Ten minutes later and we were out of there in my old Ford Taurus, hitting the on ramp to the turnpike. Traffic was light now that it was nearly ten, but I was so tense that my hands were aching as I gripped the wheel. Delayed shock I guess, along with more adrenaline surging through me. Over in the passenger seat my co-pilot sat with his eyes constantly scanning ahead, but absolutely still otherwise; he was like the best behaved Doberman ever.

We drove for an hour, making it over the bridges and heading deeper upstate without a word. Finally I couldn't take it anymore.

"So what's your name?" I asked to try and keep my anxiety from building any further. "I mean, I know it's not Winter Soldier, and I need to call you something. I'm Mel, by the way."

We were heading north, on highway 17, flying along in the dark, and with every mile I was relaxing a bit even while I still kept an eye out for flashing lights.

"Melvin?" he rasped.

"Melora," I shot back, giving him a sidelong glance that I hoped would pass on my annoyance. "Melora Ivana Christiana Zherdev."

The littlest smirk rose on the corner of his mouth. "Melvin's shorter."

"Melvin's a guy's name. Or a wedgie, and I'm neither."

He said nothing for a few minutes and I was beginning to wonder if he was having mental issues when he finally spoke up again. "Mel?"

"Sometimes I go by Mel," I agreed. "Now your turn."

Another long silence. I don't really like those, but having grown up in a house full of them I've learn to wait them out most of the time. I cleared my throat.

"I'm . . . not sure what my name is," he finally sighed.

I gave a nod and figured my assumption of a little brain damage was probably right. I could see why whoever was in charge of him would want to collect him safely, sure—that arm of his was probably the equivalent of the Six Million Ruble Man prosthesis, but the rest of him was human and hurting. "Okay. You sound American, by the way. Your Russian's good but kind of flat."

He gave a little grunt. I tried again. "I'm going to call you something—Tom, Dick, Harry . . ."

"J-j-j," he began in a slightly strangled tone. I risked a look at him, feeling like shit for making him struggle.

"Joe? Jerry? James?"

"J-James," he gasped, and then pressed his hands to his temples. I noticed a little dribble of drool on his lower lip and I thought I could see some blood as well.

"Easy, easy," I told him in as quiet a voice as I could make. "James then. James is good, okay?"

He nodded and took his cap off, letting it drop to the floor of the car while he kept rubbing his temples. Since his left side was closest to me I could see his forearm glittering in the dim light of the highway signs, and all of a sudden Terminator movie flashbacks flickered in my head; I veered a little before getting a hold of both the wheel and my imagination.

"There's someplace we need to stop about ninety minutes from here," I told him, trying to speak slowly. "For some supplies—food, water. I need some ointment for my lip and meds for my head. Do you need anything?"

Again with the long pauses. Clearly simple conversation wasn't James' strong point, but he turned his face to me and gave a perplexed look as he replied, "don't know."

Okay then. I figured I'd do an assessment when we stopped at Lloyd's Market, and in the meantime I tried to make a list in my head of what we'd need to hole up for a bit. I don't mean to make it sound like I had an actual plan or anything, but I'd gotten some oblique advice on it from my relatives. When they'd take me up to the lake every year they'd drop little suggestions on what canned goods last longest, and about paying for things in cash. That last one wouldn't be a problem anyway—on the back seat of the Taurus along with my Misono knives was my old ceramic cookie jar shaped like a mushroom. It was a flea market special, and I'd been putting a good chunk of my savings into it since high school. Not everyone keeps a few thousand dollars in a tacky bisque mushroom but right now it was a godsend.

I kept driving. Part of me wondered why I wasn't terrified about my passenger. By rights I should be. He'd killed Dobrov and probably put Gloria into a coma without even working up a sweat. From what those two had said I figured he was an assassin with cyborg parts, and all that should have been more than enough to send any sane person screaming into the night.

But he'd also freed me, and tried to prevent Dobrov from killing Uncle. He'd killed Dobrov for hurting me, and kept Gloria from doing the same. For an assassin he didn't seem very cold-blooded, just confused and tired. And there was the fact that he came with me, on his own.

That confused me.

Of course, I wasn't exactly sure why I'd offered him the option in the first place—maybe something in my reptilian brain figured he'd be my best chance of getting out of whatever this Hydra Cold-War mess my relatives had been involved with. One thing I did know was that the shit was going to hit the fan pretty soon—probably within a day or two—and common sense told me to be as far away and safe as I could make myself, so that meant the lake.

