Adrenaline carries her through the next day as she and Ressler track Barnes. Talking to the lone survivor at the CDC, finally realizing the truth about what Barnes is doing. Facing him once again, this time with a needle poised at his young son's neck, her decision suddenly seems simple.

It's not until she's outside, surrounded by flashing lights, watching them cart his body toward the coroner's van, that she starts to shake.

Is this to be her life? Steeped in violence and death day in and day out? Can she no longer reach anyone any other way?

It's then, just as she's about to break, that she feels a familiar presence, if quieter than usual, and Red is there behind her.

"What are you doing here?" she asks softly, keeping her eyes on the boy, away from the hideous black bag.

"I brought you a souvenir," he replies with a cheerful boom that rings false. "What's your feeling about guava?"

"Anxiety," she says flatly. Why is he so cavalier? Can't he feel her devastation?

He chuckles. "Oh, you're in for a treat. I take it from the coroner's van that Barnes is no longer with us. Pity."

Her heart stumbles inside her aching chest. "Tell that to the families of the people he murdered," she snaps back, hiding her pain in anger, stubbornly looking away.

"Every cause has more than one effect," he says heavily. "Say what you will about Frederick, but someone who's willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about… That's a man I understand."

She wheels around, angry enough now to meet his gaze without quailing or breaking down.

"Is that meant to be directed at me?"

"Aren't you presumptuous?" he shoots back, raising an eyebrow at her. Then his face creases, and his tone changes. "And what if it was? Would you accept that gift, Elizabeth, or would you throw it back in my face?"

"I… what?" He has taken the wind out of her sails completely, his anger striking like a lash.

"This isn't the right place for this conversation." He takes her arm firmly. "We're going home, now. You can do your paperwork tomorrow."


She keeps silent in the car, focusing on keeping herself together, although she inwardly resents his high-handedness. He remains quiet as well, his emotions withdrawn and locked down, the look on his face drawn and slightly grim.

They enter the apartment together, still silent; Liz kicks off her shoes and goes straight to the corner of the couch to curl up like a kitten, leaving Red still hanging his hat and coat with his customary care. His expression is grimmer still when he turns to face the living room, but the lines soften slightly when he sees her in her small huddle.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his tone somewhat conciliatory, walking over to the couch.

She looks up at him, her eyes damp, face pale. "No," she replies bluntly. "I'm not all right. I just shot and killed a man, Red, and maybe murdered a little boy in the process."

He sits down beside her with a sigh. "You did your job, Lizzie, and did it well. It's just as likely that you saved that little boy's life as condemned it."

She shrugs. "Maybe that's true," she says, her voice small. "Barnes was a single-minded man who was incredibly dangerous. But I don't think that's really why I shot him. I think I shot him to prove to myself that I could."

"And is that what you're in the business of these days?" he bites out, grim and bleak all over again, anger rushing out of him like bullets. "Proving yourself, regardless of the consequences?"

His harsh words shock her system as effectively as a slap to the face.

"Wh-What?" she stammers. "I-I'm asking for help here, Red. I need your support, I don't…"

"Oh, now you need me?" he demands sharply. "You need my support, but won't take my advice, don't take what I say seriously?"

She just looks at him, confused and hurt, anger of her own starting to simmer.

"Read the paper today? Seen the news?"

"I've been a bit busy," she retorts, "Tracking your Blacklister."

He slaps a sheaf of newspapers down on the table in front of them both.

"Then you've missed you debut," he snarks, his voice dripping with disdain. "A Mysterious Heroine; Violent Vigilante; Night Stalker — I particularly like that one. And just look at these lovely photos from that young clerk's cellular phone."

Her heart seizes until she sees the pictures — dark and blurry, and not one shows her face.

"That could be anyone," she points out, striving to keep her tone reasonable. "They don't know who I am. I don't think…"

"That much is obvious. I warned you not to go out, I told you it was too risky, I trusted you, and you…"

"You warned, you told, you, you, YOU!" she shouts, leaping up, her nerves beyond frazzled, her emotions wrung out. "You were gone, and I was a mess. I needed help. I had to control the fire, I did what I had to do, what I have done for years. It's not your business anyway."

His anger is briefly flavoured with hurt, then it all shutters away again.

"Your safety is very much my business." His voice is cold, so cold, and stiff. "And you might as well have drawn Volkov a map."

"There's nothing in any of these articles that identifies me," she cries. "You're being ridiculous. I know what I need to do — I don't need you to tell me."

She turns on her heel and stomps into the bedroom; starts tossing her things back into her bag.

"Lizzie," his voice comes at her from the doorway, rough, tired, impatient. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I don't think I'm doing anything. I am leaving." She shoves past him and stalks toward the front door.

"Lizzie," he says again, anger leaking out from under his tight control. "Get back here. You aren't leaving. It's not…"

"You don't tell me what to do," she snaps back, facing him again.

He grabs her upper arms, as if he will hold her in place with everything he has to give.

