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~Chapter Nine~
It had all been unreal and Ressler closed his eyes to the gray concrete wall ahead, replaying today's events in his mind.
From the moment sitting down in Cooper's office. To Cooper accepting his request to keep Reddington out of it as long as they could. Ressler didn't want his brand of help—there been enough of that.
He was ending this circle of blackmail.
Ressler still remembered how he held onto that thought as they went to see Cynthia Panabaker. Comforting himself that it was going to be all over.
I killed Laurel Hitchen.
He said those four words.
And he's been walking in a world that pulled away from him ever since. The out of body sensation of being unreal … like a sleepwalker who didn't understand he was watching himself sleepwalk and waiting for the gusts of wind rebounding against the walls to carry him away and maybe … he would wake up.
Once the four words left his mouth Panabaker let loose her anger and Cooper sent him to wait outside her office as she began to tear into him with scathing admonishment shot with idioms he didn't understand.
The sun would be setting soon and Ressler took a deep breath of cold air. Clouds were gathering and he can smell the rain waiting to fall, the moisture sharpening the clay and iron scent of cement and metal. Pulling himself back.
He needed to keep it together.
Slowly breathing out—dark red roses and blue glass filled his mental vision—smelling flowers that weren't there.
Ressler didn't know it at the time, but they had passed Hitchen's successor striding angrily on her way out of Panabaker's office. Entering a room left with tension. Huge, red roses in the fleur-de-lis shaped vase sitting on the side of Panabaker's desk and Ressler immediately recognized there were eleven flower heads.
"It's hard sometimes," Cooper said to him—after he handed over his badge and gun, the last thing he did before he walked out the Post Office, "living up to the duty—to the justice and the law—that we've sworn ourselves to. We want to believe we always can. But we sometimes fall short, and find ourselves at loss when we can't match what we believed ourselves to be."
The barest sound of grit crushed underfoot and Ressler reflexively opened his eyes in defense of possible danger.
"What would have happened if I hadn't confessed?" Ressler asked Prescott—a vague form in his peripheral vision.
"Nothing. Except for what your conscience does to you. It didn't matter. You were in the clear."
The voice was matter-of-fact. Neutral and steady.
"You were setting me up," Ressler said.
When they returned Cooper had the others gathered all the files he had requested—Panabaker demanded it all returned—and announced that he was suspended for running a secret investigation. There had been varying degrees of surprise—they didn't think he had it in him to be sneaky—much less enough to get pass their attention.
Prescott didn't answer and it sparked a flare of anger in Ressler. Quietly, he breathed in and out. Refusing to let the anger grow. Staying relaxed. Keeping it together. Not letting go either.
The cement ground was mostly swept clean of gravel. Metal folding chairs and crates acting as make-shift seats lined the outside walls of the building wings. Windows and ceilings were empty and roofless. Ressler turned his attention back to the orange pylons and ropes left to one side, already determined someone in the construction crew was holding a fight club when he arrived at the center of the development site.
"You said you weren't playing Reddington's game," Ressler said without turning to face Prescott.
There was no anger in Cooper's voice when he asked for the truth once they were back upstairs and alone in his office. Still dazed and knowing Cooper could tell him what had happened, Ressler had spilled everything about his involvement with Prescott.
"I wasn't. You made your own choices and I respected your wishes. By that—I mean your conscience. Even when you didn't follow my orders. If you had done the next assignment, you would have kept your badge. And maybe even your credibility."
An unconscious twitch in his shoulders that Ressler couldn't stop at the mention of his badge and ruined reputation. "My conscience," Ressler said instead, aware of the emptiness inside his suit jacket where his badge should be.
"No one died. Threatened. Bribed. Or blackmailed."
