How long does it take to complete one stinkin' chapter that's basically already been written?

Long enough, obviously.

The last section of this chapter is very, very rough draft. However, I've decided to post it up for you anyway. Please provided your constructive cristism and comments. They are very, very much appreiciated.

So sorry for the eternity of waiting!

"Bourne. That was Bourne? Are you sure, Theresa? Certain? Completely certain?" Pamela furrowed her eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. Certain... Could Theresa possibly be right? Theresa was rarely wrong... which, obviously, frightened Pamela a little more than she would have hoped.

Stuttering, the younger CIA agent squinted, staring into the side of the desk. Was it? Was it? She kept asking herself, a frown planted on her face as she tried difficultly to see the man's visage again. Was it? "I... I'm... not sure. That paper was about twenty years old, anyway. I... I could be wrong. But... It must have been. But it doesn't make sense! I don't know. I don't know." She pursed her lips, the crease of her eyebrows becoming more evident. "Bourne is an assassin, and he isn't stupid. That would explain the Romeo and Juliet, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, yes it would," murmured Pamela, not exchanging eye contact. "Even if you're wrong, that man was trying to bribe you, which means he knows something we may not want him to know about. He's had access to our information somehow."

"Why me?" Theresa thought, her boss's conversation becoming muted as the agent stared out the giant, cityscape windows, which overlooked New York's tremendous amount of skyscrapers and taxis. His face... she knew that face. She didn't see evil, but pain and tears. Same as they were twenty years ago.

-:-:-:-:-

He noted her every step, her every breath, her every moment. At least for now. At that moment she had left the building, that purple knitted scarf covering even the tip of her chin. Her one un- mitt hand held a cell phone to her freezing ear, for she was calling home. Furtively, her eyes darted back and forth, and then towards the parking lot, the tar ground, her car, and then her hands again. What was she so paranoid about? Theresa was rarely that way—as far as he knew.

David carefully studied the woman till he knew she was on her way back. What a stalker you are, Bourne. Usually his conscience was deaf to him while he performed his "analysis," but his own possible daughter? What a creep! He knew it, but there wasn't any other way. He had to keep his cover. That fact was so graven into his mentality, David knew there was no way out. Survival instincts, Conklin had once coined it.

Silently he started his engine. I'll get her back, Mari, if it's the last thing I do.

Carefully he weaved his way through the busy streets of New York's crowded yellow taxis. Keeping a keen eye on Theresa's navy blue automobile, David was able to follow the woman all the way to her humble apartment.

She stepped out of the car. She checked her keys, she locked the door. Finally, she was pacing towards her home.

Up the stairs... opening the door... Yes. It's closed.

Furtively, David Webb sat in his own car, thankful the glass windows were tinted. Fingering for his cell phone, which was hidden discreetly in a coat pocket, the former assassin recalled the lines he had perfectly memorized. For once in his life, he hands were trembling, he heart racing. C'mon, David! He fought. He reluctantly pressed the digits for her number... Think!

-:-:-:-

Calmly the twenty-or-so year old sighed and walked to her bedroom. Carlotta was out buying more scrumptious organic food, she knew, so Theresa took no care to worry about her guardian. Once in her miniscule room, she sat down the manila folders that had found refuge under her arm since she left the CIA building upon the ply wood desk, among the piling paper clips, newspapers, and random pictures. With that she plopped upon her bouncy bed, closing her eyes for a moment of serenity.

Then the phone rang.

Body involuntarily jumping, Theresa felt the surprise and sudden shock of the shrill ring penetrating the common silence. Quickly, she pushed herself off the bed and grabbed for the phone on the desk, after shoving aside an article on family reunions. Soothing down her shirt, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hello. This is..." the deep voice trailed. "Kain. Andrew Kain."

-:-:-:-

As soon as her voice had emitted, he felt his heart pounce again, a tight knot chocking at his throat. After answering under the name of Kain, he already felt like a complete idiot.

-:-:-:-

Where had she heard that voice before? It panged at her memory. She remembered the man at the door, but it couldn't be... "Yes? How may I help you?" she replied uncertainly.

"I'm Jason Bourne."

The world... it froze. It zoned. It... it wasn't there.

Theresa could feel herself get hot. Her cheeks burned, but her feet were icy cold. Already, she felt a headache swooning over her. How was this possible? Gaping, the orphan could not find her tongue to reply.

"Why are you looking for me? What does the CIA have anything to do with me? Why? Answer me!" Jason commanded, though he hadn't honestly met to be harsh.

Theresa still couldn't feel her tongue. For months the entire CIA was looking for this man, and now he was calling her! "I-I..."

"Why are you searching for me?" he asked with a touch of harsh irritation stringing through his commanding voice.

"Why are you calling me?" Theresa quickly directed.

"You obviously want me to."

Eyebrows furrowing in partial confusion, she inquired, "What do you want?"

"You're staying with a woman. Is she your mother?"

"No, but... what does that have to do with anything--" Suddenly, her eye caught the glimpse of a creeping, black figure. A man. In the closet? Heart racing, she softly pressed the cancel button on her phone, pretending she still held the conversation. "Oh, but of course," she said aloud, understanding the difficult position of the intruder. Pacing softly outside of her room and into the kitchen, Theresa opened a top shelf and grabbed her small revolver hidden discreetly in the back corner.

-:-:-:-

"What does that have to do with anything—" her voice questioned. Then stopped. Everything.

"Theresa? Theresa?" he tried hurriedly. Realizing the short conversation had been hung up, Bourne shouted his frustration and jammed the key into the ignition. Seething in anger, he started the Chevy and made his way out.

-:-:-:-

She seriously thought her throbbing heart would give her away. Gun in hand, the CIA agent entered her mysteriously quiet room. She neared the closet. Closer, closer. Aiming the revolver towards the white door, she declared, "Come out!"

Nothing. Risking her leg, Theresa shoved open the door and quickly aimed the gun into the closet. The only intruder was the accumulating dust on the shelves.

Creeeak...

Quickly she ran to the squeaking, open window. The black clad man jumped into the van. He glanced back.

Wait. Where had she seen his face before?

-:-:-:-

Well, he escaped with his life. As for his dignity, he had to reconsider.

He just couldn't do it.