Page 218 of Operation: Defiance

The words start to blur.

Revoked.

The first doctor I saw told me I was a good candidate for surgery. But the second and the third disagreed. So I’d been sent home with physical therapy and a shoulder that was never supposed to heal.

The room tilts. My shoulder catches, though I don’t mean to move it. I need…tea. Or more coffee. Air.

I push back from the table too quickly. The chair legs scrape, and my heel catches the floor. I make it three steps before my knee bangs into the cabinet, I redirect, and end up in Asher’s arms.

“Raine.”

It only takes my muscles a second to realize I’m not in danger. But in that brief moment, my shoulder flares as badly as it did the day I was shot. The pain runs down my right arm, all the way to my fingers, and my breath stalls on the way in.

“Breathe with me.” Asher exaggerates his own breathing, his chest rising and falling against mine. It helps enough for me to speak.

“I was moved to RJ-2 after my last field op,” I manage. “And there’s a note…in my file—” I shake my head, stepping out of Asher’s embrace so I can lean against the counter. “‘Per JV, given RJ-2 status, continued presence in the field would be inadvisable. Surgical approval revoked.’”

“Fuck.” Asher’s hands ball into fists, but he quickly forces them open, turns around, and spends a few seconds getting himself under control. “It’s not bad enough they tried to kill you, they had to permanently injure you first?”

I curl my left hand around the edge of the counter, letting it bite into my palm. “They could have fixed me. But Voss had already decided I was headed to RJ-3. He didn’t want me in the field when it happened.”

By the time Asher fixes us lunch, my head is pounding. Even the thought of food turns my stomach, but I force down a few bites of the sandwich anyway.

I closed my own file for a short time after discovering GSD wanted me out of the field badly enough to withhold treatment for my shoulder, turning my focus toward two dozen other personnel records. Of those, five end with either retirement notices or a simple note about permanent reassignment “offsite.”

Those five names sit on the notebook page between us. Asher’s files, so far, have been much less…alarming. A couple of retirements with all the bells and whistles that should accompany that status change, a handful of agents demoted to desk duty after their time in the OSI program, but they all went on to have full careers with no additional “monitoring.”

With a fresh mug of tea in front of me, I go back to my own file. Not because I’m ready for it, but because not knowing is worse.

The note scheduling my “transfer” to Coherent Path is as bland as everything else in my file.

Calder escalated concerns outside her scope to a restricted subject. Escalation to RJ-3 approved. Internal transfer protocol initiated.

Within hours, there’s another update.

Reassignment complete. Corrective intervention plan initiated.

Then, seven days later, the file is marked closed.

Retirement notice issued.

Three words to reduce a human life—my life—to a memo.

For a moment, I turn to the window. The sun has moved behind the building now, casting shadows over the neighboring high-rises.

I miss my apartment. My things. The freedom to go out in public without a disguise. I miss my work, as dull as it was sometimes.

GSD took all that from me. Because they could. Because no one stopped them.

We’ve only made it through a fraction of the files I downloaded yesterday. I can’t spend any more time on my own records. I have to move on. Find Marisol. Or Ellen. Or Jonas.

The next few files are agents who haven’t yet hit RJ-3. I copy their names onto a separate page so I can find a way to warn them. My shoulder aches, more from memory than injury now. I ignore it and keep going.

Asher’s phone vibrates on the table between us. He glances down at the screen and stiffens. “That’s Mason’s inbox.”

My fingers freeze on the trackpad. “I thought you burned everything related to him.”

“This is the only footprint he has. I left it open deliberately. Because even a sprawling bureaucratic nightmare held together with duct tape and delusions of grandeur eventually gives up on tradecraft and resorts to sending a strongly worded email. I’m surprised it took them this long.”