After Ressler finished, Cooper had sighed—understanding what Prescott had done all over his face. Cooper told him the woman they had pass was the new National Security Advisor. There was an internal jurisdictional scuffle over classified matters involving national security that could never go public—not if they could help it. Ressler had jeopardized their investigation when he took those cases. It had been too much of a coincidence that those files were out the moment the new NSA needed them—and she placed Ressler under suspicion as Hitchen's accomplice when he hid the files in the mass request.
Cooper told him Panabaker had defended his actions to the new advisor; well aware that Reddington's involvement meant the task force's cases would occasionally overlap with classified matters. She was now suspicious of the new advisor for having prior knowledge of those cases. When he came to confess it seemed to her that Ressler was another one of Hitchen's victims. Panabaker thought she finally got the proof she needed on a silver platter in order to go after some of Hitchen's operations. Until he lied to hide Prescott's involvement.
"He played you," Cooper said. "He knew your confession wouldn't hold up under examination. You were caught off guard and suspicious when you saw the flowers. You had Prescott on your mind, trying to figure out how he was involved. Your reputation as a determined agent preceded you. When you lied, she assumed you launched your own rogue investigation after Hitchen's death. Starting with the largest leads that were available to you: the old Reddington cases. She read your behavior as subterfuge in an attempt to open an official investigation into Hitchen's past operations. To reopen the inquiry into Reven's disappearance."
"The evidence…." Ressler said, remembering how he tried to keep his agitation under control—how Panabaker listened to him with restrained incredulity—to slow anger—as he answered her questions. Explained how he knew Hitchen murdered Reven Wright and had been trying to prove it these past months. How Hitchen grabbed him and how he reacted.
"Forensics can place you on the couch. The couch you said you cleaned to remove evidence of your presence. And your DNA was found on the hand she used to grab you."
"… you didn't hide it. You didn't have anything—you didn't do anything," Ressler said.
"Of course not. I didn't want you. And I didn't want to be Reddington's target. As far as I'm concern, you're his problem that became mine. At any point if you admitted my involvement you would discredit your confession."
"Because it truly appeared she had an accident," Cooper answered to Ressler's disbelieving question as to why he was still cleared as a suspect. "They had the best forensic team investigating and they declared her death an accident. Agents questioning the last people who saw her all said she'd been in a rage all day over incompetent handling of classified security details and locking down leaks. And there were people who knew she had it out for you. Knew she was passing along your badge in a power-play. No one was surprised her heels killed her. And now your knowledge of Reven's murder proves Hitchen's enmity for you."
"You got to the people," Ressler said.
"They knew Hitchen. They don't want to believe you."
"And if I had done your next assignment?" Ressler asked.
"If you had gone to interview the people I was planning on making you search for you might have changed your mind about confessing. And Cynthia Panabaker would notice and have Director Cooper stop you on the grounds of interfering with national security."
Ressler stiffened at the mention of Cooper and shifted to see Prescott standing in the doorway. Distantly deducing Prescott had taken shortcuts by going through the doorless entrances of the incomplete buildings.
"Harold Cooper, Aram Mojtabai, Samar Navabi. Elizabeth Keen … Masha Rostova," Prescott listed off calmly. Then shrugged. "Tom Keen." And hadn't finding one of the Major's operatives been a surprise.
"If you still confessed," Prescott continued on, ignoring Ressler's trepidation, "it'll look like you were deliberately derailing their investigation in order to claim it as your own and to make it official. An obsessed agent. Fixated on that one case."
"Either way. It won't matter." Prescott studied Ressler—disappointment and the loss of faith in the system he served, mingled with relief at falling through the cracks in the same system. "The protection of the nation or the hoarding selfish interests won't allow your confession."
At that Ressler glanced away from Prescott; reminded of the task force's work with Reddington. Still struggling with acceptance.
"You know what your problem is? You still think like a local cop. You're a fed. You have a bigger field. And you're working with Reddington," Prescott said, seeing Ressler refrain from reacting, but he had his attention. "That's a much bigger playing field than he's letting you know."
