Terudom Chapter 1: Back In The Saddle Again, a following fanfic

Disclaimer: It's fanfic, meaning I don't own anything or make any money off of it. It's a labor of love. Please don't sue me.

This story is rated M. Apart from some language, there's nothing here that wouldn't pass muster on an episode of The Following. If you're old enough to watch the Following, you're old enough to read this. However, it is The Following, so bad things can happen. Expect possible violence, dark themes, angst, and a certain amount of general awfulness. No serial killers, FBI agents, or small furry animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic. And don't try anything you read here at home.

Hi gang. Before starting this fic, there's a couple of things you should know. First, if you haven't read this before, what you're about to read is basically Season 4 of the Following. The season that never was. When I first began to post this fic, I didn't make that clear, because I was a rank beginner, knew nothing about writing, and wasn't sure if I could ever finish a project so huge.

But finish it I did. And yet, like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime, I've come back to this fic, because I was keenly aware of its flaws. There were some things that I wanted to go back and fix. Which brings me to the other thing I need to mention, which is that I've changed a few things here and there, and I've changed the beginning quite a bit. It started off way too slow, and I decided that I needed to show the reader some of the things that had happened before that wet, cold, miserable night when Mike Weston was on that all night stakeout that began the first version of the story.

"Go then if you must, but remember, no matter how foolish your deeds, those who love you will love you still."

- Sophocles, Antigone

"The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."

- Hunter S. Thompson

There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter One - Back In The Saddle Again

Los Angeles, California, Two Weeks Ago

She struggled against the hands that held her head below the water with the desperation of an animal caught in a snare. Her need for air to sustain her life warred with the knowledge that if she inhaled she would only suck water into her bursting lungs. She'd blown bubbles of spent and useless air into the water, and he'd watched those bubbles break the surface, all the time keeping his weight on her as he pressed her down, his hands like iron on the back of her neck, her body bent over the edge of the bathtub.

Just as she was about inhale water into her starving lungs, he pulled her up. She stopped struggling, focusing on getting air, and fearful of being plunged back into the water if she angered him. She didn't have the breath left to plead for mercy, and even if she had, she knew that he had none.

"You know," he said in a casual tone of voice," it's really convenient you having this place soundproofed. I can do whatever I want for as long as I want, and no matter how much I hurt you, no one is going to hear."

She didn't answer, but continued gasping, knowing that any second, he might cut off her air again.

"So are you gonna tell me what I want to know?" he asked. "Or do you want some more?"

"Please."

"Tell me where he keeps it. And how did he get it?"

"Please, I don't know how he got it. He didn't say. The security is supposed to be airtight."

"Are you sure he has it?" he asked. "Why hasn't he used it?"

"He said he had it. He said he couldn't use it without absolute proof."

"Where is it?"

Her head was still being held over the water. Her vision was partly obscured by wet strips of blonde hair that hung down across her face. "It's in his house," she said. "In a safe."

"No copies? No backup?"

"No. He said he was afraid of electronic surveillance. They watch everybody. Please. I've told you everything."

He didn't reply. A few endless seconds later, he released her. "Yes," he said. "I think you have."

She slowly and fearfully straightened her back and turned herself around to face him, remaining on her knees on the wet tile floor. She was afraid of what he'd do if she tried to stand, and anyway, she was too weak to try. He sat there, squatting in front of her, studying her intently.

"Who are you, really?" she asked.

He gave a humorless smile. "I'm surprised you don't recognize me. But I guess that's one of the advantages of being dead. No one ever expects to see you."

She looked at him carefully, , brushing the wet hair back from her face as she did so. Understanding slowly dawned. She'd looked right at him and not seen it.

'You're Ryan Hardy," she said at last.

His hands seized her head, and at first she was afraid that he was going to put her head back under the water. But before she could try to plead, his hands twisted her neck as though she were a plastic doll. There was a flash of white hot pain as her cervical spine was twisted until her brain's connection to her body was severed, and she heard a sickening crunch. Then she lost all feeling as the nerves below her neck ceased to report back to her brain.

He released her, and she slumped forward, her limp and dying body sliding down to the bathroom floor. She fell face down. She could no longer see him, but she could hear him as he stood and walked out of the bathroom. Her vision darkened as suffocation overtook her. In her last conscious seconds, she wondered how she could have been so wrong about him.

Ryan barreled down the freeway in a dark gray Cadillac CTS beneath yellow sodium lights that obscured a clear night sky. He glanced at his speedometer, was surprised at just how far above the speed limit he was going, and slowed down. He wasn't carrying anything incriminating, and he knew he had good fake ID, but the last thing he needed now was a traffic stop. He was getting careless, or maybe stress was finally taking its toll. The long months of being dead had worn on him. Maybe he was getting battle fatigue, if such a thing was possible when it was only one soldier fighting an endless war.

Well, maybe not endless. Maybe there was a way to finally end it, if he could just find a way to exploit what he had learned. And then what? Go home and say "Hey guys, sorry to duck out on you like that, but there were these people I needed to kill..."

Win or lose, there was no going home. This is your life. Get used to it.

He found the silence in the car oppressive, and turned on the radio. The sound of country music came through the speakers. He didn't care what it was, really. He recognized the singer as Johnny Cash. He turned the volume down to low.

"So where to now?"

Ryan glanced over to find Joe sitting in the passenger seat. "You again," he said. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Makes two of us," Joe replied. "So what is your plan?"

"I'm going to ditch this car."

"And hitchhike?"

"I'll take Amtrak," Ryan said. "And I'm going to get a truck."

"As in a pickup? You're not really a pickup kind of a guy."

"My next alias will be," Ryan explained. "I'll need stuff for my next job, and a way to haul it around."

"As long as you don't take up country music."

"You don't have to ride along."

"But I do," Joe smirked. "I'd be your conscience, if you still had one. As it is...perhaps I'm your personal Jiminy Cricket."

