Protector Panther (Protection, Inc 3)

“Oh, I think you do.”

“I don’t.” Roy tried to look perplexed, but displaying the wrong emotion was a lot harder than keeping a stone face. He could tell he was doing a lousy job of it.

Behind whatever strange expression he’d shown the doctor, his mind was racing. If Dr. White already knew— if the entire hospital knew— then they’d never had any intention of letting him go. They’d keep him trapped forever to experiment on, like a lab rat.

Everything he’d gone through already— the tests, the pretense that he was crazy, the medications— was probably an experiment. Maybe he’d just completed test number 99, “How will the subject react to a strong hint that we know he’s a werewolf?”

An icy rage seeped into him, burning like frostbite. He didn’t know whether these people were a top-secret government black ops branch or some private organization or organized criminals or even agents from another country. But whoever they were, they were holding him against his will. They were the enemy.

A captured Marine has a duty to escape.

Dr. White was nearly Roy’s size, moved like a man who knew how to fight, and had his black box poised and ready. He was expecting Roy to try to hit him or try to run. But maybe he wasn’t expecting Roy to try something a little less direct.

Roy mentally crossed his fingers that Dr. White really was a doctor. Or that if he wasn’t, he’d at least taken the same first aid course that Roy had, complete with the drill on the signs of a heart attack. Though Roy would normally be much too young for that, there was so much wrong with him already that anything bad ought to seem possible.

He hunched over, wincing. “Can we talk later?”

Pain in the chest, left arm, or jaw.

Chest seemed too obvious. He rubbed his left shoulder, squeezed the muscle of his upper arm, and winced again.

A quick flicker of alarm passed over Dr. White’s face, followed by suspicion. Then his expression smoothed into exaggerated calm. “What are you feeling right now?”

“Frustrated. Angry.” Then, as if he was reluctantly admitting it, Roy added, “Sad.”

The doctor looked irritated. “I meant physically.”

Denial.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Roy rubbed his shoulder again, as if he didn’t notice that he was doing it.

He heard Dr. White’s breathing speed up. If he listened hard, he could even hear the quickening thump of the man’s heartbeat. He’d never told the people here that he could do that, and he was glad of that now.

Dr. White took a step forward. “This isn’t the time to tough it out. Are you feeling sick?”

Nausea.

“I’m not sick. Maybe I ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“A little.” Roy deliberately recalled the last time he’d thrown up, in vivid detail, until he started feeling sick for real. He hoped it would show on his face.

“Only a little?” Dr. White frowned, but Roy was glad. Clearly, something had shown.

“Uh...” Cold sweat breaking out on his face. Jumping up and bolting to the bathroom. Realizing that he wouldn’t even make it to the toilet, and leaning over the sink. “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel good. I better go to the bathroom.”

Roy stood up, then swayed as if he was dizzy.

“Sit down,” said Dr. White.

Roy lowered his head, watching the doctor’s feet to see if he’d come closer and try to steady Roy before he could fall. To his disappointment, the shiny black shoes didn’t move. Roy sat down on the bed, heavily enough to make the frame shake.

“Does your left arm hurt?”

asked the doctor.

“Yeah. I think I overdid it with the push-ups. I guess I pulled a muscle.”