"Stephen, could you get it?"

Kim called out and pushed her hair away from her face with the back of her hand, still clutching the sauce-coated spoon. A haircut would have to wait until she got the suitcases unpacked and the laundry done. Re-entry after a long trip was always a logistical nightmare, and they'd been in New York for two weeks visiting her father. She smiled, marveling at the memory of Jack playing with Teri, taking her to the zoo and generally letting his granddaughter boss him around. Two years ago, Kim had not even known where he was. She hadn't wanted to admit, even to herself, that it wasn't likely she'd ever find him.

And now he was moving back to L.A. She mentally added apartment hunting to her list of things to accomplish before the haircut. She hoped he was okay. Maybe it had been a mistake to encourage him to go back to CTU, but she knew he would never be able to relax if he thought there was something he'd left undone there.

On the floor behind her, Teri had opened the drawer of Tupperware and was happily banging on piles of upside-down containers with a spoon of her own. Kim smiled at her and gave the spaghetti sauce another stir.

She had completely forgotten about the phone when Stephen startled her by putting his hand on her shoulder. "Kim, it's for you."

"Can I call them back? Lunch is just about ready and Teri's still on New York time."

"I think you'll want to take this," Stephen said, and took a breath, his mouth working to form itself around an unfamiliar phrase. "It's the President."

A chill travelled down Kim's spine and settled in her stomach like a block of ice. "Oh, God."

Wordlessly, she handed the spoon to Stephen and walked into the living room. Her hand was slippery on the phone as she held it to her ear. "This is Kim."

"Hold for the President."

"Kimberly?"

The voice was familiar from the news. Shit. The news. She hadn't had time to watch. Anything could have happened. "Yes, Madame President." She forced the words out of a mouth suddenly dry as stale crackers.

"Kim, I don't have much time, but I wanted to talk to you myself."

"Has something happened to my father?"

"I'm afraid so, yes."

"Oh my God." The room went blurry and Kim felt blindly for the sofa. "It's my fault. I told him to go back. I –"

The President interrupted. "No, Kim, it's my fault. If I had listened to him, none of this would have happened." She paused, her breathing uneven. "Kim, listen to me. This is important. You may be in danger."

"In danger?" Kim's eyes instinctively went to the kitchen doorway.

"Yes. Your father is a fugitive. The people who are looking for him may come after you to get to him." The President spoke quickly. "Chloe O'Brien is arranging protection for you."

"You mean – my father's not dead?" A glimmer of hope.

"No. But he may already be out of the country." The President paused again. "Kim, he won't be able to contact you, but he left something for you. A recording. I'm going to send it to you"

Kim tried to process this information as she felt the hope slip away. "I see."

"Kim, I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am. Your father is a courageous man."

Kim knew that already. How many times during her life had she wished for a father who was a little less brave and a little more around? But this time, it was on her. She was the one who had pushed him to get involved again, and now it sounded as if she would never see him again. And now she had other things – other people – to think about.

"Thank you."

She hung up the phone and sat, staring into space, for a long moment. Then she breathed. She could do this. She knew, all too well, how to do this.

xxxxxxx

President Taylor hung up the phone and walked to the closed door of her office at the United Nations. Tim was waiting for her in the hallway.

"Are you ready, Madam President?"

"No. But it's time."

"The Attorney General is on his way up."

"Thank you, Tim."

xxxxxxxx

Inspector Marc Tremblay shifted in his chair at the back of the conference room. At the front of the room, the speaker was reading the text from his Powerpoint slides, a presentation style that Marc particularly hated. So he reached for his phone with more than the usual enthusiasm when it phone buzzed softly against his hip. His relief at the distraction turned to curiosity when his display identified the call as originating from a pay phone. Only informants and people in trouble used pay phones any more. He stood and squeezed past the other people in the row of chairs on his way to the door, fending off the questioning look from his partner, Stéphane, by holding up his phone.

The phone was still buzzing when he reached the hallway.

"Oui, 'allo?"

"Marc?"

"Yes."

"Marc, it's Jack Brownlee."

Marc's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't heard from Jack for years, and frankly hadn't expected to. The two men had crossed paths twice, and the last time had ended with Jack pulling him out of a frozen river. He'd saved Marc's life. Whatever reason Jack had for using his alias, Marc was willing to play along.

"Brownlee. It's been a long time."

"Yeah." Jack's breathing was laboured. "Marc, I need your help."

"I'll do whatever I can, Jack. I owe you that much."

"I don't know how easy this will be for you from where you are." Jack stopped to cough. "I'm in Halifax."

Marc started walking to the stairs leading out of the conference centre to the parking lot. "As it happens, so am I. Where are you?"

"Salter Street, near the docks."

"Sit tight. I'll be there in five."

"Bring a medical kit."

Marc paused long enough to leave a note for Stéphane with the woman at the registration desk, saying he would be back after lunch, before heading to his rented car. His bag was still in the trunk, as his flight from Ottawa had been delayed and he hadn't had time to check in to the hotel. He always travelled with a good medical kit, and he dug it out, placing it on the passenger seat.

xxxxxxxx

Jack hung up the phone clumsily, his fingers stiff. He hoped it was just the cold – the breeze blowing off the water was unseasonably chilly – but he hadn't taken his medication for over 48 hours. There was no way he was getting more, so he forced himself not to worry about it and instead rubbed his hands together to get circulation going. There were still some traces of blood under his fingernails. He jammed his hands deep into the pockets of his stolen jacket and walked quickly along the pier, away from the few tourists posing for photographs. The last thing he needed was to show up in somebody's holiday pictures.

He passed a skinny busker singing a sea shanty.

It's been six years since we sailed away
And I only made Halifax yesterday.
God damn them all
I was told
We'd sail the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns
Shed no tears,
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier
The last of Barrett's Privateers.

Jack snorted and headed for a dumpster close to the road. He could hide there until Marc arrived.

It looked like he was finally catching a break. First, he'd been able to sneak aboard a small boat heading across the border relatively easily. And now his only trustworthy contact in Canada was coincidentally in the same city. Jack hadn't expected that. Hadn't known exactly what to expect, or how he thought Marc could help. It wasn't like Marc could go through official channels. At this point, all Jack could do was put one foot in front of the other, knowing that each step would take him further away from the people looking for him, and the only three people he ever wanted to see again.

He crouched behind the dumpster to wait for Marc. He could do this. He knew, all too well, how to do this.