Page 14 of Operation: Defiance

That feels wrong. But the questions continue so quickly, I don’t have time to dwell on it.

Range of motion. History of injury. Current limitations.

The man gets to his feet and asks me to extend my arm. I comply. He watches closely, hovering, but not touching.

When I lower it, my shoulder slips a fraction. I don’t let myself react.

“Any instability?” he asks.

“Only if I’m reaching for something overhead,” I say.

He makes a note.

“How long ago was the original injury?”

“Eleven months.”

They exchange a look I don’t know how to interpret.

“This next part is precautionary,” the woman says. “For everyone’s comfort.”

She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a set of restraints. I recognize their subtle shift in posture. They expect me to resist.

I stay calm. “Is this necessary?”

“It’s standard,” she replies. “For transport.”

Transport is new. Though if it gets me to a doctor who can clear me, I won’t complain.

“Transport where? I drove here. My car is in the lot. Wouldn’t it be easier if I met you⁠—”

“This is procedure, Agent Calder. Your vehicle will be safe here, as will your bag. We’ll take care of them until the review is complete.” She smiles, as if I’m supposed to take comfort from her words while she’s holding a pair of restraints.

I let the woman cuff my wrists to the arms of the chair, check the fit, and adjust. The pressure isn’t uncomfortable. Yet. When I test my very limited range of motion, no one reacts.

The door closes, leaving me alone, and time begins to stretch in a way that feels intentional.

No one’s accused me of anything, explained why this was necessary, or returned my phone.

I settle back in the chair and test the restraints again, just enough to map them. My breathing stays even. My pulse doesn’t spike.

The cold works its way through me, as does the certainty that this was never a training assignment. Nor is it a standard medical review either. And I have no idea what comes next.

Chapter Six

When the door opens again, they move quickly.

Too quickly for my body to catch up.

The man releases the cuffs from the chair and half a second later my wrists are locked together behind my back. The metal tightens, and my shoulders tense.

Another man grips my arm and pulls me to my feet. A low ache starts in my right shoulder. I stumble, my balance off because my hands aren’t where my body expects them to be.

“Watch it,” the second man snaps.

“I need a moment,” I say. My tone isn’t defiant. Or panicked. “My hands⁠—”

He doesn’t seem to care, and drags me through the door and around a corner. I misjudge the distance, my shoulder clipping the wall.