Crofton’s chest heaved. He looked at his dying father, the patriarch who had never thought he was good enough, strong enough, or smart enough to take over the empire. Crofton had spent his life lifting weights, learning how to choke men unconscious, buying expensive cars, all trying to build an armor against his father’s relentless disappointment. And now the old man was dying, and the armor was utterly useless. Crofton couldn’t fight pancreatic cancer.
He couldn’t put it in a triangle choke. He was powerless, and the powerlessness was driving him insane. Crofton spun back to Dougal, needing a target, needing an outlet. “Don’t look at me like that,” Crofton snapped, pointing a thick calloused finger at Dougal’s chest. “Like what? ” Dougal asked, his hands resting easily on his thighs, his feet flat on the floor.
“Like you’re pitying me. Like you’re something special. ” Crofton sneered. He took another half step forward. “I know guys like you, middle-aged losers who peaked in high school, wiping asses for a living because you couldn’t hack it in the real world. You think you’re tough because you deal with sick people? ” Dougal felt a familiar cold stillness wash over him.
It was the feeling that used to precede the breaching of a compound, the sudden narrowing of focus, the stripping away of emotion, leaving only geometry, physics, and probability. He calculated the distance between them, 18 inches. He noted the way Crofton’s weight was shifted forward, overcommitted. He saw the slight flare of Crofton’s nostrils, the tightening of his right shoulder. Crofton was a striker.
He wanted to throw a punch. “Mr. Gibson,” Dougal said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its conversational tone and taking on the hard, flat edge of an order. “I’m going to ask you to step back. You are agitating the patient and you are interfering with my workspace.
“Make me,” Crofton challenged, a cruel smile spreading across his face. He puffed out his chest. “Come on, make me step back. I just got my black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I’ve been doing Muay Thai for five years.
I will break your arm in three places before you even realize we’re fighting. ” Dougal slowly stood up. He didn’t pop up aggressively. He just rose, uncoiling his frame. Even standing, he was an inch shorter than Crofton and seemingly less muscular beneath the loose scrubs. “There isn’t going to be a fight,” Dougal said softly.
