Plus he and Metcalf had not been on the best of terms of late, mostly due to a private investigation Painter had started six months ago, an investigation into a shadowy organization that had plagued Sigma since its inception. Only five people in the world knew about this secret research project. But Metcalf was no fool. He was beginning to suspect something was up and had begun to ask questions that Painter would prefer not to answer.
So maybe it was best to get out of D.C. for a while anyway.
Kat followed Painter into the hallway.
As they exited his office, a man stood up from a seat in the hall. Painter was surprised to see Kat’s husband, Monk Kokkalis.
Given his craggy features, shaved head, and boxer’s build, few suspected the sharp intelligence hidden behind that brutish exterior. Monk was a former Green Beret, but he’d been retrained by Sigma in the field of forensic medicine, with a secondary specialty in biotechnology. The latter came from personal experience. Monk had lost one of his hands during a prior mission. It had been replaced by a wonder of prosthetic sciences, employing the latest in DARPA technologies. Outfitted with all manner of countermeasures, it was half hand, half weapons system.
“Monk, what are you doing here? I thought you were running shakedown tests on that new prosthesis of yours.”
“All finished. Passed with flying colors.” He lifted his arm and flexed his fingers as proof. “Then Kat called. Thought you might need an extra pair of hands in the field. Or at least a hand and one kick-ass new prosthetic.”
Painter glanced to Kat.
She kept her face fixed. “I thought you could use someone with more field experience joining you on this trip.”
Painter appreciated her offer, especially because he knew how much Kat hated Monk being away from her side, especially now that she was about to give birth to their second child. But in this case, Painter refused for a more practical reason.
“Thanks, but with the escalating tension out on that mountain, I think a smaller, more surgical team might be best.”
As he watched the crease in Kat’s forehead relax, he knew he’d made the right call. While he was gone, he fully trusted Kat to fill in as the temporary director of Sigma—and he knew that with Monk nearby, she would remain focused. Her husband was both her anchor and the very water that kept her afloat. Monk slipped his arm around his wife’s waist, resting his palm on her full belly. She leaned into him.
With the matter settled, he headed down the hall.
“Be careful out there, Director,” Monk called to him.
Painter heard the longing in the man’s voice. It seemed the offer to accompany him might not have solely originated from Kat. Likewise, Painter’s decision to leave Monk behind was not entirely for Kat’s benefit. While the man was certainly her anchor, he served that same role for one other, a teammate who was having a very tough few months.
And Painter suspected it would get worse.
5:22 P.M.
Commander Grayson Pierce did not know what to do with his mother. She paced the length of the medical exam room.
“I don’t understand why I couldn’t be there when the neurologist questions your father,” she said, angry, frustrated.
“You know why,” he replied calmly. “The social worker explained. The mental acuity tests they’re running on Dad are more accurate if family members aren’t present.”
She waved away his words as she turned and headed back across the room. He noticed her stumble, her left leg almost giving out. He shifted forward in his seat, ready to catch her, but she recovered her balance.
Leaning back into the plastic chair, Gray studied his mother. She had lost weight over the past couple of months, worn down by worry. The silk blouse hung from her thin shoulders, sagging enough to reveal one bra strap, a lack of modesty she normally would never have tolerated. Only her gray hair, done up and pinned back, remained perfect. Gray pictured her fussing over it, imagining it was the one bit of her life still under her control.
As she paced away her worry, Gray listened to the muffled exchanges going on in the exam room. He couldn’t hear any words, but he recognized the sharper notes of his father’s irritation. He feared an explosion from him at any moment and remained tense, ready to burst into the next room if needed. His father, a former Texas oil rigger, was never a calm man, prone to outbursts and sudden violence during Gray’s childhood, a temper exacerbated by an early disability that left the proud man with only one good leg. But now he was even more short-fused as advancing Alzheimer’s eroded away his self-control along with his memory.
“I should be with him,” his mother repeated.
Gray didn’t argue. He’d already had countless conversations about this with them both, trying to encourage moving his father into an assisted-living facility with a memory unit. But such attempts were met with stonewalling, anger, and suspicion. The two refused to leave the Takoma Park bungalow that they’d lived in for decades, preferring the illusory comfort of the familiar to the support of a facility.