Instead of answering, Ryan focused on his GPS, checking to see how far it was to his exit. Then he turned his attention to the road.

"So this new job will take you back to your old stomping grounds," Joe said. "I suppose it's safe enough. Everyone has surely forgotten about you by now."

III

Beaumont, North Carolina, 36 Hours Ago

They'd told him to be careful before he'd set out, but looking at this small, sleepy little Southern town, it was hard to believe that anything truly dangerous could exist here. Still, he'd been careful to check for surveillance on the way to the coffee shop, and he'd looked around for any sign of the man whose picture they'd shown him. He was sure he was safe when he entered the coffee shop at the corner of 8th and Vance.

There was a young couple at one of the corner tables. He'd seen them here before, on his last visit. (This was his third.) They'd spoken to the barista like they were regulars. A group of women in their forties and fifties was sitting together in the middle of the shop where they'd pulled a couple of tables together. It was some sort of book club. They were discussing a thriller they'd read about a female attorney who was caught up in a complex murder case while involved in a romance with a hunky FBI profiler.

The Sun was setting outside, and the barista, a young, curly haired brunette wearing a fedora, was drawing the blinds on the front window against the late evening glare. He ordered an espresso and a blueberry muffin, more to have a reason to be in the store than because he actually wanted them. He chose a seat near the window. He opened up his laptop, which he carried in a black nylon case, and began booting it up. As it started, he looked through the glass door at the street outside.

Traffic was light. A stocky African American man walked past the coffee shop door. He saw a man with shoulder length dirty blond hair walking on the sidewalk across the street. The man stopped for a few moments and then looked towards the coffee shop. He thought he'd briefly seen the same man earlier while he was out walking around to make sure he wasn't being followed. Was it really the same man? Was he checking out the shop? If so, he didn't look long before he turned and kept walking until he disappeared from view.

He decided it was nothing, that he was just imagining things, and turned to his laptop. He connected to the store's wifi, opened a browser and an email program, and set about what he had come here to do.

He checked, and found that one of his emails had borne fruit. A sucker had clicked on a link that had downloaded malware into the target computer. He checked the email address. Probably some place in Oregon, judging by the name of the victim's provider. The malware would do nothing that would give the victim any indication that his computer was in fact under a hacker's complete control. But it would now do whatever he wanted. He didn't want much, really. All he wanted was for the target computer to send one message.

The whole procedure was pretty simple, really. Mostly it was a matter of watching a green progress bar make it's way across a window as an upload completed. He was very glad things were going so smoothly. His boss was an unforgiving sort, and he dreaded the thought of explaining any sort of failure. With his employer, being terminated for cause could mean something far worse than unemployment.

He took time to finish his cookie. It was pretty good, and seemed to be fresh. Before getting on the plane for home, he'd stop somewhere for dinner. He reached into the pocket of his suede jacket and took out a phone. It was a burner he'd been given, meant to be used once and discarded. He sent a text to a number that he knew was another burner. "Your appointment for 9 am has been confirmed." It meant he'd done his job, and would now return to New York City. He shut down the laptop, stuffed it back in its carry case, tossed the phone into the trash wrapped up in the paper that had held his cookie, and headed out into the evening cold.

He had parked down the street near a small used bookstore. It had been open when he arrived. A tabby belonging to the owner had sat looking out the front window, sitting between a horror novel by Dean Koontz and one of those technothrillers that Tom Clancy kept writing after he was dead. Now it was closed, the owner and the cat both gone for the day. He was thinking about what he wanted to have for dinner. A nearby restaurant had looked pretty good. After dinner, he could catch a redeye home.

The streets were mostly empty. Apparently this little one horse town was pretty quiet in the evenings. A tattoo parlor was open across the street, and a Chinese place next to it. He didn't feel like Chinese. The windows of the Chinese place were steamed up. Two young black women walked up to it, pushed the door open, and disappeared inside.

As he approached his Toyota, he saw two people, a man and a woman, coming the other way. They seemed lost in conversation. As he passed the small alley next to the used bookstore, he reached into his pocket for the fob to open his car. The lights flashed twice as he pressed the button.

"Excuse me, sir, do you have the time?'

It was the woman. He looked at the couple. She was in her late twenties, short, with a light blue toboggan over her hair and large oval glasses. He stopped to look at his watch, and then realized that the couple had changed direction slightly and were angling towards him. He looked up, uncertain of their intentions. He was so focused on them that he never saw the two men in the alley who stepped out quietly behind him. One of them men used a sap on the back of his head. The spilt second before he lost consciousness was not nearly enough time for him to process just how neatly he'd been ambushed.

He awoke to find himself looking up at an unpainted wooden ceiling supported by rough wooden beams. He was lying on a hard surface. He tried to move his limbs, but couldn't. He'd been restrained at wrists and ankles. Other restraints went across his chest, abdomen, and forehead. He could not lift or turn his head. He couldn't open his mouth. Something adhesive was across it, like duct tape. His captors were somewhere out of his field of vision, but he heard a man's voice say "He's coming around."

"Not for long," another man answered. A face leaned over him. The blond haired man he'd seen from the coffee shop earlier. Up close, his face was badly scarred by acne. He held a syringe in his hand. The man stuck the needle into a vein in the back of his hand and pushed the plunger.

The contents of the syringe took effect quickly. He felt his limbs becoming numb and his struggles becoming weaker. The drug, whatever it was, must be some sort of paralytic. A moment later, another face appeared above his head. A black man, handsome, with a moustache and an ugly scar on the side of his forehead. The man looked vaguely familiar.

"I'd ask you what she's planning," the man said, "but I'm sure you don't know because she never tells anyone the whole truth. But I'm pretty sure we can piece some of it together from the laptop. You made a very bad career choice. You should never have gone to work for her. Now you're going to die, and you're never going to know what any of this was really about."

