A/N: I thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. Unfortunately my job, uni work and family have to take precedence over fanfiction, and I appreciate your understanding.

Chapter 10

Lisbon hadn't been sure about the wisdom of the plan when he'd first suggested it, and she was even less sure when the car pulled up beside the convenience store. Long and sleek and jet-black, she just couldn't help but be reminded of a funeral car, although that might have been due to all the death she'd been surrounded by in the last few weeks.

She decided not to mention that to Jane.

"Are you ready?" he asked her.

"No. Are you?"

"No."

Battered and bruised, they lurched towards the car, Jane wincing every now and then when he moved the wrong way and pain shot up his broken arm.

"You need to go to the hospital," she said, helping him into the back seat, and trying not to listen to his whimpers of discomfort.

"Great idea," he said, sarcastically. "How many times have we tracked a suspect down because they were stupid enough to go to a hospital? Do you want to get yourself thrown in jail?"

He regretted his tone when her face fell, and she averted her eyes as the car began to move. He should be thanking his lucky stars that she was OK, not giving her the third degree. He sighed, and with a finger under her chin, gently turned her head back towards him.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I know you're only trying to take care of me. But seeing as we're trying to outrun not only the FBI and Homeland Security, but a serial killer as well, it might be safer to stay off the grid for now."

She sighed too. "I know, you're right," she said, leaning over to kiss his forehead, but accidentally jostling his injured arm in the process, causing him to let out another yelp. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." She moved herself guiltily away from him, for fear of inflicting further harm.

"It's OK," he grunted, through clenched teeth.

"I hate seeing you like this," she whispered to him, but then grinned. "You're such a baby when you're hurt."

He gave a tiny smile. "Better for it to happen to me than you. I wouldn't be able to bear the sight of you in pain. I'd be no help to you whatsoever."

"Stiles is bound to have some medical facilities at Visualize," she pointed out. "Wouldn't want his followers going outside the fold for medical attention. Maybe they can patch you up."

"Knowing Stiles, he might be happier just to let me suffer," he said, glumly.

They arrived at the compound within the hour, and were immediately taken to Stiles' quarters. Lisbon twisted her hands nervously as they walked. The last time she had encountered Bret Stiles, she'd been holding a gun to his head, and now here they were asking him for help. The hypocrisy of it all made her face flame.

Beside her, Jane plodded along, cradling his injured limb in his good one, and cursing under his breath. The repeated motif of the Visualize symbol loomed out at them at regular intervals, and she averted her eyes from it as much as she could. In her book, it ran second only to the Red John smiley face as the creepiest image she knew.

Despite the earliness of the hour, Bret Stiles was fully dressed when they were shown into his study. He rose from his desk as they entered, arms spread wide in welcome.

"Patrick!" He greeted Jane warmly as though they were the best of friends. "And Agent Lisbon-" she forced herself to hold her ground as he turned toward her. "A pleasure as always."

She saw a little twinkle in his eye as he said it, and she knew he too was thinking about their last encounter. She'd had every right to believe that he might have been Red John, but now it had turned out that he wasn't, she couldn't help feeling slightly embarrassed. Stiles slowly looked them both over taking in all their injuries, their limited clothing, and their exhaustion.

"You two clearly have quite the story to tell," he said. "I'm very interested to hear it."

Lisbon and Jane exchanged glances. They had debated on the drive over about how much they ought to tell Stiles about the night's events. Clearly they would need to offer some reason for their visit, but despite having cleared Stiles of being Red John himself, there was no guarantee that he wasn't still associated with the killer in some way.

"We were in a house fire," Jane eventually replied. "And as far as I can tell, it was no accident."

The older man raised his eyebrows. "Any ideas about who the culprit was?"

There was another brief pause. "One or two," said Jane.

Bret Stiles shook his head a little, letting out a low chuckle. "You two are holding out on me," he said. "I have a feeling that there's a great deal more to this tale, but I simply can't ignore it when my guests arrive in such a miserable state."

He beckoned forward a man Lisbon hadn't noticed before, standing half-concealed in the shadows.

"Bring our guests some warm clothes," he instructed him. "And page Jacqueline."

"Who?" demanded Jane, rather rudely.

"Someone needs to set that arm of yours, Patrick," said Stiles, gesturing at Jane's injury. "Dr Jacqueline Thompson is our on call doctor for this evening. She should probably look you both over."

