Chapter 7 No.7

"I'll make it worth your while," Jairo said, lowering his voice. "Give her to me, and my ports in the South are tax-free for your fleet. Permanently."

Isela stopped breathing.

It was a fortune. Millions of dollars a year. For one disposable doctor.

Clinton tilted his head. He seemed to be considering it. He looked at Isela again, his gaze lingering on her neck where he had bitten her.

"Please," Isela gasped. She dragged herself forward on her knees. "Mr. Collier... last night... you know..."

She tried to appeal to whatever twisted intimacy they had shared in the tub.

Clinton's face hardened. A mask of ice slammed down.

"Last night?" Clinton raised an eyebrow. "Nothing happened last night, Doctor. You were delirious."

He was denying her. He was erasing the connection.

Isela's heart shattered. He was going to sell her.

Jairo laughed. It was a bark of a sound. "See? He's done with you. Take her."

The agents grabbed her again. This time, they didn't drag. They lifted.

Isela watched Clinton. He was just standing there, watching her be carried away. He was testing her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow.

He didn't save damsels. He invested in assets. If she went into that helicopter like a sheep, she was worthless to him.

She had to be a wolf.

They reached the helicopter door. The agent on her right reached up to grab the handle.

Isela let her body go dead weight. As she dropped, she twisted.

She lunged her head forward and clamped her teeth onto the agent's wrist, right over the radial artery.

She bit down hard. She tasted salt and copper.

The agent screamed and let go.

Isela dropped to the deck. She didn't try to run. She knew she couldn't outrun bullets.

She grabbed the tactical knife from the agent's belt sheath.

She scrambled back against the landing skids of the helicopter.

"Back off!" she screamed.

She didn't point the knife at them. She reversed the grip and pressed the blade against her own jugular vein.

"Stop!"

Jairo froze. "Don't shoot! I need her brain intact!"

Isela pressed harder. A thin trickle of blood ran down her neck, staining the black silk collar of Clinton's shirt.

She looked past Jairo. Straight at Clinton.

"Mr. Collier," she yelled, her voice steady despite the blade at her throat. "If you let him take me, you are admitting that you don't control this ship!"

Clinton's eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, intrigued.

"This isn't about law," Isela continued, her knuckles white on the handle. "This is about sovereignty. If Jairo can land here and take who he wants, when he wants... then you aren't the King of the Leviathan anymore. You're just his landlord."

Silence.

Even the rotor blades seemed to quiet down.

She had challenged his ego. She had framed her survival as necessary for his dominance.

Clinton started to clap.

Slow, rhythmic applause.

"Well argued," Clinton said.

He walked toward her. He walked right past Jairo, right past the agents with guns.

He stopped in front of her.

"Give me the knife, Isela."

"Make them leave," she whispered, her hand shaking.

"Give me the knife," he repeated. "Or cut your throat. But don't bore me with hesitation."

Isela looked into his eyes. She saw the abyss there. He meant it.

She slowly lowered the knife.

Clinton reached out. He took the blade from her hand by the sharp end, not caring that it cut his palm.

He turned to Jairo.

"She stays."

Jairo pulled his gun. He aimed it at Clinton's chest.

"You're making a mistake, Clinton. Over a piece of tail?"

"She's not a piece of tail," Clinton said, tossing the knife overboard. "She's my legal counsel, apparently."

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