There was an old box of green tea with pomegranate in the cupboard. Finch scowled and kept looking until he found an unopened box of white tea. While he brewed a cup, Mrs. Zane made a full pot of coffee and loaded up two plates with assortments of the pastries he'd brought. She set one on the dining room table for the children. "Wash up when you're done, okay?"

"Okay, Mom."

The operatives recovered the well-chewed bones from their respective dogs to prevent conflict, then brought the Rottweilers in. The bigger dogs and Bear sniffed each other again, decided they were friends, and settled into a corner by the sliding doors together.

Mickey sent the younger boy to the garage to recover Reese's camera. The adults took their coffee and pastries to the study.

Finch could not help admiring the room. It was airy, with a high ceiling and tall French doors opening onto the spacious yard. Two comfortable leather couches flanked a low table in front of the marble fireplace; the entire room was lined with polished oak book shelves, loaded with an assortment of books. Christine would love this room, he thought absently.

He wandered the perimeter and looked at the titles. There was a whole section of art books, old and new. At eye level near the door there was an entire shelf of history books. Mira Kalinich was apparently a favorite author; every single one of her books was there. Harold had read several of them. Kalinich had an easy, chatty style. She often wrote about minor historical figures from the American Revolution in a way that illuminated their understated importance. The common soldier who showed uncommon courage to save his general, the housemaid who passed information for the patriots, the blacksmith who worked in the dark to prepare horses for a long secret march. The ordinary people who made victory against impossible odds possible.

Odds against you, he mused. It was a theme in this household. He wondered again how Scott McCall and his father were related to the sculptor and her wealthy husband. He would need to find out, eventually.

A very different connection suddenly became obvious. "Elizabeth Zane," he said aloud.

"Yes?"

He turned and looked at the woman. "That's not your real name, of course."

"Of course."

"Betty Zane." He tapped the spine of one of the books. "A teenage girl who put herself at great personal risk to bring gunpowder to the beleaguered soldiers at Fort McHenry. She reasoned that the enemy soldiers would not fire on a young girl. And she was right, until she was on her way back and they realized what she was carrying in her apron."

She smiled quietly.

"It's interesting, that you would choose the name of such a minor figure."

"Abigail Adams seemed a little too obvious."

"I suppose so." Finch nodded to himself. "But you didn't pick that name at random, either. Betty Zane means something to you. Something particular. She's someone you admired, someone you … emulated?"

"Every war in history," Kostmayer said easily, "is won or lost on the ability to get information and supplies to the front lines."

"Couriers are the unsung heroes," Reese agreed. "Couriers and infantry."

Kostmayer snorted. "Well. I don't know about infantry."

John looked him up and down. "Navy?"

"Stop," Elizabeth ordered, before the argument over armed services could escalate. "Let's see these pictures you've got."

She picked up the camera. The two of them put their heads together over the small screen. "Nice focus," Kostmayer quirked.

"I was a little busy saving the girl," Reese shot back.

Elizabeth frowned at the image. "Anything?"

"Yeahhhhh," he answered slowly. "I know this guy. Mikhail something. Goes by Misha."

"This guy goes by Misha?" she asked. "That's … adorable."

"Used to be Little Misha," Kostmayer answered. "His mom ran off or something, his dad used to bring him on jobs when he was just a tot. So Little Misha. Until he got big enough to fight about it, and then they dropped the 'Little'."

"You know who he's with?" Reese asked.

"He works for Azarov Gusev."

She frowned at him again. "He has a last name for a first name?"

"His first name's Yuri. But he grew up here in New York."

"Where his classmates called him Urine," Finch predicted.

"Bingo. So he dropped it."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Are you just making this shit up?"

"Nah. I sat on these guys a few years back," Kostmayer said. "Right before I retired. We intercepted a shipment of weapons headed for Palestine. Serial numbers filed off, but they came right up with a little acid. Turns out a bunch of them came from a gun buy-back program here in New York."

"Weapons that were turned in by responsible citizens," Finch said, "and were supposed to be destroyed."

"Yup. Gusev's people ran the area where the turn-in took place, so we took a good look at them. They're just street-level, nothing special. We couldn't find where the big bosses were involved. And then the intel went another way."

"To corrupt cops," Reese predicted.

"Exactly."

"Yogorov's still in prison," the woman said. "So who's Gusev working for now?"

