Page 269 of Operation: Defiance

I lift the lid and stare. It’s completely full. “Did you buy out the entire bakery?”

With a light laugh, she lifts her own cup of coffee in a mock salute. “Anything less than a dozen is a waste of time. Plus, I didn’t know what you liked. So I got one of everything.”

My cheeks flush at the unexpected consideration, and I pick out a chocolate donut with sprinkles. “I have…issues. With food.”

“Oh, shit. We can make a pitstop. There’s a grocery store a couple of blocks away.” No hesitation. Only an immediate offer to fix it.

I’ve spent my entire life bracing for the follow-up question. Or the sigh that means I’m being a bother. Some of the tension thrumming in my chest fades when it doesn’t come.

“No, it’s okay.” I slide a couple of napkins out from under the box. “Chocolate donuts are…safe.”

“If you’re sure…” She pulls onto the freeway, hitting the gas with enough enthusiasm, I’m glad I wasn’t holding my coffee.

I manage half the donut before I work up the courage to speak again. “I should tell you what you’re walking into. How dangerous this actually is.”

“Raine—”

“I mean it.” I keep my eyes glued to the road. “Once you know, you can’t unknow it. And I’m...” The sentence dissolves before I can stop it.

Inara sets her coffee back in the cup holder with the calm of someone who’s made up her mind and doesn’t expect fanfare or fuss.

“I was the second woman to join the 75th Ranger Regiment,” she says. “The first…well, she’s a friend. Now.” She checks her mirrors, and glances over at me briefly. “I’ve been followed by worse things than the truth.”

By the time she pulls off the freeway in Georgetown, she knows…everything.

Brett Wallburn’s duplex sits at the end of a block that’s seen better decades. Weathered siding, gutters crooked by degrees, and the neighbor’s yard full of slimy, dead weeds and half a truck tire. I leave the hat in the car. No security cameras around here to worry about.

But the small strip of garden running along the front of Brett’s unit is immaculate. Kale, a few herbs, and small purple flowers I don’t recognize that have no business being this healthy in February.

Inara clocks it the same time I do. She doesn’t say anything as I ring the bell.

The door opens three inches, chain engaged, and Brett peers at us through the gap. He’s in his late forties, unremarkable—the kind of guy you’d walk right by on the street and not look at twice.

Except for his eyes. They’re tired in a way that can’t be fixed by sleep.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I know his voice as well as I know the sound of the kettle in the morning. As well as I know the sound Asher makes when something surprises him. It lives in a part of my brain I don’t have full access to. Stored there without my permission during a time when I had no permission left to give.

“Mr. Wallburn,” I say, “we need to talk.”

“I’m not interested.”

He starts to close the door, but Inara’s hand slaps the wood, and she wedges a thick-soled boot in the opening.

“We’re not selling anything,” she says, her voice almost sugary sweet. “We’re not leaving either. You might as well let us in before this gets…messy.”

After a long moment, Brett’s gaze darts from her hand to her boot to her eyes. Then over at me. I want to look away. But I don’t.

“Okay.” He nods, and once Inara steps back, closes the door enough to slide the chain free, and opens it again.

Inside, the duplex is spotless. Every surface gleams. The quick view of the kitchen I get from the entryway reveals dishes draining in perfect alignment. A folded dish towel. A single mug.

Something small and white darts out from around the corner of the couch and regards us with huge, dark eyes.

“That’s Toby,” Brett says.

The dog—some sort of terrier mix, barely larger than Inara’s boot—sniffs in our general direction once, then hops up on a small, folded blanket draped over one of the cushions.