Disclaimer: I own nothing. The Blacklist and all its characters belong to NBC and Jon Bokenkamp. You can't sue me, I don't have any money.
Author's note: Short. Takes place at some point after Anslo Garrick but before Red calls Lizzie from the payphone. Disregards everything after this episode.
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The ancient mattress creaks under his weight as he sits down heavily on the edge. Springs. He lifts an eyebrow in surprise even though there's nobody to see it. He was expecting sponge.
The motel was one of those rent-by-the-hour sort of places that he would normally avoid like the plague, but tonight he could not care less.
He stared at the closed curtains, trying to pull together a few shreds of courage to get up and change. Perhaps a shower wouldn't be such a bad idea either. Whatever he had been dosed with was slowly wearing off, but his body still ached. His shoulders felt as though they had both been dislocated and his wrists were rubbed raw. His miscellaneous cuts, scrapes and bruises felt as if they had been doused with alcohol. The scars on his back burned, but not as badly as they had that first night.
He got up and walked back to the door where he had dropped the go bag. It was the only thing he grabbed from the nearest safe house before he disappeared into the late afternoon rush. He wanted to stay longer, shower, perhaps even sleep for a few hours, but it was a risk he simply couldn't take. As he bent over to pick up the black duffel his knees gave him a painful reminder of his age.
Only the good die young... The problem was that he wasn't so young anymore.
He dumped the contents of the bag out onto the bed and took a quick inventory: A change of clothes, a few candy bars, sidearm, knife, multi tool, passport, cash, small emergency medical kit, basic toiletries, burner phone.
He turned the phone on and plugged it in to charge fully. He showered as quickly as the pathetic water pressure would allow and by the time he pulled on the clean clothes and saw to his injuries he was starting to feel more like himself again.
There were things that needed to be done. Somebody in his inner circle had turned on him. Whoever it was had blood on his hands. He made a mental list of the people who had enough knowledge of his plans to pull of something like this. He immediately scratched off a few names: It was highly unlikely to be Lizzie and Dembe was too loyal to him... His pilot had potential... Grey, perhaps. Kate could be scratched from the list as well. The cabal was also an option, their influence reached far and wide. Berlin.
He should call Lizzie. He needed to make sure she was safe and sound.
He toyed with the idea of phoning Dembe, but there was always the possibility that he was being watched. Dembe had worked for him on and off for many years, most of his associates knew him. He would have to contact him more discretely. The boy knew what to do until he was contacted.
He knew Lizzie had contacted Kate. Cleaner, go to girl, doctor and medical examiner... A little old lady she was not. Kate knew what to do in this sort of situation, she would know witch domino's to tick down if he didn't survive this crusade. He needed to make contact with her at some point, discuss contingency plans, make arrangements, but it could wait for now.
The bed was oddly comfortable and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. A few hours of sleep and then he would move. There was work to be done.
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