AN: Chapter two is here and I am definitely continuing this story! Thank you to texamich, Sarah Rochester, morningstar67, and TongTong3 for your lovely reviews. They were and are very much appreciated. Ch. 2 is a bit different in pace from the previous chappie but I hope that you all still enjoy it. Any constructive criticism you have is appreciated (as well as all other comments) and I'm currently looking for a Beta, so if anyone would like to volunteer, just drop me a line :)

On a different note, I was hit with the idea to make a video for this story so there's a link on my profile :) Now I'll let you read...

Disclaimer: I proclaim no rights or title to Bourne Identity/Supremacy/Ultimatum, they are Robert Ludlum's and Universal's characters, I'm just playing with them.


II. Tomorrow Never Dies

The French countryside. Two years later...

It was not Jeremy Cale that looked through the scope of the sniper rifle that cold, pristine morning. He had not been Jeremy Cale since he'd been reassigned to Barcelona, since he had left the Dawes residence that night in London. The clear and keen green eyes that peered through the glass at the farmhouse set in the French countryside were not those of a man but of a killer. They were the eyes of the assassin codenamed Professor.

He had no thoughts of morality or justice as he waited for his target to come into view; he only had a mission and a duty to complete it. That was what he was trained to do, that was what he would do. There were no questions, no doubts; only mechanics.

His breath created a thin fog in the chill of the morning, and he waited, watching for his mark to slip, waiting for his opportunity. Everyone seemed to still be asleep in the quaint farmhouse, yet he was ready, knowing better, knowing that appearances were always deceptive. Then suddenly, as if to prove his point, all he saw was the glare and billowing plume of an explosion, blocking any hope of a shot.

He scanned the area quickly and caught sight of a black trench-coat darting across the snow and into the trees. Automatically, he squeezed off a few rounds, the shots ricocheting off of the side of a hill as the shadowy form disappeared into the trees and he grabbed his weapon and removed the silencer, hurrying after him.

The crunch of snow under his feet was the only other sound, the woods having suddenly become eerily quiet. As he knelt in the grass, his eyes darted around, searching the skeletal line of trees for any sign of his prey - or was he now the predator?

There was a shot from somewhere, but the echo rendered it useless to him as the calls of the disturbed birds rasped the air, camouflaging any other noise, threatening to reveal his position. Setting aside his rifle, knowing that he had to move or be moved, the Professor reached inside his ammunition bag, pulled out his Glock, and began making his way to the more substantial and secure cover of the trees.

As he weaved this way and that, another shot rang through the air, just as he knew it would, and he grit his teeth against the bite of buckshot that tore his right arm, the force of it sending him to the ground, his gun flung away from him.

Breathing heavily, he clawed through the snow toward the weapon, praying silently that he would make it, hearing the click of the shells being reloaded into a shotgun. But he simply had too much blood on his hands for God to hear him. Just as he caught up his gun and swung around to fire, he was thrown to the ground again, and this time his shooting arm was riddled with holes. As warm blood seeped between his skin and the thick wool of his sweater, he cried out in horror and disbelief. "NO!" as, for some reason, a face flashed in his mind, one with hazel eyes.

"Where is it?" the figure standing before him demanded. "Where's the weapon!" But he only gripped his shredded arm, breathing heavily with pain as the mark stepped behind him and retrieved the fallen gun. He watched resignedly as the other man knelt in the snow and quickly reloaded his shotgun. "Who else is out here?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder, "Who else - How many you got with you? I'm not going to ask you again."

Knowing he was had, the Professor answered him, "I work alone, like you." he looked over at him, "We always work alone."

The man's brow scrunched, "What do you mean?"

"Who are you? Bonn? Paris?" he asked instead, but the man looked lost. "Treadstone - the both of us."

"Treadstone?"

"Which one?" he wanted to know just who had managed to kill him.

"Paris...I live in Paris."

"Do you still get the headaches?" he asked.

"Yeah." the man said.

"I get such bad headaches. You know at night when you're driving a car? I dunno, maybe it has something to do with the headlights." he was rambling, his thoughts running with his blood.