The black man stepped away to be replaced by the acne scarred man holding a scalpel. He leaned down, and began making a horizontal incision across his victim's forehead. To his surprise, it didn't hurt. Perhaps the drug had numbed the nerve endings. Behind the acne scarred man he could see the man and woman who had helped to kidnap him.

When the incision was done, he felt a pulling sensation on the top of his face and wondered what was happening. Had a flap of tissue been pulled back? The acne scarred man stepped back, and the tall man who had helped with his kidnaping stepped forward. He held some kind of implement in his hand. Something that trailed an electrical cord, and had a stainless steel wheel mounted on the end. There was the whine of an electric motor, and that silver wheel spunso rapidly that its edges seemed to blur.

An electric bone saw. They were going to saw open his skull.

His brain commanded his muscles to fight for his life against the restraints, but his limbs did not respond. As the spinning, surgical steel blade touched his skull, he could feel the pull of it against whatever it was that held his head immobile. He could hear the sound of the saw cutting into his skull like a bandsaw cutting wood, but worse was the smell. He didn't recognize it at first, but then understanding dawned. It was the smell of fine bone fragments like sawdust in the air.

Whitestone, Long Island - 12 Hours Ago

Jason Rickard stood by the window of his fifth floor office atop a glassed in octagon off the Whitestone Expressway. Although it was a bright clear afternoon outside he knew it was a cold one. The children on the school playground on the far side of the expressway were warmly dressed. In the distance he could see a line of dark clouds moving in. The forecast was for a rainy night.

The glassed in building around him was the main office of Rhyolite Cyber Systems, of which Jason Rickard was the founder. He was still part owner, but most of the company belonged to Adrian Marloth, his partner. RCS, was, as the name implied, a tech company. Its main customer was the US Government, to which RCS provided a wide variety of specialized software and services for both military and civilian applications.

Rickard sipped coffee from the porcelain cup in his hand. He had a stack of paperwork and an open laptop on his desk, but found it impossible to concentrate. He could think of little except the call he was expecting. He put the now empty coffee cup down on its saucer and resumed his seat. He could pretend to work, at least.

He was halfway through reading a progress report on program RCS was developing for the Pentagon when his cell phone, which sat by the coffee cup, emitted a melodic ringtone. He checked the screen. He didn't recognize the number, but then he wouldn't. The call he was expecting would come from a burner.

"Jason Rickard", he said, as he connected.

"Mr Rickard," a man's voice answered. "This is Mr. Jones. I've managed to make some progress."

"Explain."

"Last week they found a body in a shallow grave on the Ames Military Reservation. That's across the Hudson from Arrowhead Mountain State Park. The grave was dug just off of Highway 9. I've just learned that the body has been identified as Nathan Lang. Mr Lang lived in Hackensack."

"I don't see the significance," Rickard said.

"The significance is that Mr Lang lived alone. He was never married and had few friends. He wasn't even missed until three days later, when he failed to report for work. Now obviously after all these months there can be no estimating time of death outside that three day window, but it fits the timeline, and Mr Lang's car has never been found or identified."

"How did you learn of this?" Rickard asked.

"I have sources in law enforcement. One of them told me that his department approached the FBI regarding Mr Lang's death, but the Bureau, for whatever reason, apparently has shown little interest. Now after all this time it is a cold case, but is it also conceivable that someone inside the FBI is exerting their influence to have this discovery ignored?"

"I don't know any more about that than you do," Rickard replied. "So your theory, if I understand you correctly, is that Mr Lang was carjacked, and his body was disposed of."

"Yes."

"You realize that this could all be a coincidence?"

"I don't believe in coincidence," Jones said. "And I would advise you not to believe in it either."

"So he could be alive."

"It's possible, yes. Are you serious about going to this meeting?"

"Yes I am."

"As your friend and a fellow human being, I think you should reconsider."

Rickard swivelled his chair around to gaze out the window for a moment before answering. "You may be right. But unfortunately, he can find me at any time. I have no idea where he is, if he is. So I think in the circumstances, I need to hear him out."

"Alone? You have bodyguards, surely."

"The problem with bodyguards is that even if they are effective, which they might not be here, they work for a wage, and whatever you pay them can be doubled by someone else. Honestly, I don't like being surrounded by armed people when I can never really know who they're working for."

"It's your decision," Jones said. "I'll keep looking. Maybe I can turn something else up."

"Thank you. We'll talk again."

He put down the phone and began stuffing a few papers into a carry case, along with the laptop on his desk. He opened a drawer on the right side of his desk and took out a stainless steel Colt Officer's ACP. He slipped the gun into the waistband of his trousers near the small of his back. Under New York law, handguns, at least legal ones, were virtually unobtainable, and carry permits were reserved for the very few who were deemed very important or were able to pay the requisite bribes. * Rickard was both.

He stepped into the reception area outside his office. His secretary was at her desk,working intently on something on her monitor. She might have been an Elite model, with her slim figure, high cheekbones, and long chestnut hair. She looked up as he closed the office door behind him.

"Brianna," he said, "cancel the rest of my appointments today. I'm leaving a little early. There's some personal business I need to take care of."

"Yes sir"

Rickard walked to the elevator nearby, stepped inside, and pushed the button for the ground floor.

The meeting was to take place at Rizzo's, a pub on Tolson Street in Newark. Rickard decided against the free parking nearby and chose to park his BMW C Class several blocks away, feed the meter, and walk. It would allow him to approach carefully, make sure he wasn't being followed, and see who might be watching the area.

Tolson Street was two lane, just south of the Passaic River. There was a mix of small blocky rent houses and apartments separated by narrow alleys and commercial establishments in low brick buildings with few windows. In the deepening twilight he realized he couldn't see into any of the alleys. On the good side, they were all closed with locked iron security gates, so he felt safe enough. He passed an alley on his left with a prominent sign on its gate - Beware Of The Dog. He heard no dog, but felt reassured nonetheless. As he walked by, he looked across the street at a rectangular six story building with a large banner hung across the top floor. -Space For Rent. The broad parking lot in front of it was empty.

