Page 181 of Operation: Defiance

I watch the cursor pulse on the screen, the steady rhythm almost calming. If GSD has flagged my credentials—or deleted them entirely—this will be noticed. The VPN will mask my location and route the traffic through layers they’ll have to peel back one at a time, but I’ve worked alongside Cyber for too long. I know how quickly they can unravel threads once someone decides it matters. All these precautions will buy us time. They won’t make us invisible.

My thumb drags over my index finger once, searching for the rough edge that isn’t there. A sharp pang of loss cuts through my focus. The memory of the band—its texture, the faint scrape of diamonds against my skin—is enough to steady me. To remind me I’m not done.

The rhythmic sound of Asher’s chopping blends with the music from the speaker behind me as I hand over my credentials, my toes curled tightly against the soles of my shoes.

What loads isn’t pretty. It’s barely a step above functional. No icons. Just a text-based menu someone built decades ago and never bothered to update. If GSD had deactivated my account entirely, I wouldn’t be able to access this at all. They kept it alive so they can see what I do with it.

I follow the logic I’ve used my entire career. Start small. Follow every path until it ends. Don’t give up unless there’s no other option.

After five dead ends, I find a directory that still thinks I’m a trusted user.

I move through it the way I’d trace any pattern. Up a level, across, down, across again…

The comforting scent of stew curls around me. Asher sets a mug of tea on the table. A moment later, he passes by with an armful of clean laundry.

That’s when I stumble across a list of archived files.

The names don’t mean anything at first. Strings of letters and numbers that could be dates, employee IDs, or nothing at all. What stands out are the time stamps. Twenty-four files all updated in the past three days. That’s not coincidence. That’s a sweep.

I open the first one, and my heart thuds hard against my ribs.

It’s a personnel file with the face sanded off. Just an employee number and redactions for name, age, department, and pay grade. The rest of the file is largely intact. Performance reviews, fitness reports, psychological summaries, even clearance history.

At the bottom, someone logged an update that’s chillingly familiar.

Proximity to restricted subject warrants escalation to RJ-1.

The code stops me in my tracks. All the agents I flagged because they disappeared from the duty rosters were marked as RJ-3. Ellen saw the same code on the paperwork she was forced to sign last week. This is the risk level.

The next file is longer, but the structure is the same. This one ends with two lines, both updated this morning.

Proximity to restricted subject after past variance warrants escalation to RJ-2.

Review pending.

One more. I have to check one more. But I can’t make my fingers move on the trackpad. Some small, irrational part of me wants to believe that it’s the looking that makes it real.

The file takes longer to load this time. When it does, the bottom drops out of my stomach. Where all the others were nothing but redactions where personal details should be, this one includes a badge photo. And a smiling face I recognize.

Jonas Price.

We ran an op together three years ago. He’s one of those guys who’s impossible to rattle. Even when we were in the middle of nowhere, he found a safe way to call his mom on her birthday. And he never broke protocol. Not once.

There’s no world where he’d be under review.

I scroll through every line, searching for an explanation. No misconduct, no red flags, nothing. His performance reviews are glowing, and he was promoted less than six months ago.

And yet, early this morning, someone logged three new updates.

Proximity to restricted subject warrants escalation to RJ-3.

Occupational Health engaged.

Reassignment meeting scheduled for 0900.

Intake scheduled for 1200.

Jonas didn’t do anything wrong.