Chapter Forty-Six
Asher
The quiet, tree-lined street is one of a hundred in Seattle. A mix of older homes with yards and three-story modern townhouses crammed six to a lot.
Tessa lives in a turn-of-the-century Craftsman. Fresh paint, but the flower boxes are full of dead and dying plants. Flyers, envelopes, even a couple of packages lie in a scattered heap below the mailbox, disintegrating on the rain-soaked porch.
I park at the end of the block and take out my phone and a notebook. A man sitting in a car doing nothing attracts attention. But pretend to be taking a call, scribbling on a pad of paper? You’re suddenly a guy who didn’t want to drive distracted.
Her front door opens in under ten minutes. She’s young. Early thirties, at most. Blond hair, petite. Her shoulders hunch as she locks up.
She’s pale. Dark circles under her eyes. No obvious injuries, but she’s bundled up in a thick coat. Her gaze darts up and down the street twice before she heads for her car.
Someone honks on the next block. The way she flinches is painful to watch. But she presses a hand to her chest, closes her eyes for a second, and breathes.
I keep my distance, letting two or three vehicles get between us at all times. Raine said Tessa had never been a field agent. She shouldn’t be able to spot a tail. But anyone tailing her could spot me if I’m not careful.
The building she parks in front of is designed to be forgettable. Beige siding, frosted glass, a small sign at the edge of the parking lot and another over the front door.
Seatown Dental Group.
No fucking way that’s a dentist’s office. The biggest tell? Tessa has to press a button next to the door to be let in.
I check my watch, then head to a coffee shop across the street. The oversized aviator glasses, thick gray scarf, and fedora should foil any facial recognition if I’m caught on camera. A large Americano in hand, I take a seat at the window and pretend to scroll through email on my phone.
Tessa’s inside for twenty minutes. When she emerges, she’s barely a shadow of the woman she was when she went in. Her lips are bloodless, cheeks splotchy, and eyes swollen.
She moves carefully—like balance isn’t something she’s used to. Her fingers curl around the collar of her sweater, tugging it away from her neck until she jerks and drops her arm to her side.
No limp. No visible pain. But whatever happened in there shook her to her core.
Back in her car, she sits with both hands on the wheel, engine off, staring straight ahead. After a full minute, her shoulders quake, and she swipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand before finally starting the engine and driving away.
I’ve seen what I need to see. She’s alive. She wasn’t taken or detained. But this was more than monitoring. This was recalibration. A reminder that her freedom could be taken away again in a heartbeat if she so much as breathes wrong.
The last of the coffee goes cold as I stare at the building’s sign. The letters blur, and after a blink, all I can see is Raine. Strapped to that fucking chair with a hood over her head, struggling for each shallow breath.
If I’d been even an hour later, she’d be dead. A medical escalation gone wrong—or right, if you’re the asshole who designed Coherent Path’s protocols.
Not corrected and released like Tessa. Not assigned long-term monitoring like Ellen. Gone.
Rage floods my system, then sharpens to a knife point aimed directly at my heart.
Whatever it costs to shut these fuckers down, I’ll pay it. Whatever I have to torch to keep Raine safe gets a gallon of gasoline dumped on it before any match is lit.
By the time we’re done, GSD won’t even think about doing this to another goddamn person. Because they’ll know if they do, their lives are over.
Raine
My eyes trail to the clock at the bottom of the computer screen. We agreed that if Asher wasn’t back in three hours, I should run. It’s only been forty-five minutes, and my pulse won’t fully settle.
Two cups of chamomile tea haven’t helped. I tried pacing the apartment for a few minutes, but my body is still re-learning what it’s like to be able to move freely—and how much energy that costs.
The music hums quietly. I’ve come to depend on its consistency. But Asher said there were playlists for every mood, so I check the app and find one marked Concentration. I could use some of that right about now.
It’s deeper. Bolder, but not loud.
I don’t want to risk hacking into GSD while Asher’s not here. If I open the wrong file at the wrong time—even with all our countermeasures—they could trace the connection, and I’d have to run without him.