Ahead on the left was Rizzo's an island of light and noise on a mostly quiet and empty street. Between him and Rizzo's was the Raby Switch Company, a long two story building with a large rollup door on the front. It was dark, and looked closed for the day. A white Nissan drove past him, the rap music playing within reduced to a bass thumping. Rickard hoped the driver was enjoying his music, because at this rate he'd be deaf soon enough.

A dark blue CR-V emerged from the alley leading to the free parking lot across the street from Rizzo's, and pulled in behind the Nissan. Both vehicles turned right at the intersection ahead, located just past the pub.

He quickened his pace, anxious to get inside. As the taillights of the CR-V rounded the corner ahead, he saw a dark colored van pulling out of the alley next to Raby Switch. It was turning towards him. He stopped and looked at the approaching van so intently he was unaware of the two figures behind him until one of them jabbed a taser into his back.

They caught him as he crumpled., and the passing van stopped just long enough for the two men who held him to shove him into the back. Before he could regain control of his limbs, zip ties were wound around his wrists and ankles, and duct tape was slapped across his mouth.

He was rolled onto his back., his hands beneath him. He looked up in astonishment at the two men who stood above him. He glanced towards the front, but couldn't make out the driver.

"Not who you were expecting," one of the men said. His companion produced a black hood, and began pulling it over Rickard's head, leaving him in darkness.

VII

Elizabeth, New Jersey, January 30th, 2015, 2:10 am

Now

It was a wet, cold, miserable night, and God was punishing Mike Weston by answering his prayers. A light rain was falling, spotting the windshield. They couldn't start the engine to heat the car, since the exhaust might have tipped off their quarry.

"We're wasting our time", his partner said.

Mike looked over at Dennis Fuchida, sitting behind the wheel. "You don't think he'll show?", Mike asked.

"I don't know if he'll show or not. We're wasting our time either way".

The rain, not quite cold enough to freeze, picked up and made it harder to see the rent house they were staking out. Mike felt a cramp in his back. He'd been sitting too long in the cold. The doctors had cleared him for full duty, though Max had thought he was pushing it, and he had to admit that he wasn't a hundred percent. But he was anxious to get out from behind his desk where the scenery never changed. He told Shelby that he was ready, and he wanted to get back out there. So now here he was, called in on short notice for an endless stakeout on a dirty night because Jermaine Waller was down with the flu. He listened to the cold rain beating on the roof of the car, decided that curling up with Max really wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all, and sighed.

"You know, Dennis, I wouldn't exactly call busting a terrorist a waste of time."

"Neither would I," said Dennis, "if he was planning to strike here. Look, the guy posts on his social media that he's going to go to Syria, hook up with Daish** , be a badass terrorist, kill people, and take him some female sex slaves. If he's retarded enough to post that in public, then he's not really smart enough to be much of a terrorist. So let him go. He goes over there, ends up under a JDAM, or gets himself killed in some other really messy, horrible way. Problem solved."

"And this recruiter?" Mike asked.

"If there is one,"said Dennis, "and he has any sense, he's long gone. Once our guy posted that crap online, the smart thing to do was to get out of town. They have to know he's blown."

"Maybe he's been too busy killing people and taking female sex slaves to spend time on social media".

Dennis was silent for moment, seemingly lost in thought. "My sister died over there."

"I didn't know", Mike said. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. Roadside bomb, back in '09. Damn near killed Mom. She was 23. Honestly...I don't think there was ever anything over there that was worth losing Elizabeth. As far as I'm concerned, if this dude wants to go back there and do whatever, he can damn well go."

Mike looked over at Dennis. He was maybe twenty seven. So Elizabeth would have been a little older. Dennis had been Max's partner after Mike had been stabbed, and they'd had worked together a lot during his long recovery.

"So is Shelby going to put you and Max together?," Dennis asked.

" I don't know," Mike answered. "He might not. Personal feelings, and all that. Shelby's a serious hardass."

"Shelby's OK. He takes some getting used to. Didn't he know Ryan?"

"Yeah, he did," Mike said." I never heard Ryan talk about him, but Max got a condolence letter from him. He wasn't at the funeral, he couldn't come. But he sent a letter. Not a card. A handwritten letter. Apparently they were at Quantico together."

A car was approaching from opposite direction, and slowing down as it approached the rent house. The roads in this neighborhood were narrow, the houses small, with yards about the size of postage stamps separated by wooden privacy fences. Mike and Dennis were watching the street in front of the house. They were parked about forty yards down the street, on the same side as the house. Another unit was watching the next street over. If the recruiter appeared, the trucks with the SWAT teams would be called in.

"Is that him?," Dennis asked.

The door opened in front of the house where the car had stopped, and from down the street, Mike and Dennis could hear the sounds of an argument. They sat in silence, listening. Mike stifled a yawn. The rain had now slacked off to a drizzle. The argument escalated. His basic contention appeared to be that she was a bitch, hers that he was a bastard, and that he was drunk. That last seemed indisputably true, whatever the marital status of his parents. Also, she said he should fucking well get out, because she had fucking well had it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. "By the way, man," Dennis said, "congratulations on making it all the way back".

"Thanks," Mike said. "It was a long hard road."

"I'm sure. But here you finally are. Back in the saddle again."

"Oh yeah," Mike grinned. " Head 'em up. Move 'em out"

"Heads up," Mike said. "You see that?. Car parked at the end of the street. The door opened, and the interior light didn't come on."

A bearded man in a heavy coat and a dark navy watch cap got out of the Subaru Mike was pointing at, and started walking toward the house. "I think that's him," Dennis said.

"Sinker two," Mike said into the radio, "we've got a male approaching the house. Looks like our guy."

"Copy". Mike recognized Shelby's voice. "Wait till he's inside." The man walked by the house where the couple was arguing. She was telling him loudly to get out.

The man walked up to the front door of the rent house. Mike unzipped his coat. One of the miseries of carrying a gun on a cold night is you have to leave your coat open so you can get to it.

