Traffic is light but the air outside his apartment is thick with diesel fumes from one street over where beat up sedans and trucks spew black exhaust day and night. It's dusk so he bows his head when headlights approach. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, he moves at an even pace, taking care to steer clear of any streetlights. His beard is thick-same with his glasses behind which his eyes are dark green, courtesy of contacts. Still, he has to be careful.

It's crazy- you would think he might be less of a priority after four years.

Guess again.

Apparently the CIA has a shortage of meaningful work to do.

He looks up and sees the familiar medicine bottle-shaped sign over the door of a shop coming up on his right. Lily Apoteka, the sign reads. Thankfully the Serbs are a lot less uptight about controlled substances and sell the codeine and acetaminophen tablets he needs over the counter. The pain is another thing he thought would have eased up over time. Without Mercer's cocktail of drugs his joint and muscle pain had come back with a vengeance just days after he fled New York.

But that had been four years ago.

Kudos to the power of neurotoxins to mess you up for life.

There's a new clerk behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with a friendly face who says something about rain on the way but he doesn't return her small talk. He pays her the 425 dinars she asks for, peeling off two hundreds and two tens and thanks her in Serbian when she hands him his change. Waving off her attempt to put the pills in a bag, he pockets them instead and hurries out. It kills him that he has to be so unfriendly but he wants very few people to see or hear him long enough to remember much.

It's drizzling when he steps outside and he hunches against the wet and the cold. Thankfully Kafi Voz is just around the corner because he hasn't eaten since late morning and a familiar queasy feeling is starting to wrap its fingers around his gut. Once inside he nods at the owner who offers him his choice of tables. He picks his usual one in the back near the kitchen so he can see who comes and goes and has a ready exit. Once he's seated, a waitress comes to the table already carrying a Nisko beer and a basket of bread. Like the rest of the wait staff, she knows what he likes and doesn't like. He thanks her when she sets down his beer and tells her he'll have the pepper steak, tonight, medium rare. His Serbian is passable, definitely better than it was when he first started coming here but still clearly not his native language. Early on, she asked him where he was from. Now, like the others she barely speaks to him.

As soon as she walks away, getting something in his stomach is the first order of business. He's grateful for how quickly a few bites of bread settle it. Next he shakes two tablets out of the bottle in his pocket and downs them with a long swig of beer. Feeling nearly human again, he pulls a newspaper out of his coat pocket and unfolds it. Danas, the banner across the top reads. It's Belgrade's left leaning daily newspaper. At first it was hard for him to take anything formatted like The National Enquirer seriously. The news is accurate though and the bias isn't too glaring so it's grown on him. As he scans the headlines the going is slow. Even though many of the Cyrillic letters are perfect imitators of the alphabet he's far more comfortable with, their pronunciation is entirely different. Throw in the other letters that are totally foreign looking and he has to concentrate hard just to read the headlines. A paperback or US paper would have been more enjoyable but he never lets himself be seen with anything from home. Ever.

Exactly an hour later he's back in his apartment. Most nights he forces himself to take a walk after dinner but it's Wednesday and he's too anxious to do anything but get back. While he's still taking off his coat he opens the kitchen drawer where he keeps a supply of burner phones and grabs one. As soon as he drops his coat on the couch he rips open the package and punches in a ten-digit code that will route his call through a special server Ricker still runs. He'll have two untraceable minutes, guaranteed, two and a half if he wants to press his luck. He waits to hear a shrill beep and then dials Kim's number. His fingers tremble. He sits down and checks his watch while he waits, knowing that at least the first two rings are bogus; that the call is still bouncing off satellites and between towers.

"Hello?"

Oh God. It's the same every time he hears her voice; his heart is in his throat. "Hi honey, it's me."

"I thought it might be."

She sounds happy; his shoulders relax a little.

"How are you Dad?"

"I'm…. good. I just got back from dinner."

"Oh yeah? What did you have?"

"I…, I don't remember. Steak, I think. It's not important. Tell me how you are. Tell me about Teri, what's she up to?"

"Oh my God, she's amazing. I told you last week about this story writing kick she's on, right? Well I swear she's going to be a writer-this week she wrote one about a little girl who goes to New York city and finds her long lost dog. Oh and she illustrated it too. It totally blew me away."

"Wow that's terrific."

"And she's still swimming like a fish-she has a meet this weekend."

"What's she swimming?"

"Just freestyle-it's her best stroke."

"Tell her I hope she does well."

"I will but I don't think she really cares what her time is. She pretty much just goes along for the snacks they have after the meet."