"What is Treadstone?" the man interrupted him.

"Treadstone...said, 'Pioze'- They said 'Go to Paris..." he winced, his breath coming short, pain shooting through his nerves and debilitating him slowly.

"Is Treadstone in Paris?"

But as he groaned in pain, all the Professor could see or think of was a brown haired girl with hazel eyes and soft lips, and all that he could have had. He saw the life that could have been his flash before his eyes. He looked down at his ruined arm, "Look at this. Look at what they make you give." and he found himself looking up to the grey sky. There was nothing there; it was blank - empty. Another spasm of pain shot through his chest, and he found he didn't have the strength to hold himself up, to keep his eyes open, to keep what little life he had left inside of him there. He fell back and closed his eyes, exhaling his last breath.

- - -

The silence of the morning was shattered by the sound of an explosion. Then gunfire. Matthew Villiers, 37, on holiday, stood frozen as he watched a plume of black smoke rise and dissipate in the grey sky, his golden retriever, Ralph, barking at it, as if he could keep whatever evil force had caused it at bay. Matthew stood there till everything was silent again, a million thoughts rushing through his head, and then, without one more, he broke into a run, closing the chamber of his rifle, Ralph running ahead of him.

Snow crunched beneath his feet, birds cried above his head, and his heart pounded within his chest. Images of his neighbors and their children, bodies bleeding, flashed through his head, and he wondered why he was running towards the danger instead of away from it. He wondered what he would do when he got there. Then, as he broke free of the trees skeletal hands and into the meadow, he stopped. Everything was silent. Too silent. A premonition hung over the expanse of dead grass and snow; a knowledge that if he continued on things would never be the same.

Ralph plunged ahead, forming a path amidst the dried stalks, and Matthew found himself following, his eyes darting around, his ears keen for any threat. A few kilometers ahead, the dog started barking and whimpering, and he could hear him in the grass, circling around something; like he did when he'd found road-kill. His heart hammered faster and louder, the muscles in his abdomen contracting apprehensively as he looked down.

There was a man lying on the ground, a stranger, his arms torn and riveted by pellets. He was pale and motionless. Matthew immediately knelt beside him and, placing his index and middle finger against his throat, checked for a pulse. One lagged just beneath the skin. He pulled his cell phone out.

- - -

Antiseptic, beeping, a general hum of machines and monotone voices. He opened his eyes to see a white ceiling, white walls, and white bed-sheets. His arms hurt; they throbbed with a steady pulse, and his head was foggy and heavy. Looking about, he found that he was most definitely in a hospital and that he was definitely not alone.

An attractive woman in her late forties and a white lab coat stood to his left, a tablet in her hands - his chart - and seeing him stir, she smiled pleasantly. "I was hoping you'd join us soon, Monsieur Jeane Reynaud." she said, marking something down. He looked around for the other member of 'us'. "Monsieur Villiers...The man who brought you in, he just stepped outside to call his wife." she informed him, "I'm afraid that we couldn't locate Miss Dawes though."

His eyes whipped over to her face, confusion showing there. The doctor's mirrored them once she saw his expression. "You were saying her name when you were in the ambulance, Alicia, Alicia Dawes...Is she a relation?" her manicured brows bunched.

"I have no idea who you are speaking of." he said immediately, firmly, his French flawless.

The doctor looked at him with a measuring look. She suspected something - she had good reason to. "Those were some nasty gunshot wounds you had, monsieur." she said as she hung his chart back up, a difference in her stance, something aloof and guarded. "Someone seemed to be very upset with you. Mind telling me what happened?"

He didn't answer.

A muscle in her forehead ticked and she looked away. "You've been out for a while. We've had you sedated, trying to accelerate your healing, but you're pretty fast on your own. I'm sure you're still sore though."

"I'm better?" he asked.

"Oui...It was close though, your Brachial was severed, you lost about four pints. It's a miracle you're alive, but I'd say you'll still have to do some rehabilitation exercises - nothing as bad as it could have been." She tilted her head as she looked at him, studying him for a reaction, "However, the police have questions for you, and now that you're awake they won't be kept waiting much longer." she bit her lip, as if considering something. "But I'll hold them off for a bit so you can...get oriented with your surroundings."