"Sinker two," Mike said. "He's inside".

"Sinker Six," Shelby said. "Copy. All units move in". The plan was for two truckloads of agents in SWAT gear to take down the house. The first truck would pull up to the front of the house. The second would take position on the next street over, in case anyone tried to get out the back and over the fence.

They waited about ten minutes. The SWAT teams were stationed several blocks away, so as to avoid tipping off the terrorist they were stalking. The SWAT truck heaved into view at the end of the street, and began approaching the rent house. But at the last moment, the drunk next door, headed for wherever he planned to spend the night, came shooting out of his driveway, backing up fast. Right into the path of the approaching SWAT truck, which hit him broadside. The drunk expressed his outrage by honking the horn and shouting something. Mike caught the words "You owe me".

HRT operators began piling out of the van, but theywere much further from the house than planned and the element of surprise was lost. Mike opened the car door and lunged out. "Come on!" he shouted at Dennis. He could hear Shelby violating Bureau policy about obscenities on the radio. Mike drew his Glock and began running. He could hear Dennis behind him. He saw the bearded man emerge from behind the back corner of the house The guy had gone out the back door, but he knew better than to try for the back fence. He turned and started running down the street toward Mike and Dennis, but when he saw them coming, he turned again and headed across the street. Mike turned to pursue. The man dashed into the yard of one of the houses across the street, intent on getting over the high privacy fence behind it. Mike suddenly heard Dennis cry out in pain, and when he glanced back, he saw Dennis crumple and go down behind a Ford pickup truck parked on the street. Had he been shot? Mike hadn't heard a gun.

He turned his attention to his quarry. "FBI!" he shouted. Because he'd been on stakeout, he wasn't wearing a raid jacket, and if the SWAT guys mistook him for a suspect...He saw the bearded man just ahead, trying to climb the fence. He had gotten a running jump, but it wasn't high enough, and he was trying to heave his bulk over the fence, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the wet wood.

Mike reached up with his left hand, grabbed the man's belt, and pulled. The man came down hard in the wet grass. Mike shoved his pistol in the man's face. As he was about to shout "Freeze!" the man scissored his legs hard, catching Mike just above his right ankle. Mike realized that he'd gotten excited and was standing too close. He tried to recover, but the man hooked his right leg out from under him and he went over on his side. His head hit on something in the grass that felt like wood, stunning him for a moment. He heard a voice behind him - Dennis yelling "Mike! Look out!" He looked at his opponent, who reached for his belt and pulled out something that with a metallic clack became a gleaming tanto with a four inch blade.

The man was as fast as a snake, and was coming straight for Mike, who realized that in the time it would take to get his gun on his attacker, it would be a lifetime too late. But The man had gotten ahead of himself, and tried to pin Mike down while stabbing down with the knife. Mike pushed up with his right leg and twisted to his left. The man was suddenly off balance, and being thrown, with Mike's hands grabbing for his knife hand. A moment later, Mike was twisting his knife hand back, while his opponent looked up in surprise at how quickly Mike had turned the tables on him.

"Move and you fucking die!"

Dennis again, a lot closer. Now the man, besides having Mike's arms locked around his knife arm, had a Glock in his face, with Dennis on the other end of it. He stopped struggling, and froze. Mike twisted the knife out of his hands, threw ir away, and reached for handcuffs on his belt. Mike and Dennis rolled their shocked prisoner onto his belly and cuffed his hands behind his back.

"Thanks for the assist, "Mike said."

"You do realize," Dennis replied, "that if you get shivved again, Max is gonna gut me like a trout."

Mike grinned at the image. She might just do it, at that. "What happened?" he asked.

"There was a trailer hitch behind that pickup. I didn't see it. That hurt like a bastard."

Their prisoner was the uncooperative sort, and refused to walk under his own power. Dennis went and got a couple of SWAT men to help carry him, then went in search of the paramedic to get his leg looked at. As they loaded the prisoner into the transport van, Mike could hear the drunk explaining to a pair of unsympathetic FBI agents that it was all that bitch's fault, for getting him so mad that he had to leave in such a hurry.

"Weston". The voice came from behind him. He turned to find Dan Shelby, his boss. "Good save," Shelby said.

"Thanks. Where's Dennis?"

"Over there," Shelby said, pointing. An ambulance had pulled in behind the SWAT truck, and the paramedic was looking at Dennis's leg. ."I think he's Ok, but that's gonna hurt like hell. Let's have a look inside."

Mike followed Shelby into the rent house. The front door was badly damaged, hanging by one hinge from the impact of the battering ram the SWAT team had used on it. The house was small, one story, with a living room, two bedrooms, a bath, a tiny kitchen, and a laundry room. There were three men face down and cuffed in the living room. A search of the house yielded two laptops, a half a dozen phones, most of them probably burners, and, in the laundry room, twenty-four cartons of cigarettes with North Carolina tax stamps.*** Shelby turned to Mike. "He have a phone on him?," he asked.

"Yeah".

"Good. I doubt he'll talk. But we'll get something useful out of that phone.". Shelby was a tall, wiry man with short brown hair going slightly gray at the temples, Clark Kent style glasses, and a crooked nose, broken, it was said, in a savage beating administered by a biker gang when he was working undercover. "Well done," he said. "Nice to have you back".

"Thank you sir. It's nice to be back". Shelby was a little more formal than Gina Mendez had been. He'd been in the Navy, and to people who worked for him, his name was Sir.

The search of the house concluded, Mike walked outside to check on Dennis. The paramedics had dressed his wound.. "You OK?" he asked Dennis.

"I don't think they're gonna amputate," Dennis replied. "It took a bunch of skin off, and it's gonna turn colors. Black, blue...that sort of thing."

"Well, let's just hope it wasn't a complete waste of time."

Mike felt the cold drizzle on his face. He was wet, cold, and tired, but he was, at long last, all the way back. And it felt damn good.