Prescott continued on. "She was the National Security Advisor. There are bigger operations tied to Hitchen you aren't seeing. You got away. Hitchen's victims—the ones still living—take priority. And there are people who are looking for them."
Ressler regarded Prescott, unsure what to make of the comfort he was extending. Justice had gaps when the scale shifted size—he knew that. Justice wasn't always fair and it sometimes had to wait. He fought against those gaps all the same.
Understanding broke through, tipping Ressler into cold anger.
"Based on their current investigation, Panabaker was already looking at Hitchen's involvement in shutting down the inquiry into Reven's disappearance. She believed you when you said Hitchen killed her. But because of Hitchen's activities during that time period, charging Hitchen will be difficult even after her death. It would invite reviews to operations she made then. Hitchen may never be officially charged, but they know."
"You're the reason the inquiry to Reven Wright's disappearance was shut down," Ressler accused.
In almost lazy strides Prescott approached—
—and Ressler realized something else.
He had confessed and his confession was rejected.
Prescott lost his hold over him.
The stress of being blackmailed; the shame, the fear—the intrusion to his home … and all the goddamn manipulation—
Ressler swung a fist aimed directly at Prescott's face.
The next thing he knew he was falling face forward to the floor and pain was shooting up his shin.
Grimacing, Ressler kicked at Prescott's feet—and missed.
Prescott had been there at the beginning, Ressler thought as he got up.
Another swing. Another deflection that nearly drove him to the ground.
Before he knew the man existed Prescott was there and Ressler allowed the flowing rage carry his momentum, knocking Prescott to the ground in a tackle. Almost choking as Prescott braced his arm against his throat, rearing him back far enough to kick him off.
Ressler's hand shot out to twist Prescott's arm by the wrist in one smooth, practiced motion.
The barrel of his off-duty gun digging into Prescott's arm stopped further movements and Ressler used his weight to shove Prescott back down.
A dirty move, but Ressler didn't care.
"Nothing to say?" Ressler pressed his knee into Prescott's back.
"What's the matter? Mad you lost your leverage?" Ressler mocked, a little unnerved at Prescott's silence.
Seconds trickled by before Prescott answered.
"It was never about leverage."
"… what?"
"It was about proof."
"Proof?"
"You're my liability. And the two of you already blackmailed me. What's Reddington suppose to think after he finds out you called me? How do you think he'll react—knowing what I'm capable of?"
By murder, Ressler didn't say—thinking of the eighty-six bodies. Of all the deaths along the way.
"All this—sharing information—helping me—it was to give up your leverage," Ressler realized out loud, "you needed to have proof you weren't going to harm me."
"Reddington knows he's too high of a target—but you? I can get you," Prescott said, carefully tilting his head to look at Ressler from the edge of his vision.
"You hadn't always planned to help me," Ressler said, thinking back to that day in the garden. "What changed?"
"… I misjudged you based on your association with Reddington," Prescott admitted. "You were a liability for him, too. I thought I'd bury your problem, keep you occupied until Reddington decided to cut ties and wash his hands of you. But as I got to know you better and learned about your task force, I realized he wouldn't."
"And the body?" Ressler asked, not forgetting about the corpse Prescott forced him to transport as additional insurance to hold over him.
"Returning evidence to the scene of the crime. Catching the murderers. He and the girlfriend are being convicted," Prescott answered. "You weren't wrong—making you complicit made you a liability."
One other question remained … he couldn't understand why Prescott had shared it when it seemed unnecessary in his scheme—achieving the same results. In fact, it would have decreased the margin of errors in his plan.
"The emotional manipulation. Why tell me? And don't say you weren't playing Reddington's game because that's not it." Ressler glared down at Prescott. The mental manipulation he would eventually notice, but if Prescott hadn't told him about the emotional disruptions he would never have known.
Prescott hesitated. Ressler frowned and increased his pressure on Prescott's wrist.