Great Sacandaga Lake to be precise. The relatives and I used to go up there are the end of the school year and spend a few weeks in the cabin Uncle Mischa owned. He'd bought into an acre not far from the water and I'd always loved the place. Right now it was the safest, most remote spot I could think of reaching.

Of course, I was going to have to leave a message for work and another one for Ed, but those could wait until morning. I was starting to get that post-adrenaline slump now, and was glad when I spotted the exit that would bring us to Lloyd's Market. We pulled into the parking lot a short while later and I looked at James. "I think you ought to wait in the car."

He nodded, shooting a glance at his hand, which sort of glittered in the parking lot lighting. "Yes."

"Is there anything you want, in particular?" I asked, leaning over to pull the lid of the cookie jar off and grab a handful of bills. "What do you eat?"

"Eat?"

Now I stared at him, and terrible little suspicions rose up in my mind, particularly when I noticed he was a bit . . . lean. "Let me guess; you don't eat. Probably juice and do protein shakes, right? Maybe a colon-flushing cleanse now and then?"

He got back into my good graces by making a face and leaning away from me, so I burst out laughing because honest to god he reminded me of that internet meme—Grumpy Cat.

"Okay, okay, maybe not that. I was planning on getting staples like milk and eggs and whatever fruit's in season, but if there's something else you want too—beer or hamburgers or chips-"

"Beer?" he murmured, and then with more conviction, "beer."

"Fine. What's your brand?"

It took a few moments, but he finally murmured, "Schlitz."

I nodded, and patted his shoulder. "Good. I should be back in about fifteen minutes."

I cruised into Lloyds, glad that they hadn't closed yet, and did a triple speed run-through, pushing my cart up and down the aisles as I loaded up. I got the essentials and added a lot of impulse buys too—bread, toiletries, flashlights, cereal, first aid kit, canned stuff. I couldn't remember if we'd left anything in the pantry so I picked up chili and soups, then managed to snag the last six-pack of Schlitz in bottles before heading to the checkout.

The girl behind the counter barely looked at me as she rang everything up, but when I handed over the money I saw her notice my lip. She looked sad as she made change. "Someone hit you, honey?"

I had to think fast.

"Yeah," I told her in a mumble, "but I got my licks in and I'm never going back. Anybody asks, you didn't see me, ok?"

"You bet. Good luck," she added, and helped me put the bags in the cart. I made my way out slowly, in case she was watching me, and circled around before getting to the Taurus. Once I got in the car, I pulled out my cell phone, but James slid that metal hand of his over it. "Tracking. GPS chip. Got rid of mine a week ago, but phones . . ."

I gritted my teeth because he was probably right and I hated it. This iPhone was my baby; I had everything from my tunes to my last photo of mom on it, but it could be hacked and tracked. I turned it off and pulled the battery out before dropping the two parts back into my purse. "Okay then. To the lake."

This part of the drive wasn't long but it was in the dark, and I had to be a little more careful. I found the turn-off, and made my way along the rutted road lined with pines for a few miles until we reached the bottom of the hill and pulled to the left, to the gravel road that went another three miles down almost to the shoreline. The cabin was there, dark and nearly hidden by the pines. I got the car as close to the back door as I could, and then hopped out. The mini flashlight on my keychain threw a beam out and I made my way to the little cupboard that housed the gas main.

There she was, dusty and dirty, wedged nearly behind the meter. I picked up the Matryoshka and popped her open, then the next three inside her until I pulled the keys out of the last hollow doll. Good old Uncle Mischa . . . too paranoid to take the keys back to the city, so he always left them here. I turned back to the car and bumped into James, who had slipped up like a shadow behind me.

He was good at that, and I would have yelped but honestly? I was too tired so I just growled at him, and trudged around to the front of the cabin to unlock the doors. The rooms had that musty scent mingled with dust and pine and lake water and for a long moment nostalgia threatened to make me cry. Memories here, lots of them. My family loved this place and it was one of the few where they were happy. Where we were happy. The four of them playing cards or chess while I read or made little arts and crafts at the table . . . the singing, particularly after dark . . . it washed over me for a second and I swayed a little because I missed them so much.

