Page 255 of Operation: Defiance

“Let’s start from the beginning, Locke,” he says. “You say you went to Centralia for someone else. Who?”

They rewind it all. Extraction. Where we went after. What we did. Why.

Time stretches. Or compresses. I can’t tell which. The room narrows and widens in waves. My head dips again before I force it back up. My neck won’t cooperate anymore. My thoughts trail off mid-sentence and I have to drag them back into place.

Phil stands, his chair dragging over the concrete with a loud scrape. “She’s not coming for you.” His voice has lost any semblance of patience. “You’re a means to an end and you know it.”

My breath catches. Just once. But in a room this quiet, with two men watching me as closely as they are, it’s enough for them to notice.

I focus on the imperfection in the wall, and count the seconds. At three, I force a swallow. “You should hope…that’s true.”

Jay, the only one I can currently see, goes completely still. I file that away and rest my forehead against the wall.

“Get him down,” Phil mutters. “I’ll call in Medical.”

Losing control of my breath was a mistake. But it also told them exactly what I need them to believe.

That I’m worth holding onto. That letting me deteriorate too quickly isn’t in their best interest.

Sometimes, the best tradecraft is the kind you don’t plan.

Jay locks the cuffs back to the rings on the table. I can barely hold my head up.

The door opens, hinges squeaking softly. A tall, older man wheels in a medical cart. Not the same guy as before. This one’s rougher. He drags a pair of shears down the compression bandage, and pulls it away without warning or care.

More saline. Fresh gauze. Another wrap. Vitals check. My vision sparks and fades. Phil mutters something to Jay I can’t make out, then leaves the room.

“His pressure’s dropping,” the medic says.

“Stabilize him.” Jay checks the tablet screen. “We need him functional.”

Another IV. Same arm. As soon as the needle hits the vein, something shifts under my skin. Slow, creeping cold that spreads up my shoulder before evening out.

The hollow ache in my hands starts to fade, sensation returning in uneven pulses. A metallic tang coats my tongue. My stomach tilts, empty and sour, and the room sways harder before it steadies.

I let it. Fighting costs more than it’s worth.

Functional.

I hold onto that word and think of Raine. She’s still out there. Still fighting.

My job is to give her time.

She’s using it. Northbridge came through. Probably got Ellen out. Information too. That hope is enough to keep me going.

Phil returns with a phone mounted to a tripod. He sets it up at the far end of the table, starts the camera app, then adjusts the view until it shows my face and the upper part of my chest.

Not the restraints. Not the IV taped to my arm. Or the blood staining my shirt. The wrap at my side is fresh, cool, and too tight, the fabric tugging at skin whenever I breathe.

The door opens again, and the air in the room shifts. Jay straightens. Phil lowers his tablet. A shorter man in a pressed charcoal suit walks in as if the space already belongs to him. Salt-and-pepper hair, cut close. He’s calm. No wasted movement. He doesn’t look like someone who gets his hands dirty. No. This is a man who makes others do the work.

The medic steps in without a word, swabs the IV port, and empties a syringe into the line. My pulse kicks, hard enough I feel it in my throat. Heat floods up my neck. The room snaps into focus too quickly, the edges shimmering in the harsh light. They need me awake for this. Not just functional. Responsive.

My fingers twitch. The tremor in my arms sharpens. I’m still exhausted, but my body lights up like a fucking Christmas tree.

I pin my gaze to one of the scratches on the table, locking down my expression to detached indifference.

“Mr. Locke, my name is Dr. Julian Voss.”