As I begin to draw closer to the end of my story, I would like to once again extend a thank you to everyone who has been tuning in to these chapters! I appreciate the feedback, and I hope that everyone will continue to follow along. I'm thinking this will only run another two chapters or so – but despair not…nothing ever really dies.

"Fusco!" Reese yelled angrily as he glared at the officer slumped across the ground.

"Huh?" Fusco asked, looking around with confusion as he blinked his eyes slowly.

"What the hell happened to you?" Reese said, not offering assistance.

"The girl..I…uh…" Fusco struggled to remember, rubbing his head, "someone hit me."

"I thought you were a police officer, not an elderly woman," John growled, "it's taken me nearly all night to find you, why did you leave the shelter? And when?"

Reese had left Fusco and Grace at the abandoned building where he had taken refuge during the drunken months after Jessica's death. He knew they would be safe among the homeless, as he was. Well, they would have been safe if Fusco followed his explicit instructions to not move until he got back.

"I think it was around 11," Fusco said slowly, "she was hungry so I took her to get some food. They must've jumped us outside the restaurant."

"Eleven?" John said with disbelief, "it's nearly five am, I've been searching for you for hours and you've been curled up in an alley while Grace has most likely been in the hands of Russian assassins."

"Sorry, boss, I'm not sure what to say – they came out of nowhere."

"Lionel, you idiot, that's why they're paid assassins," John said as his phone began to go off.

Finch had called him at least thirty times, but Reese had been unwilling to answer until he found Grace. Since that prospect was looking a little grim, he decided he had no choice but to talk to his coworker.

"Finch," he said as he answered abruptly, "bit of a problem."

"At noon they're going to have her at the pier near South Street," Finch said without hesitation.

"And how did you come across that information?" Reese said, his bewilderment not sounding in his voice.

"We found the suicide note they left in her house," Finch said plainly, and Reese suspected he was hiding his fear.

"Harold," he said slowly, not entirely sure if he should continue.

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"I won't let you down this time," Reese said simply, assuming Finch understood.

"You didn't before, Mr. Reese," Finch answered, to John's surprise, "I'm sorry."

Reese didn't know how to respond, surprised by the honesty in his partner's voice.

"You can buy him a box of chocolates later," Reese suddenly heard Carter cut in in the background, "let's get to this plan of yours before it's too late."

"Cater is with you?" Reese asked with a chuckle.

"Yes, and I think we have a plan for Grace's rescue," Harold paused, "do you think you can make it look like they killed her, Mr. Reese?"

"Of course," he said assuredly, "but what do I do with her afterwards, seeing as she's actually alive?"

"Take her to the homeless encampment you stayed at, that should be a safe rendezvous point. I'll have things worked out from there – just establish contact with me when you're ready."

"Will do," Reese said as he hung up the phone.

"Come on, Lionel," he said as he gave the officer a slightly twisted smile, "we have work to do."

So, John began the tiresome work of a stakeout with Detective Fusco. Normally he would have gone looking for Grace, but he knew his best option was to wait it out at the pier and hope they were keeping her alive. Waiting it out would have been much easier without the detective's needless banter, but John was a tolerant man – sometimes.

"Look," Fusco said in a surprisingly hushed tone around 11:30, pointing at a lone car pulling into the pier.

John moved his hand to his gun, and watched with a heightened pulse as three men dragged a blindfolded and helpless woman out of the trunk of their car. Even though she was clearly alive and struggling, rage took over his body.

He swung open his car door ferociously, throwing caution to the wind. Loosing a shot, he sent one of the men to the ground, dead. A second man took cover behind the large black Cadillac he had pulled up in, and the third put Grace in front of his body for protection. John scowled at him and moved closer with his gun as she clawed at the arm he had wrapped around her throat.

Even though he seemed entirely focused on the assailant holding Grace, John didn't miss a detail in his surroundings. So, when the second man risked a peek from behind the car to take a shot, John loosed a bullet in his head with barely a glance. The man holding Grace shifted uncomfortably, whipping out a gun and sticking it behind her head as if to enforce his seriousness.

