Chapter Seventy-Five #2
“Who did she contact? We know she had help. Tell us and we’ll bring in some water. Maybe even a snack,” Phil says.
My head starts to dip. The muscles in my neck are too wiped to hold it up properly. Thoughts lag seconds behind comprehension. I’d kill for water. But I can’t let them see that.
Raine knows what she’s doing. My job is to give her time.
I’ll repeat that fucking mantra as many times as I need to get me through this. But the longer they keep me in this position, the harder it is to think.
Jay stops pacing somewhere behind me. I can’t see him. Can’t hear his footsteps. Don’t know how close he is. Until his fist slams into my back to the left of my spine.
Agony detonates from my wrists down to my toes.
I don’t hear his question. Just the angry edge to his voice thundering over the roar of my heartbeat in my ears.
The questions keep coming. Slight variations in wording or tone. My thoughts start to wander, getting lost somewhere between exhaustion and pain.
“Where is she going next?” Phil asks. Finally. Something I can use.
I turn my head enough to meet his gaze. “You’re assuming she tells me anything.” After a beat, I let my lips curve into a small smile. “You assume wrong.”
A second punch, this time to my right side. It hits the old knife wound, and my entire leg goes numb. Fuck. I wasn’t tracking Jay. The longer this goes on, the more of a liability I become. To myself and to Raine.
Breathing is harder now. The gash pulses with every heart beat. They’re fishing. Casting a wide net so they can catch me in a lie.
The crack in the wall blurs, then doubles. Every swallow drags like sandpaper. I can’t stop the shaking.
I picture Raine in my coat. The defiance in her eyes. Her stance. Her stillness in front of that fucking camera. She needed them to know she was still fighting. Needed me to know it too.
“How did she destroy the Centralia facility?” Phil asks again.
Jay doesn’t wait for an answer. He lunges for me, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck and pushing hard enough my chin scrapes the wall. “Did she do it to extract Ellen Markle?”
I clench my jaw, knowing he’ll see it.
Keep them focused on the black site. On all the things they don’t know.
My side throbs in slow, endless pulses. If I breathe too deeply, the pain sharpens, so I don’t. I need to keep myself here. Present.
Jay doesn’t loosen his grip. The pressure forces me higher onto my toes. My calves are giving out now. My core has already fled the building completely.
“Let’s start from the beginning, Locke,” he says. “You say you went to Centralia for someone else. Who?”
They rewind it all. Extraction. Where we went after. What we did. Why.
Time stretches. Or compresses. I can’t tell which. The room narrows and widens in waves. My head dips again before I force it back up. My neck won’t cooperate anymore. My thoughts trail off mid-sentence and I have to drag them back into place.
Phil stands, his chair dragging over the concrete with a loud scrape. “She’s not coming for you.” His voice has lost any semblance of patience. “You’re a means to an end and you know it.”
My breath catches. Just once. But in a room this quiet, with two men watching me as closely as they are, it’s enough for them to notice.
I focus on the imperfection in the wall, and count the seconds. At three, I force a swallow. “You should hope…that’s true.”
Jay, the only one I can currently see, goes completely still. I file that away and rest my forehead against the wall.
“Get him down,” Phil mutters. “I’ll call in Medical.”
Losing control of my breath was a mistake. But it also told them exactly what I need them to believe.
That I’m worth holding onto. That letting me deteriorate too quickly isn’t in their best interest.
Sometimes, the best tradecraft is the kind you don’t plan.
Jay locks the cuffs back to the rings on the table. I can barely hold my head up.
The door opens, hinges squeaking softly. A tall, older man wheels in a medical cart. Not the same guy as before. This one’s rougher. He drags a pair of shears down the compression bandage, and pulls it away without warning or care.
More saline. Fresh gauze. Another wrap. Vitals check. My vision sparks and fades. Phil mutters something to Jay I can’t make out, then leaves the room.
“His pressure’s dropping,” the medic says.
“Stabilize him.” Jay checks the tablet screen. “We need him functional.”
Another IV. Same arm. As soon as the needle hits the vein, something shifts under my skin. Slow, creeping cold that spreads up my shoulder before evening out.
The hollow ache in my hands starts to fade, sensation returning in uneven pulses. A metallic tang coats my tongue. My stomach tilts, empty and sour, and the room sways harder before it steadies.
I let it. Fighting costs more than it’s worth.
Functional.
I hold onto that word and think of Raine. She’s still out there. Still fighting.
My job is to give her time.
She’s using it. Northbridge came through. Probably got Ellen out. Information too. That hope is enough to keep me going.
