Dislcaimer: Nathan is mine, all mine :) But sadly, not Flack

A/N: Thanks so much for the kind review, minimorgan. It was just the push I needed to put my next chapter to paper :) I hope to have another chapter up by the end of the week, so please check back my faithful readers, and as always, please enjoy :)

A quick stop at a clothing boutique bought Don a new pair of jeans and a multi-layer polo shirt, along with an expensive pair of Italian leather boots that Nathan insisted on purchasing, simply because Don's fellow brothers in blue would be searching for him with less flashy attire. It felt odd watching Nathan through the broad shopping windows as the assassin handed over a credit card to buy the clothes, Flack knowing that the money buying his disguise was awarded over the cold, lifeless bodies of the hits Nathan had been contracted for over the years. As soon as all this was over, Don vowed to burn the clothes and the four hundred dollar pair of boots.

Presently, however, there were more important things to worry about than blood money being passed around; the two had no place to go now that Don's apartment was currently being searched by Dougan's crack team of swing-shift CSIs. After his little escapade out the interrogation room window, Mac and the others had been banned from any sort of investigation into both Bozeman murders, but that hadn't kept them from trying. Every hour or so Danny called his cell phone and minutes after that, Stella would send him a text message pleading for him to return, but he couldn't. Not now, not when he was so deep that the next step to take would likely drown him. No, his only option now was see this through to the end, even if it killed him.

"I spoke with Patrick O'Malley," Nathan said as he climbed into the car, startling Don from his dark reverie, and he looked at the former detective intently as he passed him the large bag of clothing. "He was once Allister's right hand man before he made the mistake of siphoning a few thousand dollars out of the family's safe. He tells me that a mutual acquaintance in Queens has been shooting his mouth off about a particular Bozeman murder. You might remember him, a one Justin Taylor."

"Justin? You mean that bastard's out of jail?" Don demanded as he peeled off his bloody tee shirt and swapped it out for the polo inside the bag.

"Ironic, isn't it?" Nathan asked, as he began to busy himself with an unassuming pocket knife and a whet stone while Don changed clothes. "Allister gets him out of jail, and now he's claiming responsibility for his murder. I suppose that's why I have never been one for politics, but that is beside the point. While I'm inclined to believe that Justin had nothing to do with the murder, if nothing else, I want to see him to silence him. The man has been a thorn in my side ever since Keeva started seeing him."

Just hearing her name was painful and Don winced noticeably as he stuffed his large feet inside the boots, and he quickly changed the subject, though if Nathan noticed, he said nothing.

"So with your father gone, do you inherit the business?" he asked as he sat back and watched Nathan sharpen the knife. He drew it across the whet stone skillfully, twisting his wrist at just the right angle to reveal that too many hours had been spent honing such a skill, and he glanced at Flack.

"Custom would dictate as such, though no. I denied my birthright when I turned eighteen, shortly after accepting my first contract. It was then that I decided that whisky and criminal politics was not, as many say, my cup of tea. As odd as it may sound to you, Detective, I find lying and cheating loathsome."

Reaching across the seat, Nathan picked up the shopping bag and dumped out the remainder of the contents onto Flack's lap: a pair of fake reading glasses, a magnetic silver hoop earring, a sleeve of fake tattoos, and a few rings that were simple bands. He then proceeded to add the various accessories to various places without saying so much as an "excuse me for invading your personal bubble," and it was all Don could do to keep from swatting him away. Two splashes of cold water later, Flack had a tribal tattoo on the inside of his left forearm and an ankh on his neck just above his collarbone, an image in the mirror he would never get used to.

"The only one who stands to gain anything now is someone who is brave enough to step forward. My guess is that it will be the woman recently engaged to Allister, though finding her will be quite the challenge," Nathan went on as he tucked the pocket knife away, along with the receipt from the clothing store before gathering up Don's bloodied clothes and stuffing them inside the large bag and dropping it once again into Don's lap. He then started the car and began to pull away from the curb. "I'll be driving over Queensborough Bridge; you would be wise to toss the bag over the side as we cross the water."

The two maneuvered Manhattan Island, passing by Bottom's Up Bar and a darkened Stinger's Café despite the still-early hour, and Flack pressed his hand to the glass, thinking how far away all of that seemed now. It had been nearly eight months since he had happened upon an argument between a hack and a pretty young girl at that very stop light, but to him it was much longer and when he closed his eyes, Don could see her perfect ringlets bouncing around her face, brightening her entire demeanor.

He touched her cheek lightly with his fingertips and let his eyes roam freely over her, burning every feature of her face into his memory and longing for just one more moment, one more chance to feel her warm, full lips touch his own. "I'm sorry, Keeva. I'm so sorry…"

Her mouth moved silently as she covered his hand with her own, her palm soft and comforting, and Don felt his chest clench so painfully he wanted to cry out. Anything…he would give anything to hear her voice, feel her breath, her mouth…

"Detective," Nathan said abruptly, rolling down the window and a blast of chilly air tore him away from his unpleasant daydream and to the present. They were now over the Queensborough Bridge and the water was passing by rapidly below them. Doing as previously instructed, Flack picked up the shopping bag and heaved it over the railing where it was lost in the depths of the East River.