"Aw…, that reminds me of you when you played soccer."

"Really?"

"Yeah… really," he says while he blinks back traitorous tears.

"Are you okay Dad, your voice sounds a little funny."

"I'm fine. It's just the connection."

"So are you… staying busy?"

"Yeah. Sure. I picked up a few new books at that bookstore I told you I found. And I'm trying to work out every day."

"Did you see your friend Peter this week?"

"Yeah, last night as a matter of fact. We went for a few beers."

A solitary tear makes its way down his cheek as he tells another lie about a person who doesn't exist. "Next week we're going… to a soccer game."

"That sounds like fun, is it in Belgrade?"

Another tear rolls down his cheek. "Yeah. We'll take the bus it's only thirty minutes away. "

"Cool, I hope you have fun."

There's a long empty pause. Finally Kim breaks the silence.

"I miss you so much Dad."

Oh God. Don't. "I miss you too, baby. I… I think of you and Teri all the time."

"Is there any way… any way at all we can see you? What are you hearing about the CIA?"

"Same as I've been hearing all along; they're still actively working to bring me in."

"I can't stand this any longer. I was thinking Stephen and I could take Teri on a vacation someplace in Europe and you could meet us?"

"No!" All of a sudden his heart is pounding in his chest. "They would have you under even tighter surveillance over here."

"Oh Dad."

He hears her swallow hard and does the same thing. He can almost see her lip trembling; his arms ache to be around her.

"Well just so you know," she says in a shaky voice, "every day, at least a hundred times a day, I think of you and miss you."

It feels like his throat is being ripped open; the ache is that bad.

"Same here…. baby. I'm so sorry that I-"

"No, Dad! Stop. I've told you, before. You have nothing to be sorry for. You only did what you thought was right."

"Thank you." He's suddenly so exhausted it takes all he has to choke out, "I… I love you, KIm."

"I love you too. Are we out of time?"

"Nearly. Give Teri… a kiss for me, okay?"

"I will and you take care of yourself."

"I will. Bye for now, honey."

As soon as he hangs up, the storm crashes down on him. It's the same every week. Ugly violent sobs rack his shoulders and an anguished keening sound rips its way out of his throat. Cradling his face in his hands he gives into it; he has no choice. He sobs for all he's lost and will never get back. He sobs because he's so incredibly lonely and it's always going to be this way. Tonight is worse than usual- it's a long time before he stands up and goes into the bathroom for a tissue.

When he looks at his bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked face in the mirror he grimaces and has to fight back more tears.

It's no use.

He grips the sink to ride out another wave of sobs.

When it's this bad-when he hurts this much he wonders why he should go on. The gun under his mattress calls to him; the thought of ending his pain is so sweet he has to wrap his arms around himself and say "No," out loud.

No.

He can't.

Kim would be devastated.

Later that night…

He rolls over and spoons up against her warm body. The swell of her bottom against him makes him sigh in his sleep and then a second later makes sleep impossible.

Suddenly the night's pain is vanquished. He tilts his hips; pressing against her while he very gently lays his hand on her hip and savors the feel of her soft, smooth skin. Should he let her sleep?

There's no way he can.

His hand sets off on a slow luxurious explore as he edges closer so he can press his lips against her neck and drink in her familiar scent. He can't help but moan as he kisses her.

"Ja…ck, " she says sleepily. And then sounding a little more awake, "Jack."

He knows she won't chastise him or muzzily tell him to go back to sleep. Her body is totally in sync with his; his arousal almost always triggers an identical response in her. "Well hello there, " she murmurs, stretching and pressing back against him.

"I'm sorry… I woke up."

"Hmm, something definitely feels wide awake back there."

"Come'ere you."

She goes limp and lets him pull her over on her back. Her soft moan tells him she's catching up fast.

"My God, look at you," he says.

It's the same every time. The sight of her naked body completely blows him away. Pushing the bed-covers away, he straddles her with his knees. It feels so incredible; all he's aware of is the sweet sensation where their bodies meet.

And then a siren shatters the quiet.

It's just an ordinary night noise but suddenly he's awake and shivering and confused. His blanket and sheet are nowhere to be seen. He's lying on his stomach with his arms wrapped around a pillow and underneath him the bed feels damp. "No. Oh God, No," he chokes out.

It happened again.

His mind and body betrayed him. Hot tears spill down his cheeks as he stumbles toward the bathroom. He thinks about the gun under his mattress. He wants to feel its heft in his hand so badly it frightens him. He forces himself to turn on the shower. He can't go back in that room yet.

He just can't.