The only law that matters

He wakes in the back of a car, feeling as though he's run a marathon to hell and back. His clothes appear to be mostly stripped off, replaced by a blanket. His hair is wet, plastered against his scalp. Did he end up falling into the lake when he went down? He can't remember.

His whole head is throbbing mercilessly though. He coughs and his throat might as well be coated with sediment for all the good it does. There's something cold resting on his forehead, an ice pack? At least there's that.

The face of one of the recruits pops up over the front seat then, her braid whipping across with the sharp motion. Laura something, he dimly recalls. He supposes he should at least try to present himself like the authority he's supposed to be.

Sitting up sends a flash of agony through him, forces him right back down with a groan. He hasn't felt this roughed up in quite some time. A glance outside tells him it's still pitch black, which means he's been out anywhere between a couple of minutes and eight hours.

"What's the time?" he croaks.

"Nearly midnight, sir."

Naturally, the first thing that leaves his mouth is a string of swears. He might as well have slept through the whole operation for all that he's managed to contribute.

She is quick to flick on the interior light to get a better look and he tries not to flinch at the sudden glare, narrowing his eyes. Hopefully he doesn't look as shit as he feels. Either way, his expression must have held all the pressing questions because she doesn't need any more prompting before giving him a rundown of what happened.

They found him after an hour of collective searching, deposited under the roots of an upended tree stump near the lakeside, drenched, bloody, rid of his gun and communication devices. He doesn't even want to try and picture the state he was in.

It's embarrassing enough to have been beaten by someone he was supposed to have the upper hand over. He was the one with the gun, after all. Now the whole team has gotten a fabulous first impression of what he can do in the field - namely, getting his ass handed to him.

"What about the target?" he inquires, dreading the answer.

Her expression draws together then, a groove forming between her brows. He knows it's bad news even before she says it.

Despite all precautions and planning, they have a dead CEO on their hands. All it took was a single shot through the floor-to-ceiling window front of the building's dining room. The man died sipping a glass of scotch that was probably worth more than their salaries.

Not that it matters. Had he not been so preoccupied with Bodhi, he would have been able to prevent a human being from getting killed, would have stopped that woman from getting into her vantage position in the first place.

He failed once again.

"And the shooter?"

"We have her," his subordinate smiles, "She's a phenomenal climber - that's how she was able to take that shot. She went up high in the trees where she had free range and wasn't visible from below. But she made the mistake of trying to double back and help the man you immobilized. He attempted to take his life when reinforcements came but we subdued him. We also searched the area twice, but there were no others. Only the symbol."

He perks up at that, "Where?"

He's ready to place a wild guess that the third one in the group had the most capacity to leave that sign somewhere. Never mind that he could have helped the injured man escape instead of dragging a cop's unconscious weight up the lake instead.

As much as he likes to believe he knows what makes Bodhi tick, that part of the story doesn't check out. Why bother making the FBI agents play hide and seek instead of supporting his own people? Then again, he has yet to find out anything about the connection between the three.

"Right next to you, sir," she says, uncertainty slipping through her tone, "Etched into the tree."

He forbids himself from cursing again, only nodding in response. It sends another stab of pain through his temple but he blinks away the wetness that springs to his eyes.

What is going on? What is the man trying to prove? He's gotten the fuck-state-authority-and-capitalist-greed-memo often enough already. Is he going for a threat now? A message to the bureau, like dangling a carrot in front of a horse?

Even thinking too hard seems to hurt at this stage. This is definitely a real concussion.

"There was a third person," he makes another attempt at sitting up and manages to get at least onto his elbows, the ice pack dropping into his lap, "The fighter of the group. And the smartest one apparently. The time it took to find me was his getaway. He probably got rid of any more evidence after he left the symbol."

"Would you be able to identify him, sir?" she probes, "The other two are being escorted to headquarters now but if they don't talk, maybe we can…"

"He was masked," Johnny cuts her off, touching a hand to his forehead to gage the swelling.

Why he doesn't just go ahead and expose the man right then, he has no idea.

It's his job. If he would say it, that might save another life down the line. There's no room for this to be personal. But it's like this has grown into a private matter, something that only he should handle.

He could have a nationwide manhunt in motion for Bodhi by the morning and yet, he's holding back. For his own irrational need to understand because he can't help but feel that all these actions involve him, like there's a message there. That sign right next to him, it's a goddamn challenge. He knows his silence puts the entire operation at risk but the name just won't make it past his lips.

He exhales audibly as he pinches the bridge of his nose and she takes the cue that the topic is closed.

"We're all just glad you're alive, sir. I'm sure the others will get names out of the detainees," she pauses, putting on her professional face again, "Rawls and Buchanan are still on site but everyone else is back at the meeting point. We wanted to make sure we're in the clear before we moved out."