"Hey," James murmured and that brought me back. He had two bags in his hands and stood there, waiting for directions. For orders I guess.

"Kitchen's over there," I pointed and shone the light for him. "We can use the flashlights and the Coleman lantern for now. My Uncle keeps the circuit breakers off when we're not here and I'll find them in the morning."

The next hour was busy, but I managed to get things unpacked and some eggs scrambled for us on the gas range. James wandered around, exploring everything, and it seemed strange that he was so silent at it—you'd think in those heavy boots of his anyone could hear him but no, he slunk around like a cat, touching this and picking up that, sometimes sniffing things. I wondered what he was thinking, and then unkindly I bet he was wondering what he was thinking too.

That was mean so I chided myself and served up the eggs, along with some toast. "All right, time to eat, and then we're going to get some sleep. Or try to, anyway." My analgesics were kicking in, and while my lip slice hurt, it was pretty superficial; some ointment and I'd be fine in a few days. I'd had worse cuts in my early days of cooking anyway.

James waited until I pointed at one of the chairs, and then I set a plate in front of him before filling one for myself and sitting down. Out of curiosity I put a beer out at his place and had a soda for myself. "Come on, it's basic but it should be good."

I knew my eggs would be; I started my training at Waffle World where everyone has you for breakfast and if you can't handle seventy orders in forty-five minutes, you're sweetly invited not to come back, regardless of your cordon bleu credentials or culinary school grades.

So I took a few bites, watching him out of the corner of my eye, and . . . wow. The first bite was tentative, as if he'd forgotten how to work a fork, but once it was in, his eyes widened . . . "Whoa, slow down, there's plenty!" I warned him. "You'll choke at that pace!"

I hadn't seen anyone eat that fast outside of a cartoon. He'd brought the plate up to his dimpled chin and was practically pouring the eggs in, chewing and swallowing almost frantically. I stared at James until he caught my gaze, stopped, and slowly lowered his plate.

"They're good," he told me in that quiet monotone.

"Yeaaah, I know," I nodded. "I cook for a living, so I do know my way around food. That's what the knives in the back seat are for."

He looked puzzled at that, so I let it go and motioned to the beer. James took it, flipping the screwcap off with a flick of his metal thumb, and hesitantly brought it to his mouth, tipping it back. I won't lie; watching him swallow was definitely sexy, with that Adam's apple bobbing as it did. James took in about half the bottle and when he pulled it back I watched him lick the foam from around his lips. More sexy, grrrr.

"Made famous," he intoned. "Somewhere. Still good."

"Milwaukee," I said. "Man that's an old slogan."

James nodded and finished it. When he was done, he asked, "Is there more?"

I hesitated, and then nodded to the little cold cooler where I was keeping our perishables. I hoped he wasn't going to drink them all and said so.

He shook his head, his hair waving a little in the light of the Coleman. "Just one more. It's been . . . a long time."

"Mind if I have one?"

James shot me a look, and held it, but this time instead of that Basset Hound sadness, I caught a glint of something that wanted to make me squirm. It was just a flicker, gone in an instant, but the corner of his mouth went up and he pulled two bottles from the cooler.

We sat on the steps of the front porch, looking out at the dark water between the trees and drank together in silence. I wasn't much of a beer drinker but it tasted all right, and the view calmed me a lot, with only a few lights visible on the far, far side of the lake and a nice scattering of stars above.

I took a breath. "I'm afraid," I told the man next to me. "Really afraid. I don't know what to do."

He said nothing for a long, long time, but I wasn't worried about it because I was sort of getting used to his quietness. The chill in the twilight was starting to get to me, and I made a move to stand up, but James finally spoke, his voice slow in the darkness. "Me too."

It was all he said.

The cabin had a sleeping porch with double beds, and a pullout in the sofa. I asked him which one he wanted, and he opted for the sofa but didn't open it up, just stretched out on the nubbly cushions and closed his eyes. The man didn't even take his boots off. I told him goodnight and made my way to the porch, stripping down to my underwear and burrowing under the musty blankets. All the little night noises took some getting used to, and I tried hard to sleep, but before that could happen I knew what I needed to do.

I muffled most of my crying in the pillow because I didn't want James to hear me.

