Page 190 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Forty-Six

Asher

The quiet, tree-lined street is one of a hundred in Seattle. A mix of older homes with yards and three-story modern townhouses crammed six to a lot.

Tessa lives in a turn-of-the-century Craftsman. Fresh paint, but the flower boxes are full of dead and dying plants. Flyers, envelopes, even a couple of packages lie in a scattered heap below the mailbox, disintegrating on the rain-soaked porch.

I park at the end of the block and take out my phone and a notebook. A man sitting in a car doing nothing attracts attention. But pretend to be taking a call, scribbling on a pad of paper? You’re suddenly a guy who didn’t want to drive distracted.

Her front door opens in under ten minutes. She’s young. Early thirties, at most. Blond hair, petite. Her shoulders hunch as she locks up.

She’s pale. Dark circles under her eyes. No obvious injuries, but she’s bundled up in a thick coat. Her gaze darts up and down the street twice before she heads for her car.

Someone honks on the next block. The way she flinches is painful to watch. But she presses a hand to her chest, closes her eyes for a second, and breathes.

I keep my distance, letting two or three vehicles get between us at all times. Raine said Tessa had never been a field agent. She shouldn’t be able to spot a tail. But anyone tailing her could spot me if I’m not careful.

The building she parks in front of is designed to be forgettable. Beige siding, frosted glass, a small sign at the edge of the parking lot and another over the front door.

Seatown Dental Group.

No fucking way that’s a dentist’s office. The biggest tell? Tessa has to press a button next to the door to be let in.

I check my watch, then head to a coffee shop across the street. The oversized aviator glasses, thick gray scarf, and fedora should foil any facial recognition if I’m caught on camera. A large Americano in hand, I take a seat at the window and pretend to scroll through email on my phone.

Tessa’s inside for twenty minutes. When she emerges, she’s barely a shadow of the woman she was when she went in. Her lips are bloodless, cheeks splotchy, and eyes swollen.

She moves carefully—like balance isn’t something she’s used to. Her fingers curl around the collar of her sweater, tugging it away from her neck until she jerks and drops her arm to her side.

No limp. No visible pain. But whatever happened in there shook her to her core.

Back in her car, she sits with both hands on the wheel, engine off, staring straight ahead. After a full minute, her shoulders quake, and she swipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand before finally starting the engine and driving away.

I’ve seen what I need to see. She’s alive. She wasn’t taken or detained. But this was more than monitoring. This was recalibration. A reminder that her freedom could be taken away again in a heartbeat if she so much as breathes wrong.

The last of the coffee goes cold as I stare at the building’s sign. The letters blur, and after a blink, all I can see is Raine. Strapped to that fucking chair with a hood over her head, struggling for each shallow breath.

If I’d been even an hour later, she’d be dead. A medical escalation gone wrong—or right, if you’re the asshole who designed Coherent Path’s protocols.

Not corrected and released like Tessa. Not assigned long-term monitoring like Ellen. Gone.

Rage floods my system, then sharpens to a knife point aimed directly at my heart.

Whatever it costs to shut these fuckers down, I’ll pay it. Whatever I have to torch to keep Raine safe gets a gallon of gasoline dumped on it before any match is lit.

By the time we’re done, GSD won’t even think about doing this to another goddamn person. Because they’ll know if they do, their lives are over.

Raine

My eyes trail to the clock at the bottom of the computer screen. We agreed that if Asher wasn’t back in three hours, I should run. It’s only been forty-five minutes, and my pulse won’t fully settle.

Two cups of chamomile tea haven’t helped. I tried pacing the apartment for a few minutes, but my body is still re-learning what it’s like to be able to move freely—and how much energy that costs.

The music hums quietly. I’ve come to depend on its consistency. But Asher said there were playlists for every mood, so I check the app and find one marked Concentration. I could use some of that right about now.

It’s deeper. Bolder, but not loud.

I don’t want to risk hacking into GSD while Asher’s not here. If I open the wrong file at the wrong time—even with all our countermeasures—they could trace the connection, and I’d have to run without him.