"I'm perfectly fine," said Lisbon.

"On the contrary, Agent Lisbon, you are clearly in shock," countered Stiles, smoothly. "You both are. I have allowed you onto my property in the middle of the night and without any satisfactory reason because I was told you needed help. Now let me give it to you."

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Agent Kirkland watched as the Oakland Arson Squad slowly picked through the remains of what had once been a two-storey home now reduced to cinders. Uniforms had set up a perimeter around the house and were canvassing the neighbours and other onlookers to try and find out what had happened.

There was no doubt in Kirkland's mind that this had been the work of Red John, and while he preferred this new take on the smiley-face rather more than one painted in blood, he'd still felt a certain chill inside him at the sight of it. But if there was one thing he knew about Red John, it was that he didn't do things at random. He had targeted this house for a reason, and he thought he knew what.

The car in the drive was registered to Agent Lisbon. Some digging by the DHS geeks told him that Patrick Jane owned the house. Neither of them had been seen or heard from since yesterday, before Reede Smith's murder. He had proof that Jane at least had been at the scene, and he'd be willing to put money on it that Lisbon had been there too. It was a well-known fact that Jane disliked firearms, and an even better known fact that the two of them were rarely out of each other's sight. Smith hadn't exactly been known for his delicacy about sensitive matters, which was part of the reason he'd been so good at his job, and Lisbon hadn't been thinking straight since her brother's murder. He'd seen her himself at the crime scene. It wouldn't have taken much for her to snap.

Most of the evidence was circumstantial but it seemed to indicate that Agent Lisbon had been responsible for Reede Smith's untimely death. And who could be better to help her escape capture than her partner, who had pissed off countless government officials and kept his job and had wriggled out of a murder charge without breaking a sweat?

If this had been any other case, he'd be on the phone organizing an arrest warrant right now. But it didn't explain why they were gazing upon the charred remainders of a house bearing a Red John calling card. Arson had never been part of the serial killer's M.O before this. He'd always preferred the more personal approach.

"What a mess," observed Agent Broome from beside him as they watched the team pick their way through the rubble. "Do you think they were in there?"

"I hope not," he said, and meant it. Despite their somewhat volatile relationship, he would never wish any more ill fortune on Patrick Jane, who in anyone's estimation, should have been through enough. And he had always been fond of Lisbon.

"Sure would make things a whole lot simpler," said Broome. "Don't have to worry about messing around with courts and hearings if they're dead."

"We don't even know for sure yet that either of them had anything to do with Smith," said Kirkland, calmly. "Or what this has to do with Red John."

Broome gestured to the smouldering smiley. "This doesn't prove anything and you know it. I've read the Red John case files, and fire isn't his style. It was probably just some stoned kids out for a thrill."

Kirkland didn't answer. His gut feeling was that the smiley-face was the real deal. Anyone who knew anything about Patrick Jane knew about his obsession with Red John, and it made sense to him that it would work both ways. It was just too much of a coincidence that a Red John symbol would appear at a house owned by Patrick Jane, which he had been more than likely staying in at the time.

"Fan out!" The leader of the arson squad bellowed orders at his team. "Agent Kirkland says there may have been people in the house when it caught fire. You know what to look for."

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirkland saw Brett Partridge and his assistant loading their equipment back into the van. He supposed that the lack of any bodies meant it had made their presence unnecessary. If Jane and Lisbon had been here during the fire…well there probably wouldn't be enough left of them to need a gurney. A few plastic bags would suffice.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho waited until they were back in the car and safely away from the prying eyes and ears of Kirkland and co., before he told the other two what he'd found.

"Part of a sheet and a footprint?" Van Pelt repeated. "So they must have made it out!" She exchanged joyful smiles with Rigsby.

"Well, most likely, Jane did," Cho pointed out, tamping down her enthusiasm slightly. "I didn't see any sign of the boss."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"He wouldn't have left her there," said Van Pelt at once. "I'm sure of it."

"The place would have gone up fast," Rigsby, their resident arson expert chipped in. "If they got separated somehow, they might have bailed out of different windows."

Nobody wanted to be the one to point out the other possible scenario, that the boss might not have made it, and that Jane had to leave her there to save himself.

