"You walk along the stream,
Your head caught in a waking dream,
Your protector's coming home." – Your protector, Fleet Foxes
It takes her days to dredge up the courage to call the number. She sits in her apartment, the curtains still drawn and the mayhem of paperwork surrounding her, flicking the card back and forth between her fingers. She has it memorised now, the numbers seemingly burned to the back of her eyelids. It is as if it has a presence; Liz knows where it is at all times, sitting on her coffee table, hidden under her pillow, she can feel it, her contact for the Concierge of Crime, Raymond Reddington, Number Four on the Most Wanted List.
She has researched him, scrolled through FBI files, gathering information that her clearance allows her. Reddington had attended the Naval Academy, had been admired amongst his peers. He was being groomed for admiral, until he disappeared in 1990, abandoning his family on Christmas Eve. When he finally remerged, it was to sell classified documents, marring his name for good, becoming the Concierge of Crime. That was where her clearance ended, but Liz knows the stories, can imagine the heinous and violent crimes he is associated with. He's dangerous, most likely psycho or sociopathic, powerful and incredibly clever, he'd have to be to evade the FBI for over 20 years, and so successfully. Liz knows that if she goes to meet him, makes contact, he'll have the upper ground at all times, could easily put a bullet between her eyes and leave her body to rot. No one would come looking for her; it would be the easiest murder he'd ever have to commit. So, she doesn't know why she dials the number, curled up on her bed, hands trembling as she holds the phone to her cheek.
It rings and rings, for so long that Liz thinks the line may cut out, that she has hit another dead end and for a moment she is relieved, her body sagging into her pillows. And then a voice crackles through the speaker, business-like, stern. Liz is now sitting upright, fingers gripping her sheets, heart threatening to crack open her ribcage, flop onto her quilt to wilt, die.
"What package do you desire?"
Liz can't help that her voice breaks, the tremble that runs through her body affecting her vocal cords. She winces, tries to calm herself down, sound as certain and professional as the stranger on the other line. It wasn't Reddington, couldn't possibly be.
"I need to purchase a package that can get me out of the country, under a new identity, please."
There is the distinct shuffle of papers on the other end of the line, the clearing of someone's throat, the rattle of the phone as it is moved from one shoulder to the other. Liz sits still, waits patiently, not even knowing the beginning of a process such as this. Her fingers are still clenched tight in her sheets, the fabric twisted around her knuckles.
"Name?" They demand eventually and Liz's voice catches in her throat as she goes to respond, her name almost flowing off her tongue, so naturally and normal. She thinks frantically, Fyodor's words flowing through her mind, a hindsight she should have made.
They'll probably do a background check on you.
"Ella Grange," she blurts out, praying that she didn't wait too long, that they don't notice the pause, the hesitation. The typing of a keyboard is muted over the speaker, but still discernible. Liz breathes deeply.
Ella Grange had attended high school with Liz. She was a magnificent athlete, pegged to go far in her hockey career, should she follow it. Her hair is brown, eyes blue, and face, soft and round. Liz and she had been friendly acquaintances, had been constantly mistaken for each other during class, even though Liz was taller and Ella had a bad case of acne. They spoke rarely, merely shared knowing smiles when they corrected the teachers. Liz had not seen her since graduation, didn't know where she lived, what she did now, and yet, she had not hesitated to pass her name over to known and violent criminals. Liz feels ill, disgust at herself ripping a pit open in her stomach.
"You gave a different name to Fyodor," the voice states, tone severe, as if admonishing a child.
"I'd just been beaten in an alley way and dragged into a nightclub," Liz growls in response, finally releasing the sheets to run an agitated hand through her hair. "Of course I gave him a fake name; he could have known my husband."
"Smart girl," is the response and Liz is momentarily taken back, her brow creasing into a frown as she glares at her bedroom door, considering whether they were mocking her or being sincere. She decides not to answer, waits for the next question, feeling as if she is at the Spanish Inquisition.
"This package is a total of $130,000 and will need to be deposited in the account I am about to relay to you."
Liz has the money, hidden in a duffel bag under her bed, countless more notes than the required amount. She'd accessed the mysterious accounts she had discovered at Sam's, was not willing to give these criminals a means to trace the money back to her, back to her father's savings, what he had once worked so hard for. She grits her teeth, clenches her eyes and curses the stubborn streak that thrives in her blood.
"I've already taken the money out, that won't be possible."
The voice sounds disgruntled when it replies, the response eliciting a small smile of triumph from Liz. Until the words fully sink in, dread pooling in her stomach as she listens.
"A meeting will be set, where you will give the money to my employer, who will in turn supply you with your package," they drone, "in two days time, in the late afternoon, go to the National Mall. We have your photo. Someone will be sent to pick you up."
