They’re saying do it or die. While this very well might be do it and still die.
Which means my survival isn’t in their plan. So I need a plan of my own. I glance around the room while my hands keep moving. I catalog details like I’m building a map in my head.
There’s a window behind the covered sheet—maybe nailed shut, maybe not. There’s a dresser with drawers half-open. There’s a door to the hallway. Three men in the room with me and the victim, one with a gun, one with arms crossed. I don’t have a count of the men on the other side of the door.
The president moves to stand in the doorway, watching.
Others in the hall, I can hear them shifting, murmuring. No easy exits. But exits aren’t always doors.
Sometimes they’re time. Sometimes they’re opportunity. Sometimes they’re mistakes.
I focus on Duke.
If he crashes, they’ll panic. If they panic, they’ll move. If they move, someone will slip. Letting him suffer goes against everything I have been trained to do. I took an oath to do no harm. Can I do this?
My stomach turns with the ugliness of it, but I can’t afford morals right now. Not with Grandpa’s face known by these men. Not with Miles out there, probably tearing up highways, probably blaming himself, probably furious enough to burn down the world.
I press a new bandage into place.
Duke’s breathing is still fast, but he’s more present now, eyes cracked open.
“Duke,” I whisper, low enough the men might not catch it. “Do you know where your people took my grandfather?”
His eyes flicker, confused. “What?” he rasps.
I shake my head slightly, a warning not to answer if it’s dangerous. Never mind.
Think smart.
One step at a time. I look up at the president, meeting his gaze for the first time since we entered the room.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
His eyebrows lift like he’s entertained.
“You don’t get to know my name.”
“I need to call you something,” I state evenly. “If you want me to help your brother, I need communication.”
He smiles wider. “Call me whatever you want. You wanna call me Daddy, I won’t complain, Peaches.”
My stomach rolls in disgust. I nod slowly trying to keep my composure. “Fine,” I retort. “Then I’ll call you President.”
A few men chuckle.
The president’s eyes sharpen, but he doesn’t correct me. Power likes to be known and acknowledged.
“President,” I begin, keeping my tone clinical, “if you want him alive, I need to know if the bullet is lodged or if it passed through. I need to know if anyone saw the trajectory.”
“No one saw shit,” someone snaps.
“Then we’re guessing,” I state. “Guessing can kill him.”
The president steps into the room, closer now. “You ain’t here to make excuses,” he replies sharply. “You’re here to make it work.”
I stare at him, letting my fear show just enough to look real, not enough to look weak. “I’m here to keep him alive,” I state. “But you need to understand—if he starts vomiting blood, if his belly turns rigid, if he can’t breathe, he’s dying. And I can’t fix that in a house.”
The president’s jaw tightens.
