Phoenix

32. Alpha-Zero

The transition from the screaming chaos of the Flevoland forest to the oppressive silence of the room was so jarring that, for a moment, Jin believed he had simply traded one hallucination for another.

​He lay upon a bed of gargantuan proportions, an antique mahogany frame draped in linens that felt like spun silk against his battered skin. Overhead, a crystal chandelier hung like a frozen explosion of light, its facets catching the dim glow of the afternoon sun filtering through heavy, wine-colored velvet curtains. The air smelled of lavender, old wood, and the sharp, clinical tang of high-grade antiseptic.

​Jin's eyes snapped open, but his body remained motionless-a tactical reflex. He didn't move a muscle until he had scanned every corner of the ceiling, the shadows behind the wardrobe, and the heavy oak door across the room. His eyebrows knitted into a sharp, suspicious v-line.

​How?

​The last thing he remembered was the world shattering. The roar of the B-25's nose crumpling, the visceral jolt of the console rushing toward his face, and a white-hot spike of pain in his temple. He should be in a ditch, or a hospital, or a morgue. He certainly shouldn't be in a room that looked like it belonged to a 19th-century aristocrat.

​He sat up, the movement triggering a dull throb in his skull. He raised a hand to his face, his fingers grazing a series of expertly applied bandages. He looked down at his arms; the lacerations from the cockpit glass had been cleaned, sutured where necessary, and wrapped in clean gauze. The work was professional-precise enough to be the handiwork of a doctor, not a field medic.

​Jin swung his legs over the side of the bed. His boots were gone, replaced by a pair of soft slippers, but his clothes-though cleaned of the worst of the forest muck-were the same. He stood, testing his balance. A slight dizziness swirled in his head, but his core was solid.
​He crossed the room and turned the brass handle of the door. It wasn't locked.

​The corridor outside was narrow and dim, lined with framed etchings of Dutch landscapes. It felt like a tomb. Jin moved with the silent, predatory grace of a man who expected a trap at every turn. He reached a landing, his hand hovering over the banister, and descended a grand staircase into a foyer that was equally opulent and equally empty.

​The heavy front door sat before him like a challenge. He pulled it open and stepped out.

​The sudden brightness made him squint. He found himself on the veranda of a grand villa, looking out over a garden that was nothing short of a horticultural masterpiece. Cannas, dahlias, and meticulously pruned hedges created a labyrinth of color, all sheltered by a canopy of towering elms.
​The peace was an illusion.

​A movement in the shrubbery caught his eye. Two men emerged from behind a row of hydrangeas, their strides long and purposeful. They wore dark, well-tailored overcoats that failed to hide the tactical bulk of shoulder holsters. Their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but their focus was entirely on Jin.

​Jin's muscles coiled. He calculated the distance to the nearest heavy planter-cover-and the potential for a disarm maneuver. But he held his ground. If they were the same men from the estate, he would have been dead or in chains the moment he woke up.

​"You should be resting, sir," the shorter of the two said as they approached. His voice was gravelly but polite, lacking the murderous edge of the mercenaries in the forest.