Page 235 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Sixty-Six

Asher

The hood is too thick. It presses to my nose every time I breathe. The fabric smells like dust and someone else’s sweat. The flexi-cuffs bite into my wrists, but the pressure isn’t unsustainable. Not tight enough for nerve damage.

The gash flares whenever the van hits a pothole or seam in the road. We’re on the freeway in under five minutes, and from the turns I’m able to identify, Raine was right—they’re taking me south to Kent.

The driver slams on the brakes, the horn blares, and the pain in my side flares so hot, my vision goes white behind the hood. Every time I breathe, my chest expanding and the skin pulling tight, I can feel shards of glass stuck in the wound. After another few seconds, the motion steadies, and the pain settles into a deep, pulsing line of heat under my shirt.

I’ve got thirty minutes—give or take—until those doors open again. Half an hour until I have to manage my expressions, my voice, my answers.

The two men up front keep their voices to low murmurs. Like I’m nothing but a piece of cargo they don’t need to worry about. One laughs at the other’s off-color joke. I think there’s a third guy in back with me, but the roar of the tires on the road masks any chance I’ll hear him breathe, so unless he decides to pipe up, I can’t be sure.

The bleeding isn’t as heavy now—I think. The heat dulls into heavy pressure that pulses every few seconds. Better than every heartbeat.

Ten minutes. Twenty. The van slows, takes an exit, and I go back to counting turns. Two rights, a short straight stretch, then a left.

The van stops, a hydraulic motor whines, then we start rolling again. Slowly. The texture under the tires shifts for thirty seconds before the engine cuts out.

The rear doors swing open with a metallic screech. Cold air rushes in. Someone removes the strap binding me to the seat. Hands haul me upright. My right knee protests the sudden movement, but my legs hold.

They walk me over rough concrete, cold air prickling over my forearms, then through another door.

Inside, I catch a faint whiff of pine cleaner under the stench of old sweat from the hood. Eight steps, a left turn, another ten steps, and they stop.

A hand yanks the hood away, taking a few strands of my hair with it.

The harsh light burns my eyes, fluorescent panels set into the ceiling—twice as many as a room like this needs. The entire room is paint over concrete, the color just shy of white, but close enough to be disorienting.

No windows. A single door. A steel table centered in the room, bolted down, with two chairs on the far side, one on the side closest to me.

A pair of GSD interrogators are already seated. The older one stands, his expression neutral. Mid-fifties, tall, but not bulky or imposing, with gray threading through his short-cropped hair. Light blue button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black pants, and forgettable shoes.

The other man doesn’t move from his chair. He’s at least twenty years younger, with dark hair and sharp eyes.

The two agents who brought me in move efficiently. One of them cuts off the flexi-cuffs and replaces them with thicker metal restraints, my hands secured in front of me this time.

The pat down takes them all of two minutes. They take my belt, key fob, wallet, and shoelaces. The receipt from the grocery store is crumpled and lands in the pile on the table with everything else.

“Mason Locke,” the younger man says as he glances at my wallet.

I don’t confirm or deny.

The older man sits back down. His gaze settles on me with the calm focus of someone who has nowhere else to be.

“Mark,” he says, gesturing to himself. “That’s Chad.”

I nod once, though I suspect their names are about as real as Mason Locke.

The guy who frisked me shoves me into the chair, while the other locks the restraints to a set of steel rings welded to the table top. My hands are far enough apart, the chain stays taut.

Those two leave, and another man enters, pulling a small metal cart behind him.

“Check him,” Mark says with a nod.

The medic doesn’t speak as he peers at the dark stain spreading over my side, then picks up a pair of trauma shears. The blades slice through the fabric in seconds, and he peels it away from the wound.

Saline floods the gash, runs down my side, and splatters the floor. The burn is immediate and vicious, almost stealing my breath before I get myself under control. I keep my breathing steady while he works.