"So you wouldn't spiral," Prescott said, sighing. He was still displeased about revealing those set of skills upfront. Especially that one. Most of his clients didn't know—like they didn't know he hid their evidence. And given the choice, they didn't want to know what he was doing to fix their problem—or why he was so effective at calming their emotional state. They just wanted the job done.
"What?" Ressler wrinkled his brow in confusion.
"Accepting Reddington's manipulation on a regular basis—and then Krilov? You'd begin to crack once you understood what I did to you at the end—and you would piece it all together in the end," Prescott said tiredly. The one side of this mess that made clearing Ressler's dilemma such damn delicate edge work. "It would wear you down in replacement. Might as well not bother doing things your way to clear your conscience."
Unfit for duty. If it didn't get him killed first.
That was what Prescott was saying, Ressler realized. He would have gotten what he wanted. But he'd start to unravel.
Ressler stared down at Prescott in disbelief—the chill of almost coming undone tempered by his shock at the attention to consequences.
"Are you going to take me in?" Prescott asked, interrupting Ressler's thoughts before he started dwelling.
"Let it go," Cooper had told him. "It's out of your hands now."
Ressler reflexively tightened his hold on Prescott's wrist … then stepped away.
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Poor agent, Prescott thought as he strolled through the alley behind the the construction site. He removed Ressler's current turmoil, but he expected the task force's deal with Reddington to start weighing Ressler down again.
The courtesy sound of a shoe scuffing dirt alerted him before someone stepped out ahead around the corner wall.
Not Reddington.
Reddington's bodyguard.
An olive branch from the crime lord.
"You cut him loose."
"I'm sure Reddington is examining all the holes I made in the process," Prescott said tersely, knowing he made waves that Reddington would notice as he used safeguards and unearthed the insurances he had on Hitchen. "You've been watching."
"It has been interesting," Dembe commented, trying to read Prescott in light of his actions with Ressler. There had been much clutter hiding the information Raymond wanted and Ressler becoming trapped within Prescott's territory had never been Raymond's intention.
A complicated situation that Raymond saw would do ill to Agent Ressler. One that killing Prescott would not solve—an action Raymond was reluctant to take. Allowing Prescott to entangle Ressler into silence and then negotiating without Agent Ressler's knowledge seemed the best option.
So they waited to intervene. Piecing together the activity Prescott created to cover his tracks, collecting lead in the white noise along the way.
Until Dembe saw the hidden picture that Prescott was driving Ressler towards.
"You didn't damage him," Dembe said, concluding Ressler knew about the manipulation as he observed the agent leaving. They had expected Ressler to come out of this wounded.
"I'm a professional. I don't leave behind a mess," Prescott said simply, studying the impassively calm bodyguard once more.
The man was dangerous. He knew that.
But he wasn't picking up a single warning note off of him.
Like that day when he first met the man—nothing.
Being mistaken about Ressler was irritating.
But walking past Reddington's bodyguard without noticing—not even a single mental alarm that something was wrong?
Well, that was just embarrassing.
"Out of curiosity, when did Reddington realize I was still in contact with Ressler?" Prescott asked. Truly curious and assessing reactions from the bodyguard. He knew the bodyguard was someone important to Reddington. The already difficult to read man had wavered silently between behaving as a distant bodyguard and an equal partner to give Prescott as little as possible to interpret.
"When Agent Ressler encountered the drug shipment," Dembe answered in understanding. They both had immediately discern the difference in Ressler. Heard the subtle difference in Ressler's voice. "He appeared rested the next day. Well. More than he has been for some time."
"That won't last," Prescott said. So Ressler was poorly off as he thought.
"Mr. Reddington would like to enlist your services," Dembe said instead of agreeing, not believing Prescott would accept. It was unfortunate. Ressler could use the help. Though he still disapproved of using Ressler as an intermediary without a complete explanation. He should be told Prescott would be constructing safety nets. "You would also resume having Ressler as a client."
"Declined. I'm retired."
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