"We're not going to know anything for sure until they've finished searching the house," said Cho, breaking the heavy silence. "I've spoken to the Oakland P.D to make sure we get the report before the FBI and Kirkland get their hands on it. And when we get back, we need to start digging into those Eileen Barlow files. If we're going to be able to help them, we need to stay ahead of the FBI."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Nobody but Patrick Jane could have convinced Lisbon to allow herself to be poked and prodded at by a cult doctor. No amount of pressure from Stiles or even Dr. Thompson herself had been enough to make her do it, but Jane, with his arm in a sling and slurring slightly from the painkillers, had begged her.

"Please Teresa," he said, fixing her with those sad, soulful eyes. "The doctor says I should rest. How can I rest if I'm worried about you?"

How could she say no to a request like that?

To be fair, Dr. Thompson was efficient and as good as any doctor she'd ever been to. She would even consider going to her again in the future, if it weren't for the small matter of her Visualize membership. But she still resented the whole thing.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine," she said, jiggling her foot irritably, as the doctor examined a small lump that had formed on her head.

"Seeing as I'm the one with the medical degree, I think I'll be the judge of that, Agent Lisbon."

"And where exactly did you study?" Lisbon snapped. "The University of Cult Medicine?"

Thompson gave a little smile. "Johns Hopkins, actually."

"Oh."

Sitting in a chair by the door, Jane stifled a laugh, and while Thompson was reaching behind her for a dressing, Lisbon took the opportunity to throw him a scathing look.

"This is all your fault!" she mouthed, angrily.

"I love you," he mouthed back, delighting in her shocked expression.

Probably not the most romantic moment to make such a confession, but just seeing her there giving the doctor hell while clearly getting more and more annoyed with every passing moment reminded him of all the times she'd looked at him that way. He was pretty sure that was why he'd fallen for her in the first place.

And they had almost died today.

Lisbon forced her attention back onto Thompson as the doctor carefully applied the dressing to a nasty scrape on her arm. "Putting aside the issue of my credentials for the moment, Agent Lisbon, for the most part I agree that you're in fairly good shape. Although I suspect you might have a mild concussion, so you too should take it easy for a while."

Bret Stiles entered the room, a smug grin on his lips.

"How is the patient?" he asked.

"Cranky as all hell," said Jane cheerfully, chuckling as Lisbon glared at him once more.

"I actually meant you, Patrick," said Stiles, nodding to the sling.

"I'll live."

"That's good news," he said, courteously. "Once you're ready, might we have a word in my office, Patrick? Privately?" he added, pointedly.

"Certainly, Bret," Jane answered. "But seeing as I'm going to tell Lisbon everything anyway, she might as well come too."

"Really?" Stiles looked from one to the other with interest. "And here I thought you were a man who liked to keep things to himself."

"I am. But I don't like to keep secrets from her anymore."

He felt Lisbon's eyes on him and knew she was smiling at him. If they were alone in the room he knew she would have said something about that; had been waiting to hear something like it for many years now. But he hadn't been ready before. Now he knew who Red John was. The end was coming close. And once all this madness was over, they could begin, if she would still have him.

"Well, in that case, who am I to stand in your way?" Stiles withdrew from the room, with Dr. Thompson at his heels, closing the door with a click.

She was still sitting on the examination couch, fingers gingerly inspecting the lump on her head.

"I have to say, this isn't how I expected the evening to turn out," she said. "Fire and cults and near-death and all before five o'clock in the morning. I think I want to go back to bed."

He sighed. "I doubt there'll be a bed to go back to, after this. Or a house."

Her eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Jane," she said, gently. "I could tell you had a lot of happy memories of that place."

"So I guess we shouldn't have been so surprised that he found us there," he attempted a jovial tone. "We know how much he likes to take away things that make me happy." He blew out a long sigh and got to his feet. "Come on, Bret's waiting for us."

She eased herself off the couch, and walked over to where he was waiting for her. As he turned to open the door, she slipped an arm around him and rested her head on the shoulder of his unbroken arm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, again. "It's just not fair that you have to lose so much."

His hand fell from the doorknob and he wrapped his good arm around her waist, squeezing her lovingly.

"No, it's not," he agreed. "In fact, to borrow a phrase of yours…it's complete sheep dip." He felt her small body shake with laughter or sobs, he couldn't be sure which. "But he failed this time. I'm still here. And I still have the one thing that makes me happier than anything else in the world: you."