VIII

They say the job isn't finished until the paperwork is done. Sorting everything out from the raid took the rest of the night, and Mike didn't get home until nearly eight in the morning. When he opened the door, the first thing he smelled was coffee, and it reminded him of just how long it had been since he had last eaten.

He found Max in the kitchen, in a bathrobe, addressing a plate of French toast, which she put aside in favor a hug and a kiss. Mike pulled her in close, enjoying the small of her hair. She had just come from the shower.

"You should have called," she said. "I was up early. If I'd known when you were coming, I could have made us a Dutch baby."

"I would have called, but I wasn't sure when I'd be in, and I didn't want to wake you. Besides, what I really want is to stand under a hot shower."

"I'd stand under it with you," she grinned, "but I have to be at Gwen's. I'm keeping Ryan Jr this morning. So how did it go?"

"We got him. No serious problems. Dennis managed to have a close encounter with a trailer hitch chasing after this guy. He'll be sore for a while". He decided that this might not be the best time to mention the knife. In fact, never might be the best time to mention that.

"And this?" she asked, touching the bruise on the his forehead where he'd fallen. "How many victims did this trailer hitch have?"

"I slipped in wet grass. It's nothing. Your breakfast is getting cold."

"You be careful"

"Don't worry. I'm fine and nothing is going to...

"No," Max interrupted. "You be careful. And don't tell me not to worry, because I will anyway. And don't try to act like you're eight feet tall and bulletproof, because I know better. Of all people, I know better." She put her arms around his waist, and laid her head against his shoulder.

Mike hugged her close, and kissed her softly. He could see, in her eyes, something of what she had been through, what the days and weeks after the attack in the parking garage had cost her emotionally. "Max," he said, "I love you. And I would never have made it without you. I would never have survived, and I would never have made it back. Not without you there. I know you'll worry. But I swear...I will be careful. I will have eyes in the back of my head. And I will come home safe. Because I know what I've got to come home to. Now, your breakfast is getting cold. " He decided that his shower could wait. Better to spend some time with her, before she had to leave. "Actually," he said, "I might have a little something before I turn in"

He rummaged around in the cabinet, and found a bag of instant cocoa and a mug. He went to the refrigerator, and poured some milk. As it heated in the microwave, he considered adding a shot of rum but decided against it. The alcohol might keep him awake.

"What's Gwen doing today?," he asked.

"She has a checkup with the doctor this morning," Max replied, "and she's getting her hair done. So I get to spend a little quality time with Ryan Jr. And remember, we're having dinner over there tonight."

"I've got the rest of the day off," Mike said. "I'm not sure how long Jermaine will be out, and Shelby may leave me on this Daish business even after he comes back. We think there's more of them out there. So there may be more stakeouts in my future." The microwave beeped, announcing that the milk was hot. "Worst case scenario, we can always leave notes for each other on the refrigerator door."

Shortly after, Max was throwing on her coat, preparing to leave. Mike had gone to bed. Before leaving, she sent a text to Gwen asking if there was anything she could pick up on the way over. She was about to open the door to leave, when suddenly a thought came to her. Notes on the refrigerator door, Mike had said. Well maybe she could do a little better than that.

She slipped her shoes off, and padded softly across the carpet to the bedroom. Mike was asleep already. She stole in, and took a bottle of perfume - Midnight Fleur. She walked slowly and carefully over to the bed, sprayed some on her pillow, and then slipped out.

When Mike awakened, the first thing he smelled would be her.

When Mike had first gotten out of the hospital, they'd moved into his apartment. It was slightly larger, and Max had wanted out of her place for good, partly as way of severing all memories of Tom. But as Mike improved, they'd decided to move into a new place, and had found an apartment on Staten Island. It wasn't cheap, but it was doable on two salaries, it had an actual lot to park their cars in, and it gave them a reasonable commute to work. It was a block of four apartment buildings together, and if they were a bit cookie cutter, and if the view out their bedroom window was of a tank farm towards the shoreline, at least it was a fresh start.

Long experience had made Max alert and careful. She walked wide around corners, and used store windows for rear visibility. When out and about, she opened doors fast and all the way. In a restaurant or a bar, she avoided sitting with her back to an open door. It wasn't that she lived in fear. She was relaxed, but watchful. Not long after Ryan's disappearance, she had a dream in which Ryan had told her to always keep her eyes open. While she had always been careful, always believed strongly that the first law of life was Be Here Now, that dream had stayed with her. It hadn't recurred, but it haunted her. She had many times replayed it in her mind. Sometimes she wanted to tell Mike about it, but something held her back.

So Max, as always, was watchful, but this morning she didn't notice the dark haired man with a moustache and sunglasses parked farther down the lot in a gray Ford Ranger watching the door to the apartment building , nor did she notice that he suddenly straightened up and became alert when she appeared, and that he watched her intently as she got in her car and started the engine.

Ryan Hardy gazed longingly at his niece as she headed out into the cold, gray morning.

Gwen returned from her hair appointment to find Max curled up on the living room couch with her Kindle. Max held a finger to her lips, pointed toward Gwen's bedroom, and mouthed the words 'He's asleep".

"How was he?," Gwen asked.

"He was a little angel."

"I really appreciate this, Gwen said. "I know you don't have much vacation time."

"Are you kidding? This is like vacation. I need some normal in my life now and then. And it's practice for when I have one of my own. Oh, and by the way, you look great."

"Thank you. Is Mike working today?," Gwen asked.

"No," Max replied, "he actually worked last night. He covered for someone."

"So he's back on full duty."

Max's face darkened. "They say he's ready. I'm not sure I am."

"You're worried about him."

"Well...yes."

Gwen sat down on the couch, next to Max. "You worry about Mike. You worry about Ryan Jr. You worry about me. You worry about everyone, and you think no one ever needs to worry about you."

Max opened her mouth as if she were about to say something, but remained silent.

"So how are you?," Gwen asked.

"I'm good."

