If there was one thing Weller had quickly learned in their short time together, it was that he really didn't like it when Jane was upset. It was unsettling, like the whole world was just the slightest bit tilted, but there nothing he could do to make it right. Every time she looked at him with those consuming, haunted green eyes he ended up feeling, to put it simply, completely and utterly off balance.

Stealing a thirteenth glance at the seat opposite his, Weller felt as edgy as ever as he once again resisted telling Zapata to pull their SUV to the shoulder. Crossing a bridge on the I-78 meant no place for a pit stop, but he wanted nothing more than to take Jane away from burning ears and ask her what was going on. What was really spooking her? And why wouldn't she tell him the truth? It had been eating away at him for the last half hour, but Weller held his tongue. He watched instead as Jane tap-tap-tapped her chair arm restlessly and silently looked out her side window as they crossed Newark Bay. She was going to tap a hole right through the leather.

Weller took a breath, forcing himself to look away and across the water as he pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed Patterson. He would reassess Jane when they arrived at the port in a few minutes. And he'd leave her in the car if it came to that.

As per usual, Patterson picked up before the end of the first ring. "Did you know that the port employs over seven thousand people?" she asked. "More than five hundred of them drive flatbeds, and let me tell you – that is a lot of background checks to run."

Weller focused on the row of red and white striped cranes that lined the channel beyond. They were metal dinosaurs, with long necks stretching across docketed ships and four wide legs anchoring their enormous weight in place; raising and lowering, raising and lowering their cargo onto the waiting trucks below.

"Keep at it," he instructed. "I know it's a lot, but if I'm right and we're dealing with a smuggling operation here, one of those drivers is the key. How's it coming getting satellite footage of the parking lot for the last couple months?"

Patterson let out a sigh of defeat. "Not great. I mean – it's great because I've got the footage, but not so great because it's a dead end. The trucks all look the exact same from above, so it's virtually impossible to tell if a different truck parks at our GPS location every day, or the same one. And the drivers are too small to tell them apart."

Weller had suspected as much, but it didn't hurt to be thorough. "That's okay. We'll have a better idea once we arrive at the port and can see everything firsthand. Just keep at it and call me as soon as you have anything."

"Roger that," Patterson replied before disconnecting.

Stuffing his phone away, Weller caught Zapata's eyes in the rearview mirror darting a look at Jane. Returning his own look, she raised an eyebrow at him. "So what's your gut saying's being smuggled in and out?" she asked. "Personally, my money's on exotic cars. Stolen artwork would be nice, too, though. I'm kind of over drugs and guns."

Weller knew Zapata was trying to cut through whatever was bothering her friend, but at the mention of the word 'guns', Jane's head snapped over and she stared at the agent's slit of a reflection in the mirror with wide, frightened eyes.

Weller clenched his jaw. "I dunno, there's a lot you can fit in a forty foot long metal box."

Upon initial inspection, the flatbed truck parked in the team's GPS location looked almost exactly like all the other flatbed trucks that it sat between; a squat, sunflower yellow cab glinting in the afternoon sun, hooked to a long and barren 12-wheeler bed. The only difference was that each truck had its own unique seven-digit number, stamped in black and visible just below the handle on the driver's side door. Their truck read '3397889'.

Standing next to the cab, Reade reached into his pantsuit pocket and fished out his phone. Bringing up the camera, he zoomed in and snapped a picture of the number string for Patterson to run. "Please let this not be a shot in the dark…" he said out loud, showing crossed fingers to Weller before hitting send.

Weller looked up and down the rows of abandoned vehicles, trying to spot the supervisor who was supposed to be meeting them. He then glanced at his watch, noting it was shortly after noon. "The tattoos led us to this spot, so something around here's going to be the answer. The trucks, the parking lot…nothing's off the table."

"It would be a lot easier if our contact showed up to tell us what's what," Reade continued, quirking an eyebrow with amusement. "It's lunch time. You think he got stuck in some McDonald's drive through?"

Weller just shrugged, trying to force a smile he didn't feel as he turned his attention to Jane and Zapata. The women were crouched by the bed's back tires, pointing at what looked like something yellow on the radiating pavement. "Got something back there?" he called to them.

Zapata stood, pulling out her phone. "A match," she called back, placing the device to her ear so she could relay the finding back to Patterson.

Jane stood as well, rounding the end of the bed to join her teammates at the front. "The same seven numbers that are on the truck's door are also on the pavement back there. It must mean that the parking spots are all assigned to specific trucks," she explained. Her voice was even-leveled and she didn't seem to have that bunched up tension across her shoulders anymore, but as Jane came to stand in front of Weller, he noted her fingers were skimming the top of her thigh just a little too close to her gun holster.

