Chapter 19
Specter
I slipped in through a narrow service door at the back of the warehouse and folded into the gap. The hinges were rusted but quiet as I eased it shut.
Inside, I stopped in the dark and let my eyes adjust. The place opened up, rows of industrial shelving fading into black. Only a few security lights. Small pools of visibility with a lot of shadow between. Dust. Old paper. Machine oil.
I touched my earpiece. “I’m in. Two guards on the perimeter.”
“Are you okay?” Selina’s voice came fast, clipped, held in check.
“Fine. Staying dark for now.” I moved deeper, kept to the wall, used the shelving for cover.
“What do you see?”
“Storage. Shipping containers. File boxes.” I took in exits, cameras, lines of sight. “Central office sits across the main floor.”
“What about the guards?”
“Lazy. Good for me.” A beam washed over a far wall, a flashlight.
Unmarked cartons surrounded me by the hundreds. Temporary holds. Oblivion didn’t want anything here easily identified.
I pushed on, deeper into the maze. “Multiple storage sections. There’s an alphanumeric system on the shelves.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Don’t know yet.” I ran my fingers over labels. MM-TR-297. BT-EC-112. Not random. My gut said that much.
A sound. Footsteps. Heavy, unhurried.
“Someone’s coming.”
“Can you hide?”
No time to answer. I slid between two shelves and pressed into a narrow gap.
The sentry entered the aisle, flashlight making slow arcs along the concrete. Three feet away. Stale coffee on his breath. Unshaven. Bored. Counting minutes.
The beam skimmed the floor and stopped an inch from my boots.
Selina’s breath picked up in my ear. Not panic, close.
He tilted his head. I set my angles: one hand for the throat, the other for his gun.
I’d done this before. Too many times.
I counted to thirty.
He sighed. His shoulders dropped. He muttered and moved on, the light drifting away down the aisle.
“He’s moving on.”
“Thank God.” Air left her in a measured stream.
I waited for the steps to fade before I slid out. Dust clung to my clothes, a place nobody visited.
“I’m heading deeper,” I said, pushing toward the center where the air turned more stale. “Security’s lighter here. Older records.”
“Be careful. If you need to pull out…”
“Not yet.” Something pulled me forward.
Back section now. Darker. Patrols didn’t reach this far; the dust on the floor lay undisturbed.
“Anything?” Selina asked, steadier.
“Still looking. Security drops back here, older files. I’m not in the right section.”
I turned a corner and stopped. This row was different, with clean edges and less dust. Someone had been here.
“Got a hit,” I said, closing in. My fingers brushed a carton labeled CM-PRS-441. Newer cardboard. Sharp corners.
“What is it?”
“Boxes. Newer. Different from the rest.” Dozens of them. “All marked with letter-number codes.”
“What codes?”
“Three parts. First is two letters, then three letters, then numbers.” I read a few. “CM-PRS-441. PT-EVL-332. BM-HND-118.”
“Wait.” She drew in a quick breath. “Say those again. Slower.”
I repeated them, under my breath.
“Clinical Materials, Personnel Records Series, maybe,” she said, thinking it through. “The second one sounds like Patient Evaluation. Hospitals use similar coding.”
I pulled the lid off one container. Inside, there were hundreds of pages in color-coded sections. I took one and read by the dim light.
“Bureaucratic forms,” I said, turning sheets. “Jargon. Medical assessments.”
“No, wait…” Selina cut in. “Tell me exactly what’s on the page. No interpretation. Just what it says.”
I read closer. “Headers: Neural Response. Compliance Rating. Integration Assessment. Medical terms I don’t know. Charts scored out of ten. Names replaced by alphanumeric codes.”
Her voice tightened. “Those aren’t admin forms. They’re evaluation records. Which operatives complied, which resisted. Handlers’ reports.”
I looked again and saw it for what it was. Not noise. Evidence.
“You’re right.” Paper moved faster under my hands. “Subject JD-22344 demonstrated resistance during pain-compliance testing. Recommended for advanced suppression protocol.” Another sheet. “Subject JD-11801 attempted self-termination following memory extraction. Liquidated as unviable asset.”
