Chapter 13.

Fortitude.

Oliver was barely awake when he met her for the first time. Her face was heart-shaped, distorted, her eyes dark and sunken. She put her hand over his and pressed a needle into his arm. She said some things, disappeared and reappeared, and hovered until the medicine curbed the pain. It seemed she was waiting for something, but Oliver was too out of it to wonder what it might be.

He saw her again after his second interrogation on the cross. He remained conscious this time, stubborn, while Wintergreen carried him across the beach. He was dumped like a sack of flower on a hard, flat cot, where the woman was waiting.

She hesitated this time, because Oliver was conscious, and Wintergreen took his sweet time strapping him down. He was a flight risk, even in this state. Oliver kept his jaw locked, like he had during his interrogation, until his tormentor had gone. She came to his side – a patch on her chest said 'Joleen' – and put her hand on his again.

Oliver suffered this way for three days. Fyers was convinced he knew something critically important, that he had backup on the island, that he could show him where Yao Fei was hiding, so he insisted he be kept alive. Joleen was there to patch him up, slipping him morphine when no one was looking, and then sitting by his cot with those big, sad eyes, until Wintergreen came for him again. She iced his swelling, stitched his wounds, and whispered over and over that he should just tell them what they want to know. Oliver might have been suspicious that she was just another agent of his, but Fyers treated her harshly and she looked underfed.

It was on the third day, when the morphine and the sips of water she had given him let him think critically for the first time, that he finally spoke to her.

"You have to let me go."

Joleen jumped, almost dropping the tattered book she had been reading by his bedside. He saw a flash of fear in her, like she had not expected her poor, tormented prisoner pet project to have a voice of his own. "You need rest."

"You have to let me go," Oliver repeated, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

It had been three days since his capture, so the men who once lay injured in this tent had either passed on or been put back out to duty. It was just the two of them, and the guards at either door were uninterested. Oliver was strapped to the cot and Joleen weighed all of a hundred pounds.

Joleen had wide, glassy eyes. She stayed bravely near him, "You should tell them what you know so this will end. He will kill you."

"No."

She pressed her lips together, glancing around at the empty tent. "Is it true…? Did you really come here to…? Everyone was talking when they brought you in. Who are you?"

It was a loaded question, and Oliver was suddenly uncertain of the answer. His mission until now had been to get his companions off of this island safely. He couldn't afford to think of anything else. But what about the rest of it? What about the plane and the innocent people who would die when it was shot down? What about the corrupt and vindictive leader of ARGUS, who had ordered these men here? What about the prisoners on the other side of the island, and the darkness living beneath it? He had a wealth of knowledge and no power to utilize it.

Her question stumped him for several seconds, but he managed to find the words.

He whispered, "I came here to help."

Joleen reached out, hesitant, and put her hand over his. She had tears in her eyes. She heard something in those words that he could not have anticipated. "You should have stayed away. Look what they have done to you."

"Flesh wounds. Fyers wants me alive."

She shook her head, withdrawing her hand. "I saw you on that first day, when that monster had his way with you… Whoever you are, you are strong, and loyal. But your strength will mean nothing if he kills you. Just tell him what he wants to know and beg for your life."

"Is that what you did?"

Joleen almost smiled, and the tears persisted. "You remind me of my son. He was a soldier. He was so stubborn. Is that what you are? A soldier?"

"No."

"But you are dangerous. You killed those men. Everyone is whispering about it."

"Let me go. You can come with me. You just have to let me go."

She smiled again, sadly, and tried to give him water. "You are stubborn."

"You can call me Oliver."

Joleen withdrew her canteen, clearing her throat. "I wish you had stayed quiet. It would be easier if I had never heard your voice. You have a whole life ahead of you, if you would just…"

"If I tell Fyers what he wants to know, he'll kill me."

Joleen nodded sadly, sitting back in her ragged old chair and staring blankly at the tent wall.

Oliver turned to look at the ceiling, "How did you get here?"

She glanced around, making sure they were still being ignored, and whispered, "I am a doctor. I was working with a relief program and I was… kidnapped. I remember being on a boat. I was brought here to do this… to keep the men healthy."

"So, you have no idea who they are?"

"I hear things. I know that Fyers wants you to tell him about someone hiding out in the mountains, but you refuse."

"Are you loyal to him?"

Joleen flashed him a dangerous look. "He has made me do this to you – he is a monster."

"Let me go, then."

"You cannot go anywhere. You can barely walk."

"I can walk. I can run." Oliver flexed, reassuring himself that his muscles were in working order. He could push his body to extremes to escape capture. He just needed someone to untie him.

She looked doubtfully at his chest, which was bisected by an angry red gash.

"Flesh wounds," he repeated.

Joleen almost smiled again. "I can take the worst of the pain away for now, so you can sleep." She reached in her pocket, looking around to make sure no one was watching, and uncapped a needle.

Oliver found his inspiration in that moment.

"Give me more."

"Is the pain very bad?"

"No. I want you to give me an overdose. Slow my heart. Force me into respiratory depression. Fyers will think the injuries finally killed me. Do you have narcan here?"

Joleen stood and backed up, looking panicked, "No. I can't…"

Oliver strained against his bindings, trying to keep his eyes on her as she moved away. "Please. You're not a killer. I can see it. You're a healer. If I slip and tell Fyers what he wants to know, I'm dead. I promise you, I'm dead. And dozens more people will die. I need you to save me – to save them. I need you to be brave."

She stood her ground. "I can't…"

"You can. You can. You have to."

She left the tent.

Oliver found himself alone, murmuring to himself. "You have to." His pleading reached no one. He knew that he would never tell Fyers where his friends were hiding, but once he was dead, did they really stand a chance of getting off this island?

He lay there for hours, soaking in his defeat, before Joleen returned.

She sat by his side, her eyes red and puffy, and put her hand on his again. A needle slipped into his arm and burning liquid entered his veins. When it was done, she withdrew the needle, adjusted his bandages, and started toying with something at the foot of his cot.

She was shaking.

"I put it in your shirt pocket. But you will never be able to use it in time."

Oliver knew the risks. He could only hope his allies would be watching the camp, waiting for them to dispose of his body. He was taking a lot on faith here, but he had no choice.

He began to feel sleepy, heavy, like he had just woken from a deep dream. He began to lose his anticipation, his anxiety, and the pain that had plagued him for three days. He no longer worried that this escape attempt would kill him, or that others would die if his mission failed. He saw stars, felt warm and fuzzy all over, and let the medicine carry him away.

But he heard her voice, loud in his ears but probably only a whisper across the room.

"I think he will kill me for this."

It was the last thing he heard.