-oo00oo-

Morning showed up before I was ready for it, but I felt better once opened my eyes. My face ached a little where Dobrov had smacked me and I was a little stiff, but the smell of the pines and the simple knowledge of where I was helped, so I got up and stretched. I climbed back into my slacks and did a quick scrub up of my face in the bathroom, then tiptoed into the living room.

The sofa was empty. I sort of expected that, but it still sent a pang through me to think I really was alone now, and gave a sigh.

"Good morning."

"Jesus fucking Christ will you STOP popping out of nowhere at me you spooky son of motherfucking BITCH!" I spluttered, spinning around to look up at James. He arched an eyebrow but he didn't look mad; only a little perplexed and maybe even the tiniest teeniest bit amused.

I took a breath. "Sorry, sorry. I know I curse a lot; bad habit from work and I don't mean it. It's just you really do scare the shit out of me when you just show up like that."

"I've been trained not to make noise," he replied. A flat response, but an honest one, and I found myself nodding.

"Uh, yeah, okay. Just . . . maybe say something before you make me crap myself, okay?"

That earned me a ghost of a smile, and he dipped his head in agreement. I moved around him and into the kitchen, opening cupboards and peering into them, trying to remember where the little samovar was. I found it, and set it out, then went outside to trip the breakers and get the power going. There was a nip to the air and that lovely dampness that only comes from being by the water. Lots of squirrels out, chattering, and birds flitting from tree to tree. After I snapped the breakers I scurried back inside and got some coffee started. Yes I was breaking my dead mother's heart by making it in the samovar, but I just never got into tea, myself, and especially not their crumbly old Lipton.

The cupboards had some nice surprises, including Bisquick, sugar and baking soda, so I'd be able to do some pancakes, but I put that thought aside and went out to the living room where James was sitting, his hands dangling between his knees, staring at nothing.

"Hey," I told him. "Power's on, so if you give it an hour you can take a hot shower if you'd like."

He turned his head and rose up. "I . . . don't mind the cold."

That made me wrinkle my nose. "Fine, suit yourself. Let's see what's in the closets first."

Both my dad and Uncle Mischa were on the lean side, and luckily so was James. I found a few pairs of drawstring shorts, a pair of grey sweat pants, and one pair of overalls in the bedroom closet. Overalls, yeah—I think my dad used them with waders for fishing. The two shirts were long underwear thermals, but clean, so at least my guest was going to be able to blend in.

I on the other hand, winced as I found my Aunt 'Milla's culottes and some denim skirts that went down to my calves. The only tops here were sleeveless blouses, and there was a bathing suit with a skirt.

In lime-green polka dots.

This was too much, and I decided I'd be doing some discreet shopping ASAP, because wow, this wardrobe needed help. To take my mind off of the dim clothing situation, and the knowledge that James had opted to take his polar bear (or was that bare?) shower anyway, I headed back to the kitchen and got cooking.

Cooking's good. I got into it early on, and with my parents' blessing made it my career, because as they told me, good cooks can always find work. They put me through the Institute of Culinary Education where I fast-tracked it. The school wanted to place me themselves, but I told them no thanks and went knocking on doors on my own, going to restaurants I'd admired, looking for work. Waffle World was one place I'd worked, and so was Goldman's Deli. At the moment I was working for Porterhouse Esq. over in the theater district, but since I wouldn't be showing up today, and wasn't calling in, I suppose I could kiss that job goodbye.

Ah well, I didn't mind as much as I thought. They paid well, but I didn't like the menu much, and the wait staff was stingy about tipping out to the busboys. Next interview if they asked about why I'd left without notice, I'd just murmur something about seeing mouse droppings and smile apologetically.

The pancakes fluffed up perfectly, and I had them on the table within minutes, along with some juice. By now the sound of the shower had stopped, and to distract myself from imagining what James looked like (oh yum I'm sure) I turned on the old radio on the kitchen counter. My aunt always had the dial set to the classical music station so something elegant was playing while I waited.

He stepped in right as I was sipping coffee and I coughed a little because he looked . . . he looked good. Really good. Dangerously good. I had no idea I was even capable of harboring this sort of interest in a strange man but in my defense it had been a long time since I'd dated, and all the events of the night before were sort of magnifying my emotions. But believe it or not, the man rocked the thermal undershirt and overalls look, coming across like a grunge band drummer. James finished drying his hair and draped the towel around his neck before slowly sitting down. I gave him a nod. "Feel better?"