"In this case," he answers, "I do. You must stay here where you'll be safe."

His dam has broken, and his emotions flood the hallway in a maelstrom. His intensity, his strength, and most of all, the fear dancing at the edges of his anger frighten her. She tries to jerk from his grasp, but he is too strong.

"Let me go!"

"I'll tie you up if I have to," he avers. "Now just…"

No, she thinks, panic-stricken, NO. And she calls the fire, heating her skin as she had the night before.

He yelps, and his hands leap off her — she runs, flat out, out of the apartment, out of the building and away.


In the end, he has Dembe track her down at the cheap motel she registers at, and has him keep watch over her. He knows she would hate it, would see it as several steps too far, but the choking panic that engulfed him as she ran from the apartment refused to subside. After a largely sleepless night, he capitulates to it, telling himself it would be worth it — this way, he can give her the time she surely needs to settle. To think through what had happened rationally, to come back to him.

After three days gone, he misses her like a limb, and mocked himself bitterly for letting his guard down so far, for letting her come so close so quickly.

His hands, mildly irritated but not seriously burned, heal in a week. A week in which she stays aloof, going only to work and back to her cheap motel, but thankfully, remaining indoors at night.

He contents himself with texting her updates as he changes locations, and waits.

What he finally gets, though, is an impatient call from Cooper, demanding another name, a new case, a continuing reason to leave Raymond Reddington running free.


Ten days, she thinks, half-wistful, half-annoyed. Ten days with nothing but addresses.

She wonders, as she slumps in her desk chair and fiddles idly with paperwork, which of them will give in first, which of them will be the one to relinquish the higher ground. She has been stubbornly determined that it won't be her, but she is increasingly restless without the balm of his presence, anxious and edgy and irritable.

Only long workouts at the end of every shift, coupled with hours of meditation each night, have kept the flame in check. And even at that, she feels only moments away from losing the tenuous hold she has on herself.

That morning, she'd woken in the pre-dawn haze shrieking from a nightmare that she cannot remember, smoldering like a coal in her motel bed. It's lucky she'd kept her set of Nomex sheets with her, or she'd have had some very awkward explaining to do.

A tap on her doorframe brings her eyes up.

"You look awful, Milhoan," Ressler says cheerfully. "When was the last time you slept?"

"What do you want, Ressler?" she answers grouchily.

He smirks at her obnoxiously. "Missing Uncle Red, Lizzie?" The look she gives him must have spoken volumes, because he straightens and clears his throat, and when he speaks again, he is cool and clear. "Cooper tells me he'll be in later today. For now, you're with me. The back door team isn't answer comms; we're checking it out." He jerks his head toward the door and strides off.

She groans and rolls her head to ease her aching neck, then gets up to follow him, trying to quell the small glow burning within at the thought of seeing Red later.


Shots echo, bullets fly, chaos reigns.

Where are you, Red? she thinks fiercely, firing with one hand and supporting the bleeding and limping Ressler with the other. And what the hell is going on?

Out of time, with Ressler becoming increasingly dead weight at her side, the wide mouth of the Box has become a haven. She staggers toward it, pushing Ressler in behind her; she slams her hand onto the closure and stands waiting, firing steadily, until their prison of safety is complete.

The mercenaries who were pursuing them break off shooting as it becomes useless, cursing. One runs off, presumable to find their superior; the other stays standing guard outside, watching them.

Secure, for now, she turns to assess the state of her companion. Despite his condition, he's managed to haul himself onto the cot in the corner, blood running down his leg to pool on the floor. The shotgun blast has left his quad looking like so much ground beef, and he's losing too much blood, too fast.

Okay, she thinks, tourniquet.

She recounts the steps in her head, drilled into her by Sam during training — of which first aid was a major and necessary part — looking around in some desperation at the stark and empty cage. There's nothing, not even a pen or pencil to use as a tightener. Even the blanket on the cot is too thick to tear.

She sighs, then pulls off her jacket and then her shirt, sparing a brief moment to be thankful for her support tank, and methodically tears her shirt into strips. Out of ammo anyway, she thinks, as she breaks down her gun to make use of her cartridge. Tying three strips of her shirt together into a circle, she slides the loop over Ressler's leg and secures the cartridge.

"Okay, Ressler," she says. "This is going to hurt quite a lot."

And she twists, as fast and as hard as she can, while Ressler screams.


He's in the elevator, trying out and discarding opening lines, when the power shuts off. He gives it a minute, although he knows instinctively this means trouble. He tries the call button, for the sake of things, but gets no response. There's no cell reception in the underground elevator, either, and he's afraid that he knows all too well what's going on.

He looks up at the ceiling and sighs — he's not going to like this one bit. He takes himself down to his shirtsleeves and vest, folding his coat, jacket, and tie neatly and placing his hat jauntily atop the pile.