Finch threw a questioning look at his own partner. Reese raised a single eyebrow, a low-key version of a shrug.

"I don't know," Kostmayer said. "But I can find out." He took out his phone, and moved to the far side of the room.

Elizabeth sat down at one end of the couch and sipped her coffee.

"You know Peter Yogorov?" Finch ventured. He sat down in a wingback chair next to her. Reese took the other chair.

"I know of him." The woman shrugged. "I studied up before I brought my children into enemy territory. The intelligence services, of course. And the noteworthy criminal elements. The Russians. The Italians. The Japanese, the Koreans, the Greeks. The Armenians, the Bulgarians. The assorted street gangs, the corrupt cops, even your famous vigilante Man in the S—son of a bitch." She set her coffee cup down firmly and looked at John. "You're the Man in the Suit."

Reese glanced at his rolled-up shirt sleeves. Finch didn't know where he'd left his jacket. "I supposed it would help if I wore a tie."

Kostmayer clicked off his phone. "What?"

"He's the Man in the Suit."

He looked Reese up and down. "Well. That makes sense." He sat down on the couch. "They're checking on Gusev."

A cat meowed softly but clearly.

Finch looked around the room. There was no cat in evidence.

The meow sounded again. This time the sound clearly came from Kostmayer's pocket. The grizzled man seemed very surprised.

"Is that a cat in your pocket," Elizabeth asked solemnly, "or are you just happy to see me?"

Reese made a strangled little noise. "That's Christine's ring tone," he said bleakly.

Finch thought he might be sick. For weeks they had waited impatiently to hear from Christine, and now – now, when they could not answer –

– and it might be nothing, hi, how are you, sorry I haven't called, I'm feeling better, can you pick me up at the airport – or it might be critical, I have reached the end, this is more pain than I can endure, I just wanted to tell you good-bye – but he couldn't imagine how it could be anything in between.

Mickey pulled the phone out and looked at it. "Kitten?" he read.

The cat ringtone meowed again. "She's my sister. My little sister. She's overseas." Reese sounded as desperate as Finch felt. "Please, I have to talk to her."

Elizabeth and Mickey shared a look.

By then the phone had rung four times. "Please," John repeated urgently.

Kostmayer thumbed the speaker button and held the phone out in front of him.

"Kitten," John said clearly. He leaned forward, but he didn't reach for the phone.

There was a pause long enough to make Finch fear that she'd hung up. "John?"

One word, across an ocean and over a speaker phone, and Harold could tell she was in distress.

"I'm right here," Reese said with calm in his voice that completely belied the deep concern on his face. "What's up?"

"Is this … is this a bad time?"

Her voice was painfully small. Six weeks since they'd spoken to her, and she was still in so much pain.

Please God don't let her be high.

"It's fine, Kitten," Reese said. "What's wrong?"

Finch scooted forward in his own chair. He desperately wished he could secure some privacy for John, but that was completely impossible. Their hosts/captors were beginning to trust them, perhaps, but they were not going to let Reese have a private conversation at this point.

"I don't … can you tell me …" Christine stopped.

Reese closed his eyes. His hands balled his hands into fists. Finch started to speak, then stopped. If Christine had wanted to talk to him, she would have called him.

Although – she might have tried. He was fairly certain the battery was still out of his phone, both in Kostmayer's pocket as well.

Finch was aware of the sharp attention of the others, but he couldn't be concerned with them right now. He took a long deep breath and put his hand on Reese's shoulder.

"I don't know what to do with …" Christine finally said, "… can you tell me what to do with … with rage?"

"Rage?"

"I expected grief. And regret. And guilt. But I didn't think there would be this much rage."

Finch exhaled. They were not the words or the speech pattern of a woman with a needle in her arm. She was in distress, yes, but she was in control, too.

He felt like a complete bastard for having suspected her of relapsing.

John met his eyes. The former op had been thinking the same thing. "You have every right to be angry, Christine. To be full of rage. Everything that happened to you – you have every right. I'm angry for you. You should be furious. About all of it."

"But I don't …" Her voice cracked; Harold could tell she was trying not to cry. "I don't know what to do with it. I just want to … to …"

"Run," Reese said.

Christine sniffed. "What?"

"You asked me what to do with that rage. You called me because you know I know. And I'll tell you. I'll tell you what to do, step by step. But you have to promise you'll do exactly what I say. Okay?"

"Okay."