And then the line drops out and Liz is left with her phone stuck to the skin of her cheek. She feels as if she is drowning, struggling against a relentless, inescapable tide. It pulls at her lungs, batters her muscles, dragging her down into the deep, into the dark. Terror bleeds into her bloodstream, dilutes the oxygen, making it impossible to breathe. She throws the phone onto the mattress, watches as it bounces onto the floor with a thud. Liz has no weapon, no identification to support her false name, and no back up. All she has is the constant burn of the unknown, the tarnished image of her father, and a name in red ink.
The days drag by, agonisingly slow, almost stagnant. Liz, once again, has secluded herself to her apartment, only replying to Tom's messages to say that she is busy, can't catch up. She continues to scour the web for information on Reddington, finding only horrifyingly violent recounts and stories of the crimes he has committed. After one such read, Liz slams her laptop closed and goes to bed, her fingers shaking, and sleep evasive. When she wakes, only an hour has crawled by, and Liz knows she should eat, but can barely stomach the thought. She stares at the television, on mute, for the rest of the night, eyes glazed.
She contemplates alerting the FBI, sending a qualified agent in her stead. They may be able to infiltrate Reddington's empire, dismantle the criminal network he has formed through bloodshed and crime. Her phone is full of contacts that would enable her to alert her superiors, to keep herself safe, keep her job and most likely her life. The screen lights up on her mobile, the contact list open and the names staring back at her. She could easily swipe, make the call, end it all, but she can't. Sam's life, her own life, would come under scrutiny if they were to ask how she came by these leads, managed to do what they couldn't for over twenty years. They would tear her life apart, postpone her education at Quantico, sideline her from the FBI, question and interrogate, discover the loss of her weapon, how long she had had this information, these leads. An anonymous tip would be the best choice, would eliminate all possibility of Liz being involved at all; she'd just aid in putting away a criminal mastermind, become a faceless saviour and continue on in her life as if nothing had changed, as if everything she had found was nothing. However, that is not an option; to not know why Sam had those passports, the money, would drive her mad. So she closes her phone, turns it off, ignores the anxiety that slithers through her. She'll do it herself, no matter the consequences.
In the morning she wakes with a rush of adrenaline, the sheets tangled around her sweat soaked body. Her lungs heaving as she gasps for breath, eyes roaming the ceiling, because it's today and her heart is skipping a beat with each hour that passes. She paces and sits. She showers and stares, fidgety, anxious. Her clothes are tight, constricting, itchy, but she doesn't get changed, barely moves in the last two hours; the microwave clock flashes at her like a warning sign.
When she stands, retrieves her car keys, her body creaks, cracks. She moves as if in a dream, eyes glazed, limbs mechanical, as she locks her apartment and makes her way to the garage. Her car rumbles to life beneath her, a whisper in the roar of her mind. The traffic trundles along beside her, the innocent lives of so many, the people that look back at her when she stares through her window at them, sane people, not willing to affiliate with criminals and murderers. These were people that were not willing to play with fire, blazing, hot, red, and risk being scorched beyond recognition.
Liz grits her teeth, tightens her grip on the wheel, steely determination rising through her. Her scar itches. She has survived one encounter already with fire, roaring flames, and she knows that she can survive another. Her heartbeat stabilises, sound seemingly returning with the steady tick of her indicator. The National Mall is to her left, parking is near impossible.
As she steps out of the lot, the brisk autumn wind whips through her hair, tangling and tugging at the brown tresses. It bites through her clothing to her skin; skin that has been hidden from the kiss of the summer sun, skin still riddled with grief. She rubs at her arms, remembering when Sam would do similarly as he walked her to school, the winter of Nebraska cold and unforgiving. A warm hot chocolate would be cradled in her small hands, feeling the warmth seep into her palms, apart from the marred flesh of her scar, numb to most sensations. The beanie Aunt June had knitted her for Christmas would be tugged over her head, covering her ears. Tears prick at her eyes as she combs her fingers through her hair.
Sam was never far from her mind.
She finds a park bench, looks out across the water, while joggers and bike riders flow past her vision. Her arms curl around her midriff as she waits, the sun falling lower and lower towards the horizon, the wind biting colder and colder, even as the time ticks by so slowly, the afternoon dragging on into evening. And still, Liz sits, frozen by the cold and by her thoughts, each passerby a potential threat, the man or woman sent to drag her away to God knows where. Those on bikes, one's with dogs trotting at their heels, surely pose no danger, but those wearing bulky clothing, businessmen, businesswomen, tourists and guides, all keep Liz on high alert, fingernails digging into the paint of the bench, chipping the deep red away. Her eyes track their movements, focussed and unwavering, adrenaline thrumming through her bloodstream.
So intent is she on those that stroll past, she fails to notice the man approaching from behind. When his hand, heavy and with a firm grip, lands on her shoulder Liz bites back a startled gasp, stills her warrior reflexes to break the man's hand. Instead, she looks up at him, a question in her gaze and worry lines around her mouth.
