Page 233 of Operation: Defiance

The dots flicker at the bottom of the screen, but I force myself to ignore them as the heavy doors whisper open. I have to focus on controlling the take down. Minimizing damage.

Still, I glance at the message when the phone vibrates in my hand.

Be careful.

I wipe the phone before I leave the building, snap the SIM, and drop each half in a different trash can as I hustle to the grocery store on the corner.

Inside, it smells like citrus and overripe fruit. I grab a hand basket, picking up a couple of things I don’t actually need. Bread. Butter. A glass bottle of water.

In the dairy section, I catch my first glimpse of the take down team in the large convex mirror.

A man pretending to study nutrition labels on a box of cereal. Early forties. Broad shoulders under a North Face jacket that’s loose enough to conceal a sidearm. His gaze darts to the front doors once, then back to the box of Fruity Ohs in his hand.

A second man appears at the far end of the aisle a moment later, standing in front of a display of paper towels with the same careful disinterest as the cereal guy.

They’re not rushing me. They don’t want this to go down in public.

I pay—because walking out empty handed would look suspicious—and grip the bag in my left hand as I step out into the cold morning air.

A sedan pulls into the parking lot as I duck into an alley between the store and another apartment building.

I want privacy for this. So do they.

The alley reeks of wet cardboard and grease. A fluorescent security light no one bothered to turn off hums as I pass a large dumpster.

“Mr. Locke,” a man calls from behind me.

I cast a brief glance over my shoulder, brows arched. “Yes?”

The man from the cereal aisle approaches slowly. At the other end of the alley, his partner cuts off the exit to the parking lot.

They’re both relaxed, their stances casual, like they think the situation is well in hand.

I let the grocery bag hang loosely. No reason to put them on alert. Yet. “Are you gentlemen lost?”

Fruity Ohs smiles. “You accessed a restricted government archive without authorization,” he says. “We need you to come with us.”

I’m almost impressed. The excuse is official enough to be logical, vague enough to let them escalate without justification.

The second man is only a few feet away from me now.

With a sigh, I shrug and start to hand over the bag. Planting my right foot, I pivot, swinging the bag directly at the first agent’s head. The bottle of water turns it into a blunt weapon.

It catches Mr. Fruity Ohs across the side of the jaw with a satisfying crack. He stumbles toward the dumpster with a grunt.

The second guy lunges immediately. He’s fast. Too fast. A fist clips my shoulder, but I catch his wrist, driving my elbow into his ribs hard enough to force the air from his lungs.

The bag hits the pavement, the water bottle rolling out of reach.

Fruity Ohs recovers quickly. His tackle catches me just below the belt, and we both go down.

My shoulder slams into the concrete, and something jagged tears through my side. It doesn’t feel like pain at first. Just heat. A sudden, violent awareness that something is very wrong.

Fuck. Broken bottles litter the concrete. Beer, vodka, whiskey…

Fruity Ohs tries to pin my arms, but I drive my knee up between us, twist, and shove him hard enough that he catches air for a split second.

Raw agony spreads from the wound.