She lifted her head, and he saw there were no tears glimmering in her eyes. So, it had been laughter then. Good. He couldn't stand it when she cried.

"So," she said, coyly. "Was a doctor's office really the best place you could think of to tell me you loved me?"

"Beats a burning building, don't you think?" he countered. "Or an abandoned warehouse in Vegas," he added, casually.

Her eyes narrowed. "So you did remember that? I knew all that 'hyped-up' stuff was crap."

"I was a coward."

She brought their lips together in another kiss fuelled by ten years of waiting for him, worrying about him, and loving him. She didn't think she would ever get enough of his kisses; they made her feel like at least one thing was going right in her life.

"And now?" she asked, gently stroking his jawline.

"I'm still a coward," he said, and they exchanged a loving smile. "But I love you too much to pretend I don't anymore. No matter what happens."

"I think I got to that point about two years ago," she said. "Welcome to my world."

They shared another kiss, this time longer, and more passionate. He wanted to pull her closer, but couldn't and cursed his broken arm.

"So I think we can agree that tonight hasn't been a total loss," she said, after she'd caught her breath. "We've established that I love you, and you love me, and from what I remember, the first part of the evening was pretty fantastic."

He smiled that devastating smile, and winked. "Blew your mind, did I?"

"Don't get too cocky, old man," she said. "I've wanted you for ten years. Tonight was just the preview. The day this is over, I'm going to take you home, lock the door, and then you'll see the main event."

"Why, Agent Lisbon. So forward." His voice had lowered to a seductive purr, and she tried to ignore the fact that it had sounded exactly the same way while they'd been in bed.

"Too much for you to handle?" she teased.

"I'll give it my best shot." He removed his arm from around her waist, and took her hand instead. "Come on, we've got a date with a cult leader."

"Maybe we shouldn't—"she said uneasily, trying to extricate her hand from his, but he held it tight.

"Don't be stupid. Bret won't mind; in fact he's probably already guessed."

"You think?"

"Of course. He's a pretty intuitive man, you know. Why do you think he was on my list?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane had spent the time while his arm was being tended to figuring out what to say to Stiles when he inevitably asked again about what had brought them here. Partridge had been a member of Visualize, he knew, so Stiles must know him well. Perhaps he was the key to getting him that final showdown he'd been itching for.

It was strange that in his mind's eye he was still picturing Red John as some faceless, demonic entity, even though he now knew exactly what he looked like. Brett Partridge. Red John. They still just didn't seem to go together in his mind. And when he thought of all the times they'd been in the same room together, to think he could have simply reached out and choked the life out of him probably twenty times over by now, oh it made his blood boil.

This could have been over years ago. But he didn't regret the years he'd spent at the CBI. The CBI had given him an income, had given him friends, had given him Lisbon. She wouldn't have loved him if he'd been rotting away in prison for all this time, and her love was the best thing that had happened to him since the murders.

Stiles received them in his study, quirking an eyebrow at their clasped hands, but making no comment, confirming Jane's theory that he was already well aware of the change in their relationship. He found that this thought distressed him less than he thought it would. In fact, it actually felt pretty good to be able to show her off like this, for even one person to look at them and see she was his. Theoretically speaking, of course, she'd deck him one if he ever let her in on that particular train of thought.

"So Patrick, I believe I've been patient enough," Stiles began, clearly keen to get down to business. "Why, of all the places in the world, did you come here seeking sanctuary? I have a feeling you're not seeking spiritual enlightenment."

"No, I'm not," said Jane, ignoring Teresa's fleeting glance. "But seeing as you brought up the religious topic, are you familiar with the term, devil's advocate?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sun had fully risen over Oakland before the arson team completed their preliminary search. Kirkland stood leaning against the FBI vehicle, watching the people comb through the ashes, the neighbours gawking from behind the crime scene tape. The sound of helicopter blades from a local news chopper beat the air, as well as the clicking of camera shutters and the voices of reporters doing live crosses, or pestering members of the CSU as they walked back and forth from their van.

The lead officer approached the two federal agents as his team crawled over the ruined house like ants, taking samples and snapping photographs.