He met her gaze, his unreadable, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod before turning around and leaving. Once more he was alone.

Gingerly turning his head this way and that, Jeane slowly sat up. Looking at his arms he saw white bandages protruding from beneath the sleeves of a hospital gown, an IV and LEDs attached to various parts of his body. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he carefully transferred his weight onto them. His head spun some and he turned slowly to the machines, turning off the heart monitor so that it wouldn't send an alarm to the nurse's desk when he removed the pads. His heart was beating at a steadily faster rate, his adrenalin rushing as he formed a plan, and, pulling the IV out, he winced, gripping the site to stem any bleeding.

Not a moment passed and he was slipping down the hall, in the opposite direction of the Parisian Police, their black uniforms crisp blots on the white wall where they leaned, conversing with one another. He found the door to the laundry and slipped inside, crouching low as he listened for any other person's presence. Everything was still but for the hum of the industrial dryer that sat across the room. In a matter of minutes he had found scrubs and even a lab coat and an abandoned pair of shoes a size too large. He pulled them on, burying the hospital gown he'd been wearing in a basket beneath a healthy pile of sheets. Removing his glasses, he rinsed his face and wet his hair at the sink, making himself somewhat presentable, unable to do anything but ignore the stubble on his face that had appeared with the lack of regular shaving, and as he prepared to walk out of the hospital the only thing he wished that he had was his gun.

Exiting the laundry he looked down the hall to see the doctor talking to the officers right outside of what had been his room, the two men did not look pleased, whatever argument the doctor was making having little effect. He needed to make his escape sooner than later. He began walking.

It was a quick, clipped, yet easy walk, a doctor's walk. One of business and importance, devoid of panic or worry. He scoped the halls and rooms, searching for an exit, for a weapon. He was within his element once more - this time he would remain the predator. He found a stairwell and ducked into it. He was halfway down the first flight before the door closed and he could hear yells from the hall above him and heavy footsteps as they discovered his room empty. Yet he paid it little mind, continuing his downward spiral.

The third floor. He heard the door to the stairs open and the heavy footfalls of someone following him on the concrete steps. Second floor. He quickened his pace in order to stay ahead, holding onto the rail, the white coat trailing behind him as he whipped around the corner of the landing. First floor. He shoved the door open and stepped out into crisp wintry air, finding himself at the back of the building. The chill seeped through his borrowed clothes, biting at his flesh, but he hardly noticed as he hurried across the parking lot full of vehicles and then turned down a sidewalk. It must have been around lunch for the sidewalks were busy, an element in his favor, but as he weaved in and out of the crowd, white coat standing out amidst the winter grays, browns, and blacks, he realized he would have to get new clothes, fast.

Stepping off into an alley he continued to walk calmly past the puddles of muddy water and shadows. Checking over his shoulder to see that he wasn't followed, he turned once more, down the next sidewalk just as the sirens of the backup called by his pursuers came floating from the adjacent street and vanished into a small café.

There were flowers in vases on each table, soft acoustic music playing, the aroma of coffee heavily perfuming the air, and a coat tree by the door. The calm mundaneness contrasting surreally with the gravity of his situation. Looking around he counted the patrons and the exits as a young man stepped up to the counter, "Monsieur?"

He turned his attention to him, "Café, s'il vous plait." he ordered as any other customer would, and as the barista went to the back of the bar his eyes casually swept the room once more.

Everyone was engaged in some way; an older man read a paper near the left window, a couple whispered together, their heads close, and in the back a man in a business suit and a teenage girl were using their laptops, a pair of women talking animatedly in the corner near the bar. He had his opportunity. Making sure that the barista was still occupied, he turned to the door, smoothly grabbing a long dark coat that was probably the businessman's, and he slipped back onto the street.

Shrugging into the coat he became invisible, and when the police officer ran out of the alley just a few feet ahead of him, scanning the crowd, he did not flinch as he walked by, continuing to the metro, an address and phone number reverberating in his mind.