Chapter Seventy
Raine
Time moves too quickly. I forced myself to eat an entire serving of Asher’s Fettuccine Alfredo, carefully labeled Thursday: Lunch, then paced the small apartment for almost ten minutes, willing my thoughts to settle.
Now, with a cup of tea warming my hands, I sit back at the table, and connect my phone to Asher’s tablet.
The next packet I send to the Public Integrity Project needs to include everything I can remember about my time inside Coherent Path.
The logs won’t make any sense without the Procedure Index, but that can all be tied together later if I get access to it.
I don’t want to do this. But lives depend on me. Ellen. Tessa. Asher. Any agent who might break the rules in the future.
The pictures are nothing but evidence. I know how to treat evidence. How to be objective and methodical and detached.
The first image loads, and I tell myself it belongs to someone else. It almost works.
Until I look at the photo of my hands.
Dry, cracked skin. Too pale. Every vein obvious from dehydration. Thick, purple bands encircle both wrists where the metal sat against bone for eight solid days.
I can still feel the weight. The pins and needles that turned into numbness that turned into constant tremors I couldn’t control.
Every change in position was designed to wear me down. To strip away my defenses, my resolve. My will to live on anything but their terms.
Asher’s coin is heavy in my palm. I need the weight of it. The rough edges. And the reminder that my grip strength may never fully recover.
I shift my focus to the laptop, and start typing.
Day One - Intake and Initial Containment
Upon arrival, I was immediately hooded. They stripped me, then made me dress in a set of thin, gray scrubs. I was restrained with heavy shackles at my wrists and ankles. The initial interview was conducted an hour later.
I reach for the tea, needing something warm as the memory of the cold, concrete floor under my bare feet threatens to send my mind spiraling.
My log file sits on the right side of the screen, so many codes stacked one after another until they blur into an endless stretch of isolation and pain.
I work through what little I can remember.
After the initial compliance review, I was moved to a cell.
The hood was never removed, so I don’t know the size of it.
They put me in a hard, metal chair and locked my wrists and ankles to fixed points.
I was instructed not to move or speak unless I needed to ask for water or to use the bathroom.
When I did, I was often ignored for indeterminate lengths of time that left me questioning if I’d asked at all.
Pressure points were used as control. After several days, it began to feel as if I needed permission to even breathe.
I jerk to my feet and stagger over to the window. The sun has started to dip behind the tallest of the buildings, but it still bathes strips of the sidewalk in a warm orange hue.
Somewhere in Kent, Asher is in a concrete room. No sunlight. No warmth. No comfort at all. Because of me. Because he—
I can’t finish the thought. If I do, I’ll shatter.
Everything between the first day and the last blurs together. So I skip ahead.
Day Eight - Final Correction and Disposal
As evidenced in the attached Contractor Incident Report, Coherent Path utilizes ElectroConvulsive Therapy as a terminal corrective measure when the detainee does not exhibit proper adherence to instruction or compliance.
When I was still lucid at the end of the third pulse, I was moved to a cell, restrained in a chair, and left for approximately fifteen hours without food or water while they waited for final disposal authorization.
If someone outside Coherent Path’s system had not intervened, I estimate I would have died by the end of that day.
My heart rate ticks up. My face flushes hot, then cold, as my blood pressure bottoms out. The spiral grabs hold, pulling me back into the darkness under the hood. I can’t smell the tea anymore. Only someone else’s sweat and fear and the stench of my own body after eight days of systematic erasure.
A low, insistent vibration rattles the table, and a tiny whimper dies in my throat.
My phone is ringing.
Unknown number.
I’ve been sitting here so long, I didn’t realize the clock had ticked past 4:30 p.m.
“Locke,” I say.
There’s a pause and what might be a breath before a man answers. “No. You’re not.”
“True. Mason is unavailable at the moment. But the conversation you were expecting can still happen.”
“Not unless you tell me who you are. And why I should trust you,” he says.
“You’ll trust me because I know your employer shares a physical location with two other entities down in Centralia. Kovacs Resolution Partners and Coherent Path.”
“I suppose names aren’t always necessary,” he says, his tone measured and calm. It’s the sound of a man who realizes the stakes have suddenly shifted without warning.
I lean back in the chair. “We can get down to business, then.”
“What do you want?”
“Detainee extraction and data transfer. Anyone currently in Coherent Path custody is taken directly to Tacoma Memorial hospital by someone at Northbridge. You make Coherent Path’s data available to me—either through remote access or a physical drop at a location I specify.
” I pause, letting him process the demand for a beat before I continue.
“In return, I’ll guarantee that Northbridge has twenty-four hours to wipe all traces of their existence at the facility before the address is released. It’ll be like you were never there.”
The man scoffs. “Lady, you think my bosses are going to move against an organization we share space with based on an anonymous phone call?”
“I think if your bosses had any idea of the firestorm coming their way, they’d want to put as much distance between them and Coherent Path as possible. The address is going public whether you agree to a deal or not. The only question is whether Northbridge gets caught in the fallout when it does.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word you even know where it is.” It isn’t a question.
“You’re supposed to consider that I knew exactly who to call and what to ask for. But fine. You want proof?” I bring up the coordinates of the black site and rattle them off. “Coherent Path occupies all of sublevel three. I didn’t get that information by accident.”
For several seconds, the man doesn’t speak. But his respiration rate has ticked up steadily. He’s close to folding.
“The address goes public either way. Agree, and I hold it for twenty-four hours. Don’t, and I release it right now.” I keep my voice even. “You have another thirty seconds before I hang up and make the decision for you.”
When he speaks again, the pushback arrives wrapped in careful language. “You’re making assumptions about my authority here.”
“Authority isn’t my problem,” I reply. “If you don’t have enough of it, find someone who does.”
“That’s going to take time.” The caution in his voice shifts to acceptance.
“I can give you an hour. No more.”
“Two hours.”
Negotiation. Fine. I’ll give him an inch. But not long enough for Northbridge to disappear.
“Ninety minutes. Final offer. If you’re thirty seconds late, the address goes out.”
“Understood,” he says, and the call disconnects.
The adrenaline coursing through my body vanishes in a single heartbeat. The phone slips from my hand. My lungs strain as I forget what breathing is supposed to feel like.
Dark spots float in front of my eyes. I press my fingertips together until I feel the rapid beat of my heart between them.
The room resolves into more than light and shadow. The music playing softly helps me orient, and I retrieve the phone from the floor.
If this works, the only obstacle left is time.