"From what I can see, the fire started at the front of the house on the bottom floor and spread from there," he said. "It was definitely deliberate, because obviously gasoline has been used as an accelerant, but you'll be pleased to know that we haven't found any human remains as yet. We're going to go through every inch of the place and you'll have our full report by the end of the day."

Agent Broome, who'd been taking a call on his cell, came back over to them at that point, and Kirkland relayed the information to him.

"So they weren't in the house when it went up?" asked Broome.

"Too early to call just yet," said the arson cop, shaking his head. "It's a big house, and sometimes people who die in house fires are found in pretty small pieces. We'll keep you updated if anything turns up."

"Great," grumbled Broome, as the man shuffled away. "Now I have to call the director and tell him that our prime suspect in Agent Smith's murder has gone and incinerated herself. The press are going to love this."

His cell phone was still in his hand, and he kept muttering to himself as he punched in a number and trotted a few steps away as the line connected.

Kirkland reached in his pocket for his keys. The continued absence of Lisbon's CBI team was concerning him. This was a Red John scene; normally they would be onto this immediately, with Jane and Lisbon leading the charge. But he hadn't seen any sign of them here when he and Broome had pulled up. Unless of course they had come and gone before anyone else had gotten here. That was possible. But why the secrecy? Were they involved in this somehow? Did they know something about the whereabouts of their colleagues that they weren't telling?

He had to get to the CBI right away and find out. He had no chance of getting anything out of Agent Cho he knew, but Agents Rigsby and Van Pelt didn't have the same years of experience and implacable poker face. If he could convince them that he was trying to help Jane and Lisbon and not arrest them, he might be in with a chance.

But they had several hours' head start on him, they'd be back in Sacramento already, and the traffic would be heavy moving back into the Capital with the beginning of the working day so near. He had to leave right now.

He flicked a glance over his shoulder at Broome, wondering whether to confide in him about this new line of inquiry, but decided against it. Cho and the others were already suspicious enough around him without introducing somebody else into the mix. Besides, it would be useful to have someone remain at the scene in case there was any news.

He walked to his car, ignoring the reporters that sprang out at him eagerly, and gunned the engine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at HQ, Cho and the team were already engrossed in the Barlow files, which had arrived from the archives just after they'd gotten back from Oakland. Each had their cell phone poised on their desk, just in case Jane or Lisbon rang. Every passing hour made it less and less likely that their friends would make contact but they had to hold onto what little hope they had.

"She was a carny like Jane," Van Pelt said, making a note of the information. "Maybe they knew each other on the circuit. And Red John killed her. That might be what set him off."

"Can't be," said Cho. "Red John cases always tear him up, especially when it's somebody he knows. But the boss was handling it the same way she handles any case. It wasn't until after we closed it that she started acting weird."

"Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend or something," Rigsby suggested.

"What?" he said defensively, as the other two shot him strange looks.

"His wife can't have been the only one he's ever been with."

He himself had been a jock in high school so he'd gotten plenty of girls, but he was sure Jane must have been even more of a ladies' man back in the day. Of course, he'd never dare to actually ask him. Anything about Jane's past was pretty much a taboo subject; well, at least for anybody except Lisbon.

Van Pelt snickered. "I don't think so Wayne. Jane told us he and his wife left the carnival when he was what, eighteen? According to this, Eileen would have only been ten by then. So, not likely."

"It was just an idea," said Rigsby, grumpily, casting his copy of the file aside. "If they made it out of the house, where do you think they went?" he asked his colleagues.

"It would have to be somewhere nobody would think to look for them," said Van Pelt, thoughtfully.

"Which, knowing Jane, could be anywhere."

"They didn't have a vehicle, they couldn't have gone far," Cho said, tossing his file away too and rubbing his temple in a rare display of fatigue.

"Someone might have picked them up," Rigsby suggested.

"I don't think so," said Van Pelt. "If they're pretending to be dead, who would they call?"

"Other than us, you mean?" said Rigsby. He again received raised eyebrows from each of his colleagues. "Oh come on, we're all thinking it; I'm just saying it. Jane barely trusts us as far as he can throw us, who else on Earth would he approach for help with a Red John thing?"

"I think we should go and talk to Eileen's family," said Cho, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. "Maybe they'll be able to shed some light on all this."

"They won't talk to us; we're cops," said Van Pelt. "Without Jane it'll be a total waste of time."