Phil returns with a phone mounted to a tripod. He sets it up at the far end of the table, starts the camera app, then adjusts the view until it shows my face and the upper part of my chest.
Not the restraints. Not the IV taped to my arm. Or the blood staining my shirt. The wrap at my side is fresh, cool, and too tight, the fabric tugging at skin whenever I breathe.
The door opens again, and the air in the room shifts.
Jay straightens. Phil lowers his tablet.
A shorter man in a pressed charcoal suit walks in as if the space already belongs to him.
Salt-and-pepper hair, cut close. He’s calm.
No wasted movement. He doesn’t look like someone who gets his hands dirty.
No. This is a man who makes others do the work.
The medic steps in without a word, swabs the IV port, and empties a syringe into the line.
My pulse kicks, hard enough I feel it in my throat.
Heat floods up my neck. The room snaps into focus too quickly, the edges shimmering in the harsh light.
They need me awake for this. Not just functional. Responsive.
My fingers twitch. The tremor in my arms sharpens. I’m still exhausted, but my body lights up like a fucking Christmas tree.
I pin my gaze to one of the scratches on the table, locking down my expression to detached indifference.
“Mr. Locke, my name is Dr. Julian Voss.”
Fuck me.
Raine’s caused enough of a stir to bring the boss here. The asshole who decided to erase people and call it care. She got under his skin.
The stimulant is doing its level best to scatter every thought I have, but that one lands hard. She’s made enough noise to pull the architect of the whole goddamned operation into an interrogation room at—I’ve lost track of the time. Late. Early. Doesn’t matter.
Voss steps close enough I can smell his cologne.
Of course, he’d be one of those assholes who bathes in it.
“I’ve reviewed your past sessions,” he says, his tone almost academic in its blandness.
He radiates calm in a way that lodges a small kernel of fear deep in my chest. Because if he’s calm, he has a plan, and I don’t know what it is.
“Every response. Every refusal. Every physiological marker. You value control. Structure. Predictability. So we’ll keep this simple.
” He gestures at the camera. “She sees you. She hears you. She decides what happens next.”
Whatever they gave me turns stillness into work. My pulse is too loud. Keeping my expression neutral feels like bracing under a two-ton weight.
He adjusts the angle of the camera slightly. “She believes she can force us to act by putting information into the open,” he says. “She thinks if she pushes hard enough, we’ll trade you for quiet.”
He pauses, studying my face. “We won’t. She’ll see you like this. She’ll understand that every move she makes has a cost. Not abstract. Not theoretical. A cost you will pay.”
He lets the silence stretch long enough, it’s almost unbearable, then lowers his voice so only I can hear it. “You assume she prioritizes outcomes over you. I assume the opposite. We’ll see who’s right in the end.”
I don’t react. Don’t tell him he’s wrong. He’ll find out soon enough.
Destroying Coherent Path has always been the priority. Raine knows it. So do I. We said it out loud when I volunteered to let them take me.
Even if love does complicate things.
I know how she calculates risk. How she hides fear behind logic. She won’t trade the mission for me. But seeing me will divide her focus. I can’t let that happen. She’s close enough to make Voss show up. She needs to know they’re scared.
Voss steps behind the camera, taps the screen, and clears his throat. “State your name.”
These are the two easiest words I’ll have until the end. “Mason Locke.” My throat is so raw, my voice barely holds.
“Tell Calder that whatever she believes she’s doing stops now.”
I focus on Voss standing behind the camera. “No.”
“Tell her that continued action will result in consequences.”
“No.”
Jay lunges for me. The strike is quick and controlled.
My head snaps to the side, vision flashing white for a second.
I taste blood where my teeth caught the inside of my cheek.
The drug won’t let me drift. It pins me in place, fully conscious of the pain.
I straighten because collapsing is what they want.
“Tell her to stop,” Voss says again.
Staring through the camera at Voss, I chuckle. “Still no. I’ve seen better plays from a junior varsity football team who just lost their quarterback.”
Voss studies me for a beat, the harsh lights reflecting off the fancy watch at his wrist. I can’t see the time. Fuck. I should have been paying attention earlier.
“Very well,” he says, finally. “Your lack of cooperation will be…noted.” He taps the phone, the recording light shuts off, and he turns back to me. “Men like you don’t break all at once, Mr. Locke. They erode in stages. We’re going to help that along.”
For half a breath, unease churns in my gut. There’s no script for what comes next. Not with Voss directing the play.
The medic steps in, removes the IV, and tapes a piece of gauze to my elbow. In under a minute, I’m alone again. Hoping Northbridge got Raine what she needed. Hoping she understands GSD is running scared. And hoping I can last long enough to see her again.