(26-1/2 months post-The Telling)
Sloane placed the phone down with irritation. The medical staff had been extremely well-compensated to ensure that, if Sydney ever woke up, Jack would not be aware of it. This most recent development created complications. It had not escaped Sloane's notice that Jack's dependence on Il Dire had dropped noticeably. Jack might become…unreliable.
Sloane's eyes flicked to a calendar. Another 4 weeks before Jack would be released from the hospital. He was unlikely to do anything reckless before he regained his strength. It would be critical to convince him that Sydney still required medical attention.
And if that failed? Sloane sighed. Jack was a good friend. But he was a much more dangerous enemy.
**
Irina received Jack's order by courier while standing in an aircraft hangar in Kazakhstan. Her knees buckled, and she swiftly sat down on the nearest crate. He was alive. She closed her eyes briefly in relief. Takeout, she noticed. He must be recovering. Her jaw clenched. He'd better be getting plenty of rest, she thought to herself savagely, because the next time she saw him -
She did not finish her thought. As her mind registered his order her hands began to shake and tears fell unchecked down her cheeks. Chicken lo mein. Chicken lo mein. Chicken lo mein. Chicken lo mein. 4 orders of chicken lo mein. Jack's version of an exclamation point. Sydney was conscious.
**
Jack stood by Sydney's bedside one morning several weeks later, waiting for her to wake up. He was recuperating nicely and now walking comfortably; the doctors projected that he would be fit to leave in another 2 weeks.
Once again he wondered about her recovery. It had been, he admitted to himself, a final act of desperation for him to reach out to her. To reach back across the years, to a time when she had felt protected and loved. He hadn't done that since…since…he was ashamed to realize he couldn't remember the last time he had done it. And it might never have happened if he hadn't been shot…if Irina had not stopped the bleeding…if he hadn't been lying immobile next to Sydney…if he hadn't been at his wits' end…free will…fate…his head ached. Perhaps he didn't have all the answers. Perhaps… he hadn't been asking the right questions.
His heart leapt as Sydney opened her eyes. He didn't think he would ever view that as commonplace again.
"Good morning, sweetheart," he said, holding his breath.
Sydney looked up at him, and confusion filled her eyes. "Dad?" Sydney looked around. "Where…where are we, dad?"
Jack expelled his breath in frustration. Every morning was the same. She was completely conscious now, and had even begun walking with assistance. But her cognitive progress had halted. Each day she would wake up, unable to remember what had happened the previous day, even though her memory for events prior to her coma was still crystal clear.
Sloane had insisted on bringing in a new medical team when Sydney regained consciousness – different specialists were required, he had explained, for this final stage in her recovery. They urged Jack to just give it time.
Jack pursed his lips as he studied his daughter. He had known Arvin Sloane for more than 30 years. He didn't require Il Dire to evaluate his options. And it was time to stop doing this alone.
**
Irina stared at the Styrofoam cooler in front of her, delivered by her Hong Kong courier. What had caused Jack to bypass their protocols and take the risk of sending her something other than their standard code? She lifted the lid and looked in. A small Chinese takeout container. Nestled inside it was a vial of blood. And a note.
"Sydney. Analyze and take action if warranted. J."
Irina frowned in puzzlement.
24 hours later she was no longer frowning. She was incandescent with rage. That b*stard Sloane. He was drugging Sydney. Her specialists had told her that the compound they had found in Sydney's blood sample would simulate temporary amnesia. Jack must have suspected.
A visit to Hong Kong was in order.