One of the features unique to Kimball Cho was his ability to convey displeasure without words. It took nothing but a brief glance in Grace's direction for her to swallow any further protests and get up too, holstering her gun. Cho would make one hell of a team leader one day, she thought, as she followed him through the bullpen. At least he would be if he could ever be convinced to leave Lisbon's side. Cho and the boss had been working together for close to thirteen years now; he had seen several agents come and go from the SCU, rising through the ranks, but as far as Grace knew, he had never sought promotion for himself. He had stayed at the boss's right hand day in and day out, and never hesitated to step up when she'd needed him.

It was hard on all of them, the way they were being cut out like this, but it must be doubly difficult for Cho to be shunted aside after so many years of loyalty. But he never said a word. And she knew he'd still lay down his life for Lisbon, even now.

She just hoped that he wouldn't have to.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bret Stiles surveyed Jane over the tips of his tented fingers, and Lisbon felt her breath catch in her throat.

"You are a puzzling man, Patrick," he finally said. "You sit here in front of me with a broken arm, and a beautiful woman at your side, and yet you still wish to press your luck further?"

Jane leaned comfortably back in his chair, never once breaking eye contact with the other man.

"You and I both know, Bret, that this won't be over until I meet with Red John face to face. And I believe you are the man who can make that happen."

The tension in the room was so thick she could almost feel it. She looked from Jane to Stiles and forced herself to suppress a shudder. Their postures were both relaxed, their voices light and cordial, but the intensity in their eyes indicated just how seriously they were taking this conversation.

"What are you proposing?"

"Get in contact with Red John, arrange a meeting, and make sure he shows up. I'll do the rest."

"And what exactly do I say to make him agree to this arrangement?" asked Stiles calmly. "After all, he's a busy man. It takes a lot for him to take time out of his schedule."

"You offer him something he can't refuse. I'm still alive and I shouldn't be. The two of us in a room together, one-on-one; he couldn't wish for anything else."

Stiles finally broke their impromptu staring competition, cutting his eyes to Lisbon.

"You're risking a great deal, Patrick. I hope you're aware of that."

A pause. "I am."

"Would it not be simpler just to give up on this revenge nonsense and get on with your life?"

"Not as long as that bastard is still breathing," said Jane. "We both know you have the power to do this Bret. Set it up."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Van Pelt had been right. The only thing they'd achieved from the trip to the carnival grounds was to waste a tank of gas. They would have had more luck quizzing the elephant on Jane's and Lisbon whereabouts compared to the vague, unhelpful answers they got from Eileen's relatives.

Cho got back into the SUV and slammed the door hard behind him. They'd wasted so much time already, and they were still no closer to finding out what had happened to Jane and Lisbon. It seemed that everywhere they looked they were meeting nothing but dead ends.

He and Van Pelt were speeding down the dirt road away from the carnival grounds when her cell phone burst to life with a call from Rigsby. The report from the arson squad had just arrived with the news that no human remains had been found in the house. In fact, the fire had burned so quickly and savagely that very little had survived at all, although a tech had managed to dig up a few items, including a tarnished set of handcuffs, blistered and warped by the heat, which had been found in what appeared to be a bedroom.

He didn't want to know what Jane and the boss had been doing with those.

At the very least, he and the team were now satisfied that their friends had managed to survive the blaze. That was the good news. The bad news was that the FBI and DHS would soon know it too. As soon as it was known that Jane and Lisbon weren't dead, warrants would be obtained for their arrests within the hour and a full-scale manhunt would ensue until they could be brought in for questioning. The FBI would not let this go, and without a means of contact there was no way he could warn them. Every cop in California would be looking for them soon. He could only hope that they'd managed to get themselves somewhere safe.

xxxxxxxxxx

There were few cars on this stretch of road, and the sun, high in the sky made the landscape shimmer under its heat. It was uncomfortably warm in the SUV, and Van Pelt fiddled with the dial to try and get the air conditioning to work as Cho drove on.

"So what are we going to do now?" she asked, after several fruitless attempts to get the system to come to life.

"We keep digging," answered Cho, steadily.

"For what?" Van Pelt persisted. "It doesn't matter how many angles we work this from, we're still not seeing the bigger picture."

