Page 192 of Operation: Defiance

“Response minimal. Increase amplitude.”

The man sounds…bored. A few quiet clicks, someone pressing on the electrodes stuck to my chest, then white-hot agony stabs through my temples for a second time. The current detonates inside my skull. My teeth grind into the mouth guard. Breathing…stops, stutters, starts again. I can’t feel my hands. My legs.

“Cardiac stability compromised. Increase amplitude to tier 3. This should do it.”

The buzzing starts again.

No. Please.

The space inside my head hollows out until there’s nothing left but absence.

Everything stops. Sound. Sensation. Me. I can’t feel the straps. Can’t tell if I’m breathing. If I’m alive. It’s all…static and emptiness and a dark void pulling me under.

I cling to the edges of awareness. Only threads now. Maybe that’s all I am. A thread of what used to be a person.

“I’m…not okay.”

“She’s oriented. Fuck. Manual intervention requires a signature. Transfer her to observation. If she declines within the hour, move her to terminal hold. I’ll file the paperwork.”

Soft, soothing chords wrap around me. The music reaches somewhere nothing else can, dragging me out of my memories and back to the table. Back to Asher’s apartment. Back to warmth and safety and light.

My fingers press against the wood. I follow each line of the grain with deliberate focus until the room takes shape again. My shoulders drop. The next breath is easier. Tears cool on my cheeks. I taste the salt. Scent the honey I put in my tea. Feel my toes warm inside my socks. I’m still here. They tried to end me, but they failed.

I’m going to make them regret it.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Asher

Rain streaks across the windshield as I turn onto Eastlake. Patting my pocket to check for the weight of Raine’s new passport for the tenth time, I check the rearview mirror.

Nothing amiss. No cars I’ve seen multiple times. I keep my speed just under the limit, signal every lane change, don’t get too close to the car in front of me at stoplights. Nothing that would get me noticed.

After another quarter mile, I pass the rental car return I used the night I flew into town. My arrivals are always clean. I travel light. A briefcase and a small leather duffel. A businessman in town for a single night. One-way rental from the airport, dropped off at least a mile from whatever safe house I’m planning to use for the duration. Driving gloves—always. No prints that way. After a quick change of my hat and jacket in a public bathroom, I hoof it the rest of the way to the safe house or hotel.

Traffic cameras are kryptonite for those who depend on shadows to keep themselves alive. But I do my best to confuse them.

The lot comes into view on my left, and the back of my neck prickles with a warning I don’t like. Something’s…off.

I don’t change speed. Don’t stare too long in any direction. But I scan the street, the sidewalks, and the buildings with a practiced eye.

Two identical SUVs idle in the rental lot, along with three black sedans. All with Oregon plates. Last week, when I returned the SUV I’d rented at the airport, it was the only car here. This particular rental return is the quietest in the whole damn city. What are the odds that the lot would suddenly be full?

At the end of the block, a man in khaki pants and a dark blue shirt leans against the side of another black sedan. Forgettable in every way except for his boots and the way he’s holding himself perfectly still.

No phone in his hand. No fidgeting. Until he cocks his head. His lips move.

Fuck. He’s on comms with someone.

I pass him, averting my gaze to check the passenger-side mirror. On the other side of the street, a block down, there’s another sedan and another guy in khakis.

Could be coincidence. But in my world, coincidences can get you killed.

I take a winding route through downtown, my gloved hands tight on the steering wheel, and my gaze sweeping from mirror to mirror, cataloging every car and person I see.

After ten minutes, I pull into the public garage I used to pick up this car two weeks ago, and find a spot on the second level between a dented compact and a pickup truck.

No one follows. It’s utterly silent except for the quiet pings of the engine cooling.