Chapter Sixty-Six
Asher
The hood is too thick. It presses to my nose every time I breathe. The fabric smells like dust and someone else’s sweat. The flexi-cuffs bite into my wrists, but the pressure isn’t unsustainable. Not tight enough for nerve damage.
The gash flares whenever the van hits a pothole or seam in the road. We’re on the freeway in under five minutes, and from the turns I’m able to identify, Raine was right—they’re taking me south to Kent.
The driver slams on the brakes, the horn blares, and the pain in my side flares so hot, my vision goes white behind the hood.
Every time I breathe, my chest expanding and the skin pulling tight, I can feel shards of glass stuck in the wound.
After another few seconds, the motion steadies, and the pain settles into a deep, pulsing line of heat under my shirt.
I’ve got thirty minutes—give or take—until those doors open again. Half an hour until I have to manage my expressions, my voice, my answers.
The two men up front keep their voices to low murmurs.
Like I’m nothing but a piece of cargo they don’t need to worry about.
One laughs at the other’s off-color joke.
I think there’s a third guy in back with me, but the roar of the tires on the road masks any chance I’ll hear him breathe, so unless he decides to pipe up, I can’t be sure.
The bleeding isn’t as heavy now—I think. The heat dulls into heavy pressure that pulses every few seconds. Better than every heartbeat.
Ten minutes. Twenty. The van slows, takes an exit, and I go back to counting turns. Two rights, a short straight stretch, then a left.
The van stops, a hydraulic motor whines, then we start rolling again. Slowly. The texture under the tires shifts for thirty seconds before the engine cuts out.
The rear doors swing open with a metallic screech. Cold air rushes in. Someone removes the strap binding me to the seat. Hands haul me upright. My right knee protests the sudden movement, but my legs hold.
They walk me over rough concrete, cold air prickling over my forearms, then through another door.
Inside, I catch a faint whiff of pine cleaner under the stench of old sweat from the hood. Eight steps, a left turn, another ten steps, and they stop.
A hand yanks the hood away, taking a few strands of my hair with it.
The harsh light burns my eyes, fluorescent panels set into the ceiling—twice as many as a room like this needs. The entire room is paint over concrete, the color just shy of white, but close enough to be disorienting.
No windows. A single door. A steel table centered in the room, bolted down, with two chairs on the far side, one on the side closest to me.
A pair of GSD interrogators are already seated. The older one stands, his expression neutral. Mid-fifties, tall, but not bulky or imposing, with gray threading through his short-cropped hair. Light blue button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black pants, and forgettable shoes.
The other man doesn’t move from his chair. He’s at least twenty years younger, with dark hair and sharp eyes.
The two agents who brought me in move efficiently. One of them cuts off the flexi-cuffs and replaces them with thicker metal restraints, my hands secured in front of me this time.
The pat down takes them all of two minutes. They take my belt, key fob, wallet, and shoelaces. The receipt from the grocery store is crumpled and lands in the pile on the table with everything else.
“Mason Locke,” the younger man says as he glances at my wallet.
I don’t confirm or deny.
The older man sits back down. His gaze settles on me with the calm focus of someone who has nowhere else to be.
“Mark,” he says, gesturing to himself. “That’s Chad.”
I nod once, though I suspect their names are about as real as Mason Locke.
The guy who frisked me shoves me into the chair, while the other locks the restraints to a set of steel rings welded to the table top. My hands are far enough apart, the chain stays taut.
Those two leave, and another man enters, pulling a small metal cart behind him.
“Check him,” Mark says with a nod.
The medic doesn’t speak as he peers at the dark stain spreading over my side, then picks up a pair of trauma shears. The blades slice through the fabric in seconds, and he peels it away from the wound.
Saline floods the gash, runs down my side, and splatters the floor. The burn is immediate and vicious, almost stealing my breath before I get myself under control. I keep my breathing steady while he works.
“Glass,” he mutters, reaching for a pair of tweezers.
A quick stab of pain, and he pulls a shard free.
It clinks against the metal tray. Three more follow.
He irrigates the area one last time before packing gauze into the laceration, then wraps a compression bandage around my torso.
It’s tight enough the pressure almost eases the pain.
Almost.
