Olivia raised her Glock, then gave Peter the nod. He grinned eagerly and put all his weight behind the kick, and the door crashed open, splinters flying.
He was getting real good at kicking down doors.
Olivia moved in and crouched before the door could even slam into the wall, gun at the ready. "FBI! Freeze!"
Just as she had anticipated, Levon Williams turned tail and ran toward the back of the apartment. Olivia followed suit, though checking dark corners and open doors as a precaution. As she sped off, she heard Peter take off downstairs as their quarry crashed through a window onto the fire escape.
Olivia and Peter have done this so often that the same outcome is virtually guaranteed; unless Williams had a getaway vehicle ready at the bottom of the fire escape, he was as good as caught. She saw Williams leap over the rail and drop to the ground, stumble badly, then take off down the alleyway.
It's too risky, she thought to herself. You could break an ankle...
Despite her misgivings, Olivia ignored her own advice and hurdled over the railing, landing twenty feet behind Williams. She pursued him at a brisk jog; no sense in tiring herself out if Peter is about to make his appearance...
Williams reached the edge of the building, and was hurled to the sidewalk face first after a two-by-four struck him across the shins. Peter stepped out from around the corner where he had been standing and grinned. "That never gets old!"
Olivia flashed him a smile as she cuffed the groaning Williams.
All in a day's work.
Driving Peter home, Olivia shared a grin; they had successfully solved a case, and for once, no one had died. "It went well today, didn't it?"
Peter chuckled. "We got lucky. Williams was an amateur."
His remark caused the wheels in Olivia's head to turn. They've never spoken much about Peter's past line of work, she realized. Of course, that was before they found themselves in their current relationship; if she asked about it now, would she get more than evasion this time? She wanted to know everything about Peter, especially the things that he'd probably not want her to. Both because they'd wasted so much time already, and because at some point it just might become important.
She phrased the question as a hypothetical. "If you were Williams, what would you have done differently?"
He stared into the distance, thinking. "If I were Williams, I wouldn't have called my mother to announce I was leaving. I would've assumed we were listening in, which we were. He got sentimental. Plus, he didn't have an escape plan. He was just winging it."
Olivia studied his face. Peter is trying his best to be unreadable, but it never works with her.
"Do you have an escape plan?" She keeps her eyes on the road, her voice neutral, giving him time to consider his answer. Then she adds the kicker. "Full disclosure."
Peter winces. "Yeah, I do. I set it up a week after I got back in Boston. Haven't even thought about it for over a year."
Olivia pulled into the driveway of the Bishop household, shut off the motor of the SUV, and stared at Peter. Peter waited for her say something, fidgeting a little.
She twined her fingers in his, her green eyes confronting his blue. "Tell me?"
Peter pulls her hand up to his lips, kissed her fingers. "I'll do better than that. I'll show you the whole thing – starting tomorrow morning."
He leaned in to kiss her, and Olivia was overcome by a wave of affection. She wrapped her arms around his neck and indulged herself. They spent the next few minutes making out like high-schoolers until Peter finally forced himself to pull away.
"Are you going to spend the night?" he said, caressing her cheek.
Olivia chewed her lips, glanced past him toward the house. She could see Walter staring at them through the windows, a giddy expression on his face.
"With Walter here...I don't think so. Not sure I can handle that, yet."
Peter kissed her forehead fondly.
"It's alright," he replied. "I can't say I blame you; I mean, sometimes I can't handle it. Pick me up tomorrow at eight?"
"You got it."
Peter was standing in the driveway, stamping his feet when she arrived next morning. He was inside the vehicle before she could turn off the engine.
"Astrid is gonna pick Walter up and take him to the lab," he said.
He gave her an address in the bad part of town, and she drove there without receiving an explanation on Peter's part. Twenty minutes later, they had arrived in a rundown neighborhood, where they parked in front of a dilapidated postwar house with a hole in the porch roof.
"Stay in the car," Peter said as he got out of the Navigator. He strode confidently up to the front door, knocked, and was let in immediately. Olivia loosened her pistol in its holster and looked about warily, while sipping the coffee from Peter's thermos; in this neighborhood, her Lincoln Navigator was starting to draw some attention.
Peter reappeared minutes later, a worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He stared at some of the gawkers as he walked back, the intensity of his gaze forcing them to back down and walk away. He tossed the satchel on the floor and got in beside her.
"Drive," he said. "Sorry about that; we should have taken the station wagon."
Olivia obeyed, eager to vacate the neighborhood and avoid an unwanted confrontation. "Where to?"
"Your place," he said. "Talking about this would upset Walter."
"Was that a friend of yours?" she asked, eyes on the road.
Peter shook his head.
"Only talked to him once before in my life, and that was to leave the satchel with him. I paid him a thousand to hold onto the bag for me. He probably thought I was never gonna show up."
Twenty minutes later, she opened the door to her apartment. Peter placed the satchel on her kitchen table, and they shed their coats and boots.
"Coffee?" Olivia asked, already knowing the answer. Without waiting for his answer, she filled two cups and reheated them in the microwave, then joined him at the kitchen table, handing him a steaming cup.
Peter took a sip before placing the cup on the table. He gestured toward the bag. "Open it."
Olivia did so eagerly, unzipping the satchel to gaze upon its contents. Then she looked at Peter, and at his nod of assent began, taking out the various items and lining them up on the table.
"A 9mm Beretta pistol...with two spare magazines," she determined. She placed the gun and ammunition to the right side of the table after checking the safety.
"A flask of..." She uncapped the metal bottle and sniffed, wrinkled her nose. "...cheap vodka."
She pulled out a bundle of documents, held collectively by a salmon-colored rubber band.
"Fake ID papers; passport, driver's license, social security card. All in the name of one Paul Rook."
A bundle of cloth emerged next – blue jeans, boxer shorts, long sleeved pullover and a hooded sweatshirt, held together by a belt wrapped around them. She placed it next to the identity papers.
Next was a collection of plastic cards, held together by another rubber band. "Three prepaid debit cards – how much on them?"
"A thousand each." Peter smiled at something. "Of course, earlier it was a money clip. Gotta change with the times."
Next to last out of the bag was a book; it was obviously well read, for its corners were well rounded. She looked at the title.
"Bobby Fischer: My Memorable Sixty Games." She placed the book on the table.
The last thing she pulled out was the only thing that really surprised her. It was an envelope, crumpled and worn. She looked at the elegant writing in blue ink on the front. It was addressed to Peter Bishop.
From Elizabeth Bishop.
She wordlessly put it in a place of reverence on the table and looked at Peter.
"Alright," he began. "Each of these things has a reason for their inclusion in the bag. What do you want me to tell you about first?" He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee.
Olivia looked at the piles on the table. She already knew what she wanted to know about last – the letter. So what should be first? On impulse, she held up the flask, then placed it back on the table.
Peter smirked, then began his tale.