The three intervening weeks were much the same as most of those which followed Van's harder cases. A week-or-so long drag while the worst of it healed, followed by a week of relaxation and reflection, and then another week of boredom and yearning for something, anything to do. Everyone had their own ways of dealing with the dreaded 'Third Week'. Van tended to retreat into himself, and spend his non-training time watching anime and reading Batman comics. He was a compulsive collector, though only of things he decided he wanted to collect. Of course, the training took up much of the time; physical exercises, exercises to ease his bruised body back into shape, and his personal preference, target practice. Van was something of a comparative crack shot. Certainly he was no target shooter, but as a man who thrived on instinctive reaction when shooting, he was unusually accurate with a handgun. This didn't translate across to longer-ranged weapons, though he was as good with these as most of the better agents, which meant that his partners often got lumbered with the ranged weaponry in particularly dangerous cases, like the one he had just come out of. The recent case had certainly made Van think. He had come very close to death or capture, two eventualities he rather preferred to avoid as long as he could. Van had run the events of that night through his head a thousand times, playing out mildly different scenarios. Perhaps the third thug is carrying a revolver instead of the more familiar semi-automatic Browning he had received. Perhaps the lead man chooses to shoot and not talk. Perhaps he doesn't notice the tripwire. All these and many more possibilities ran through Van's head while he recuperated. Half way through the third week, when he had exhausted his carefully rationed Batman comics, and read Batman: Year One for a third time this year, he arranged a lunch in a café on the edge of town. Van sat alone, away from the window, and relaxed. Security was lax here, though he knew that all the while, at least two of the men at Table 2 and possibly the entirely of Table 8 were security assigned to him. Whatever his idiosyncrasies, the Inspector at least took care of his people. At the end of the three weeks, Van was contacted by The Inspector's office, to meet him in the agency office across town. Van walked there, setting himself at ease for the upcoming meeting by re-familiarising himself with the culture he had inhabited for the last month or so. The air was hot, and the streets bustled.
Under the circumstances, Van was careful enough to watch his back. He'd had refused to carry his USP, mostly because, as he had discovered, the heat made the gun unpleasant to wear under a jacket all. If he wasn't happy with his gun, it wouldn't work for him as well. So instead he had acquired a Glock 27, from as close as you could get in this part of the world to a reputable gun store, a compact model, as an alternative sidearm, carried in his waistband. In any case, Van encountered no trouble along the way. He ducked into a side street, glanced about him side to side assessing the situation, then, when he was content that he was not being followed or watched, he ducked into a low blue-grey doorway set into the wall. Once inside, Van quickly closed the door behind him, then moved along the corridor ahead. Four separate security cameras regarded him with lidless eyes unblinking. Another blue-grey door awaited at the extreme end of the corridor, but first Van ducked into a deep-set door about half-way down the corridor. As he clicked the door open somewhat nervously, like a child on his first day of school, the policeman hoped to himself that the people he was looking for actually were inside. He was in luck. Across the small room he found himself in, sat facing each other at a table, were two of his colleagues, playing chess to pass the time. It was the first time since the escape that Van had seen Sophia, and as ever she was spotless. He had never worked out how she kept herself in such good condition yet somehow managed to remain utterly unconcerned about said appearance. She didn't come across as vain or preening, just…always perfect. In a strange way, it was unnerving. Van wondered if that was the point. Today she was wearing one of her white dresses, shaped enough like a sash to allow her to blend in with the crowds outside the building.
Her opponent on the chess field was a somewhat stout, sturdily-built man. Van didn't know his real name, though everybody seemed to call him 'Chef'. Nobody at the agency seemed to know why, and there was a bet circulating about whether he had in fact ever been a chef, even in a past life. Chef's hands were as solid as he was, and Van knew for a fact that he could crush a man's windpipe in them. Chef was a capable gambler, a consummate marksman, about Van's level, and something of a tactical genius, though today Sophia seemed to be just about holding her own. This may have had something to do with the slightly off-colour of Chef's face. This was Van's opening conversation gambit, enquiring about Chef's colouration. Chef grunted and shifted in his seat.
'This? This is food poisoning.' Van couldn't help but chuckle dryly at the semi-irony. Chef continued. 'Picked it up in the restaurant over in South Precinct. Wouldn't go there if I were you.' Van half-smiled.
'It appears to have given darling Sophia something of a boost though, I see'. It was Chef's turn to laugh. He ushered Van close so he could whisper in his ear.
'I'm toying with her.' Van shook his head and leant back upright. 'You two are crazy. I'm going to see The Inspector.' Sophia leaned forward.
'Watch it. He's stressed today'. Van dry-smiled again.
'When is he not?' he asked, and the two shared a smile. Chef just rolled his eyes. Van turned to go. As he ducked out of the door, he turned back to Sophia. 'Thanks for the overwatch. Though shoot the man with the detonator first next time' he said. Sophia settled into her seat.
Don't jump out of any cars this time' she retorted.
'It was a lorry,' Van countered.
'That's just a technicality'. Van shook his head and shut the door. He set off down the corridor towards the Inspector's temporary office at the end. Outside, he stopped, knocked, and waited. There was a pause of no more than a second, and then the door jarred open. Van stepped into the office foyer, and handed over his Glock to the man on the desk. He allowed the desk guard to check him for more weapons, then the door across the room unlocked and he stepped over the office threshold.