Chapter Sixty-Five
Asher
Once I get off the freeway, I don’t drive straight to the safe house. Three unnecessary turns, two circuits of the block, and five full minutes idling in a loading zone across from the rental car return are enough to mask the direction I came from.
The city is indifferent to my existence, but I catch the black SUV in my rearview before I pull back into traffic.
A delivery van with no visible signage is parked across the street from the supermarket on the corner.
The driver isn’t wearing a uniform, but a long-sleeved black shirt and sunglasses.
They’re still searching. Good. This will go faster.
Not that I want to be taken. Not truly. I’d give anything to turn the car around and drive straight back to Raine. But this is the only move that keeps Ellen alive long enough for Northbridge to make contact.
The garage is mostly empty. No strange vehicles. I keep my phone in hand, unlocked, so I can wipe it in two taps if I need to. I won’t let them use it to get to Raine.
Hallways, clear. The air inside the apartment has gone stale, but everything else is the same. I flip the deadbolt and lean my back against the door.
Raine weighed almost nothing when I first brought her here.
The memory is so clear, it steals my breath.
Her cheek resting against my shoulder as I carried her through this room.
The way her hands twitched, even when she was unconscious—like her body didn’t trust warmth or freedom or safety.
The first time she opened her eyes, she didn’t ask where she was.
She asked how long she’d been out. She needed time.
I swallow hard, forcing the memory down where it won’t derail my mission.
At the table, I unlock the tablet and follow the instructions Raine gave me. Open a browser. Skip the VPN. Navigate to an old, text-based interface to a GSD system someone should have secured more than a decade ago.
I don’t linger. In half a dozen taps, I’m looking at Tessa’s file. There’s a single update from this morning.
Reintake window set. Initiate contact at 1700.
So that’s the next escalation. If we don’t turn ourselves over, Ellen dies, and Tessa takes her place.
The network monitor spikes with incoming traffic. That’s my cue. I sever the connection, launch the VPN, and open the directory once more. I’m done here.
My hands are shaking. I ball them into fists, force my breathing to slow, and push back from the table.
I leave the tablet connected. It’s a shame, really. This apartment was one of my favorites. It’ll be ruined by the time they’re done searching it. But all they’ll find is an empty safe, clothing that was meant to be replaced, and a handful of carrots shriveling away in the vegetable drawer.
I move quickly now. In the elevator, I send Raine a quick text.
Tessa flagged for intake tonight. They’ll probably pivot once they have me, but call Inara. She’ll get Tessa somewhere safe.
The dots flicker at the bottom of the screen, but I force myself to ignore them as the heavy doors whisper open. I have to focus on controlling the take down. Minimizing damage.
Still, I glance at the message when the phone vibrates in my hand.
Be careful.
I wipe the phone before I leave the building, snap the SIM, and drop each half in a different trash can as I hustle to the grocery store on the corner.
Inside, it smells like citrus and overripe fruit. I grab a hand basket, picking up a couple of things I don’t actually need. Bread. Butter. A glass bottle of water.
In the dairy section, I catch my first glimpse of the take down team in the large convex mirror.
A man pretending to study nutrition labels on a box of cereal. Early forties. Broad shoulders under a North Face jacket that’s loose enough to conceal a sidearm. His gaze darts to the front doors once, then back to the box of Fruity Ohs in his hand.
A second man appears at the far end of the aisle a moment later, standing in front of a display of paper towels with the same careful disinterest as the cereal guy.
They’re not rushing me. They don’t want this to go down in public.
I pay—because walking out empty handed would look suspicious—and grip the bag in my left hand as I step out into the cold morning air.
A sedan pulls into the parking lot as I duck into an alley between the store and another apartment building.
I want privacy for this. So do they.
The alley reeks of wet cardboard and grease. A fluorescent security light no one bothered to turn off hums as I pass a large dumpster.
“Mr. Locke,” a man calls from behind me.
I cast a brief glance over my shoulder, brows arched. “Yes?”
The man from the cereal aisle approaches slowly. At the other end of the alley, his partner cuts off the exit to the parking lot.
They’re both relaxed, their stances casual, like they think the situation is well in hand.
I let the grocery bag hang loosely. No reason to put them on alert. Yet. “Are you gentlemen lost?”
Fruity Ohs smiles. “You accessed a restricted government archive without authorization,” he says. “We need you to come with us.”
I’m almost impressed. The excuse is official enough to be logical, vague enough to let them escalate without justification.
The second man is only a few feet away from me now.
With a sigh, I shrug and start to hand over the bag. Planting my right foot, I pivot, swinging the bag directly at the first agent’s head. The bottle of water turns it into a blunt weapon.
It catches Mr. Fruity Ohs across the side of the jaw with a satisfying crack. He stumbles toward the dumpster with a grunt.
The second guy lunges immediately. He’s fast. Too fast. A fist clips my shoulder, but I catch his wrist, driving my elbow into his ribs hard enough to force the air from his lungs.
The bag hits the pavement, the water bottle rolling out of reach.
Fruity Ohs recovers quickly. His tackle catches me just below the belt, and we both go down.
My shoulder slams into the concrete, and something jagged tears through my side. It doesn’t feel like pain at first. Just heat. A sudden, violent awareness that something is very wrong.
Fuck. Broken bottles litter the concrete. Beer, vodka, whiskey…
Fruity Ohs tries to pin my arms, but I drive my knee up between us, twist, and shove him hard enough that he catches air for a split second.
Raw agony spreads from the wound.
That’s okay. Pain means I’m still fighting.
I scramble to my feet and run.
Footsteps thud behind me, but I don’t look back. Rounding the corner at the end of the alley, I cut across the parking lot toward the back of the store. Details blur at the edge of my vision, but adrenaline keeps my legs moving.
I duck behind a row of parked cars. My left hand is slick with blood. This…complicates things.
The van swings into the parking lot as I straighten. Right on schedule.
Time to close the deal.
Fruity Ohs and Paper Towels advance on me, four other agents jumping out of the van before it even stops moving.
I’m surrounded.
The first punch lands before anyone says a word. Paper Towels clips the side of my face hard enough that the world tilts. I return the favor with a hook that catches Fruity Ohs square in the throat. He staggers back, coughing, while one of the guys from the van grabs my arm.
I twist free, spin, and drive my elbow into his temple.
For all of five seconds, the fight feels winnable. Until someone catches my injured side with a knee, and pain consumes my torso, stealing half my oxygen at once.
A baton cracks across the back of my right thigh. My knee buckles. They’re on me instantly. My arms are forced behind my back, thick flexi-cuffs pulled tight around my wrists.
Someone else whips a black bag over my head. The sudden darkness is designed to disorient. Mission accomplished.
They muscle me forward, then throw me into the van hard enough that I see stars under the hood. The doors slam shut. Two sets of hands haul me up and shove me into a seat, then tighten a strap over my torso.
As the engine roars to life, I do my best to relax my muscles and start counting the turns.