Weller nodded, trying to ignore his tilted world. This had to be the break they needed. "Good. Patterson will be able to find the driver from that."

True to his word, it took less than a minute for Weller's phone to ring out with their answer. The team gathered around as he put the call on speakerphone. "Patterson, tell us what you've got."

"I've got Azri Mohsin," she trilled with excitement. "According to the port's employee files, he's here from Malaysia on a worker's permit. It looks like the port has been sponsoring his employment since 2005, which is pretty impressive as far as permits go. He's thirty-nine, lives in Jersey, has a clean record, but I'm still combing through his financials so I'll let you know if anything pops."

"Good job," Weller said. "Do we know if he's working today?"

"We do," Patterson answered. "According to the schedule, Mohsin's here from 7:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., with lunch from 12:00 to 1:00. I don't see any repetitive transactions on his credit card statements, so I doubt he leaves the port to buy lunch every day. If I had to guess, he's probably around somewhere eating a sandwich. Happy manhunt! I'll send you a photo of his driver's licence."

A few seconds later, the team was staring at Weller's screen, committing to memory the photo of a sun-weathered Malaysian. A decade of dock work had left Mohsin's skin tanned and rough, hardened from spending ten hour shifts between his truck, the sun, and the blowing harbor wind. He wore black, square framed glasses that looked to Weller like they belonged on some hipster's face half his age, and had glossy black hair that he slicked to the side.

"All right, we've got less than an hour before Mohsin comes back here from lunch, so we might as well use it. It's a big space, but who knows – maybe we'll get lucky," Weller said, surveying his team. "Zapata, take the west. Reade, you take east – "

"I've got the warehouses," Jane abruptly cut in. Lips pressed in a firm line, she gave Weller a hard, determined stare that didn't quite mask the rise of flickering panic he saw beneath.

As two startled pairs of eyes looked between them, alarm bells rang in Weller's ears; blaring out a warning that letting this woman loose when she was both skittish and armed would be a lethal mistake waiting to happen. If she was this spooked, then Weller wanted her by the safety of the SUV. Preferably locked inside it.

Decision made, Weller shook his head. "No, Jane, you're staying by the flatbed. It's a long shot we'll find Mohsin with all this ground to cover, but we know he'll come back to the truck at some point. If we don't find him, I want you to radio us the minute you have a visual. And I want you to give me your gun."

"What? No! How about you stay here," Jane insisted, panic rising in her words. "Stay here and put your vest on. We should all put our vests on, just in case," she said, looking at the others. "Weller said someone could fit a lot in those containers, so what if it is guns? Or worse? Why take the chance?"

Jane had to know she was sounding crazy. She had to see the way Reade and Zapata were staring at her like she'd just grown a second head. Before either of the other two agents could comment, though, Weller took Jane by the elbow and pulled her forcefully from the group. Walking them towards the SUV, he turned his back to his remaining teammates and held onto Jane's arms as he searched her eyes.

"You are not in any danger, Jane. None of us are. And there is nothing here that makes me think any of us will be. We're conducting an investigation, not walking into a firefight," he said firmly. Then he paused, trying to right his tilted world. "So what is it? Tell me what it is that's got you so afraid right now."

At first, Jane said nothing. She just looked back at him with those big, green eyes of hers that flickered through too many emotions, too fast for Weller to name just one. Finally, just when Weller feared he'd have to shake something out of her, the tension he felt through Jane's arms dissipated away and she gave a small, downcast shake of the head. "I'm sorry, I just…it's just something about this place."

Weller exhaled slowly, trying to understand what something like that meant coming from a person with almost no memories. But he'd seen firsthand how even random, innocuous events had badly affected Jane before. "Does the port looks familiar?" he probed. "Maybe you're remembering a bad experience from being here before."

Jane nodded vigorously, her eyes lighting up as if the thought had never occurred to her but actually made a lot of sense. "Maybe I'll figure out what it is when I'm walking around."

Weller kept a strong grip on Jane's arms as he debated on whether this was an answer he was willing to accept. On whether this was a situation he was willing to allow. It was possible Jane hadn't been able to articulate what she was feeling until now, which would explain earlier lie. Was that it? Would she really be fine? Or would the resurfacing of the memory trigger another panic attack? His world was still too tilted to decide.

"All right, Jane," he said slowly. "I'll stay by the flatbed, and you can look around the warehouses. But I want you to radio in the second something comes back to you, all right? I want you to talk to me, Jane. And if it becomes too much then I'll come find you."

As she nodded her agreement, Weller's thumb began to caress the inside of Jane's arm. She didn't seem to notice, but he quickly caught himself, let go, and held up an open hand. "I still want your gun, though."

