other sublevels. But I didn’t see evidence of that. I entered the detainee ID I was looking for on a terminal outside the elevator and it routed me to sublevel three immediately.”

I open my notebook, flip to a blank page, and set a pen next to the laptop. There’s a pattern in these files. There has to be. If GSD sent all thirty-one people to Coherent Path at the same time, someone would notice. So what is it?

Three hours later, the ache in my neck is bad enough to disrupt my ability to think. Four files have the RJ-3 escalation code. Another six are marked with RJ-2. And ten show a recent update to RJ-1. The others have varying statuses from possible proximity to restricted subject to potential for future risk exposure, whatever that means.

I’ve only put a name to four of them. Jonas, Tessa, my Assistant Director, Claire, and her boss, Bertrand Hensley.

If Hensley or Claire disappeared, the entire organization would notice. Tessa has a monitoring check scheduled for 3:30 this afternoon.

The music playing softly in the background doesn’t change, but something in me does. My pulse slips ahead of my breathing, too fast to be useful, and I force them back in sync—inhale, hold, release—until the mismatch evens out.

I let my gaze unfocus. The tip of the pen drags across the margin of the notebook without instruction, hard enough my hand shakes.

Blinking hard, I stare at the string of numbers.

Two-one-seven-four-three-eight.

Where did that come from?

I glance back up at the screen. The last RJ-1 file is still open, all those redacted fields mocking me. I scroll to the right, verifying the timestamp from late last night. That’s when I see it. Those same six digits.

I check another file. Then another. By the fourth file, I’m not searching anymore. I’m confirming.

The code isn’t tied to the agent at all. It only shows up when there’s an escalation. Never on routine status updates like travel authorizations or security clearance increases or background checks.

This is an approval code. And whoever it belongs to? They’re the one who signs off on sending people through Coherent Path.

My stomach cramps. It’s strange enough that I pause. Breakfast feels far away, though my sense of time is still so skewed, I have to check the laptop’s clock to know for sure.

It’s after noon.

I sit with the sensation for a breath, maybe two, surprised by how foreign it feels to notice something as simple as hunger in my own body. I log out carefully. Even with all the precautions we’re taking—a secured hot spot, rotating VPN connections every session, minimal cell phone usage—every time we use the internet, we leave a trail. Whether we can see it or not.

Once the laptop is powered down, I stand. My legs complain. So do my ribs. But the twinges and aches are duller now. Normal, given everything they did to me.

“Asher?” I pull the leftover stew out of the fridge. “I’m heating up lunch. Do you want some?”

He glances up from his tablet, surprise flashing in his eyes for a quick moment. “Sure. I’d love a bowl.”

It only takes five minutes before lunch is steaming, and Asher joins me at the table.

It feels so normal to sit here and share a meal with him. After the first spoonful of stew, my stomach growls loudly and my cheeks flush with heat. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“You’ve been running analysis since nine,” he says. “I wager you’ve learned more in three hours than most people do in a week. That’s bound to work up an appetite.”

“Was that supposed to be…a compliment?” Social cues have never been one of my strengths, but Asher’s smiling, and my lips twitch without permission.

“It was supposed to be accurate.” Dry humor edges his tone. “And a compliment.”

I huff out a breath. “Fair.”

After a few minutes, he reaches for his napkin. “A job request came in through one of my original aliases this morning. Not Mason Hale. Eddie Stewart.”

My spoon wobbles, and a piece of chicken slides off and hits the bowl with a loud plop. “Are you…taking it?”