He can just reach if he stretches, and with a little effort manages to punch up the maintenance hatch. The metal edges of the hole in the roof look keen and sharp; he removes his shoes and socks and preemptively knots the socks around his palms for protection. With consideration, he ties the laces of his shoes together and hangs them around his neck — his bare feet will be useful climbing up and out, but there's no need to roam the Post Office like some sort of barbarian.

It takes him a couple of tries to jump and grab the edges of the opening with enough momentum to be helpful, and as he heaves himself up and scrambles out of the elevator with a complete lack of dignity, he's quietly thankful that he's alone. He takes a precious moment to sit on the roof and catch his breath, and replace his socks and shoes.

Now, he thinks, standing up and looking around curiously. I just have to find my way out of here.


She sits on the uncomfortable folding chair beside the cot and the unconscious Ressler, holding his hand and trying to think. She can't decide whether to be sorry that it isn't Red in here, to help her, or to be glad that he is well out of harm's way. She straightens when she hears footsteps, looking out the door of the Box to see the face of the enemy ahead.

It's a huge man, tall and heavy both, balding and grizzled, but with full, fierce eyebrows and cold, dark eyes. He walks right up to the Box and presses his hands against it, testing. He meets her gaze and smiles chillingly.

"Ah, little Masha," he says, almost crooning, his accent thick on his tongue. "All grown up now, aren't you? Why don't you come out of there, so we can avoid any further… unpleasantness?"

So it is Volkov, she thinks grimly. Red was right again. Of course.

"I can't," she answers aloud, digging deep for a cool tone and a still face. "I don't have the entry code. Only Assistant Director Cooper knows what it is."

"Hmm… I wonder if that's true." Volkov turns his head and barks sharply in Russian at the men standing behind him.

They march off, men on a mission, and Volkov turns his attention back to her.

"So," he says thoughtfully, pacing to and fro in front of the Box slowly. "All the secrets, all of that knowledge, all locked up in that pretty little head, yes? I wonder how long it will take to get them all out."

She shudders and tightens her grip on Ressler's hand reflexively, afraid now, so afraid.

"I don't know anything," she says. "Only what I am. Please, I just want…"

"Oh, Masha," he replies. "It doesn't matter what you want."

His men are back, bringing stacks of explosives with them. They immediately set to work, piling them along the walls of the Box.

"That won't work," she informs him coolly, hoping that it's true.

"We'll see," he answers. "In the meantime…"

But he's interrupted by a clatter of noise at the doorway, and the room is suddenly full of people. More of Volkov's men appear, and then what seems like every face Liz has come to know over her weeks in the Post Office, a grim parade that ends with Malik and Cooper, and her heart sinks.

Cooper raises a questioning eyebrow, looking to Ressler, and she can only shrug helplessly. He's barely twitched since he passed out, and while her makeshift tourniquet has slowed his bleeding considerably, it hasn't stopped, either. Cooper's face is drawn and worried, but he tips his head to Malik and then to his other side, and she realizes Aram is missing from the group. It's a relief, but it doesn't exactly fill her with hope — Aram is intelligent and sweet, but he's hardly a fighter.

Volkov is all smiles as he walks over to the cluster of FBI — he picks out Cooper without hesitation, and she wonders just how long he's been watching her. It occurs to her then that she should also be wondering just how he got into a secret, unnamed FBI blacksite in the first place. She watches warily from the corner of her eye, giving Ressler's shoulder a hard shake with a terrible sense of foreboding.

"Wh-What's going on?" he mumbles, his voice tight with pain.

"We're in trouble," she replies quietly. "How likely is Cooper to give up the entry code to the Box?"

"He won't," Ressler avers, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows so he can see what's happening.

Volkov is angry now, shouting and gesturing, but Cooper's face remains an impassive mask. There's a pause in which nothing at all happens, and the sick fear inside her intensifies until she's afraid she'll actually vomit.

Then Volkov has Malik by the arm, and is yanking her toward the Box, his features distorted with rage.

"Do you know this woman, Masha? Care about her? Her children? Come out of there, and I won't have to kill her."

"But I can't," she yells back, standing to face him, shaking all over in panic. "I don't know the code, I swear it!"

He shrugs then, his face gone still and calm, pulls out his pistol and cocks it, pressing the muzzle into Malik's temple. Malik closes her eyes briefly, then opens them and smiles calmly at Liz.

"Ressler?" Liz cries, her eyes locked on Malik's now.

"I ca… don't know, either."

She doesn't really notice his brief hesitation, already shouting at Cooper to please open the door, please, what does it matter, anyway?

Cooper shakes his head at her firmly. "I won't give in to terrorism," he says. "And besides, you…" He stops suddenly and just shakes his head again.

"It's okay, Liz," Malik has time to say.

The noise of the gunshot seems to be the loudest thing Liz has ever heard; it echoes in her head, over and over again.

And all she can do is stand there, shocked and shaken, watching Meera Malik's blood and brain matter slide down the glass in front of her.