Slaton’s acting physician was good to her word. She arrived early the next morning and began with a cursory examination. Slaton winced as she probed the area around his beltline. His entire body was scraped and bruised. He never bothered to explain how it had all happened. First, I fell eighty feet and landed in a tree. Then I tumbled down rapids for half a mile.
He wouldn’t have believed it either.
To her credit, Chinda never asked. He did notice her eyes pause, however, on some of his old scars. They were anything but typical, an intimate map of operational mistakes and bad luck. Or maybe good luck, since he was still wearing them. Chinda didn’t comment on these either.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s get you out of bed.”
She disconnected the IV, leaving the needle in place, and pulled him into a sitting position. She helped him dress in his stolen clothes—someone had laundered them during his catatonic state.
“You said I was unconscious for three days?” he asked.
“Propofol fentanyl. Works very well.”
She took his vitals with the usual instruments. Combined with the IV equipment, it proved she had access to basic medical supplies. Slaton didn’t care where it had come from, although he hoped the fentanyl derivative dripping into his arm wasn’t some kind of street-purchased concoction.
“I’ll help you stand,” she said.
He rose to his feet unsteadily. His hip was sore, but he could bear full weight. For the first few steps, it felt like his joints had rusted in place. The more he moved, however, the better things got.
“What other meds have you been giving me?” he asked.
“Aside from the sedative, a wide-spectrum antibiotic. After we stop the IV, I can offer you a milder opioid for the pain.”
Slaton recognized a distinct fogginess in his thoughts. “No, I’m good.”
“You’re going to need to sleep in order to heal.”
“I should tell you right off the bat, I’m not an easy patient. My wife is a doctor and she tells me that all the time.”
“Lucky girl.”
Slaton saw the trace of a smile. It was a positive sign in an awkward relationship. He went into the main room and saw the little girl playing on the floor with her mother. She looked tiny and delicate, her glossy black hair tucked behind twin seashell ears. She regarded Slaton warily and he gave her his best Dad smile.
“What’s her name?” he asked.
“Aranya,” Chinda said.
“She’s Mali’s daughter?”
“Yes. It’s complicated, but she’s been staying with me. Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Yeah, actually, I am.”
“That’s a good sign.”
Chinda went to the kitchen, and Slaton retreated to the bedroom, finger-waving to the little girl as he did. The apartment was small space, but it seemed safe, which was all that mattered at the moment. He approached the window, instinctively shouldering to the wall beside it. He fingered back one edge of the paper curtain and saw a rusty fire escape six floors above a grimy alley. The side of the neighboring apartment building filled the view otherwise. All good to know.
Three days, he thought. That was how long it had been since the disaster on the hill. It was a long time, and the clock was running. The apartment seemed secure, and for the moment there was no alternative. It was only a matter of time, however, before someone—the local Triad or China’s Ministry of State Security—battered down the door in the middle of the night.
Questions began flooding his mind. What had happened in the interim on Victoria Peak? Was Li Qiang still alive? How would the powers in D.C. react to his mission gone bad? Where was Thomas, the assassin who’d nearly gotten the better of him?
And lastly, how much did Sorensen know about the outcome?
The answer to this final question seemed apparent. The mission had ended in disaster, and Slaton hadn’t sent a sitrep in three days. The obvious implication: the CIA’s most secret operative, codename Corsair, had not survived.
In all likelihood, he had been written off as KIA. Yet that wasn’t all bad. It was a card Slaton had held before, and one that he knew how to play. He had time to recover, and a relatively safe space. If the sisters Niran were correct, and assuming they kept a low profile, they could all remain here anonymously for another week. In that time, he needed to unravel what had gone wrong.
But how to go about it? Could he trust anyone in Washington right now?
With the possible exception of Sorensen, absolutely not.
Was his family safe?
Probably.
And with that, his next step became clear.
Every decision going forward was contingent on his family’s safety, so he would to reach out to them using the last comm link available. Only then could he move to the next step—figuring out who had betrayed him.
On that count, Slaton knew precisely where to start. Indeed, it was a deduction he had made three days earlier as he lay motionless behind a gun sight on a balcony.
Li Qiang.
He’d had the man in his crosshairs, dead to rights. Then in the last instant Slaton had intentionally pulled his shot wide. It had been a strange and obscure impulse, a kind of sixth sense. This mission had been too easy, too perfect, and not until that critical moment had Slaton recognized it for what it was: the setup of all setups.
Now he was immensely thankful he’d altered that shot. Li Qiang was his best, and perhaps only remaining, source of information regarding The Trident. The organization had been attacking America for months, yet on that rainswept balcony, with tactical teams closing in all around, the truth had finally dawned on Slaton. He had been sent to eliminate the last vestiges of The Trident. At the same time, someone had been sent to eliminate him. Which meant he was getting close, one answer removed from blowing up the entire scheme.
Slaton committed then and there to finding out who the ultimate controller was.
And when he did?
He was going to return the favor.