Page 90 of The Medic
Even the air seemed wrong. It was thick, damp, and smelled faintly of old wood, mold, and something metallic. Blood? Maybe. I didn’t want to know.
I sat on a sofa with a cracked leg, wrists zip-tied in front of me, my body still aching from the crash. My clothes were damp and clinging, and my hair felt like a matted bird’s nest down my back. A shard of pain pulsed behind my left eye, but I kept my breathing steady.
I’d been in worse positions.
No. That was a lie.
I’d never been in anything like this.
The walls were tall and yellowed, hung with oil portraits of dead white men in suits and smug expressions. Everything in the room reeked of history—but not the good kind. The kind that got swept under the rug and left to rot.
Two armed men stood by the door. Not in suits like Marshall. These were grunts. Dressed in tactical gear, guns slung lazily across their chests, eyes hidden behind dark glasses even though the plantation was dim and it was black dark outside. I didn’t know their names. I’d started calling them Lefty and Righty in my head just to cope.
They hadn’t spoken much. Just grunted and barked orders. But they were human. That’s all I needed.
Because I was still breathing. Still thinking. And if I could think, I could win.
I shifted on the sofa, wincing. “You guys always work for psychopaths, or is this just a side gig?”
Righty didn’t move. Lefty’s jaw shifted, almost like he wanted to laugh but remembered he wasn’t allowed to.
“Nothing? That’s disappointing,” I said, leaning back like I wasn’t handcuffed and terrified. “You should know, I’m pretty good at reading people. Comes with the job.”
Righty adjusted his grip on his rifle. “Shut up.”
Bingo.
I tilted my head. “That’s not very customer-service-friendly.”
He looked at me, finally. Just a flash of his face beneath the glasses. Young. Late twenties maybe. And definitely not immune to me.
“I mean,” I continued, channeling every brand pitch I’d ever given, “if I were running this operation, I’d make sure the hostages felt, you know, safe. Heard. Maybe even pampered a little. It’s all about emotional management. People are more cooperative when they feel seen.”
Lefty let out a low grunt. That time, it was a laugh.
“I’m serious,” I said, pressing in. “It’s literally neuroscience. Oxytocin, cortisol, mirror neurons—there are studies. I’ve given talks on it. At swanky conferences.”
Righty crossed his arms. “And what the hell do you do, give TED Talks on how to sell lipstick?”
“No,” I said smoothly. “On how to sell anything. Influence is about psychology, not product. Make someone feel like you understand them, like you’re on their side, and they’ll buy whatever you’re selling. Even if it’s a lie.”
I let the last line hang in the air. Let them hear it.
Even if it’s a lie.
Lefty shifted. Righty studied me harder.
“Look,” I said, softer now, dialing the performance to low heat. “I know you’re not the ones making decisions. You’ve got orders. Probably bills. Maybe a kid. Or someone at home you don’t want to disappoint.”
Lefty flinched. Just slightly. But I saw it.
I leaned forward, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I’m not asking you to turn into some kind of hero. I’m just saying … you don’t have to be him. You don’t have to be Marshall.”
“Enough,” Righty snapped.
He stepped toward me, rifle still in hand. I didn’t move.
“You think this is a game?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.
