Nine agents dead. Nearly twice that many injured, six still in the hospital in critical condition. Nine good men and women he'd sent into harm's way who hadn't come home. Nine grieving families he'd had to contact. Nine official inquiries he'd had to fumble through.

Nine more people he'd failed to keep safe.

Kurt Weller rubbed his forehead and grimaced. All he'd done for the past three days was notify families and answer the same questions, over and over.

And fight with Nas. She'd tried to throw Jane under the bus the minute Matthew Weitz appeared in the NYO with another warrant. She might have succeeded, too, had Patterson not been able to verify that Borden was a mole and had Jane not been able to back up her story by producing an angry and confused Roman. Nas had quickly changed her approach, deciding that since both Roman and Jane were now Shepherd's targets, they could be dangled as bait to lure Sandstorm out of hiding–an approach which would put Jane as well as her brother in as much if not more danger than she'd been in as a double agent.

More people in harm's way.

He shoved the paperwork on his desk away from him and glared through the window in front of him.

In the bullpen outside his office, the team was arrayed around Patterson's screen as she outlined the plan to return to tattoo decryption while they were waiting for a break in the Sandstorm investigation. To Patterson's right stood Nas, arms crossed in front of her, face impassive as she listened. Jane stood on Patterson's opposite side, her stance almost a mirror image of Nas's. No question that this working relationship was on rocky ground. But next to Jane stood Zapata and Reade, present in spite of the bulky bandage visible around his upper leg. Kurt wasn't sure if their show of loyalty was entirely conscious. Neither of them had fully forgiven Jane, but they also hadn't agreed with Nas's immediate conclusion that Jane was to blame for the explosion at the Sandstorm compound.

If he hadn't been watching his team so closely, he might have missed the tiny shift in Jane's posture. Her arms remained crossed over her chest, but she rotated slightly, straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders. Preparing to fight.

Kurt was out of his desk and moving out into the bullpen, scanning for the threat before he even registered that he was doing it. And then he saw the Deputy Director of the CIA, arms swinging loosely as he strolled into the middle of Kurt's team.

"So this is where the magic happens," Keaton drawled. "Or used to happen. Hasn't been too magical lately, I hear."

"What do you want, Keaton?" Kurt demanded, half a step behind him.

The other man turned slightly to face Kurt. "Heard you guys got some bad intel this week. Thought I'd come and see if I could offer any assistance in getting to the bottom of it," he said, looking for all the world as if he were offering to buy them a round of drinks. "But I must admit, I'm surprised to see that you're letting your 'asset' wander around like this. I was under the impression that she was the source of your bad intel."

If Kurt hadn't been glancing at Nas at that moment, he would have missed it. The tiny flicker in her eye at Keaton's words told Kurt exactly where Keaton had gotten his information.

"Looks like you got some bad intel, too, Keaton," said Kurt, keeping his gaze steady and his tone of voice light.

"Are you sure? I could ask Ms. Doe a few questions for you. She and I have such a rapport, after all." Keaton flashed a large, toothy smile at Jane that did nothing to warm the malevolent glint in his eye.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt saw Zapata and Reade shift closer to Jane, in a silent show of solidarity. He was only slightly surprised. The agents may not have welcomed Jane back into the fold, but that didn't mean they were willing to hand her back to the CIA for more rounds of torture.

"I don't think that will be necessary," said Kurt. "If we need CIA assistance here at the FBI, I know who to call."

"Of course, I still have a few questions of my own that I'd love to ask your asset. Maybe I could just borrow her for a bit, while you're finishing up your investigation."

Kurt ignored Keaton's request, his attention fully focused on Jane. She hadn't moved, still stood with her arms crossed, the expression on her face completely blank. To any other observer, she probably looked relaxed, maybe even slightly bored by the proceedings. But Kurt wasn't any observer. He knew Jane, had seen her angry, upset, tense, uncertain. But the Jane he was looking at right now set every nerve in his body humming like a tuning fork, because this Jane was terrified. Her steady, unblinking gaze was trained on Keaton, her pupils so dilated that the green was little more than a slender ring around them. Her entire body was poised for either flight or violence, and Kurt wasn't going to wait to see which trigger went off first.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid Jane won't be able to help you out, either now or in the future. But thanks for stopping by." He crossed his own arms, staring down the other man until he acquiesced with a shrug.

