I Want In

 212.

I am being prepped for the surgical procedure, one I am told involves relatively minor surgery to insert a stent valve to allow better hematomal flow removal, and thereby dramatically reduce the negative pressure impact on the delicate nerves controlling my left side. I will also receive the first shot in a series of steroids, specifically designed to, among other things, control endovascular carotid revascularization flares in the damaged areas. "Speeds the healing process significantly," proclaims Dr. Sandhi. I appreciate his attempt to split the cross-hairs of precise medical terminology with a lay audience, a trait I find useful when giving instructions to novice or rookie agents, or boots, as they are often referred to, as in 'right out of boot camp.'

I am sitting on the hospital bed, wearing nothing but a cotton gown adorned with what I take to be frolicking unicorns in a field of rainbows, when The Neurologist enters after a quiet pair of knocks. "The anesthesiologist will be here shortly, maybe five minutes, so I'll cut to the chase," she says, "I have done a bit or research, called in a chit or two, and pretty much filled in the blanks, so I have a fair idea of who you are and what you are doing. I wanted to provide the best information possible about our friend, Mr. 38, and felt it would help if I had some background on you and your operation."

I assure her that despite my pending procedure I am all ears.

"Without a ton of superfluous irony and more than a little paradox, you will recall that I told you my father was  a NYPD shield for twenty-five years. During that time I was in school with a double major of Neuroscience and Criminology." At this I unconsciously begin to listen to her introduction as an oral resume, impressed but not surprised. "It turns out," she continues, "that my Dad and your former CEO, the guy you call TOM? were partners in RHD in the late seventies."

Once again I assure her that she has my full attention.

"I also know about Hartaugh and his, shall we say, socio-political tendencies, and his connection to certain nefarious factions headquartered in Las Vegas. This, along with other intel I was able to access, leads me to suspect that you are heading a back-channel counter-terrorism team, of what? vigilantes, mercenaries, special ops, patriots?"

I keep a poker face as she looks at the clock on the wall and proceeds with her testimony.

"What I don't know, but a few of your comatose confessions suggest, is who the third party is, whether your code involves royalty, chess or beekeeping, but what I do know is that they, you, your team and possibly a large percentage of the American people are in, again, great and immediate danger."

The anesthesiologist knocks and enters.

The Neurologist looks at me unblinkingly, waiting for my move. I giver her the hand-eye gesture indicating, 'what next?'

"I want in."