He is around her age; thinning brown hair, dark, icy blue eyes, and a sharp face, his cheekbones chiselled and high, jaw line jutting out. His hand lifts from her shoulder and with the movement his jacket gapes ever so slightly. Liz spots the holster and gun shoved into it, strapped around his torso, before the jacket falls back into place, allowing him to be a normal civilian once more. He gives her a tight smile, eyes sparking with an unspoken threat. She would follow his instructions exactly, or risk having a bullet lodged in her brain.
"Ella Grange?" He asks and at her nod he walks back the way he came, the opposite direction to where Liz parked, only turning back when he realises she is not following.
Liz rises on unsteady feet, her legs feeling weak, as if not able to hold her weight. She trails after him, eyes steady on his back, ready to flee if his hands linger from his sides, slide under the jacket to grab the weapon concealed beneath. He slows his gate, so that they are now walking alongside each other. She waits for him to say something, anything, about where he is taking her, what is waiting for her when she arrives, but he is practically mute, ignoring her when she asks. Liz rubs at her scar, her thumb manic over the roughened and ruined skin.
The sun is setting, painting the sky in fire; reds, oranges, yellows, a burning endless plane suspended above them, as the molten yellow sinks below the horizon, the rays shimmering over the pond. The mountainous clouds rise up into the nothingness, looking aflame, smeared black as soot, reflecting red, even as they threatening to open, to soak the world in blue. The wind still whips around them, dragging at their clothing, making the trees whisper. Sam had always told her to listen to the trees, to the secrets they had to tell her, the lessons she could learn. As a young girl she'd thought he was teasing her, she'd laugh at him, tell him to not be so silly, ever logical. Now, as she wanders amongst the aged beasts that tower above her, possibly to her death, she fancies that she can hear Sam whispering to her, a steady support, watching over her.
They reach the street; continue to walk down it without falter, until a white van, idles up beside them. It has advertisement for a bakery in the inner city slathered across it in bright purple font. The driver steps out the vehicle, nods at the man that had met Liz and disappears off down the street. When Liz looks back, the man is standing with her door open, gesturing for her to get inside. She slides in, feeling sweat rolling down her ribcage, between her shoulder blades. Her breaths are unsteady, heart pounding relentlessly. He pushes the door closed, the thud the seal to Liz's fate. She puts her belt on, grips onto the seat as they pull into traffic. Counts the minutes that they drive, the closer they draw to Reddington.
The wheels roll beneath them as they glide onto a highway, out of the city, into the dusk, only illuminated by the other car lights. Diamonds and rubies, blurring as they fly past, peak hour building up to form a necklace that weaves across the land. Liz stares at the reflection in the window, the hum of the engine the only noise in the compartment, her companion silent and stony. She wonders how long he has been in Reddington's employment, what crimes he has committed, how tarnished and dark his soul may be. He catches her once, smirks when she hurriedly looks away, before he focuses his attention back onto the road.
Inky blackness has fallen over the sky, a blanket of velvet, sprinkled with diamonds, starlight. They roll and roll, and when they exit the highway an hour has passed. Abandoned and derelict buildings surround them, an area for industry, where black, polluted smoke pours from the chimneys and the workers are clad in helmets, fluorescent clothing. Now, at night, all is dark, the orange hue of the streetlights the only other light, throwing ghastly shadows over the buildings. There are no other cars, no other people, just Liz and a stranger, a criminal. When he speaks, Liz can't help but jump.
"We're almost there," he murmurs, turning down another street where two tomcats are yowling, he slows the car, waits for them to scurry off into the dark. "Someone will be out to pick you up."
Liz just nods, a fresh wave of anxiety twisting her gut. Her fingers quiver, quake, so she shoves them into her lap, focuses on steadying her breathing, her racing heart. She tries to imagine the man waiting for her, how she could possibly get such a man to give her answers to the questions that screamed and rioted in her mind. The photos the FBI had of him at best were blurred, his face hidden beneath a hat, sunglasses, or facial hair. He is a blank face, an empty canvas, and Liz will have only moments to profile him, assess him.
She has no identification, hopes that she can bluff her way through the meeting, play the poor beaten housewife. Her face is blackened, purpled, yellowed, the swelling still prominent around her eyes and skin littered with cuts and gashes. They were a testament to her claims, evidence, and hopefully enough to move Reddington, no matter how heartless he must be. She thinks briefly of Fyodor, how ready and eager he had been to help, to aid a defenceless woman. There is only a sliver of hope that Reddington will give her a similar reception.