"Yes," he agreed. "I couldn't find a razor, though." When he ran his metal hand over his chin I could hear the scratch of whiskers and grinned.

"You don't look too bad with scruff, but if it bothers you I can pick up some blades later today."

He gave an absent nod, his whole focus on the plate in front of him, and I got that 'well-trained Doberman' vibe again because while it was clear he was dying to dive into those pancakes, he still needed someone—me now, I guess—to give him permission.

"Dig in," I sighed. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that his appreciation of my cooking made my ego puff up big-time. I love to cook, and I love to see people enjoy what I make, so James here was giving me all sorts of warm fuzzies on that front. Still, I didn't want to do the Heimlich on him, especially before I'd finished my coffee, so I cleared my throat to remind him to slow down. "Plenty for seconds, no need to rush."

He looked up, still chewing, eyes wide. I tried not to laugh.

The music faded out and the announcer began giving the news, recapping the story about the clean-up around the DC area and the fallout within the senate about Alexander Pierce's death. I watched James, and suddenly a chill flushed through me as Boom I made the connections I should have made last night. I tensed, feeling my mouth go dry despite my coffee. When I looked at James, he was looking right back at me, and I would see the stress all over his face.

"Did you . . ."

"—Yes. I was . . . a part of that. Not Pierce. He wasn't my target."

"Oh God," was all I could manage for a moment.

James looked helplessly at me, his jaw working a bit and he managed to get more out. "I failed my mission. No. I stopped my mission. It was . . . ." He trailed off, face twisting in pain and I pushed back from the table, trying not to freak out as he gripped that metal hand of his around his fork, crumpling it without realizing it.

"You stopped yourself," I blurted, trying to keep the table between us even as I braced my feet. "Uh, that was good."

I had no idea if it was good or not, but I wanted to keep him soothed. He rocked his head a little from side to side. "No, no . . ."

"Yes it was," I insisted, wondering if he was going to have a breakdown right here. "If you didn't kill because you chose not to, that was good. You don't have to follow orders, James. Not anymore."

James looked up and God, his eyes were wet. I've never seen a human being look more miserable in my life, utterly devastated by whatever was going on in his mind. I was still afraid, yeah, but I scooted around the table until I could reach him, and I pulled his head up against my chest, cradling it. He fought me, but only for a few moments, and when he finally relaxed I counted it as a victory against the demons in his brain.

He shook, and I know he cried but the man never made a sound beyond a little snuffling as he let me stroke his hair. Our pancakes and coffee went cold; the radio moved from the weather and car commercials back to classical music while I let James rest his head against the pillow of my breasts. I wish I could say I was a natural at comforting people, but I was aware every second of his touch, of how damp my shirt was getting, both from his tears and my own nervous sweat.

I grew up in a house full of emotional outbursts, so I'm well aware of their ebb and flow. You blow up; you yell, scream, cry . . . and then there's the quietness where everything's said by touch. My mother sobbing in my aunt's arms after her miscarriage. My father crying while my uncle stroked his back when news of riots in Latvia showed bodies on the evening news. It's a cultural thing, yeah, but it's also the way my family was, so I felt a little better recognizing what James was going through . . . sort of.

Finally he raised his head and took a deep breath, settling back into that perfect posture again, and I squatted down a little to look at his profile. His cheek was red where he'd pressed it against me, and I touched it, very gently.

James flinched, and I pulled back. "Hey. You're going to be all right."

He shot me a look as painful as a burn; a bleak glance that made my unfounded assurance sizzle away for the useless comfort that it was.

Space, I told myself. He needs some space. So I got up and went to the stove, puttered with the pan and made a few more flapjacks just to give myself something to do. Were my feelings hurt? Yes. He wasn't the only person in pain this morning, and I bet he didn't even realize that. Probably didn't dawn on him that we both were in emotionally rickety boats today but it wouldn't do any good to point that out, not right now. So I finished using the batter and waited for him to get up and leave.

When I thought I heard him go, I turned around.

"GEEZ!" I gasped, because not only was he right behind me, but also right in my personal space. James did smile that time. Just a flicker, so quick it was barely there, but I saw it.

He dropped his head so that his bangs hung down. "Thank you."

Then he slipped out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there, wondering if I'd imagined it all. Spooky man, tormented man, and me not sure what to expect next.