Finch understood now why she'd called Reese and not him. And he was shamefully grateful that she'd made that choice. He would not have known what to say. He would have tried to soothe her, placate her. But John knew better. John knew precisely what she needed to hear. And Harold was deeply grateful for that, too.

"Get yourself a backpack, a small one with a waist strap," Reese continued firmly. "Put your phone in it, and your wallet, and three bottles of water. Get some decent shoes. Spend money on them. And socks that fit. Then take a cab or rent a car, whatever you need to do, and get yourself to somewhere empty and long and flat. A field or a dirt road or a beach. Do you know a place like that?"

She made a sound, possibly a hiccup. "Yes."

"Get your gear. Go there. And run. Just run. Put everything you're raging about right in the front you and run at it. Put it in your legs and your arms and your chest and run it out. Run until you can't run any more, until you fall down. Then stay down and catch your breath and drink some water. Then get up and run some more. Don't try to push the rage away. Hold on to it, and make it carry you. Run it out. Okay?"

Kostmayer nodded his agreement. Finch nodded, too. The advice seemed absolutely right to him. He remembered Julie Carson, heartbroken over Will Ingram, running and then swimming until she dropped from exhaustion. When Harold had been able to run, before the Machine …

Christine said simply, "Yes."

"When you can't run any more, when you get up and you absolutely can't run, then drink a lot of water and start walking back. Walk as far as you can. If you can't make it all the way, call someone to come get you. Go back to your room, drink the rest of the water, take a hot shower, have a high-protein meal. Go to bed. Sleep as long as you sleep. When you wake up, gear up and do it again. Do it every day, for as long as you need to. Until your rage is too weak to carry you any more. Understand?"

Mrs. Zane pulled out her own cell phone and typed a quick message, then held it up for Reese to see. He read it and frowned.

"Okay," Christine said. She didn't sound convinced – she'd never shown any interest in athletics except as a spectator – but Finch was sure she'd take his advice anyhow.

"Anywhere along the line that you need to talk, you call me. Understand? I am always here for you, and I will always help you."

"I know, John."

"Christine." Reese read the other phone again. "One more thing. Whatever you do, don't cut your own hair."

She made a little choking noise that might have been a startled giggle. "How did you even know I was thinking about that?"

John looked up. Elizabeth nodded knowingly.

"Just don't," Reese said. "Tie it back while you run. If you still want it cut when you're done, get a professional to do it. Trust me."

"John …"

"You can do this," he promised her. "You can get through this. You've come through everything else. I know it's scary. I know it seems like the rage is the biggest and the darkest. And it is. But it's like – like a thunderstorm. Dark and violent and dangerous, but also short. And when it passes …"

"The sky's all the bluer," she whispered, almost too soft to be heard over the distance and the speaker.

John swallowed. "I know you can't see it. But trust me. Run toward it. Run into it. You'll get through faster. You're strong enough for this. And it is the last part. This is the end of it. You can do this. I know you can."

There was a very long silence. Then she sighed. "I believe you."

"Good." Reese brushed at his eyes. "I love you, Kitten."

"I love you, too."

The call went dead.

John closed his eyes, his head down. Finch squeezed his shoulder. "That was exactly right, John."

"I hope so." He gathered himself and looked up. "Thank you," he said to the others.

Kostmayer pocketed the phone.

"You may have saved my daughter's life today," Elizabeth said warily. She added, "She's not really your sister."

Reese didn't lie. "She's the closest I'll ever have. How did you know?"

"She lets you call her Kitten. Sarah Rose would rip off her brothers' heads for that."

"What's her damage?" Kostmayer asked, not unkindly.

"She had to kill a man," Finch said. "During the recent Perk poisonings. He was armed and out of control …"

"She's a civilian," Reese added.

"First one's hard," Kostmayer agreed.

Elizabeth looked toward the kitchen. "Mine wasn't."

"You ever going to tell me that story?" her partner asked quietly.

The woman shook her head. "It would just piss you off. And they're all dead anyhow." She looked at Reese. "You did good."

"I hope so." He slugged back his coffee. "Why did you cut your hair?"

"Bosnia," she said, as if that explained everything. "Have a cannoli."

"Mom?"

Helen Zane stood in the doorway. Elizabeth stood up, gestured, and her daughter came into the room. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"C'mere."

Harold focused on his tea, but from the corner of his eye he saw the mother wrap her daughter in a close embrace. He glanced at Reese, who smiled briefly.

