Warshon helped her lie down on the narrow, padded table under the soft glow of the ring gantry.
"You'll be fine." He clasped her hand in his.
But the girl only looked away.
Chewing on the inside of his cheeks, he wanted to turn her face to him, to demand the look in the eye, and to feel the cherry blossom of her lips burgeon on his. His hand let go of hers and slid his into his pocket.
"See you soon."
The door clicked shut as he closed it behind him. Caught in the glass window opposite the CT room, his face looked drawn.
Better a man of any reputation than a forgotten one, said his lord father many years ago in his office where he recruited Warshon, who didn't disagree. But rather than making a reputation for himself, Warshon thrilled at the taste of blood from the waste he laid. Throughout the latter half of his twenties and the past seven years, he had used the DEA to bring down all three Republican cartels. Now, he commanded a full monopoly on the narcotics market—far exceeding his lord father's requirement. And that was a problem. When the pawn hired for the dirty work became eligible to sit at the table, it attracted hatred like the nouveau riche. Perhaps one day, sooner than he expected, it would all come back and end him, but the power entailed in every risk he took crepitated through his veins, and it was his only remedy against the humdrum life where nothing and no one excited him. Not for a long time until Mira.
He opened the door to the monitor room.
The swivel chair squeaked under his apprentice before a row of monitors amidst the low hum that filled the room.
If Erdem was the snitch, thought Warshon, closing the door, the lord would have learned about the girl by now. Unease gnawed him as he walked behind the chair, his hands bracing on the backrest.
"So, what about Ozal?" Erdem asked, jabbing on the keys as he adjusted the scan parameters, his tone aloof.
"You seen him lately?"
Erdem shook his head, his wheatear-like curls bobbling. "Isn't it protocol I should avoid seeing him at all costs? Not that I care about protocol if he's hot, but he's a wrinkly old block reeking of cheese. Why should I waste my time on him?" He looked miffed as he tossed a glance back up. "So many hot guys out there, so little time."
Warshon chuckled, shaking his head. "You'll get old one day, you know that?"
"And I'll call myself a prick then."
"Sorry for making you cancel your date."
"Yeah, you should be." He turned his eyes to the monitors and pressed the start button on the control panel.
Across the window in the scanning room, the padded table slid under the gantry, positioning the girl within the image field. Two red beams crossed on her chest.
Warshon frowned at the flickering grayscale.
"That's not good," Erdem hissed. "There is definitely an inflammation in the heart muscles. She'll need an echocardiogram."
"Uh-huh."
"Also, there is an area of opacity in her left lung. She needs a blood test for pneumonia."
Warshon shook his head, remembering the ten inhalers she had gone through in ten days so she wouldn't show any symptoms. "Girl is suicidal," he groaned, rubbing his brow.
"So, why?"
"What do you mean?"
His apprentice glanced back. "You never waste your time. Trying to save a suicidal girl seems like a colossal waste of time."
"You don't know her, Erdem."
"And you do?" the young man snapped, swiveling in the chair to face him. "You suspect Ozal, who has been with you since day one! Oh yes, don't think I missed the innuendo in your loaded question! You're even suspecting me – me! But not her? Some random kitten you picked up from the street?" He shot to his feet, hurt etched across his face.
Warshon raised his brows, his arms folding by his chest. "That's not what I meant, buddy. But I'm sorry that you feel this way."
"That's it? A wishy-washy apology? Who needs guns and clubs if an apology means shit? Weren't you the one who told me that?"
The bane of dealing with those who had photographic memories, Warshon thought, shaking his head, was that everything you said to them always backfired on you.
"Well?" Erdem rasped upon no response.
"Well what?"
"Why are you taking up the trouble that isn't yours?"
"I probably wouldn't have sustained my injury had it not been for her."
Erdem quieted, his storm gray eyes blinking at a loss.
Sauntering past him, Warshon stooped over the grayscale on the monitor and flipped off the scan. The padded table slid out. "How do you think I sutured myself?"
"Ozal?"
So, he didn't know Ozal and I parted at the Plant? Warshon mused, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It wasn't until this moment of relief did he realize how much he needed Erdem's loyalty, a surprise he had not anticipated.
When he didn't reply, Erdem went on grumbling, "It can't be Hakan Sherif! The nephew is a dope! Everything he touches turns to shit!"
"He's quite dexterous."
"So, it really was the nephew?"
Warshon shook his head. Pivoting on his heel, he swung to face Erdem, a meaningful grin dangling on his lips.
"It was her?" The young man clapped a hand to his brow. "How the fuck? Does she have medical background?"
He shook his head, his hands in his pockets. "I sat with my back to a mirror and instructed her, and she did the rest."
"Where was Ozal?"
"What do you think?"
"How am I supposed to know?" Erdem bleated, arms splaying with the palms facing up.
Warshon smiled at the promise of a deliverance. "I'm glad you don't," was all he said in reply.
Bewildered, his apprentice shook his head, his storm gray eyes frowning. "What the hell does that mean? And you could have called me over, you know? I knew things went south when you asked me to bring the brachial plexus block! Why didn't you just ask me to come right away?"
"Why do you think I asked you to arrange the check-up with Dinc?"
The young man scratched his head, then banged the fist on his brow. "So you have a legit reason to be at the port. So you'd appear framed by whoever alleged that you're the Phantom Lord. If I showed up too early, it'd sabotage everything."
"Good job." He clapped Erdem on his shoulder.
"I could have gone under disguise! And borrowed a different car!"
"And you think the DEA wouldn't ferret it out?" Warshon glanced down sidelong at his apprentice. "When they came into the clinic yesterday afternoon, we had the security footage of you here for the whole night, and the mileage of the rover going to pick me up and to the port. I supposed I could have you go on to your date and have him as an alibi. But the fewer people involved, the better. Wouldn't you agree? Besides, even with an alibi, there would still be time gaps when you can't prove your whereabouts." Clucking his tongue, he slid both hands into his pockets. "When you fabricate evidence, one thing to the next must concatenate."
The young man didn't say a word as Warshon turned to print out the scan. "Even so," he gathered his thoughts at length. "Don't you think it's strange some suicidal girl just showed up exactly where you needed her?"
Warshon picked up the print. Ten inhalers in two weeks just so she wouldn't show any symptoms so she could get out of the quarantine. He shook his head. "Suicidal indeed in any normal situation. But she wasn't in a normal situation and did what she must to survive. A great deal of willfulness it takes to be that suicidal."
"And you don't think it's important to know why she got herself in such a situation?" Still wouldn't budge, Erdem drew in his chin, his eyes roaming across the window pane.
Warshon shrugged. "We all have a past, things we wouldn't want others to know. No need to press on that." Turning for the door, he shook his wrist. "Take the rest of the day off, Erdem, and thank you."
"What for?" the young man growled, flopping back into the swivel chair.
"For giving a shit."
***