Chapter Forty-One
Raine
Asher moves smoothly around the kitchenette. He’s quiet, chopping vegetables for a light stew, handling laundry, and occasionally frowning at his tablet screen like it offended him.
I want to ask if there’s been more pressure on Mason Locke or the other alias he tried to play off as incidental. But if I lose focus, what I’m about to do crosses the line from risky to tactically fatal.
Working in Systems let me see all the places an agency the size of GSD never thought to lock down.
The address I type into the browser shouldn’t still exist. But bureaucracy leaves redundancies open long after anyone remembers why they were built in the first place.
This particular system only existed to hold the records GSD didn’t care enough to migrate but was too cautious to delete.
Ellen was the one who first alerted me to its existence not long after I completed my field agent training.
“Memorize this address, Raine. You’ll probably never need it, but if you’re ever compromised in the field and can’t go through normal channels, it’ll give you a backdoor.”
I watch the cursor pulse on the screen, the steady rhythm almost calming.
If GSD has flagged my credentials—or deleted them entirely—this will be noticed.
The VPN will mask my location and route the traffic through layers they’ll have to peel back one at a time, but I’ve worked alongside Cyber for too long.
I know how quickly they can unravel threads once someone decides it matters.
All these precautions will buy us time. They won’t make us invisible.
My thumb drags over my index finger once, searching for the rough edge that isn’t there. A sharp pang of loss cuts through my focus. The memory of the band—its texture, the faint scrape of diamonds against my skin—is enough to steady me. To remind me I’m not done.
The rhythmic sound of Asher’s chopping blends with the music from the speaker behind me as I hand over my credentials, my toes curled tightly against the soles of my shoes.
What loads isn’t pretty. It’s barely a step above functional. No icons. Just a text-based menu someone built decades ago and never bothered to update. If GSD had deactivated my account entirely, I wouldn’t be able to access this at all. They kept it alive so they can see what I do with it.
I follow the logic I’ve used my entire career. Start small. Follow every path until it ends. Don’t give up unless there’s no other option.
After five dead ends, I find a directory that still thinks I’m a trusted user.
I move through it the way I’d trace any pattern. Up a level, across, down, across again…
The comforting scent of stew curls around me. Asher sets a mug of tea on the table. A moment later, he passes by with an armful of clean laundry.
That’s when I stumble across a list of archived files.
The names don’t mean anything at first. Strings of letters and numbers that could be dates, employee IDs, or nothing at all. What stands out are the time stamps. Twenty-four files all updated in the past three days. That’s not coincidence. That’s a sweep.
I open the first one, and my heart thuds hard against my ribs.
It’s a personnel file with the face sanded off. Just an employee number and redactions for name, age, department, and pay grade. The rest of the file is largely intact. Performance reviews, fitness reports, psychological summaries, even clearance history.
At the bottom, someone logged an update that’s chillingly familiar.
Proximity to restricted subject warrants escalation to RJ-1.
The code stops me in my tracks. All the agents I flagged because they disappeared from the duty rosters were marked as RJ-3. Ellen saw the same code on the paperwork she was forced to sign last week. This is the risk level.
The next file is longer, but the structure is the same. This one ends with two lines, both updated this morning.
Proximity to restricted subject after past variance warrants escalation to RJ-2.
Review pending.
One more. I have to check one more. But I can’t make my fingers move on the trackpad. Some small, irrational part of me wants to believe that it’s the looking that makes it real.
The file takes longer to load this time. When it does, the bottom drops out of my stomach. Where all the others were nothing but redactions where personal details should be, this one includes a badge photo. And a smiling face I recognize.
Jonas Price.
We ran an op together three years ago. He’s one of those guys who’s impossible to rattle. Even when we were in the middle of nowhere, he found a safe way to call his mom on her birthday. And he never broke protocol. Not once.
There’s no world where he’d be under review.
I scroll through every line, searching for an explanation. No misconduct, no red flags, nothing. His performance reviews are glowing, and he was promoted less than six months ago.
And yet, early this morning, someone logged three new updates.
Proximity to restricted subject warrants escalation to RJ-3.
Occupational Health engaged.
Reassignment meeting scheduled for 0900.
Intake scheduled for 1200.
Jonas didn’t do anything wrong.
I did. I’m the restricted subject.
Someone at GSD is escalating agents whose names sit too close to mine. Not because they failed, but because I did. Because I escaped, and whoever’s in charge wants me to understand the price.
I terminate the session carefully, backing out of each screen, clearing the cache, and closing the browser before I shut down the VPN.
My next step is clear. But the decision isn’t mine to make alone. Not when it could put Asher directly in the line of fire.
He sets two bowls of stew on the table, followed by a plate of biscuits. “This was supposed to be chicken and dumplings, but I thought that texture might be…a stretch.”
He’s constantly shifting around my needs as if they’re perfectly reasonable. No ceremony or fanfare, just quiet competence. Like adapting a recipe he’s probably made dozens of times is second nature. No one has ever made space for me so easily before. Not even my parents, though they did try.
The scent of the flaky, golden brown dough reminds me of them. Of Thanksgiving dinners and summer barbecues. I break off a small piece. It practically melts on my tongue.
He watches me, a hint of a smile curving his lips. “Good enough?”
“Better than my sourdough.”
His easy chuckle warms the room. The meal is so utterly normal, I don’t know what to do with it.
Coherent Path stole normal from me. I want it back.
“Before GSD activates a new recruit, they put them through extensive psychological testing,” I say.
“Those files are sealed unless you’re a director or higher.
But in one of my after-action briefings, my handler let it slip that mine showed ‘advanced pattern recognition’ and ‘high justice sensitivity.’”
Asher nods. “I can see that.”
“They know I won’t disappear quietly.” I dip the spoon into the bowl. “And they’re going to make it hurt.”
“How?” he asks.
“By marking people I’ve worked with for escalation.”
I give him the basics. The legacy system I exploited to gain access to GSD. The general shape of the files. The rapid burst of updates.
“The last file I opened…” I flick my gaze to his for a brief moment. “It belongs to a field agent I worked with a few years ago. He’s scheduled for a ‘reassignment’ meeting tomorrow morning. They’ll take him then. Like they took me.”
He swears under his breath, then stills. “You want to warn him.”
“If I don’t…it’s on me. I can’t help Ellen. Even if I could, she won’t let me. But Jonas…he still has a chance.”
“How would you do it?” Asher takes a second biscuit, then tears it into pieces before dropping it into his bowl.
“Encrypted message to his public email. I can route it through an anonymizer in Switzerland and another in Australia.”
“You’ll be giving them proof of life.”
“I gave them that by accessing the archive in the first place. But this tells them I won’t quietly disappear. They won’t just look for me. They’ll actively hunt me.” I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his wrist. “And you.”
“Given how hard they’re squeezing Mason Locke, they’ve already made up their mind about me. If he so much as breathes near a traffic cam, they’ll be on him in a heartbeat.”
He’s right, but hearing him say the words does nothing for the unease churning in my stomach. “That level of pressure is nothing, Asher. We won’t just be on the run. We might never be able to stop running.” I pause, hating how needy I’m about to sound. “Are you willing to take that risk?”
“I made my choice the moment I knew what they were doing to you. It hasn’t changed,” Asher says, his blue eyes softening. “They don’t get to erase the innocent and call it care. Warn your field agent friend. Whatever the fallout is, we’ll face it together.”