“I’m fine.”
“Infection kills more soldiers than bullets.”
I ignore the water, staring at him. I channel every ounce of authority I ever wielded in the ER. I channel the voice I use recounting death to families.
“I want a phone call.”
A dry, dusty chuckle escapes his lips.
“This isn’t a police station. You lack rights here. You have utility. And right now, your utility diminishes rapidly.”
He leans forward. Something calcified behind his pupils. The pleasant mask slips, and what sits beneath has no name for mercy.
“You possess something belonging to my client. Medical records. Photos. A narrative currently inconvenient.”
“I have the truth.”
“Truth acts as a matter of perspective. And frankly, I don’t care about the metaphysics. I care about the data.” He turns the laptop around. The screen remains blank, waiting for a password. “The file you uploaded to the cloud requires a key for the encrypted server.”
“No.”
“Iris.” He sighs like a disappointed parent. “Let’s not play the hero. The hero is dead. He froze to death on a ridge line miles from here. It’s just us.”
The words hit me like a somatic blow. The hero is dead.
Boyd standing in the snow. The knife in his hand. The look in his eyes.
I’m coming.
He isn’t dead. He can’t be dead. He’s the hardest thing I’ve ever known.
“He’s not dead.” The conviction in my tone surprises me. It runs absolute.
Mercer shrugs.
“Hypothermia sets in within thirty minutes in these conditions. He held injuries devoid of gear. He’s dead. You’re alone.” He walks around the desk, leaning against the edge, towering over me. “Give me the key. I delete the files. You walk away. We have a private jet waiting in Eagle alongside a new identity and a practice in Zurich. You disappear, but you live.”
“And the senator gets away with murder.”
“The senator continues to serve his country. The boy proved himself an addict. He overdosed. It’s a tragedy, but why ruin a career over a junkie?”
“He wasn’t a junkie. He was a kid. And you killed him.” I lean forward.
Mercer’s face hardens. The mask drops completely.
“I’m losing patience.” He nods to the soldier behind me.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. A hard grip digs into my trapezius.
“Pain operates as a great motivator.” Mercer picks up a pair of trauma shears from the desk. The metal clatters softly as he places them in front of him. Serrated. Surgical grade. “Everyone thinks they can withstand it, but biology always wins. The body wants to stop the hurting. The brain sells out the soul to make it stop.”
He drums his fingers over the shears.
“Ten fingers. Ten chances to give me the code.”
Panic detonates. Hot and airless.
I look at the shears. I look at his dead eyes. He’ll do it. He’ll dismantle me piece by piece.