I stopped on a page. “These aren’t just evaluations. They record who broke programming, and how handlers dealt with them afterward.”
“Keep going. You’re close.”
I moved through stacks, pulling file after file, reading assessments of operatives stripped down to codes and ratings. Same story, over and over: lives reduced to metrics and outcomes.
“This whole section is asset performance reviews,” I said. “They tracked everything—command response, kill efficiency, psychological stability.”
“Look for recurring mentions of Prague or St. Elisabeth’s,” she said.
I grabbed a crate marked CP-FLD-297 and opened it. Field reports by operation date. My hands moved on their own, skimming dates and locations, cross-checking.
“Hold on.” A folder labeled Prague Contingency. I opened it and laid out pages across the top of the box. “Found operation files from Prague.”
“What about the dates? Do they match when Kruger said the orphanage incident happened? What does it say?”
I skimmed the first page. “Multiple operatives deployed. Target elimination and evidence removal. Testing confirmation. Mentions a primary asset designated…” I stopped. “JD-24601.”
“JD-24601,” I said again, the numbers dropping like stones. Ripples spreading. “That’s… me.”
“How do you know?”
The sequence pulsed in my head. Pressure built at the base of my skull.
“I just know. It’s like muscle memory. They repeated it again and again during conditioning.”
I ran a finger down the report. The designation repeated: deployed as primary; breached containment parameters; showed autonomous decision-making against mission objectives.
A second form was clipped to the back. “There’s something else. Asset Containment Failure Analysis.”
“That sounds promising. Read it.”
“The asset abandoned primary mission parameters and redirected to unauthorized removal of tertiary subjects.” The ache sharpened as I read. “Severe conditioning fracture noted. Non-target extraction prioritized. Lethal force used against secondary assets to get twenty-three minors out of the site.”
“The children,” Selina said, voice lowered. “You were trying to save them.”
“Says I returned after engaging three other operatives. Injured but alive.” The words blurred as a sharp spike hit my temple. “Recommended for full reset and enhanced suppression protocol.”
“That’s what Kruger meant. Your conditioning cracked that night. You chose those children over orders.”
Pressure climbed. “There’s more. Medical notes. Post-adjustment evaluation.”
“Read them to me.”
“Subject displayed unprecedented resistance to standard wipes,” I read. “Implemented experimental neural mapping to identify pre-condition response triggers.”
Next page: scans, pathway maps, chemical compounds, dosages.
“Notes on chemical suppressants. PSI-317 dosage increased by forty-two percent over standard protocol.”
“PSI-317? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Administered daily.”
“That’s a specialized memory suppression compound,” she said, faster now. “Experimental. I read about it in classified SENTINEL research. It targets neural pathways linked to core identity while leaving procedural memory intact.”
The ache throbbed behind my eyes. “Meaning?”
“Meaning they couldn’t erase you completely without ruining what made you useful. So they tamped down your core identity chemically instead.”
I turned the page and froze. A small photo was attached, grainy black and white, pulled from surveillance footage. My face, but the eyes were different. Longer hair. Harder look. Beneath it, a handwritten note: Subject’s civilian identity confirmed as primary trigger for conditioning failure.
The room tilted. Heat flared behind my eyes.
“There’s a photo,” I said. “And a name.”
“What name?” Selina asked, urgent now.
I tried to read the handwriting, but the letters warped and slid. The more I pushed, the worse it got. Black specks crowded my vision.
“Can’t… read it. Something’s wrong.”
“You’re panicking,” Selina said, voice gone soft. “The conditioning’s blocking you in real time.”
“It’s right here. Right in front of me, and I can’t see it.”
“Take a picture. Don’t read it. Photograph everything and bring it back.”
I grabbed my phone. My hands wouldn’t steady. The screen swam.
“Can’t focus.”
“Listen,” she said, steady and close. “Your conditioning is triggering a neurological response to stop you. The pain is a failsafe.”
