Page 285 of Operation: Defiance

With a tight nod, I slide it into the pocket of my hoodie. This is the hard part. The part I’ve tried not to think about since the video came in.

“Asher’s hurt. Bleeding. I don’t think he’s mobile on his own. And…they did something to his voice. He can’t speak. I know he’s in there. But…”

“Conscious when you last saw him?” Doc asks.

Keep it clinical. You can do clinical.

“Yes. In the video, his eye movements were lagging. But he displayed intentional fine motor control. That was less than an hour ago.”

“My kit’s in the back. I’ve got him, Raine.”

Natasha’s gaze finds Doc. The look that passes between them carries a weight I recognize, but can’t name. Not now. Not here.

“He’s the priority,” I say, forcing confidence I don’t have into my tone. “The second he’s in the car, go. Do not wait for me.”

I hold out Asher’s keys. Doc tucks them into his pocket without a word, then presses a kiss to Natasha’s forehead. “Be careful,” he whispers.

She cups his cheek. “You too.”

I climb into the back seat of the SUV, and Natasha slides behind the wheel.

She doesn’t say anything, and for once, I’m glad for the silence.

Asher wrote me a letter I haven’t opened. Left me a passport. Prepared for every version of how this ends.

I drum my fingers against my thighs, rocking back and forth in tiny, controlled movements.

Not this version. Please, not this version.

Chapter Ninety

Asher

Jay’s voice comes through the door before he does.

“Calder’s ten minutes out. You’re going to drag that sack of shit into the lobby and hold his sorry ass up because Calder won’t surrender without a goodbye kiss.”

Jay stalks in, but I don’t look. Don’t care.

That one word.

Surrender.

Raine’s giving herself up. For me. To get me out because…because…

She didn’t see my signal.

She thinks I’m already gone. That Voss has broken me.

The note slips from my hand and hits the table, the sound too loud in the silence of the room. My vision blurs. I can’t see it, can’t make my fingers work well enough to find it. And the panic of losing that one tether, the only part of her I have left, is worse than anything else⁠—

There. Damp, soft edges. Crinkled paper.

Ten minutes.

I can’t stop what’s coming. None of it.

My throat works, the shape of a sound that never arrives. Something that would be despair if they hadn’t already stolen the one thing I had left to express it with.