They pull up to the curb and her door is opened by a man outside. He's older, his hair long, dark brown and pulled back into a ponytail. A grey beard surrounds his mouth, as he smiles at her courteously, offering her a hand as she clambers out the car. As soon as she is clear of the vehicle it drives off into the night, a ghost with glowing red eyes. Liz turns to her new handler, notices the knives hanging from his hips. He catches her gaze, nods at her and leads the way inside, pulling his jumper further down his body to hide the blades. Where he hides his gun, because Liz is certain he is carrying, she hasn't the faintest.
The warehouse they approach looms above them, dark and menacing, as if the man that currently occupies it has tarnished it with his tainted soul. The windows are boarded, and those that are not are smashed, glass sprinkled over the gravel. Crude graffiti litters the concrete walls, the colours bright, blinding, in contrast to the sullen dull grey. The chimneys are cold, dead; smoke does not seep from them, billowing up into the sky. They were entirely alone; the business that once inhabited this building long gone, redundant, their footsteps the only sound.
At their approach, a roller-door screeches and grinds against its hinges, revealing another of Reddington's men and light, it spills across the gravel towards them, warm and inviting. Liz shrinks back from it, heart seizing in fear, even as she walks closer. The man walking with her nods his head, turns and moves off in another direction; she hears a door squeal as it's opened before slamming shut. The newest of the men waits for her to meet him; he's tall, broad, strong, skin dark and smooth, head bald and facial features angular. His eyes are dark, so brown they look black, as he stares at her, expression severe, a muscle in his jaw clenching. Something flashes over his face, an expression of rage, if Liz is able to interpret it correctly. She slows to a stop before him, only a few strides away.
He walks forward, gently frisks her, and when finding nothing, turns and leads her deeper into the warehouse. It's empty, top to bottom, completely and utterly empty, their footsteps echoing as they walk, Liz struggling to keep up with the larger man's strides. She can't help but notice the way he glances at her, it's unnerving, causes Liz to rub at her scar once more.
They make their way up a flight of stairs, approach an office, fixed into the corner of the warehouse. The door is closed, but soft jazz can be heard from within. Liz feels every muscle in her body seize as the man opens the door, another shaft of light crawling across the floor. He nods at her, in what Liz assumes is supposed to be an assuring matter, as she takes a shaky step forwards.
The door clicks shut behind her and Liz wants to run, wants to dart of into the darkness, risk taking a bullet in the back as she flees. Fear has lodged in her throat, constricted her breathing, suffocating her calm. She can see a shadow on the carpet; can see that the office is well furnished, luxurious. Her heart is pounding, shoving and clawing its way up her throat. Another step and she is over the threshold, can see Raymond Reddington for the first time, his back to her as he stares out into the night, through the only intact window in the entire warehouse. A rug, patterned in reds and black, lays upon the floor, separating the mahogany dining table from the timber floors, the only furniture separating them. A record player is tucked into the corner, the vinyl spinning as jazz flows through the air. Reddington stands by a coffee table, a decanter of scotch glinting in the soft light. She clears her throat, is surprised when she manages to speak.
"Hello, I'm Ella Grange," her voice is soft, she ducks her head, feels her hair fall in front of her face, waits for his response. She holds her breath, rubs at her scar.
"Good evening, I'm Raymond Reddington," he states, still not facing her.
He's a sensual masterpiece, art; every aspect of his clothing, appearance, God even his name, a means to seduce and captivate, enthral. His posture is relaxed, but by the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way he faces the window, so as to look into the reflection, Liz is able to see that he is well aware of his surroundings, alert. The suit, a dark navy matched with a brown belt and shoes, is professionally tailored to enhance his figure, exude the wealth and power he possesses, adorned with a matching fedora. A watch, flashy and silver, glints on his wrist. His attire, it's his armour.
Liz can tell he is handsome, even from behind, the way he dresses, the confidence he radiates, assuring it. A crystal tumbler cradled loosely in his fingers, filled with amber liquid, reflects in the light, manages to complement his outfit, the image he conveys. As does the cigar smoke that wafts around him, arm cocked out to tap ash into the designated tray, class, sophistication. His voice is so deep, a rumble of thunder soaked in honey. It is powerful, commanding, seductive.
When he turns on his heel, looking at the ground, fedora shading his eyes, Liz can see that he is smirking, a show of white teeth, crooked. He lifts the cigar to his mouth, eyes travelling up her body as he takes a drag. She knows that it is a show of power, a game he most likely plays with his clientele, particularly females. So Liz stands still, waits for his eyes to meet hers, and even though she is prepared, she can't help the shaky breath she lets out when their eyes meet, because he is Raymond Reddington, and the full intensity of his gaze is focused on her. His eyes are green, sharp and wide. The cigar falls from his mouth as his hand drops to his side, ash floating to the floor in its wake. Liz frowns at him, he almost looks fearful, his gaze flickering over her face.
Then he breathes her name,
"Lizzie."
And Elizabeth feels as if she has been doused in freezing water.
A/N; Don't fear, the next chapter is well underway and pretty damn big! Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!