Page 80 of Borrowed Pain
I showed him Rook's message on Dorian's screen. The text was brief, desperate:
Safe house compromised. Need extraction. They're coming.
"When?" Miles asked.
"Soon. Maybe tonight. If we don't get to him first, he disappears permanently. Either dead or so deep underground that we'll never find him again."
"And if we do get to him?"
"We have our smoking gun witness. The person who can testify about the medical fraud, the human experimentation, all of it."
Miles was quiet for a moment, processing the implications. Around us, the warehouse hummed with electronic life—Dorian's monitors, the security systems, and the constant digital surveillance that had become our lifeline and prison.
"There's something else," I said quietly. "Dr. Harrow's offer."
Miles nodded. "I've been thinking about it. She said she'd send authentication files, but I haven't seen anything yet."
"We need to assume any contact with her is a trap." I reached for his hand. "If Meridian's cleaning house, targeting their critics makes perfect sense. What better way to neutralize a troublesome therapist than to get him alone under the pretense of professional collaboration?"
"You think she's working with them?"
"I think she's either working with them or she's their next target."
My phone buzzed against the table—a text message.
Miles:Dr. Harrow meeting confirmed for tomorrow 2 PM. Looking forward to our collaboration
Except Miles was standing right beside me.
I showed him the screen. His face drained of color.
"I never confirmed anything," he whispered. "I never even responded to her call."
"They're using your phone number," I said. "Setting up a meeting you didn't agree to."
"Which means they're confident we'll be eliminated before tomorrow afternoon." I pocketed the phone. "Or they want us to think we've been discovered and force us into making panicked decisions."
My phone buzzed again. This time, an actual call. Unknown number.
I answered on the second ring.
"Ashcroft." The voice was ragged, barely recognizable. "It's me. Thomas. From the diner."
Rook. Calling on an open line meant he was either desperate or already caught.
"Where are you?"
"I can't—the line isn't secure." His breathing was labored. "They found the safe house. I'm moving, but I don't know how long—"
The call went dead.
I stared at the silent phone, then at Miles, then at Dorian, who was already tracing the signal through his network of digital resources.
"Belltown," Dorian said. "Call originated from a cell tower near the waterfront. But he's moving south, toward the port district."
Dorian's terminal blinked. A new window popped up—no header, no official seal, only a log-in string and a single line of text:
Calling from: Westin (secure):Off-record extraction team en route. We can't claim this; meet by Gate 3, Pier 91, 35 minutes. Bring evidence. Discretion essential.
