In Hiding
It was early evening when a stolen SUV slowed and stopped opposite an apartment building. Its residents came and went, arriving home from work, others heading out. The street was dark, snow packed tightly to its kerbs. All the surrounding shops were in the process of de-Christmasing their window displays. It was early January, and Tony Almeida could not believe how cold it was. Toronto was not the place he'd expected to find her. Then again, that probably had a lot to do with why she was there.
As soon as he learned she was alive he'd known, with certainty, that she'd left the country. The government wanted her dead, probably still did. They had her name on all sorts of watchlists, the way they had his. Getting out had been her only option. He wondered what she knew. He wondered what they told her as they whisked her away from their charred house. Away from their burning car. Away from him.
They'd declared her dead, updated her file, had a stand-in body ready to be prised apart in the autopsy and then later cremated. In secret, they revived her, kept her in an induced coma to save her life, and then reawakened her ten days later. They wanted information, twelve years' worth: classified intel, access codes, field ops reports, everything – anything – on Jack Bauer. They mined her for all they could, pushed her on protocols and suspect profiles buried deep in the past. They said, in a moment that stunned her, that she'd been under watch since the day of the nuclear bomb. It was Michelle Dessler, after all, who'd drawn attention to the Cyprus recording. Michelle Dessler who'd employed the help of Jack Bauer to uncover a conspiracy. Michelle Dessler who'd worked against her superiors to prove it was a fake. She and she alone had brought a decade of precision planning to an abrupt end. They wanted her to understand how much she'd destroyed that day, how much money – their money – she'd seen fit to waste.
How many men had so carefully contrived the bombing of three linchpin countries, to facilitate the commencement of world war three? How many men had invested in a long and profitable conflict? How many had relied on its gains? The woman who destroyed it all was living, breathing, unaware. These men watched her for years, determined to get a hold of her. All that was needed was an excuse, an opportunity to remove her from her life, without detection, and use her up. Jack Bauer's disappearance came as good a reason as any, and so they'd faked her death to stop an investigation, and they'd taken her away.
The weeks following her coma had been the worst of her life. She had a lot to give, and though she resisted as long as she could, she was only human. They extracted a lot from Michelle Dessler.
Tony had been in prison again, this time facing all he'd done in Washington on his crusade toward Alan Wilson. Murder, terrorism, revenge, whatever. He struggled to give a damn about his trial, if it could be called that. Just string me up. Make me pay. It doesn't matter.
He'd been allowed a visitor. Just one. Of course he expected Jack, come to stare at him, enraged, betrayed, lost for words. Come to make him feel sorry for the FBI agents he'd killed, for taking Larry Moss' life, for undoing every good deed he'd ever done under CTU's directive, under Michelle's proud gaze. He wondered, off and on, what his kill count was these days.
Tony had taken a chair on his side of the visitors' dock, reached for the phone and looked through the glass, already bored of Jack's judgement. Instead, he was met with Danny Dessler. Tony's face, impassive since his arrest, changed for the first time. He was surprised.
Danny's expression was a mix of revulsion, fury and fear. Something about his appearance seemed ... different. Cleaner. More focused, more put together. Tony felt despair stab at his chest. Michelle would've been thrilled.
'Tony,' he said. Tony stared at him, suspicious. Eventually, he gave a slight nod. Danny swallowed. He looked around the empty visitors' room, at the other docks left and right of him. Tony guessed he'd never been in a prison before.
'I've been told all the things you've done,' he said, meeting his gaze once more. 'You deserve to be in here for the rest of your life.'
Tony watched him closely. What was he doing here? What reason did he have to come all this way? They had always been civil, pleasant in person, though Tony privately resented Danny for taking advantage of his sister's obliging nature. Thought he rather enjoyed being babied by her, despite the fact he was quite a bit older. Tony could never say he liked Danny, but his respect for him mounted the day he announced he was returning to Seattle, to try again with his family. Respect, or was it relief? Relief that, with Danny gone, there was just a little bit more of Michelle for Tony. That had been about six months before the day of the Cordilla virus, and though he and Michelle called each other often, Tony hadn't seen him since.
'My sister...' Danny began. He cast around, avoiding Tony's eye, looking dismayed. 'If she could see this...'
He shook his head. Tony said nothing. It was hardly the first time someone had brought Michelle up, thrown her in his face or used her record of outstanding service and valour to cut him down. They'd made it a pretty prominent theme during his trial. Yeah, yeah, he thought. She's holed up in heaven, looking down at this mess, shaking her head at me. Of course she is.
'I miss her,' Danny was saying. He was looking directly at Tony now, each word oddly clear and measured, as though they'd been rehearsed. 'I keep pretending she's alive. That she's run away, gone into hiding somewhere. That she's alright.'
Tony frowned. Danny's eyes were wide, intense. 'I keep imagining she's fine. I imagine she calls me one night, tells me she's alive, that she's away from this all. She won't tell me where though. All she tells me is that she's safe. That she loves me and the kids.'
Tony pushed forward in his chair, gripping the phone, staring hard at his former brother-in-law, searching his face.
'But none of that will happen,' Danny said slowly. 'She won't ever call ... because she's dead.'
'No,' Tony agreed. It was the first word he'd said since they'd pulled him away from Jack and Alan Wilson. He'd been silent throughout his trial. There had been nothing left to say. 'She won't do that. Dead people don't make phone calls.'
Danny nodded slowly. 'Exactly,' he said. 'Dead people are just that. Dead.'
He swallowed again.
'I'm going now,' he said suddenly. 'Goodbye Tony.'
He watched Danny hang up the phone and leave the heavily guarded visitors' room. Tony sat, paralysed. Michelle was alive.
Now, in the snow-strewn city of Toronto, Tony killed the engine and waited, his eyes trained on the door of the apartment building. It had taken him months to organise his escape, an event orchestrated by a few men still loyal to him, men he'd met during his time with Emerson. He'd had to kill one of his fellow inmates before the warden saw fit to transfer him to another prison, but transfer him he did.
Emerson's men had attacked the transit truck and the very next day Tony Almedia launched his search. Because ... she was alive. Alive. Michelle was alive. It consumed him. Obsessed him. Somedays he wasn't sure he fully believed it. Other days he couldn't. Discovering she really was dead all along would surely kill him, and he'd be glad for it. His fingers itched to be buried in her hair, his arms ached to take hold of her, his mouth craved hers. He adored fantasising about their reunion, indulged himself daily playing it out in his mind's eye. What did she know? Would he surprise her with his own survival? Would it shock her? He grinned wolfishly, unable to keep his excitement in check when he imagined the look that would come across her lovely face. Something similiar to the look she'd given him when he'd asked her to marry him, all too soon and far too casually. He was going to hold her for years, going to kiss her for decades, going to make love to her every hour on the hour for the rest of their lives. Alive. She was alive.
It had taken him another two months of combing through records, following back channels and asking (threatening, really) the right people. It had been exhausting but he hadn't stopped. He'd barely slept. And now, he was here ... in Toronto, his heart thudding in his chest. He had no idea if this really was her building, no idea where she worked or if she really was here at all. All he could do was sit in the car, watch it snow, and wait.
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