I need leverage. I need a wall.
I take a breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Diagnosis: Acute stress reaction. Treatment: Take control of the narrative.
“You can’t hurt me.” I hold my ground, keeping my voice steady.
Mercer raises an eyebrow.
“Oh. Are you immune to pain?”
“No. But you’re smart. You know how the brain works. Trauma induces shock. Hemodynamic shock propagates cognitive dissociation and memory loss.” I lean forward, meeting his gaze. “The encryption key is a sixty-four-characteralphanumeric string. I memorized it without writing it down. It lives in my head.”
I tap my temple.
“If you start cutting. If you send me into shock. I might forget a number. I might forget a letter. And if I get the password wrong three times, the server wipes. The data disappears, not to mention the dead man’s switch engaging.”
Mercer pauses. He picks up the shears, toying with them.
I keep talking, stalling for time.
“Every four hours, I must log in and enter a specific refresh code. But the first window provides less time. If I don’t check in within two hours of the upload.” I snap my fingers. “The files automatically email themselves to the Washington Post, the FBI Cyber Division, and the personal inbox of the attorney general.”
Mercer stares at me. He assesses the situation, searching for a tell. The micro-tremor in the eyelid, the sweat on the lip.
I hold his gaze. I let him see the doctor. The professional.
“You kill me; the timer runs out. You hurt me, I go into shock, I miss the window, the timer runs out. You keep me here without internet access; the timer runs out.” I lean back in the chair, crossing my arms to hide the trembling in my hands. “So, go ahead. Cut off a finger. See what happens to your client’s career in…” I glance at the clock on the wall reading 06:15. “two hours.”
Mercer studies me. Silence stretches, thick and suffocating. The generator hums outside. The wind rattles the metal siding as he runs the probability.
A genuine sound of appreciation leaves him.
“Smart. Very smart. You anticipated capture.”
“I anticipated murder.”
“Fine.” He drops the shears back onto the desk and turns to the soldier. “Bring me the laptop from the comms bag. The clean one. And get me a satellite uplink.”
He turns back to me.
“You want to play the game, we’ll play. You have two hours to enter your code. But you’re going to do it right here, where I can see the screen. And if I see you trying to send a message. If I see you typing anything other than a refresh code.” He leans down, his face inches from mine. “I won’t cut off your finger. I’ll cut out your tongue. You don’t need speech to type.”
“Deal.”
He straightens, buttoning his coat.
“Take her to the holding area. Secure her. But give her the laptop. Let her see the timer ticking down. It builds character.”
The soldier grabs my arm, hauling me up.
“And, Iris.”
I turn back toward him.
“Don’t get comfortable. Two hours passes fast. Eventually, you have to sleep. Eventually, you have to blink. And when you do, I’ll be there.”
I keep my mouth shut. Letting the soldier drag me out of the office, I focus on my breathing.
