Page 236 of Operation: Defiance

“Glass,” he mutters, reaching for a pair of tweezers. A quick stab of pain, and he pulls a shard free. It clinks against the metal tray. Three more follow. He irrigates the area one last time before packing gauze into the laceration, then wraps a compression bandage around my torso. It’s tight enough the pressure almost eases the pain.

Almost.

I keep my gaze level, pinned to the wall between “Mark” and “Chad” while Tweezers starts an IV. With a few rounds of tape, the line is secured to my arm in three places, guaranteeing I can’t yank it free.

Not that I could reach it anyway with my hands cuffed like they are.

“This’ll keep him stable for a while,” the medic says, gathering his tools and leaving the three of us alone.

For a few seconds nothing happens.

The IV begins its slow, steady drip. The overhead lights hum faintly.

Eventually, Mark sits back in his chair. “You accessed a classified archive this morning.” No accusation, no dramatic pause, just a fact laid on the table between us. His voice is so placid, he might as well be confirming a dental appointment.

I don’t react right away. That’s what they want. The trick in a room like this isn’t defiance. It’s restraint. Go in determined to say nothing and you’ll give yourself away by trying too hard to stay silent. Every tensed muscle, every perfectly timed pause, every deep breath becomes a confession used against you later.

Right now, my smartest move is to let them believe they’ll eventually wear me down. So I stare back at him like I’m deciding if the truth would make this easier. Enough doubt to keep them talking.

Chad glances up from the tablet. “Where is Raine Calder?”

There it is.

No circling. No warm-up. They’re not wasting time pretending she’s anything other than the center of the conversation.

I shift slightly in the chair. The movement sends a dull ache through my side.

Mark studies my face like I’m a calculus problem he’s trying to solve.

“You used her credentials this morning, Mr. Locke. We searched the apartment at 23 Mercer. She wasn’t there. Clearly, the two of you are working together.” Chad angles the tablet screen toward Mark.

The older man leans forward, elbows on the table. “Give us her location, and we’ll get that wound stitched up for you.”

There’s the carrot.

Help us and we’ll make you more comfortable.

Help us and we’ll keep you breathing.

For one long, slow breath, I’m just a guy collecting his thoughts. One thought in particular.

If they think I’m the more valuable asset, Ellen lives, and Raine gets the chance to make them pay.

Mark doesn’t rush. He keeps his tone conversational. “You were there for her. Because she asked you to do something. What was it?”

The framing is deliberate. He’s not asking if I was there for her. He knows I was. This is all about the details now.

Chad pushes back from the table, stands, and starts circling the room. His boot scrapes the concrete directly behind me.

“You helped her,” he says, close to my right shoulder.

The back of my chair creaks slightly under his hand. Enough to remind me that every piece of furniture in this room is leverage if they want it to be.

“We know she copied personnel files. What else does she have?” He’s closer now.

I don’t give them anything. My gaze doesn’t stray from the pile of items in the center of the table. Remnants of a life I still hope to get back to.

Chad doesn’t say anything for another full minute. I count my own heartbeats. Across the table, Mark waits, patiently, expecting time to do the work for him.