The Surgeon's Debt: Bound To The Beast

The H-Nation agent didn't tackle her. He swept her legs out from under her with a swift kick. Isela hit the metal grating hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a wheeze.

Before she could inhale, a knee was pressed into her lower back.

"Secure," the agent said into his headset.

Cold steel ratcheted around her wrists. Handcuffs. Tight.

"Hey! I saw her first!" the cleaning man yelled, waving his radio. "The reward is mine!"

The agent stood up, hauling Isela up by the handcuffs. Her shoulders screamed in protest. He looked at the cleaner and shoved him aside with one hand.

"This is state business. Get lost."

He didn't wait for a reply. He pulled a black hood from his belt and shoved it over Isela's head.

The world vanished into suffocating darkness.

"Walk," the agent commanded.

Isela stumbled. She couldn't see her feet. She scraped her toes on the bulkheads, banged her shoulder against doorframes. Every stumble was met with a rough jerk on the chains.

They walked for what felt like miles. Up stairs. Through noisy engine rooms. Then, the air changed.

The humidity dropped. The smell of diesel was replaced by the salty, fresh scent of the open ocean.

They were outside.

The hood was ripped off.

Isela blinked, tears streaming from her eyes as the harsh sunlight assaulted her.

She was on the forward helipad deck.

A helicopter was already spinning its rotors, the noise deafening.

But they didn't take her to the chopper immediately.

A table had been set up under a large white umbrella near the edge of the deck. A man sat there, dining.

He was cutting into a steak that was so rare, blood pooled on the white china.

Jairo Brady.

Isela recognized him instantly. The arms dealer. The man who owned half the politicians in the hemisphere. The man Clinton Collier did business with.

Jairo chewed slowly, then swallowed. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at Isela.

"So," Jairo said, his voice carrying over the rotor wash. "This is the little hand that stopped my clock."

The agent shoved Isela forward. She fell to her knees on the non-slip deck surface.

"Target secured, Mr. Brady. Ready for transport to the black site."

Jairo stood up. He walked over to Isela. He was wearing a white linen suit that looked pristine against the grey backdrop of the ocean.

He used the toe of his Italian loafer to lift her chin.

"You cost me a lot of money, Doctor," Jairo said. "Agent Best had a code in his head. A code I needed. Now he's dead, and the code died with him."

"I didn't kill him," Isela shouted over the wind. "It was a setup! Mrs. Best-"

Jairo kicked her.

It was a casual, dismissive kick to the ribs, but it knocked the air out of her. Isela curled up on the deck, gasping.

"I don't care about your soap opera," Jairo spat. "You're going to come with us. And my surgeons are going to take you apart until we find out exactly what he told you before he died."

"He told me nothing!"

"We'll see." Jairo waved his hand. "Load her up."

Two agents grabbed her arms. They dragged her toward the helicopter. The downdraft whipped her hair into her face. Isela dug her heels in, but it was useless.

She looked around desperately. The deck was full of Jairo's men.

Then, the glass doors to the pool deck slid open.

The motion was smooth, silent.

Clinton Collier stepped out.

He was wearing a white casual suit, no tie, holding a rolled-up magazine. He looked like he was stepping out for a morning coffee, not walking into a kidnapping.

He paused, looking at the helicopter, then at Jairo.

The agents holding Isela hesitated. The presence of Clinton Collier had a gravity to it.

Clinton walked past Isela without looking at her. He went to Jairo's table, picked up the wine bottle, and inspected the label.

"Jairo," Clinton said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise. "You're landing military aircraft on my ship without filing a flight plan. That's rude."

Jairo stiffened. "This is a rendition, Clinton. It doesn't concern you. She killed a protected asset."

Clinton put the bottle down. He turned slowly.

His eyes landed on Isela.

He looked at her bruised face, the oversized men's shirt she was wearing-his shirt-and the handcuffs.

Isela stared back. She saw no pity in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating assessment.

"She's my employee," Clinton said.

"She's a murderer," Jairo countered, his hand hovering near the gun inside his jacket.

"She," Clinton said, taking a step toward Isela, "is on my manifest. And nobody leaves The Leviathan unless I say they leave."

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