"Good," he affirms, "Let's go."

She gives him one more nod before slipping out of the car.

He presses the ice pack back against the side of his face. He didn't expect to be so wrought with indecision about what's happening here. It's going to end in disaster if he doesn't snap out of this. Omitting details is one thing, but it will get harder and harder to hide the truth.

Bodhi is almost back on the map now, he's clearly engaged in these crimes. Today was just a glimpse of the problem. Had he not intercepted the group, there might have been an entirely different outcome. The fact that he's protecting one of them has absolutely no rational basis.

He's right back to questioning the justice he's sworn to protect, purely because of an unfounded attachment to a man that he has not seen in months. Not to forget, the person that just gave his skull a decent bashing.

But didn't take him out when he could have.

As a federal agent, he's the enemy, he's in the way. He was defenceless and still, the man chose to make a statement instead of killing him. He's kept him alive because, at least Johnny likes to believe so, he also has some misguided loyalty towards him.

What probably makes him most angry is that he's allowing these doubts to surface. Just like last time. When his team piles into the car, they pick up on the brooding so aside from some reassuring words about the night's outcome, they leave him be.

It's a quiet drive towards the early hours of the morning.

The inner turmoil stays when he's being patched up in the hospital and filled up with painkillers and when he's being debriefed in the afternoon. It's when he has to face Hall to explain where and why they were unprepared for what happened and how they'll do better next time that he realizes he's mostly doing damage control for himself.

Aside from the berating, there's a pat on the back for taking two of the perpetrators alive. Still, he doesn't spill that final piece of information when he gives his statement. Although he's got priority on the case, he passes the interrogation on to one of his team members.

Bashed up as he is, the clean image of FBI professionalism wouldn't necessarily translate. His colleagues are more than capable of handling it. He requests a transcript and report by the following week and tries not to think about how he really doesn't trust himself to go in without slipping up.

It's the moment he's finally back in his apartment with the instruction to take it easy for a couple of days that he feels the fury set in. It's directed at himself, at the Venezuelan, at the whole damn situation.

Even though his head still feels woozy when he moves, he can't make himself lie down.

He's a decent cop and he knows he's worked hard to get here. He likes what he does for a living. But when he let someone - whom he respected on a fundamental level - run free, he never thought that decision would come around to haunt him like this. The line between good and bad got blurred.

What it comes down to, is that he's weighing human lives and too many times now he's decided in favour of a man that shouldn't get any special treatment. He can't afford to be partial, it's absolute basic common sense in his line of work.

The easiest option would be to request that he gets taken off the case. The thought of someone else handling it still doesn't sit right with him though. The next-best thing would be coming clean about what he's found out and letting the bureau decide if he should continue. That idea leaves him with an equally bitter taste. He's already purposely withheld information and that would cost him.

If the other two captives betray him though, it won't matter anymore. The headshot will be back up on the wall, he'll have to target Bodhi next time they meet, he can't hesitate. If he doesn't do it, someone else will.

An enemy of the state and a national threat, he'll be falling under the category of 'kill' or 'detain'. Not to mention all the previous crimes that will be taken back into account. He's wouldn't see the outside of a prison facility ever again.

Johnny can only see one other option.

Convince the man to get out, to leave the country as long he's not been identified yet. Meaning that he would go against even more protocol for the slim chance of persuading the Venezuelan to save his skin – and by extension saving himself from doing something he'll regret.

If he doesn't see sense in the warning, then at least Johnny tried. For his own peace of mind. Of course, it's the most ridiculous and difficult idea out of all them, the one most likely to fail. Bodhi has shown that he isn't afraid of death, so who is he to attempt to instil some self-preservation?

It all seems to come back to the fact that he … what, that he cares? The realization hits like a slap in the face. That's it, plain and simple. He cares about this guy's fate and can't even explain why.

Maybe he does see too much of himself in him. In many ways, they're two sides of the same coin and he's just the one on the right side of the law. Not that Bodhi would share that opinion.

He glances at himself in the mirror as he paces the hallway, taking in his bruised state. It reflects his state of mind quite well at the moment. Might as well make it official - Spain has fucked with his head just as hard as the hit he took.

Before he can let this crazy notion transform into anything like a detailed plan and put his entire career on the line, he makes himself get up and leave the apartment. With the head injury, he's not supposed to get behind any wheel but that's the least of his issues right now.

Driving calms him down just enough and he doesn't stop until the city is behind him, the bay appearing on his left as he heads south.

The sun is just past its zenith by the time he pulls off the road, the panorama of Cove Point in front of him. The lighthouse is one of his favourites on the coast and he swings up onto the hood of the car, filling his lungs with air that already seems much clearer than in the city.