A flash of panic crossed Jane's face, then she blinked and it was gone. "Fine," she answered, reaching for the weapon.

Jane told herself that lies were sometimes necessary. That Weller was the type of guy who looked at the world in black and white, and never would have accepted the idea that she had foreseen his own death. If Jane had told him the truth, he would have marched them both into the warehouses so he could prove to her that everything was fine and she had nothing to worry about. No, the lie had been necessary. Even if it meant that all three of her teammates thought she had finally lost her mind.

Weller would not be shot today.

Gaining some control over the situation put Jane at relative ease. Satisfied that Weller was safe for now, Jane focused back on the first of two warehouses. Like the parking lot, it was void of employees and smelled sharply of what she imagined was diesel fuel. Wide and vast, it housed aisle upon aisle of metal shelving, stocked with various sized boxes that stacked up nearly to the ceiling. Flashing through her limited knowledge of the world, Jane decided that the whole place reminded her of a grocery store. A concrete floored, poorly lit grocery store you'd need a forklift to get anything from.

"Excuse me, ma'am, can I help you?" came a gruff voice.

Startled from her thoughts, Jane spun around to find a burly, linebacker of a man in a grey uniform striding purposefully towards her from the next aisle over. Palming the handle of the billy club at his waist, he also had a walkie-talkie, flashlight, and taser clipped to his utility belt, the later causing Jane to wonder what other weapons Super Guard had that she couldn't see. The official looking badge pinned to his chest was easy to spot, though, as was the way he narrowed his eyes at Jane suspiciously as he closed the distance between them.

Admittedly, his accusing stare made Jane feel a bit uncomfortable, despite the fact it was probably warranted. Between all her visible tattoos, Jane's pale face, and the way she was casually looking around, the man probably thought she was a hopped up meth addict trying to find something easy to steal.

Jane extended her hand and put on her best smile. "I hope you can help me," she said, trying not to flinch as the guard practically crushed her knuckles in his grasp. "My name is Jane, and I'm with the FBI. We're looking for a driver named Azri Mohsin. Do you happen to know who he is, or where we could find him? We have a few questions." As additional proof that she wasn't just making the whole thing up, Jane recited some of the other details Patterson had told the team, and described Mohsin's photo.

The guard's hard eyes narrowed into slits, darting to Jane's empty gun holster before looking up and down her body again. "'With' the FBI, huh? Yeah, the name might ring a bell. What's this all about?" he asked, scratching at his short-cropped hair.

Jane crossed her arms as she stood tall and channeled Weller. "I'm a consultant. As for what this is about, I'm afraid that's classified. I'd appreciate your cooperation, though. Could you maybe radio the other guards?" she asked, nodding to the man's walkie-talkie. "Ask if anyone has seen Mr. Mohsin?"

The guard rubbed the stubble under his chin with the back of his fingers. He looked briefly around, then back at Jane with a look of stoic resolution. "Yeah, sure. Just stay here and I'll be back."

"Thank you," Jane answered, still feeling uneasy as she watched him turn away and head towards one of the only exits she could see.

Leaning against the grille of Mohsin's flatbed, Weller was growing restless from looking up and down the parking row and taking in the view of the harbour. His restlessness, though, wasn't from standing around wasting time. The truth was that Weller couldn't stop thinking about Jane. Her frightened eyes, the potentiality that she'd been here before, and her need to continue on - alone. It didn't help that the last few memories she had shared had been anything but pleasant. They'd been more like a punch below the belt, if Weller was being honest. So if this walkabout Jane had been so forceful about going on did recover additional memories, he dreaded as much as anticipated what they could be.

Checking his watch, Weller decided that ten minutes was long enough to wait before checking in with his team. He pushed himself off the grille. "Jane? What's your status?"

"I just spoke to a guard in the first warehouse. He's going to radio around to see if anyone has seen Mohsin," she answered in his ear. "You're still at the flatbed?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," he replied. A beat later he added; "Anything else?"

"No, nothing."

Weller nodded to himself, not sure how he felt about the news. "Okay, keep me posted. Zapata, how about you?"

"Found a couple guys having a smoke by the docks. They don't know who Mohsin is, but said they did see an Asian dude walk by about fifteen minutes ago. Might be him, might not."

"Keep your eyes peeled. You never know," Weller answered. "Reade?"

"Whole lot of nothing on my end," came the reply.

"All right, I'll check back in another ten," Weller said. "Be patient, team. He's going to show up. It's just a matter of who'll see him first."

"My money's on you," Zapata said in his ear. "That is if you're not too busy sitting on your ass swiping angry birds to notice."

Despite himself, Weller smiled. "I got it for my nephew," he said in defence.