"But?"

"Remember when we were cleaning this place out, after you decided to say here?"

"I remember," Gwen said. She'd stayed in Ryan's place after his death.

"And Mike strained his back moving all that stuff, which we wasn't supposed to be doing anyway?"

"I remember. He said you gave him hell about that."

"I did. The point is, he says he'll be careful. But he's not careful. And I can't help thinking about all the stuff that could happen now that he's going back out there. And I'm scared."

"Uh huh. So now you know how Mike and I feel when you go out there. And you go anyway, don't you?"

Max sat for a moment, looking pensive. 'You can't keep him wrapped in cotton,"Gwen said.

"I guess not. I'm just scared of losing him."

"You're not going to lose him."

"I lost him before. He can be so impulsive. Losing Ryan was bad enough, and I think about ending up alone.."

"Whoa," Gwen interrupted. "Mike's not going to leave again. He would never do that. I think he's changed."

"I just keep thinking about when he was lying there, and he didn't have enough breath left to blow out a candle, and I kept thinking what if I lose them both? Dad's gone, Ryan's gone. I can't lose anyone else. I don't have that many people left to lose."

"Listen to me," Gwen said. "I lost Ryan too, and I'm not over it either. Even now. I know it's been hard for you. I know you've grieved. but don't be afraid.

"Be happy for Mike, for fighting his way back from something that would have killed most men. Be proud of yourself for holding it together, and being there for him, and helping him through it. And remember that we love you, and care about you, and couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you. So promise me that you'll take a little time out from worrying about us and take care of yourself."

"I will,"Max said, nodding. "And thank you."

"I need to start dinner," Gwen said.

"Want some help?"

"Sure,"Gwen said, and started for the kitchen.

"So what are we making?"

"Beef and wine casserole. I thought I'd do something to celebrate Mike getting back to full duty. Beef, onions, garlic, beef broth, wine...and you cook it for hours."

She put Max to work opening a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and slicing an onion while she put stew beef and broth into a casserole dish. " Thin slices," she said. "But not too thin. Yes, about like that. And watch that knife. It will take fingers." Gwen added flour, garlic, salt, pepper, and a cup of wine to the casserole dish, finished by placing the onion slices on top, and covering the whole thing with foil. "This is dirt simple to make," she said. "The hard part will be smelling it for hours. You get hungry long before it's ready."

Max returned home to find Mike awake, sitting in front of his laptop, and drinking a cup of coffee. "You didn't sleep long," she said.

"I was a little keyed up, I guess. From last night. How's Gwen?"

"She's fine. And Ryan Jr is bigger every time I see him. I want to get there a little early tonight and help out with dinner."

As she hung up her coat, Max noticed Mike looking her way, and grinning.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing,"Mikes said. "It's just that I've been thinking about you ever since I got up."

"Good thoughts, I hope."

"Mostly," Mike said, "I've been thinking about that perfume. And the first time you wore it."

"Oh? When was that?"

""Like you don't know," he said. He rose, from his chair, and put his arms around her. "It was the first night that I was well enough, and strong enough, to really make love to you. And it seemed like forever. It was so good to finally be able to touch you that way , and take you, and it felt like...like I was really finally alive again. "

"You ever get that shower?"

"No". He shook his head, smiling.

"I could wash your back."

He leaned in and kissed her, and they made their way towards the shower, leaving a trail of clothes as they went.

XII

Mike lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Max rested her head drowsily on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. The afternoon sun streamed through the window. Mike wondered idly what time it was, but made no move to check. Because, he decided, it didn't really matter. Because when she's this close, and I can hear her breathing, and feel her heart beating, it's always now.

He thought back on the events of the past twenty-two months. It was, he decided, a bit like getting off at the wrong interchange. You have to find a ramp to get you off the road, make your way back to where you should have been, and then find the ramp that takes you to the road you wanted to be on. And all the while you're burning gas, wasting time, dodging traffic, and pissed at yourself for having taken a wrong turn in the first place.

It was, Mike thought, a good analogy for the last twenty-two months of his life. He took a way wrong turn, burned up a lot of gas, and spent a of time sitting in traffic and sucking up carbon monoxide. And now he was finally back where he should have been in the first place.

He looked at Max, admiring her back, smooth, perfect, skin over toned, defined muscle. She could have any man she wanted. And she had chosen him. And after he had done everything humanly possible to push her away. He vaguely remembered a line, he wasn't sure where it was from, about doing the right thing after exhausting every other possibility. That was him. He had spent a bunch of time going in circles, then had to spend even more time on a long hard, painful recovery. Well, he couldn't get back lost time. You can't change the past. Time to start carving something out of the future. A future with Max in it.

"I'm back," he said, softly.

"Hm?" Max looked up into his face.

He wasn't aware that he had spoken aloud. "I said I'm back,." he said.

"You've been someplace I don't know about?"

"I've been all kinds of places. I'm in a really good place right now."

She gave him a wicked smile, and slid up his body for a lingering kiss.

Mike was thinking that it might just be time for round two, but man plans and God laughs. Max's phone came to life, and began playing a tune with a prominent banjo line, harmonica, and a lot of what sounded like clapping and foot stomping. He recognized Take 'Em Down by Dropkick Murphys.

"Jesus," she said. "Shelby. This can't possibly be good."

She detached herself from Mike, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up her phone.

"Max Hardy"

The conversation that followed was short. Mike got up, and found his boxers, while Max was asking questions of Shelby, with a sheet clutched around her. He caught the words "And it's the same?," and "Where?," followed by the absolute last words he wanted to hear. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

Max put the phone down, and started getting dressed. ""Sorry," she said. A perfect day off shot to hell."

"What is it?," Mike asked.

"There's this hacking case I'm working on, and the guy has hit again, and...I gotta go. Sorry."

"That makes two of us. Oh, I almost forgot. Your package came."

