The soft light from the table lamp gave the glass of scotch the look of liquid amber, but the occupant of the large leather wingback chair couldn't have cared less. Oscar had stopped caring about anything four weeks ago, when the one thing he cared about most of all was ripped from his life. And to make the tragedy that much greater, it had been all his fault.

Jaime had resisted going on the mission, and truth be told, he had serious misgivings about sending her. The intelligence they had was just too sketchy, and the danger far too great. But the pressure from the Secretary, the Joint Chiefs – hell, half the government – had been relentless and intense, and ultimately he caved in, practically bullying Jaime into going with reassurances that everything would be just fine. She had trusted him, secure in her belief that he would never intentionally bring her harm, and just two days later she was dead. He had killed her just as surely as if he had wielded the knife himself.

Those close to him at the OSI were amazed at how well he was holding up; instead of the expected breakdown, he had surprised them all by carrying on with a stoic resolve. What little sorrow he permitted them to see gave no clue as to the extent of the devastation to the man within.

To say that he was – had been – in love with Jaime didn't begin to hint at the magnitude of his feelings for her. From nearly the first time he met her, this young woman had captivated his soul like no other, and every look, every touch, every word seemed to strengthen the bond between them. He loved her with an intensity that at times threatened to overwhelm all reason, yet it was a love that he had kept to himself. She would have to have been blind not to see it; still he could never bring himself to express it to her, and this was as much a factor of his grief as anything else. Even though they had never had so much as a single date, shared a kiss, or even said 'I love you', his heart was as devoted to her as if they were married, and it was obvious to all that Jaime had become the center of his emotional universe. Now she was gone, and the guilt, pain and anguish were unbearable.

Not for the first time, great tears of grief streamed down Oscar's cheeks. All he could think of was her laying there dying - cold, frightened and alone - slowly bleeding to death in that god-forsaken hellhole, while he sat, oblivious, thousands of miles away. God, how he wished he could turn back time! To swoop in and save her, to take her into his arms and tell her how very much he loved her – or better yet, to never send her off to begin with. But for as much as he willed it, there was no going back - only forward, and to Oscar forward was impossible.

Taking one last swig of scotch, the Director of the OSI picked up the snub-nosed Colt revolver resting in his lap and slid the cold steel barrel through his alcohol-soaked lips. Forgive me, God, he thought to himself, as his finger deftly pulled the trigger.