Previously...
Ressler shakes his head again, and Dembe seems satisfied as he takes out the SIM card in Ressler's phone, cracks it in half, and tosses all of the parts out of his window before shifting the sleek black car into 'drive' and pulling away from the park.
"Get comfortable, Agent Ressler," Dembe advises from the front seat. "We cannot travel by plane, so this is going to be quite the long trip."
Right, they were staying in Florida, Ressler recalls, knowing that Liz probably hadn't been able to travel far to make it to Disney World under Reddington's watchful eye, which meant that they were in for roughly a 16 hour drive, if Dembe didn't decide to take the lesser known back roads.
Sighing quietly, Ressler rests his head against the window and watches as Dembe expertly pulls out into the slowly thinning traffic.
I'm on my way, Liz.
May 22nd, On the Road, 3:23 AM
Ressler wakes slowly, as if pulling himself from a dark, deep nothingness. He becomes aware of his surroundings as the car rolls slowly to a stop, and he opens his blue eyes open carefully, wanting to groan at the stiffness in his joints. He doesn't, because the car is completely silent and he is unwilling to break the sound of nothingness that is more uncomfortable than it should be. He lets his head loll to the side, shifting uneasily as he glances at his watch. May 22nd, 3:23 AM, it reads, and he feels his heart speed up because they've been on the road for two fucking days, and they must be getting close.
He leans forward and asks Dembe, suddenly not caring about the broken silence. He's confused about more than one thing - why, for example, they're stopped in the middle of a parking lot in the middle of the night - but finding out his location in relation to Liz's takes precedence.
"Where are we?"
Dembe turns around in his seat to face Ressler. Though they'd barely spoken on the drive - mostly they'd just traded questions asking why they were taking back roads instead of the main highways (because the main highways likely had checkpoints, as Ressler's handsome face had joined Reddington's and Liz's on the Top Ten Most Wanted list) and why they were stopping (because they'd driven for eleven hours and it was time for Dembe to sleep). But despite their lack of communication, Ressler felt more comfortable with Dembe's stoic silence over the past 48 hours than he ever had before (honestly, his silence had made Ressler uneasy before).
"We are approaching Florida. It will not be long now, Agent Ressler," he reassures Ressler, and the blond nods, accepting his answer.
"Why... are we stopping?"
He hates asking questions, because he feels stupid and inadequate when the answers are simple and straightforward. But he asks anyway because he's no longer in charge and he doesn't know and he doesn't like the feeling. It makes his skin crawl and he feels helpless, which is not a feeling Special Agent Donald Ressler is used to or comfortable with.
"Mr. Reddington is meeting us here. He will lead us to the safe house the best way he knows how. It is... tricky," Dembe says, settling on the word with a smile. "Mr. Reddington is the best at creating safe houses, and they are always trouble to find."
"Right," Ressler agrees, sitting back. He remembers one or two of those tricky (impossible) to find safe houses. "He is the best."
The two men sit in silence, Ressler in the back, absently flipping his phone open and closed as he waits, and Dembe in the front, posed to resume driving at a moments notice if necessary.
Ressler sighs and shifts, uncomfortable in his suit, but he'd run from the Post Office parking lot and hadn't brought much else with him. He ran out of fresh clothes the day before and had no other option but to put his suit back on. He'd made do with hotel showers and hand-washing in the sink, but he is uncomfortable and he isn't sure his suit will ever recover. He hopes that wherever they were going there is good water pressure and actual soap. His skin is dry and itchy and he's sure he smells like cheap hotels, stagnant, stale car air, and man sweat.
He flips open his phone again - 3:41 AM - and jumps in surprise when the door opposite him opens and Reddington slides into the seat, clean and perfectly pressed as usual (making Ressler feel more inadequate than ever in his rumpled, smelly suit) and his fedora on his head. He glances at Ressler and grins an impish grin, touching Dembe's shoulder lightly to let him know he should begin driving again.
"Donald," Reddington greets him, and Ressler shifts so he can face the older man. "How are you?"
Ressler is cranky. He does his best to hide it, but from the way Reddington grins and chuckles, he doesn't do a very good job (though, thankfully, Reddington is amused at his crankiness).
"I'm tired, I need a shower, and I'll be perfectly happy if I never have to drive in a car again," he grouses.
Reddington chuckles once more, and then leans forward, removing his fedora and sitting it on the seat between them.
"I bet you would be," he empathizes, and then his smile falters a little. "You were discovered as a mole," he confirms, and Ressler nods, feeling a little like a schoolboy under the scrutinizing eye of his father.
"Uh," he begins, not quite meeting Reddington's gaze as they pass under streetlight after streetlight. The glimpses of light are just enough to illuminate Reddington's features, and though he still seems amused (Reddington, to be fair, almost always looks amused, though he has various forms of amusement that vary in severity) Ressler is uncomfortable. "Liz and I, we made a bad call," he summarizes, and Reddington chuckles quietly.
"A spectacularly bad one, I would say." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, a nostalgic smile coming over his face as he touches Dembe's shoulder to indicate that they should be turning. "I remember one time, I was in Paris with this... beauty of a woman. She was positively radiant. Fascinating. I was in Paris on business, but pleasure has a way of presenting itself at the most inopportune time. I fell into her clutches - and dear Donald, what clutches they were! - and it turns out she was working for the man I was looking for." Reddington pauses, his lips raising in a small smile. He shakes his head, and laughs. "Beautiful women can be the downfall of even the most regulated man."
Ressler offers Reddington a grin, nodding and feeling more at ease. Still, he'd feel more comfortable changing the subject, so he does.
"Do we have any more information? The journalists?" he queries, and he can see Reddington shifting from lighthearted storyteller to business mode in mere seconds. The older man turns slightly so that he's facing Ressler more head-on now.