"Fine, I can wait. This farce has to end at some point." Keaton smiled at Jane again. "I'll be waiting for you."

"I'm sure you know the way out," Kurt said pointedly, mentally willing Jane to stay still.

With a last, speaking glance at Jane, Keaton pivoted and headed back toward the elevator.

The second he exited the bullpen, Jane bolted through the door behind her.

Kurt was already following. "Make sure he leaves the building," he murmured to Zapata as he passed her. She and Reade nodded, but Kurt didn't slow.

He pushed through the doorway into the hallway, just in time to see the door to the women's restroom at the opposite end of the hall swung shut.

He stopped outside the door, tempted to follow her in, but still rational enough to realize that bursting into the women's restroom might not be the best plan, especially if there was anyone else in there.

A moment passed and no one came out, and he couldn't hear anything inside. He pushed the door open just far enough that he could peek inside. The sink area was empty, all the stall doors open except for the one furthest from the door, from which emanated the faint sound of someone being sick.

He let the door close again, turning his back to it and planting his feet squarely in front of it. The door at the end of the hallway opened, and two female agents entered. They looked surprised to find him blocking the restroom door. He nodded to them, but crossed his arms over his chest and didn't move. They hesitated, exchanged glances, then turned around to head back through the door.

In the bathroom behind him, he heard a toilet flush, and then the sound of water running. With a last look around the empty hallway, he pushed through the restroom door and locked it behind him.

Jane was leaning over the sink, rinsing out her mouth. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of him in the mirror, and she straightened up, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth. "Kurt."

"Are you okay?"

Her spine grew even straighter. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," he said softly.

"I am fine."

He scrubbed a hand over his face. She was the strongest, most stubborn woman he'd ever met, and he might have left it at that, if he couldn't still see the pale sheen of perspiration across her forehead. If he couldn't see the way her hands were trembling. If he couldn't practically hear her nerves jangling from five feet away. "Jane, you know that we're not going to let Keaton near you."

Her stormy green gaze clashed with his. "You're the one who handed me over to him last time. Forgive me if I don't find your assurances all that reassuring this time around."

He swallowed, but it did nothing to dislodge the ball of shame and guilt that had taken up residence in his throat. "Jane, the CIA took you out of our custody, we didn't hand you over."

She nodded. "And there is nothing to stop them from taking me out of your custody again."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she barreled on. "I have no legal name, no identity. I can't get a driver's license or a real job. I have no legal rights. I'm only here as long as Sandstorm wants to kill me. As soon as we get them, I'm out of here, and then there is nothing that is going to protect me from him." She shook her head slightly. "Shepherd just wants me dead. If I'm lucky, she'll get to me before Keaton does." She whirled away from him and savagely ripped a few paper towels from the dispenser, thrusting them under the faucet.

Kurt froze, stunned into immobility. She was right, he knew, but hearing her say it out loud like that… it shook him. She hadn't been innocent, of course, but she hadn't deserved to be tortured by Keaton, either.

He might not have handed her to the CIA, but he hadn't tried to stop them from taking her, either.

Another person hurt on his watch. Another person he'd promised–and failed–to protect.

She wiped the damp towel over her face and threw it in the trashcan.

She pivoted to face him, her rigid self-control firmly in place again. "I'm fine."

"Jane," he said slowly, and then stopped, her words ringing in his ears.

Shepherd just wants me dead. If I'm lucky, she'll get to me before Keaton does.

This time, he could keep her safe. He could offer her more protection than he had the last time. He couldn't bring back his dead agents, he couldn't promise her that Shepherd would never get to her. But he did have the power to protect her from Keaton.

She was standing, waiting for him to move out of the way, any and all vulnerabilities hidden away again, under lock and key. "We should get back to the briefing."

"I can keep you safe from Keaton," he told her, "if you marry me."