Could I?
Yes.
Do I want to?
No.
Instead, I go back to the thumb drive with the log files he copied from the black site. There were three files that didn’t belong to detainees, and I’ve only examined two of them.
The Operational Standards Adherence and Continuity of Care documents don’t have anything more they can tell me. And until now, I haven’t been ready to open the third. I can’t avoid it any longer.
Contractor Risk Exposure Analysis.
At the very top of the file is a single detainee ID. No name. Just a number with a scattering of status updates dated five years ago.
Instruction adherence: Low
Authority recognition: None
Physical compliance: Resistant
Overall assessment: Compliance failure
The classifications leach the heat from my body, but they’re nothing compared to the first paragraph, written in language so plain, there’s no way this was intended for anyone but the top levels of approval authority.
The subject remained non-compliant throughout the six-day period. Standard procedures were followed for the initial forty-eight hours, after which escalation was approved.
In each successive twelve-hour phase, recovery intervals were shortened and corrective measures were increased.
The subject’s behavior did not change.
On the sixth day, a final calibration attempt was made.
Result: Acute physiological destabilization resulting in cardiac arrest.
I shudder, and the edges of the room take on a soft focus. No. I’m not back there. Not trapped. It’s warm. The music is still playing. Socks are still on. Asher’s coin is heavy in my palm.
I scroll to the next page.
Restraints applied at shoulders, forearms, wrists, chest, hips, thighs, calves, and ankles to prevent injury during voltage escalation.
Contractor C-96 initiated electroshock at the lowest therapeutic tier. Seizure duration: thirty-two seconds. Subject remained oriented.
Tier 2 duration: forty-five seconds. Subject exhibited non-purposeful motion and irregular respiratory cadence.
Tier 3 duration: fifty-one seconds.
My breath scrapes across my throat.
The final paragraph is the worst.
After release from restraints, subject was acutely disoriented and could not speak. A catastrophic cardiac event occurred twenty-three minutes post correction.
I blink, but the words smear on the screen. I can’t feel the laptop under my fingers. Can’t smell the tea. Can’t hear the music.
Cold vinyl. Antiseptic. Ozone. The straps dig into my thighs. My arms. My ribs. A hand clamps around my jaw, fingers digging into bruises aggravated again and again and again.
The electrodes start to vibrate. Nothing more than a tickle until suddenly, my entire body jerks against the restraints, my back trying desperately to bow. I whimper, tears leaking from my eyes under the hood.
“Response minimal. Increase amplitude.”
The man sounds…bored. A few quiet clicks, someone pressing on the electrodes stuck to my chest, then white-hot agony stabs through my temples for a second time.
The current detonates inside my skull. My teeth grind into the mouth guard.
Breathing…stops, stutters, starts again. I can’t feel my hands. My legs.
“Cardiac stability compromised. Increase amplitude to tier 3. This should do it.”
The buzzing starts again.
No. Please.
The space inside my head hollows out until there’s nothing left but absence.
Everything stops. Sound. Sensation. Me. I can’t feel the straps. Can’t tell if I’m breathing. If I’m alive. It’s all…static and emptiness and a dark void pulling me under.
I cling to the edges of awareness. Only threads now. Maybe that’s all I am. A thread of what used to be a person.
“I’m…not okay.”
“She’s oriented. Fuck. Manual intervention requires a signature. Transfer her to observation. If she declines within the hour, move her to terminal hold. I’ll file the paperwork.”
Soft, soothing chords wrap around me. The music reaches somewhere nothing else can, dragging me out of my memories and back to the table. Back to Asher’s apartment. Back to warmth and safety and light.
My fingers press against the wood. I follow each line of the grain with deliberate focus until the room takes shape again.
My shoulders drop. The next breath is easier.
Tears cool on my cheeks. I taste the salt.
Scent the honey I put in my tea. Feel my toes warm inside my socks.
I’m still here. They tried to end me, but they failed.
I’m going to make them regret it.