Max finished dressing, and hastily brushed her hair, then went to end table by the couch where she found her mail.. It consisted of two credit card offers, an offer to save her money on her car insurance , the latest issue of Vanity Fair, and a package from Galco Gunleather, containing her new shoulder holster. She cut the package open, took out the holster, tried it on, and began adjusting it.

Mike had thrown on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. He looked at the new holster she was wearing. "Nice," he said, in a tone that might have meant the holster or the woman wearing it. He examined the packing slip. "Miami Classic. Isn't that what Sonny Crockett had in Miami Vice? "

"I believe it was," Max replied.

Mike noticed the price tag. "Does your equipment allowance cover this?" ****

"Not completely. I spent some of my own money. I used a shoulder rig sometimes back when I was a detective. I was getting stakeout duty a lot in bad neighborhoods, where a girl can get attacked in a vehicle. I wanted to be sure I could get to my gun if I was attacked in a car. But they issued me with a cheap nylon job, and it was really uncomfortable. So I didn't keep it. Then last year I had a really bad experience in a parking garage. This knife wielding psycho whack job stabbed the man I loved, and dragged me out of a car. I couldn't get to my gun in time because I was sitting on it. So I decided to get another shoulder rig. But this time I wanted a really good one. Leather, for a change. It's kinda spendy, but I deserve the best, right?"

"Absolutely," Mike said.

Max went and got her Glock 19 *****, and checked to make sure it fit. Then she put two spare magazines into the magazine pouches under her right arm.

"You want some backup?," Mike asked.

"I'm meeting Dennis. Besides, you worked last night."

"So did Dennis. I was s hoping to spend my day off with you. But your day off is shot, which pretty much means mine is too. So maybe I could ride along. It beats notes on the refrigerator door. It'll be just like old times."

"Old times?," she said doubtfully. "You mean like, you, me, and a bunch of psychotic batshit crazy killers intent on snuffing the both of us? Yeah. The two of us had some good times." She realized that she had almost said "The three of us."

"Ok, well, it won't be exactly like old times."

"One condition," she said. "I don't how long this is going to take. If it runs late, you have to leave and be at Gwen's for dinner. She's cooking, and at least one of us has to be there, period, end of story."

"I promise I'll be there. Now tell me about this hacker."

"I'll fill you in on the way," Max said.

Max drove. As they pulled out of the parking lot, she asked "Do you want a little music on the way?"

"Sure," Mike said. "Now about this hacker..."

Musical Interlude: It's A Creepy World, by Deadbolt

And From Ryan's Car: Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash

* The Colt Officer's ACP, or Officer's Model as it's sometimes called, is a cut down version of the Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol that the US military used for most of the 20th Century. It's easily concealable, and holds six rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber. It's called the Officer's Model because it was originally meant for issue to General officers. As such, it's a pretty pistol, but not always terribly practical. I bought one once as a carry gun. It had reliability problems and was prone to jams. I eventually stopped using it.

New York City has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, but they are not always evenly enforced. Organized crime figures have obtained pistol permits through bribery, and political favor can help get you a permit as well.

** Politicians, pundits, and media types use the acronyms ISIS and ISIL, sometimes interchangeably, as names for a Mideast terrorist group that has taken control of large areas of Iraq and Syria, and is infamous for its atrocities. The proper acronym for its Arabic name is Daish., short for al-Dawla al-Islamiya fi al-Iraq wa al-Sham. Daish actively seeks recruits in America.

*** New York has the highest cigarette taxes in the nation, over $5 a pack. This leads to a thriving trade in smuggled cigarettes. As of this writing, the FBI has broken up two cigarette smuggling rings that were being used to fund terrorism.

**** As far as I know, FBI agents are given an equipment allowance with which they buy, among other things, their own holsters from an approved list. I have no idea if the Galco Miami Classic, or any other shoulder holster, is on that list.

After the end of Season 2, Jessica Stroup gave an interview to Young Hollywood, which can be found on YouTube, describing her favorite Following moments. In it, she describes the problems they had with Max's wardrobe because she had to carry a gun. They had to sew belt loops on her pants so she could wear a belt, which she needed in order to wear a holster.

Early in Season 2, Max Hardy used a shoulder holster, but later stopped. This raises the question of why, rather than go to all the trouble of sewing belt loops on her pants, They didn't just let Max keep her shoulder holster. I have worn a cheap nylon shoulder holster like the one Max had, and I can testify that they are torture to wear, and mostly don't work. The worst models can actually press on the tendons under your arm. After a few minutes, you will want to Take. That. Thing. Off. I have taken the liberty of giving Max a good reason to use a shoulder holster at the start of Season 2, and a reason why she stopped. I suspect the real reason Max lost her shoulder rig is that Jessica Stroup found that piece of cheap nylon crap as miserably uncomfortable to wear as I did.

A cheap nylon holster like Max had will cost about $25-$30, which is why the prop department has them. A good quality shoulder rig will run you $200-$300, depending.

In any case, I have decided that Max Hardy, at long last, should have a shoulder holster that actually works. And the next whack job who attacks her in a vehicle or a parking garage is going to be dead right there.

***** Max carried a SIG P239 second season, when she was a detective, and a Glock 17 when she became an FBI agent in Season 3. Mike Weston used a Glock 17 in all three seasons. Both guns fire a 9mm cartridge. In real life, the FBI issues agents with a Glock 23, which takes the .40 S&W, a cartridge that was originally created specifically for the FBI. Agents may use their own funds to buy the smaller, more compact Glock 27, also in .40 caliber, as a backup if they so desire.

Since it is Following canon that the FBI uses 9mm pistols, the FBI uses 9mm pistols in this story. Mike still has his Glock 17, but Max now has the more compact Glock 19, which would work a little better with her shoulder holster. In real life, the 19, being smaller and easier to conceal, is far more likely to be used by plainclothes officers. The Glock 17 holds 17 round magazine, the magazine for 19, being smaller, holds only 15 rounds. . Ryan Hardy carried a Glock 19 in season 1.