Cho grunted, but silently acknowledged that she was probably right. Without further clues and information, they would not get any closer to tracking down Jane and Lisbon before the Feds did, and they were running out of places to look.

"I just don't know what we're missing," Van Pelt fretted, and gave a rueful smile. "The ironic part is that this would normally be when we'd turn to Jane for some crazy insight."

"Jane isn't here," said Cho, unnecessarily. "We've got to do this ourselves."

"Well, do you have any idea how we're going to do that?" Van Pelt snapped. "Because I don't."

The other car hit them before they even saw it coming. With a screeching of tires and the smell of burning rubber, the impact slammed into the back of the SUV, jolting them both violently forward in their seats. Van Pelt squealed as her seat belt forced her back against the seat again, bashing her head hard against the headrest. Cho fought to regain control of the car, cursing and wrenching the steering wheel to try to get them driving straight again.

"What the hell was that?" Van Pelt shrieked, looking in horror at the rear windshield, which had disappeared in a sparkling river of broken glass.

"I don't know. Some moron who wasn't looking where he was going."

Cho glanced at the rear view mirror. A dark blue SUV was just visible within the frame, with a dented front bumper. It was too far away to see the driver, but he was almost certain that it had been the car to hit them.

"The boss is going to freak when she sees what's happened," said Van Pelt, visibly shaken by the incident, but working hard to keep her voice steady. "She loves this car."

Cho didn't respond, his eye drawn back to the mirror, where the SUV appeared to be getting closer and closer. It was right up in back of them now…it wasn't slowing down.

"Hold on!" he commanded Van Pelt, twisting the wheel to try and swerve out of the way, but it was too late. They were hit again from the back with a loud crunch of steel.

"What's going on?" shrieked Van Pelt, terrified.

"I think somebody's trying to kill us."

"Who would do that?"

"Do you want me to stop and ask?"

Even in such a situation as this, Cho was still able to keep a cool head, but the blue SUV wasn't finished yet. It picked up speed once again, but put on its blinker and sailed alongside them as though to overtake, but as soon as it pulled level with them, rammed them once again, sending their car careening off the road and down a small embankment.

The SUV rolled over and over in a whirl of crunching metal and shattering glass. Van Pelt and Cho were thrown around in their seats like rag dolls as the car rocketed down the embankment, narrowly missing a nearby tree, before eventually coming to a stop on its side a few feet away from the road.

Van Pelt was unconscious, her head bleeding profusely from where she'd hit it on the dash. Cho, feeling as though his entire body had beaten with sledgehammers, reached painfully out to check her for a pulse. Weak, but there. Thank God.

He tried to open the door but it had been so badly damaged in the crash, it didn't move an inch. They had to get out of this car as soon as possible. In the likely event that the fuel line had cracked it could blow at any moment, but his head was still spinning from the rollercoaster ride off the road, that he wasn't sure he was even strong enough to get himself out, let alone Van Pelt, who remained unresponsive no matter how many times he called her name.

Who would do this? And why?

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The blue SUV glided smoothly to a stop at the side of the road. Three men exited it and inspected the CBI vehicle lying on its side amongst the undergrowth. There was no movement as far as they could see, and they knew they only had a matter of minutes before it would be too late.

"Get them out of there."

Brett Partridge waved a careless hand and the two men flanking him immediately stepped forward to do his bidding. "We need them alive. Lucky you've worked plenty of these kinds of scenes before, eh Thomas?"

"That's right sir," said McAllister deferentially. "And I bet Gale here has seen a few more of these in his time, too."

"Naturally," said Partridge, his thin lips twisted into a cruel smile. "I knew you two would be the best men for the job."

"With all due respect sir," Gale Bertram piped up. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to let them die?"

It probably would be simpler, thought Partridge, as his two followers picked their way through the carnage, but far less fun. And with his favourite toy, Patrick Jane, now burning in hell, he had to take his fun where he could get it.

The sound of the ringing cell phone sounded odd in the remote surroundings. He stepped away to muffle the grunts and curses coming from the scene of the crash, as the two struggled to pull the fearless agents from the wreckage.

"Mr Stiles," he said, coolly, when the line clicked on. "What can I do for you?"

A/N: I really hoped you liked this.

As always, my thanks go to Donna, the most wonderful partner ever, who remains supportive and understanding even when I take forever to send her my chapters. It is an absolute honour to write with you.