Even knowing he was being maneuvered, it was all but impossible to refuse Sam this. Not least because he wanted it so much himself.
“For how long?” Jason asked unwillingly. “I can’t just dump my caseload on Donovan while I hide out in the Badlands.”
“The Badlands are in South Dakota.”
“Still.”
Sam knew he had won. He didn’t go so far as to smile, but Jason saw the infinitesimal relaxing of his shoulders, the satisfied gleam in his eyes. “Two weeks. The length of your sick leave.”
“I just don’t see the point,” Jason protested, but he was just bitching to bitch now, and they both knew it. The sad truth was he’d lost this battle the minute Sam had said, “We need time together.”
Because it was true. Ten months in—and about that many days together. Who were they when they didn’t have the structure and routine of the Bureau as a framework for their relationship?
“Suppose at the end of two weeks, Stafford SO and the Bureau still don’t know who came after me?”
Sam’s smile was humorless. “Leave that to me,” he said. “I think we’ll have our answer.”
Despite his mild tone, it sounded more like a threat than a promise.
After Sam departed—with unneeded admonishments not to reveal their plans to anyone—Jason had another look for his cell. What he found instead was the remote control for the TV. He flicked it on, and the parking lot of the China King restaurant flashed on. A reporter in a trench coat stood in front of the restaurant, animatedly describing something that probably had nothing to do with wontons. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: FBI AGENT TARGET OF ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING?
He hit the Unmute button.
“…there are still no leads. Back to you, Bart!”
Bart’s big smile and bigger hair replaced the guy in the trench coat on the small TV screen. “Thanks, Ed. Cloak-and-dagger stuff for sure!”
Jason hit the Mute button again and reached for the phone beside the bed.
It took a little longer to figure how to call out than it should have—proof that the pain medication was working even if it didn’t feel like it—but at last he got through to the Los Angeles field office. His immediate boss, Supervisory Special Agent George Potts, was on another line, but Jason didn’t have long to wait.
“Jason!” George’s voice was warm with concern. “How are you feeling? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”
“I’m fine,” Jason said. “I thought I’d better let you know I’m not going to be in on Monday.”
“Well, no.” George sounded slightly amused. “Of course not. Don’t worry about that. We’re up to speed on the situation there.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Is there anything you need? Anything we can do on our end?”
Jason rubbed his forehead. “No. I thought maybe I should talk to Russell, run over a few things regarding our ongoing—”
George cut him off with cheerful briskness. “No, no. Don’t worry about any of that. You just focus on getting back on your feet, okay?”
“It’s only one foot.”
“Sorry?”
Yeah, shut up now, Jason. But he couldn’t shut up.
“I feel like this is all being blown out of proportion. I really am okay.”
“Sure,” George said. “That’s natural. But here’s the thing, Jason. Look at it from the Bureau’s standpoint. Your situation is a little unusual. Your family is politically connected. And you—your work—tends to generate media attention. Some of the things that make you a such a valuable asset would leave the Bureau vulnerable if something were to, well, happen to you.” George delivered his bad news with the firm kindness that made him so good at managing his squad. “Something that we could prevent. You see what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Jason said reluctantly.
“Of course you do,” George said bracingly. “That’s why you’re such a good agent.”