Chapter Thirty-Nine
Asher
Raine asked for time to think, so I sit down in that godawful chair and pull out my tablet.
Over the past twenty years, I’ve had dozens of aliases. Some lasted less than a week. Others I’ve maintained for more than a decade.
Last night, I shut down Mason Locke every way I knew how. But when I create a new alias, I have to start somewhere. Never with Asher Cole.
For Mason, I picked an old name I hadn’t used in six years. Eddie Stewart provided the references Mason Locke needed to lease an apartment in San Francisco. The apartment was the anchor for everything that followed. His driver’s license, then a social security number, passport, and more.
I haven’t checked Eddie’s accounts in months. He has a dozen unread emails, two Signal chat requests, and…fuck. A fraud notification from his credit monitoring service for a card he’s never had. From last night.
I don’t panic. Panic leads to mistakes. Mistakes can be deadly. The Eddie alias is a British citizen. The only card that exists in his name is from the Royal Bank of London.
It could be random. Some other Eddie Stewart whose email address is one or two letters off from mine. Or run-of-the-mill identity theft. But burying my head in the sand over this won’t keep Raine safe.
I screenshot everything, set alerts for any new pings on Eddie’s identity, and pick up my phone.
Inara answers almost immediately. “I was hoping you’d call.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say. “More heat coming down on Raine?”
“Yes, but that’s not the problem.” Inara sighs, and the vague sounds of typing carry over the line.
“More on that in a minute. The inquiries on Raine are deeper than yesterday. There’s a ‘continuity of care’ verification on her insurance.
Not an alert flag, but an actual scan of local hospital records.
They expected her to show up somewhere for treatment.
Two more soft hits on her bank accounts, routed through different channels.
The most serious ping though, was on a federal benefits exclusion list. Whoever this is…
they’re trying to figure out what systems Raine Calder still exists in. And you’d only do that—”
“If you wanted to erase her. Fuck. I know.” I glance through the small crack in the bedroom door. At least Inara’s not on speaker.
“If you want origination data, I’ll have to bring in another member of my team,” she says.
“Don’t.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. The position stretches muscles that feel like they could snap at any moment. “We know where this shitstorm is coming from, and no, I won’t tell you. Safer that way.”
“No complaints here. Just know that if you need more, you have options.”
I don’t have the words to tell her what that means. Inara might have owed me a few favors, but she’s paid them back five times over by now.
“What else?”
“Raine’s apartment is being watched. Actively now. I found repeated parking violations on her block over the last twenty-four hours. Same plate number. I sent a photo to your secure inbox. Someone’s waiting for her, and they’re willing to be noticed while they do it.”
Shit.
“That’s going to hit her hard,” I murmur, mostly to myself. I’d vaguely entertained the possibility of an overnight visit. She needs something that’s hers. Something to hold onto. But I won’t risk it now.
“Asher, all of this is low-level terrifying, but the real problem is what’s going on with Mason Locke.
Multiple DMV hits. Issuing office, dates, hell, even the clerk who approved the damn thing.
They’re searching customs records. I know someone who works at the airport who confirmed their facial recognition systems were compromised the other day.
Whoever did it downloaded footage from the past two weeks.
Unless you were disguising your face, they’ve got it now.
Along with the make, model, and license of your rental car.
They’re not asking if Mason Locke is real any longer. They’re hunting him down.”
“Anything else?” I ask.
“That’s not enough for you? I should introduce you to a friend of mine. You both think worst-case scenarios are when things finally get interesting.”
“If we live through this, I’ll consider taking you up on that. But for now, stand down. You pull on the wrong thread, and your name ends up next to Mason’s. I’m burning this number as soon as we hang up.”
“Asher—”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll send up a flare if I’m still here when this is all a bad memory.”
In under a minute, I’ve wiped the phone, snapped the SIM in half, and shoved all the pieces into a Faraday bag. The way this day’s going, I’ll need to venture down to the storage unit before dinner for my backup stash of burners.
I glance at the tablet I left on the edge of the bed. That fraud alert on Eddie Stewart’s credit shouldn’t bother me. But GSD is closing in on Mason Locke. What are the odds that someone is digging into Eddie on the same day?
Pretty fucking slim.
Raine
I spread a layer of peanut butter over a slice of toast, my gaze fixed on the laptop on the table.
Reading a few pages of one of Asher’s most boring books—Notes on Nineteenth Century Fences—helped me sort my thoughts into something close to order. Now, I can go back into the files he stole from the black site.
The new computer is quiet and sleek, the security protocols so enhanced, they’d make GSD’s IT department jealous.
Ellen’s words are still close enough to the surface, I can taste them.
Operational Standards Intensive.
RJ-3
Those two phrases give me something to aim at. Something that won’t be in the detainee logs.
Or in the Continuity of Care Guidelines.
The last two files stare back at me.
Contractor Risk Exposure Analysis and Operational Standards Adherence.
Well, that’s…convenient. The second file was created six years ago. Right about the time Ellen said the program name changed.
I open it and skim the first page. No names. A few roles, but even those are only referenced indirectly. One thing is very clear. Whoever wrote this didn’t expect it to be read by the people it applied to.
The goal of corrective intervention is to bring a subject’s understanding of events in line with approved conclusions.
Correction is considered successful when the subject consistently affirms those conclusions without prompting or observable resistance.
My hand slips off the track pad for a moment. Saying the words isn’t enough. They require belief.
I reach for the mug of tea, using the warmth to ground me while I keep reading. Every sentence has been crafted to survive scrutiny. Nothing violent. Nothing overtly threatening. Unless you know what it’s being used for.
My shoulder twinges. The pain isn’t sharp anymore. But it’s still strong enough to remind me what happens if I don’t stop them.
With every section, every numbered conclusion, the pattern clarifies.
A subject’s risk score increases with each flagged violation. Once the score exceeds established thresholds, the subject is referred for escalation.
There’s no reset button. No clean slate. Just a running total that follows you until you’re suddenly a problem that needs…correction.
A few paragraphs later, my heartbeat stutters. I suck in a breath, then press my tongue to the roof of my mouth until it settles.
Contact with previously corrected subjects increases recurrence likelihood.
That’s what tipped me over the threshold. Not seeing RJ-3. Not opening old personnel files and questioning why so many agents were no longer in the system. They took me because I brought those issues to Ellen.
With every page, the true shape of the program clarifies further.
Phrases like recurrence likelihood is assessed independently of prior history, escalation is automatic and does not require approval, and corrective intervention without sustained internal alignment is recorded as a compliance failure drain the warmth from my body.
I scroll to the next page and stop breathing entirely.
Compliance failures are not returned to monitoring. They are escalated to Containment.
Containment. They’re not containing anything. They’re marking detainees—people—for disposal.
The file only has one more section. My hands are still steady. The static in my head is still low enough for me to think clearly. But I’m hovering on the edge of control.
If I’m going deeper, it’s going to be on a full stomach…and maybe with Asher in the room.
I already know how this ends.
I scroll back up and highlight one line.
Subjects who comply in behavior but not belief remain a persistent threat to the program.
That’s why I was marked for disposal. Not because I defied them, or broke, or fought back. Because my mind remained my own.
I thought I was giving them what they wanted. I agreed with every word. Every assertion. But there was one thing their corrections failed to do.
Convince me I was actually wrong.