I keep my gaze level, pinned to the wall between “Mark” and “Chad” while Tweezers starts an IV. With a few rounds of tape, the line is secured to my arm in three places, guaranteeing I can’t yank it free.
Not that I could reach it anyway with my hands cuffed like they are.
“This’ll keep him stable for a while,” the medic says, gathering his tools and leaving the three of us alone.
For a few seconds nothing happens.
The IV begins its slow, steady drip. The overhead lights hum faintly.
Eventually, Mark sits back in his chair. “You accessed a classified archive this morning.” No accusation, no dramatic pause, just a fact laid on the table between us. His voice is so placid, he might as well be confirming a dental appointment.
I don’t react right away. That’s what they want.
The trick in a room like this isn’t defiance.
It’s restraint. Go in determined to say nothing and you’ll give yourself away by trying too hard to stay silent.
Every tensed muscle, every perfectly timed pause, every deep breath becomes a confession used against you later.
Right now, my smartest move is to let them believe they’ll eventually wear me down. So I stare back at him like I’m deciding if the truth would make this easier. Enough doubt to keep them talking.
Chad glances up from the tablet. “Where is Raine Calder?”
There it is.
No circling. No warm-up. They’re not wasting time pretending she’s anything other than the center of the conversation.
I shift slightly in the chair. The movement sends a dull ache through my side.
Mark studies my face like I’m a calculus problem he’s trying to solve.
“You used her credentials this morning, Mr. Locke. We searched the apartment at 23 Mercer. She wasn’t there. Clearly, the two of you are working together.” Chad angles the tablet screen toward Mark.
The older man leans forward, elbows on the table. “Give us her location, and we’ll get that wound stitched up for you.”
There’s the carrot.
Help us and we’ll make you more comfortable.
Help us and we’ll keep you breathing.
For one long, slow breath, I’m just a guy collecting his thoughts. One thought in particular.
If they think I’m the more valuable asset, Ellen lives, and Raine gets the chance to make them pay.
Mark doesn’t rush. He keeps his tone conversational. “You were there for her. Because she asked you to do something. What was it?”
The framing is deliberate. He’s not asking if I was there for her. He knows I was. This is all about the details now.
Chad pushes back from the table, stands, and starts circling the room. His boot scrapes the concrete directly behind me.
“You helped her,” he says, close to my right shoulder.
The back of my chair creaks slightly under his hand. Enough to remind me that every piece of furniture in this room is leverage if they want it to be.
“We know she copied personnel files. What else does she have?” He’s closer now.
I don’t give them anything. My gaze doesn’t stray from the pile of items in the center of the table. Remnants of a life I still hope to get back to.
Chad doesn’t say anything for another full minute. I count my own heartbeats. Across the table, Mark waits, patiently, expecting time to do the work for him.
“What else does she have?” Chad snaps.
This time, he cuffs my shoulder, sending a sharp spike of pain through the bandage. I count Mark’s steady heartbeats now, visible above the collar of his gray shirt.
As if he knows I’m doing it, he shakes his head, passes Chad the tablet, and tells him to bag up my shit and take it to processing. “Oh, and get the medic back in here. We’re not leaving him with a sharp object he can use.”
Chad sweeps my wallet, key fob, and all the small things that belong to a life into a plastic evidence bag, seals it, and strides into the hall.
After another minute, the same guy who patched me up steps through the door. He’s efficient, removing the needle and taping a wad of gauze tightly to my elbow before wheeling the IV pole out of the room.
Mark pushes to his feet and rounds the table to stare at the restraints. Pulling a key from his pocket, he flips up a cover I hadn’t noticed between the two steel rings, unlocks it, and slides the rings forward three inches before relocking them.
The new position forces me to lean forward in the chair, my shoulders rounded, core engaged. It’s a small change, but the strain will build in ways I can’t prepare for.
With a light slap to the tape wrapped around my elbow, he adds, “You’ll decide talking is easier. Eventually.”
The door closes behind him with a quiet click.
Time stretches under the lights. The pressure bandage around my ribs holds steady, but every breath reminds me the glass was real and the cut beneath the wrap is still open.
I shift slightly, testing the new angle, and my shoulders protest immediately.
Good.
Pain sharpens the mind.
I settle into the discomfort and focus on the clock in my head. One minute. Two. Three. Raine’s still safe. Still working. She won’t stop until GSD is shut down for good.