"That was a bad move," John said as he raised his gun, his motion interrupted by a loud bang.

Clutching his side immediately, John felt the bullet rip through his back like a hot knife. He groaned with the pain, blood flowing from the lower left quadrant of his body. He heard another shot erupt behind him, but after feeling no pain he glanced back. Fusco had killed the man who had shot him, and was scanning the perimeter for any more gunmen. John looked up at the burly fellow with his hands around Grace, and noticed he was distracted by Fusco. Having a clear shot at his right knee, John took it, and sent another round into the body before it even hit the ground.

Grace, still bind folded, fell to her knees and covered her head in fear. John made his way to her, ignoring his pain for a moment, and undid her blindfold.

"Grace," he panted, "are you alright?"

"John," she sobbed, falling onto his shoulder and hugging him.

He held her for a moment, but allowed her to rapidly release once her hand sunk low enough to detect the sticky hot substance around his wound.

"You're hurt," she said, horrified.

"That doesn't matter now," he said as he climbed to his feet, opening the door of the Cadillac and digging thought he glove compartment, "You need to listen to me very carefully, Grace."

He returned to her side and his knees with a piece of paper he had found, and pulled a pen out of his suit. Scrawling a message on the paper quickly, he folded it up and placed it in her palm, staining it with blood as he did so.

"You need to keep this folded up until you meet the people you can trust," he said, "there's a detective named Cater, she'll probably be the one getting you. Give it to her. Once she has it, and reads it, make her take you to the funny looking guy with the limp – my bird," he finished with a smile.

"Where will I find her?" she asked, terror covering her face.

"Tell Fusco to take you back to the shelter you were at earlier, he won't lose you this time," John assured her, "then turn on this phone and send a text message to the only contact in it," he continued as he handed her the phone he had turned off long ago, not wanting Finch to follow him if things went badly.

"What should the message say?" she asked quietly, probably disturbed by the finality with which John was speaking.

"It doesn't matter, just type 'finished' or something," John said as he struggled to his feet.

"Boss," Fusco said as he jogged over, "you should probably take a seat until you get some help."

"No can do, Lionel," John said sternly, "you're going to have to take Grace back to the homeless encampment. Then, and this is important," John stressed, "you need to come back here and call for backup. Say you stumbled upon a gang fight, shots were fired. The deaths of these men were unrelated to any woman, as a matter of fact – no car was found at the scene."

"Alright," Fusco nodded, understanding for the most part, "but where do you fit in?"

"Don't worry about it," John said, still holding his side, "just go wait in your car."

Fusco obeyed without another word. Despite his shortcomings, the man was dependable when he needed to be.

John climbed into the front seat of the Cadillac, starting it with the keys left in the ignition.

"What are you doing, John?" Grace asked, moving closer to him.

"Grace," he said, "it's going to be hard to get Carter to take you to that man. Tell her it was my final request, alright? And don't forget that letter I gave you."

"Final request?" she asked with fear, "John, what are you doing? And why? You aren't hurt too bad – someone can fix you," she pleaded with him.

"Someone already fixed me, in a manner of speaking, Grace," he said solemnly, "these men were going to make it look like you committed suicide. That's what I'm going to do, to protect you. You're going to die today," John said as casually as ever.

Looking at the expression on her face, he knew she didn't understand easily. Who would?

"You have to understand Grace, I'm already dead. My friend – he's dead too. Sometimes the best way to protect someone, or yourself, is to simply disappear. Cease to exist."

John stared at the wheel of the car, contemplating what he was about to do, when he felt the lips on his cheek.

"Thank you, John," she whispered through her tears, "you've been so good to me, but if you're going to do this I at least deserve an explanation why - why you want to help me so much."

"A little birdy whispered in my ear," he used the phrase with a smile, closing Grace out of the car.

Before she even had time to react, John had sent the car into drive. Pressing his foot to the pedal hard, he closed his eyes and gripped the wheel tightly. There was a moment after all his tires left the pier that he felt he just hung there, as if he was in a slow motion. Then the crash came, though, and the sounds, pressure, and blackness ensued.