“How do I stop it?”
“You can’t power through. That could trigger a seizure. Try this: don’t look at the name. Shoot the whole page, eyes unfocused.”
I lifted the phone and took several shots without focusing on the text.
“Got it.” I pocketed the phone. The ache kept pulsing.
“Now put everything back exactly how you found it. We have what we need.”
I started reassembling the records. Another box caught my eye: JD-24601-MED.
My file. Medical history.
I lifted the lid. Inside, clear liquid in foam cutouts. Labels on each vial: PSI-317.
“Found something else.” I took one vial. “Samples of the compound they used on me. The memory suppressor.”
“That’s exactly what we need,” Selina said, urgency threaded with hope. “We can reverse-engineer it. With the agent, we might be able to build a counteragent and a real therapy.”
I pocketed two vials, shut the lid, slid the container back.
“I’m coming back,” I said, thinking through the haze. “Got what we need.”
“Hurry. And Specter? You’re close. We’re so close to finding who you really are.”
A shadow moved along the far wall.
I went still. Not a regular patrol.
“Someone’s here.”
“Get out. Now.”
I stayed in the dark and watched Blackout appear at the end of the aisle. His movement was too controlled to be a random sweep. He knew.
Too late for subtle.
He moved without any noise. His gear swallowed the light. Another shadow among the racks.
I eased backward into a narrow gap between shelves. The stolen papers pressed against my ribs. A rustle. I stopped breathing.
“Status?” Selina asked, voice low and coiled.
I couldn’t reply. Even a whisper was too loud in this quiet. I couldn’t tell her that I knew for sure it was Blackout.
I checked the ceiling. A ventilation duct ran fifteen feet up along the back wall.
Blackout paused at the row’s end, head canted, listening. The warehouse went quiet except for the far hum of lights.
I waited. Timed my move. He couldn’t hold that focus forever. Three seconds. Five. Eight.
He moved on, turning into the next aisle.
I climbed. The metal creaked, but I spread my weight, moving from brace to brace. The papers rasped against my chest.
Below, he stopped. His head snapped up, eyes searching the rafters. I froze.
“Status?” Selina asked, her voice a thread in my ear.
I didn’t answer. Blackout stood under me at an angle, sensing more than seeing. He reached to his belt.
Not a gun. A small device. He pressed it.
The signal jammer released a high-pitched whine in my ear, and Selina’s voice dissolved into static.
Alone now. I hauled myself onto the top tier. The metal groaned.
Blackout turned toward me. Face hidden. He moved with smooth, steady purpose, closing in.
I stayed low and crawled along the rack near the ceiling. Below, he matched my path. He wasn’t chasing sound. He was predicting me. Same training. Same playbook. Every time I shifted, he adjusted, cutting the angle.
I needed to do something stupid. A skylight sat thirty feet ahead. The drop would break bones. Maybe worse. Bad idea.
Which made it perfect.
I waited until he drifted to the far end of a different corridor, then shoved a small box off the opposite side. It hit concrete hard.
He pivoted toward the noise.
I ran quietly for the skylight, files clamped to my chest.
At the frame, my fingers found the emergency release. Stiff from years of neglect. I leaned on it until it began to give.
Below, he knew. He changed course fast and started to climb. The shelving complained under his weight.
The latch gave. The skylight swung open and cold air rushed in. I pulled up onto the roof and paused.
A bad plan. Only one shot.
When his head cleared the opening, I was ready. My boot cracked into his face. He dropped out of sight. Seconds bought.
I ran across the roof. The cold bit at my chest. I hit the edge and jumped to the next building, rolling on impact.
Static cleared in my ear as I got beyond the jammer.
“…hear me? Specter? Please respond!” Selina’s voice snapped back in, raw with fear.
Hearing her warmed something I didn’t have a name for.
“I’m clear.” I kept moving across rooftops. “With the records. Heading to the extraction point.”
Her voice eased. “Come back to me.”
For the first time in what little I remember, I wasn’t moving for duty. I was keeping a promise.