"As a matter of fact, we do. Though it is not necessarily information as much as a plan of action, now that you're on our side until we take down the Cabal."
If we take down the Cabal, Ressler amends in his head.
"Our dearly devoted journalists have been working around the clock on piecing together information from the Fulcrum. It's a labyrinth of secrets, darkness, and more deprivation and death than you'll ever know. They're working on a comprehensive list of corrupt government officials, not just here in the United States, but in the world. The corruption runs deep, the people in power more despicable than even I had previously imagined."
Ressler stomach hurts - he feels sick, betrayed by the country he believed in - fought for, gave up so much for - his whole life.
"The plan?" he asks finally, swallowing thickly
"It will cause massive unrest," Reddington warns, though instead of looking uneasy he looks positively gleeful, his eyes sparkling and his lips turned up in a impish grin.
Ressler shrugs, as if that doesn't make him worried in the slightest. "Can't get much worse."
Reddington laughs loudly at that, his eyes mocking as he chuckles. "Oh, dear innocent Donald."
"Shut the hell up and tell me already," Ressler snaps.
Reddington lets his chuckles die down before he continues. "Sadly, to see this plan through to the end, we will need yet another member of your team. We will need to extract Mr. Mojtabai. We'll need his considerable skills for the technical side of things. Once we have enough information in an easily accessible format, I'd like Mr. Mojtabai to take over all the monitors, TVs, computers - ever screen connected to a network in every major city in the world."
Ressler nods as if he understands what Reddington is saying (he understands in that he could repeat it back, but he has yet to wrap his mind around the sheer hugeness of this plan). "Great. Then what will we do with those screens?"
"That, Dear Donald, is where you and Lizzie com in. You are well respected as FBI agents - well, you were. Now you're public disgraces and are some of the most wanted criminals in the world."
It is physically hard for Ressler not to roll his eyes. "Reddington," he snaps, trying to keep the man on track.
"Regardless, as former FBI agents - agents working at a black site and with access to some of the most damning information in the world - you will be listened to. If not by everyone, then hopefully by enough people to make the world stop and listen. Because we will be in hiding, the goal is to plant information in the minds of those the Cabal has no reason to harm or stop. Knowledge is power, and power is what I hope to gain over the cabal by planting information in the minds of the masses."
"How exactly can we do that?" Ressler interrupts. "If the Cabal's corruption runs as deep as you say - if so many people throughout the world have risen to power through corruptions, lies, and death, then how can Liz and I talking on TV change anything?"
"Oh, ye of little faith!" Reddington exclaims, leaning forward to give Dembe more instructions. "If enough people believe, if there's enough negative information cast upon the people that we trust to lead our country, then there will inevitably be unrest. Unrest leads to distrust, to unhappiness with those in office and power, riots, discord... the hope is that even the Cabal will be unwilling to resort to mass murder of the public to dissuade the belief of evil and corruption. If we can cause those in power of the Cabal to tuck tail and run, as it were, then we can treat them as any other blacklisters and hunt them down as we continue our work at the Post Office. Nothing that you or Liz, or even I have done would be inexcusable in the light of the truth. It is the only plan I have come up with that makes sense. You once told me my business was information, and it is and it's more powerful than many believe. The right information can ruin anyone - as Liz so unfortunately found out. Agent Ressler, we can stop them. They will not resort to mass murder, they will retreat and bide their time until they can begin their plan again."
Reddington pauses and takes a deep breath. "The time will come that we can use the fulcrum to tip their hand. Soon."
Ressler nods, mulling over Reddington's insane plan. The car is beginning to slow, and Ressler's feeling nervous and sick for more than one reason now. He feels strangely powerful, being such an integral part of Reddington's plan, crazy tough it may be. And despite the feelings of unease, powerlessness, and uncertainty that had overwhelmed him during the very long drive to Florida, he begins to feel that maybe he can help make a difference and help overturn the Cabal.
But also, he feels sick because the car is slowly pulling up a dirt road, and in the dim lights, all he can see are trees and - up ahead - a small cabin with lights on inside.
"We're here," Reddington announces, and with a flourish of his hand, his fedora adorns his head once more. He offers Ressler a quick grin before his door is opened by Dembe and he stalks off to the house.
"Lizzie!" he calls, and he opens his arms wide, pulling her into a hug as he reaches the front porch. Liz has been waiting, it looks like, for quite a while. Ressler is glued to his seat in the car, unable to move, but from his position he can see she's dressed in leggings and a long sweater, despite the summer warmth. Though, as he finally manages to force his numb limbs out of the car, he realizes that the weather in Florida is much nicer than the weather in New York. It's pleasant, and the soft wind and quiet chirping crickets and croaking frogs that surround him help calm him down as he walks toward the porch.
"Hi," he greets Liz, who has extracted herself from Reddington's arms (the older man had walked inside quickly, a knowing smile on his lips and while Ressler would like to roll his eyes or be annoyed at him, he realizes he can't because he's distracted by the woman in front of him).
"Hey," she returns his getting, and he can count on one hand the amount of times he's hugged her (touched her, really, he keeps mostly to himself and doesn't offer unnecessary comfort. But he pulls her into his arms them, and lets everything rush from him, take him over. He breathes raggedly. Despite the front he put up, he was scared and angry at being betrayed by his country. Liz, as always, sees through him in seconds.
"Welcome home," she adds, and he realizes in that moment that nothing has ever felt more like home than her arms.
There are no excuses for my behavior. I am so sorry! I'm getting close to being done with this story, 4 more chapters! :)
Please Review! I thank everyone who has stuck with this story, I realize that not updating causes readers to stop reading and I respect that. Sorry again!