Page 257 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Seventy-Six

Raine

I stretch my legs before I open my eyes, relishing the warmth from under the blanket.

For exactly half a second, I don’t remember. There’s just the pillow against my chest, the low light from the bedside lamp, and the music playing from the living room.

Then it all comes crashing back at once.

I tighten my arms around the pillow. It smells like me now. Not him. The loss hurts.

I can’t dwell on that. I slept too long. Almost three hours, not two. How much did they make Asher suffer in that extra hour?

Up. Coffee. Affidavit.

The kitchen is cold and dim. I move through it on autopilot, filling the kettle, reaching for the shelf where Asher keeps the grinder⁠—

My fingers curl around the handle of the French press. Not the pour-over setup he bought for me. His preferred method of making coffee.

I’m frozen, the glass carafe shaking in my hand. The kettle starts to bubble softly. I can’t just stand here.

“Okay,” I whisper to no one.

Grind the beans. Measure carefully. Add a splash of water. Let the scent bloom. Wait. Fill the press to the line. Stir.

I’m waiting for the steep to finish when my phone lights up on the table. One new email. No subject line. Just an attachment.

Agent Calder,

Consider this a professional courtesy.

Mr. Locke’s current condition reflects the consequences of his choices. And yours. That condition will deteriorate unless you cease your activities immediately and make arrangements to come in.

We have no interest in unnecessary outcomes. That will change soon.

My hand shakes as I tap the link at the bottom of the message.

Asher sits under a harsh fluorescent glow, the wall behind him so pale, it’s almost pure white. Exhaustion hollows his gaze, and though he’s focusing on the camera, his jaw is slack. A tiny smear of blood stains the corner of his mouth.

“State your name,” a man says from somewhere out of the frame.

“Mason Locke.” His voice is wrecked. Thin. But he’s not folding. Everything they ask him to say, he refuses with a simple, “No.”

I press my fist against my mouth when they hit him. His head snaps to the side, and he almost goes down. His jaw and neck muscles strain as he sits up.

“Tell her to stop,” the man says again.

The sound Asher makes might be a laugh. “Still no. I’ve seen better plays from a junior varsity team who just lost their quarterback.”

“Very well. Your lack of cooperation will be…noted,” the disembodied voice says before the video cuts out.

My vision blurs. The phone shakes in my hand. Tears cool on my cheeks. I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself and almost knock the French press onto the floor.

For several seconds, I can’t move. What if this is the last image I ever see of him? Why didn’t I take a picture before he left? Why didn’t I think I’d want one? Need one.

I watch the video again. Looking for signs they’ve hurt him in a way he can’t recover from. Nothing visible. I tell myself that means something, but I don’t quite believe it.

The third time, I focus on his voice.