They drive for hours that seem endless — it must actually be days — passing in a blur of half-sleep, isolated gas stations, pit stops by the side of the road. They've changed cars at least twice that she can remember, but she's so hazy now that it might have been more. The only constants have become her dreamy state of horror and sadness, and the warmth of his body, solid against her as they slide smoothly along unknown roads.

It's pitch black and deathly quiet as they stop again and he urges her out of the car. She stands still while he speaks briefly to their driver, letting her eyes adjust to the dark; lets him take her arm to guide her steps as the car turns around and drives away. There's no other car — she guesses they're walking from here.

She shivers a little as they walk — it's cold, but it wakes her up a bit, and she starts to take in their surroundings. They're not on the side of the road; their car drove off it to let them out… in the desert.

"Reddington?" she says, hesitant, "Where are we?"

"North end of Death Valley," he answers cheerfully. "Come on, Lizzie, we've got to get undercover quickly."

They are approaching a chain link fence, covered in "No Entry" and "Hazard" signs. She wonders if they'll need to climb it, then decides that her imagination can't stretch to Reddington boosting himself over a fence. Thankfully, there's a gate.

He digs around in his case and pulls out a key, unlocks and opens the gate. Once they're through, he does a little fancy handwork to refasten the lock on the outside. She lets herself take a minute to admire his dexterous fingers, then shakes it off.

A little more walking, and the shape of a large, single story building with a peaked roof becomes visible a short distance away; in front of it is a smaller, more oblong shape. It's the smaller shape they are heading for — she can't make out any details, can't be sure what type of building it is. He slides open a door in the side — this one isn't locked, she notes absently — and waves her inside. It's even darker in the small building, though, and she hesitates.

"Come on, Lizzie," he coaxes. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I think I've had my fill of adventure for a while," she murmurs back, and fishes a penlight out of her jacket.

"Wait until I shut the door again," he says quickly, "Then aim it at the floor."

She appreciates his caution, even though it keeps her on edge. When she hears the heavy metal door clunk into place, she twists on her light. They are in a narrow, long room that seems to basically be a metal box — it's empty. She sweeps the narrow beam along the floor; stops when she gets a reflection off a smooth patch in the long stretch of corrugated iron.

"Aha!" he cries. "Well done, Lizzie, and on the first try, too!"

He crouches down and presses his palm flat on the smooth metal; a section of the floor slides smoothly away. She moves the light a little to see a stairway leading downward into the earth.

"You've got to be kidding me," she says faintly.

"Not claustrophobic, are you?" he asks, ushering her forward. "No, I'd know if you were."

She rolls her eyes, glad he's behind her and can't see her face. Honestly, she thinks, is there no end to his arrogance?

They make their way carefully down a lengthy flight of stairs to a smooth-walled hallway with a steel door at its end. When they reach the door, he enters a numeric code that she doesn't quite catch into a keypad on the right, opens the door, and sweeps an arm in invitation.

"In you go, sweetheart," he says. "I'll get the lights."


She takes a few steps past the door; blinks as warm light fills the room she finds herself in. It looks like a living room — midsize, with a comfortable-looking couch and a couple of plush chairs, a low table, a few healthy-seeming plants. The unusual aspect is that the room is circular, and seems to be a kind of hub for a number of rooms spaced around the outer wall — there are eight, she counts them automatically. The biggest, completely open, is a kitchen, she assumes a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom, then she's not so sure.

"Reddington," she says slowly, turning back to him. "Is this… some kind of survival shelter? Like… a bunker?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Well," he says, a touch disapproving, "We are clearly underground, with survival as our main aim. I object strenuously to 'shelter' and 'bunker', though. This is a fully-equipped safe house; all the comforts of home."

She laughs, and it's tinged with hysteria. "An underground bunk… sorry, safe house. Have you been prepping for TEOTWAWKI, Red? Is there a still down here somewhere?"

"I am sure I don't know what you mean," he replies, all offended dignity. "I had this designed specifically, and built a couple of years ago, shortly before I turned myself in. For… emergencies. Which, I think it's safe to say, this is."

"So, what… we're going to hide out underground?! For how long?" She can hear herself growing shrill, waspish, and hates it. But she's filthy, hungry, and exhausted — they've been traveling for days, and everything is smeared with a surreal quality that makes her even more disorientated. She hates feeling helpless.

"At this moment," he answers stiffly — and she can tell he's angry now, "I can think of a number of ways to answer you. However, since I know that you must feel as wretched as I do, I'll stick with covering the basic facts.

"Yes, we're going to spend some time here — a few weeks at least, probably more like a month. Since the FBI has the tail numbers and details of my plane, it's not safe to leave the country right now. Staying quiet and hidden will throw off pursuit and protect us both from the Cabal while we make plans. I assure you we will be quite comfortable here. Bedrooms and the bathroom are to the left there, past the kitchen — yours is the far bedroom; you'll find clothing and toiletries there. I'm going to suggest that we both try to get some sleep now, and discuss our situation further in the morning."

He hesitates, then squeezes her hand gently. "Don't be afraid, Lizzie," he says softly. "I've got you." And he disappears into the first bedroom and shuts the door.

She takes a couple of steps after him, then stops, heaves a gusty sigh. Okay, she thinks, Okay. Sleep first. She knows that she needs the time to settle, regroup — from her discoveries about her parents and about Reddington, from Tom, from the shooting. She uses the bathroom quickly, then heads for the room he called hers; sits down on the bed to take off her boots.

Then there's nothing else until morning.