If terrorism had a hold on some of the Capitol Hill lawmakers, the level of corruption would make Watergate look like a party of mad hatters. Amused and terrified at the implications of such a threat, Slayton returned to his motel room. Chucking his jacket on the bed, he suddenly felt uncomfortable, instinctively wary. Shake it off, he thought. Seconds later, it was knocked out of him by a strapping, immense Chinese cutthroat who introduced his meaty fist into Slayton’s lower back. Another uninhibited blast to the kidneys caught Slayton already off-balance; he moved headlong into the cheap sliding screen door, gravitating to the cement with a thud. He tried controlled muscle exercises to regain his breath (the Chinaman was coming after him, perhaps for a bone-crunching finale). The third-story balcony was no place for him now. Slayton mustered a burst of strength, pushing off with his legs, and propelled himself sideways into the hulking assassin.