Jane chimed in, sounding confused. "Swiping angry birds?" she asked.

Weller's grin widened a fraction. "It's an app for kids," he explained. "You shoot these birds from a slingshot at a bunch of pigs." Looking out, it was then that he spotted a group of five workers who had just appeared at the end of the parking row to his west, still some distance away. Three men and two women. One of the men, wearing an AC/DC shirt, must have been telling a story because his long arms flew all through the air, talking as the others laughed.

"That…sounds like a really weird game," Jane admitted.

Zapata gave a laugh. "It is."

"Which is why Sawyer's obsessed," Weller answered. "The physics are sound, though, so I can't complain." Squinting down the row at the man walking in the middle of the group, a certain pair of hipster glasses jumped out at him. He began to walk. "Team, I've got eyes on Mohsin," Weller announced. "Head back on over."

"Fast lunch," said Zapata.

"Copy that," said Reade.

Inside the warehouse, Jane was still trying to picture using birds as ammunition when there was a sudden crash from behind her. She spun around, automatically putting a hand on a gun that wasn't there. Instead of answering, Jane froze.

"Excuse me - Azri Mohsin?" Weller called. The group was still about twenty feet away, but turned their heads towards him.

"That's me," Mohsin called back, looking Weller up and down. Eyes landing on the shield at Weller's hip, he stopped in his tracks. His friends stopped, too, looking from the agent to their friend in confusion.

"What's the matter?" the man in the AC/DC shirt asked.

Mohsin took a step back. Weller picked up the pace, suddenly getting a bad feeling. "Zapata, I think he's about to – "

Before the word could be uttered, Mohsin shot back around and broke off into a frantic sprint. Weller jumped into pursuit, barking orders at his team as Mohsin cut south then straight towards the rows of shipping containers across from the parking lot. "He's heading for the containers closest to the docks. Zapata, get in there and he'll be coming straight at you. Jane, come in from the north and make sure he doesn't cut up." Breaking through the remaining group, he watched Mohsin dash behind an eight foot tall metal box and disappear. "Reade, flank from the east in case he doubles back. We'll surround him."

"Copy that."

In the few extra seconds it took Weller to run into the same row, Mohsin was more than halfway down it. Going full tilt towards the wide opening at the other end, Weller knew if he got there, Mohsin could continue on in any direction.

"Zapata, where are you?"

As if summoned by the question, the agent materialized at the other end of the row. Gun drawn, she planted her feet and aimed the weapon straight at Mohsin's chest. He ground to a halt in front of her, gasping for breath. "FBI. Get on your knees and put your hands on your head," she ordered. Shaking, Mohsin did was he was told.

Breathing heavily, Weller gave Zapata a nod as he came up from behind and cuffed their kneeling suspect. "Nice work," he said, before adding into his microphone, "Jane, Reade, we've got him."

Zapata holstering her gun. "You know…as far as chases go, that one was pretty easy."

Pulling Mohsin up by the collar, Weller and Zapata led him out of the container aisle just as Reade jogged up. Jane, though, was nowhere to be seen.

Weller looked towards the warehouses. "Jane, we're heading over to the SUV. What's your status?" he asked into the microphone. After a few seconds of silence, he traded worried expressions with the other agents. "Jane? You there?" he said again.

Another few seconds of silence was all it took for an anvil to drop into Weller's stomach. Pushing Mohsin into Reade's waiting grasp, Weller took off in a run towards the first warehouse. "Jane, answer me," he practically shouted into the mic. "Jane!"

Heart pounding, alarm bells ringing, world tilting, Weller still wasn't prepared for the scene that awaited him when he walked through the doors, and it stopped him in his tracks.

There was a man's body on the floor. A security guard's, with the red bloom from a spreading chest wound staining his gray uniform an almost black. In his limp hand was a bloodied knife. A foot away was undeniably Jane's earpiece. And dotting the cement floor, leading away from the body like a map towards the other end of the warehouse, was a trail of fresh blood.

It was suddenly hard to breath. Hard to think. Hard to do anything other than run after the blood droplets and try to remain upright when everything was suddenly sideways and nothing made sense. How was this even happening? Hadn't he done everything he should?

"Jane!" The word burst cracked and broken from Weller's lips, echoing around in the emptiness as a clawing panic reached up his throat. The trail led him all the way to the very end of the warehouse, to an emergency exit door. Throwing his shoulder against it, Weller went through.

He was back outside. The blood drops continued for a few feet on the pavement, and then nothing. They just stopped. And as he frantically spun around, looking for cameras or a witness or anything to tell him what was going on, one single thought played over and over in Weller's head.

Through his own failure, Jane was now a missing person. Again.