Now that the breeze brushes against his face, he can feel that the swelling is probably reaching its full extent today. The blood continues to pound under the skin like it's too tight and his head throbs from the journey.

He ignores it, stares out at the unruly water, not able to see the beauty of it today. It's then that he realizes something else about this whole mess. Since losing his best friend on that ridge so long ago, Bodhi has been the only person that has shown him what it meant to be truly alive.

Even when he believed him dead, he's the tether to that part of himself that got supressed for the sake of a job he thought would help him atone. If he finds himself forced to end that man's life, it'll be like taking himself out with him.

It's a selfish, dangerous sentiment and he can't see any alternative. In short, he's absolutely screwed.

After a week, when his headache is all but gone and his face closer to its regular shape and colour again, the indecision still hasn't faded. If anything, he's grown more resolute that option three is the only one he can go for as long as Bodhi's involvement has not been revealed.

As it turns out, the two suspects have not provided names yet. Unsurprisingly, since both have been silent from the moment of conviction. Aside from having identified them through other sources, there's not much promise of gleaning information with the methods they've been using.

The status quo is not helpful in gaging what the two know. They're incredibly steadfast. So at the moment, he has no way of knowing how the group operates or if they know anything about who Bodhi is. Though it's unlikely they don't after the publicity he received through Al Fariq years ago.

The internet doesn't forget, even those who kept a low profile.

Unfortunately, his contact also isn't much help on that front, having gone off the grid again for safety reasons. He'll have to wait for her to reach out. Either way, he's still certain that nobody in his task force suspects the Venezuelan's involvement up till now.

The team is focused on anticipating the next assassination attempt and trying to draw connections between the two individuals they've apprehended and who they have been in contact with. Easier said than done with people that stay under the radar.

Still, they refuse to spill information, even though their looming sentences are anything but lenient and it gets to the point where he can't avoid going in himself.

The woman raises impassive eyes to meet his when he's let into the interrogation room. They're a startling dark green, glinting out under her bangs. She raises an eyebrow once he's settled into the chair opposite her, clearly a silent question as to why he thinks he'll do any better than the others.

"Alexandra Bishop," he drops her file on the table, "I've read about you - a big name in deep-water soloing. Until you went off the map in 2017. So what made you end up here, huh? Got bored climbing for prize money?"

The brunette just rolls her eyes. He knows she's heard most of this and seen the photos he spreads out on the surface between them.

"I think my colleagues have explained your predicament by now. You know what you can expect from a sentence for first-degree murder," he continues, voice steady, "And any cooperation here will do you a lot of favours reducing that."

Another deadpan stare is all the response he gets.

"How's the arm?" he asks instead, nodding at the sling. Just like her accomplice, she took a bullet trying to escape once the target had been hit.

The corner of her mouth twitches as though she wants to make a comment but she reigns herself in fast enough, fixing her eyes on a point somewhere above his head. Alright then, time for a different approach.

"Listen," he leans forward to regain her attention, "I know what it's like to fight for something bigger than yourself. Something you completely believe is the truth. Where it seems like the most effective way to fight against injustice in the world is by removing those in power, those who control the money. And I know you would rather have died for that fight back in the woods than be taken in like this. But here we are and I'm asking you to understand that what you're doing – it's not working. Removing one figurehead is not going to help those that need it most. It might put a glitch in someone's plans but it's not going to change the system. There are other ways. Nobody needs to lose their lives or end up like this for things to get better. Especially none of your people. And you can help us save those who are important to you."

She swallows when he finishes that speech, searching his eyes and he swears he's almost touched a nerve.

"You really want to talk ideology?" she finally responds, "Because I can sit here and listen to your bullshit all day, it's all white noise."

Not ideal but at least it's a reaction, "You disagree."

Another eye-roll and she lapses back into silence, apparently having said everything she wanted to.

He sighs, "Anything you don't tell us, we'll just have to pull in others that are willing to. You're not going to help me protect any of your friends from ending up in your position? Or prevent people like Sarah from getting roped into this investigation?"

She inhales audibly but keeps her gaze fixed on the far wall, remaining stoic. He makes a mental note to congratulate the research department for unearthing that connection recently. This girl's relationship with her sister and the effort she's put into keeping her activities secret from that family member – presumably to not endanger her in the first place – might just be their way in.

He lets that hang between them for a solid minute before gathering up the documents in front of him again.

"I'll be here when you're ready to have that conversation," he offers.

He's met with more silence but now, it's far less mocking. There's anxiety running through her mind and he can practically feel it. The first seed has been planted, all they need to do is wait for it to take hold.