"I know it was a stupid thing to say," the teen continued. "I'm sorry. You, too, Uncle Mickey."

"Yeah, yeah," Kostmayer grumbled.

"And also." Helen hesitated. "I might maybe know what those guys were after."

Finch stopped pretending he was interested in his tea and turned to face them.

"There was this guy," the teenager explained. "At Madam Tussaud's. In the World Leaders. He was acting all squirrely."

"Squirrely how?" her mother asked.

"Just, like, trying to be sneaky. He kept looking around to see who was watching him."

"Was he looking for someone?" Reese asked.

"No. He looked like he was trying to avoid someone. Everyone."

"Did he approach you?" Elizabeth asked.

"No. We kinda looked at each other and then he looked away. He was – he wasn't scared, exactly. But he was definitely shady."

"One of the guys that tried to get you in the car?" Kostmayer ventured.

"No. This guy was little. Like, five-five, maybe? And dark. Dark eyes, dark hair, dark complexion. And old. He was like, sixty hard years or seventy soft ones? But his hair was too black for his age, you know?"

Finch as impressed with the girl's description. "Why do you think he's related to the attempted abduction?"

The girl looked worriedly at her mother. "He, um … he hid something. In the trash can."

"How do you know he wasn't just throwing it away?"

The girl and her mother both shot him an identically scathing look.

"Sorry," Finch said immediately.

"He hid it," Helen repeated, "under the rim of the lid. And then he left. Fast."

"Dead drop," Kostmayer intoned. "That's pretty old school."

"And then what?" Elizabeth asked tightly.

Helen's cheeks got pink. "And then I, um … went and got it."

Reese let out a long, slow breath. Harold shared a look with him. Now, finally, they were getting somewhere.

"You went and got it," Mrs. Zane repeated without expression.

"I was curious," the girl protested quickly. "He was acting all furtive and all, I just wanted to see what he was dropping."

"Helen …" Kostmayer began.

"And I was going to put it right back," she continued. "I took it to the ladies room and I was going to see what it was and put it right back. I swear. But then Dylan showed up and he said Jeff was waiting in the van and we had to go right away, and I didn't get a chance …"

"How in the world did you think this was a good idea?" her mother demanded.

"I just wanted to see!" Helen protested. "I just wanted to know what it was."

Kostmayer stood up. "Helen …"

"And it's your fault," the girl continued, to her mother. "You're the one who taught me always to watch people. And to be curious. And to get answers for myself. You taught me all of that …"

"Helen …"

"What was it?" Reese interceded.

The three of them stopped and looked at him.

Helen reached into her pocket and brought out a film canister. "Just this."

"Diamonds?" Finch guessed immediately. "Or drugs?"

"No. Just film."

Kostmayer took the canister and opened it. He dropped the film roll into his other hand. "Cheap-ass film, too."

"Exposed?" Reese asked.

"Yep."

"I was going to put it back," Helen repeated. "I swear, I was going to put it right back, but then Dylan was all like, hurry up, we have to go, so we …"

"Dylan Kozlow," Elizabeth pronounced, "is likely in this up to his eyeballs somehow."

Kostmayer snorted. "What, the party boy? I doubt it."

"That's not fair," Helen protested. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"He was very friendly outside the Institute," Reese said.

Elizabeth scowled. "Was he? Again?"

"Mom!"

"I told you to stay away from him."

"Mom, quit. Why are you so judgey all the time? He's just a nice guy."

"He's a nice guy who's hitting on an underage girl," Zane snapped.

"He's not hitting on me. He just wanted me to go to the movies with him …" Helen stopped, bit her lip.

"He asked you out?" Elizabeth asked coldly.

"I think we're getting off track here," Finch offered. "If this Misha person was supposed to pick up the film canister and he realized that Helen had it …"

"And besides, he's only nineteen. Dad was like twice your age and you never saw anything wrong with that!"

"I wasn't sixteen when I met your dad," Elizabeth snarled.

"Stop," Kostmayer said firmly. "You want me to break Romeo's knees later, I'll be glad to. But right now, whatever's on this film is what's important."

The women both went silent. Then Helen said, very quietly, "He's a nice guy."

"He's a creep," her mother answered. Then she looked to Mickey. "I don't suppose your wife's due back any time soon."

He shook his head. "Never a Fotomat around when you need one."

"I know how to develop film," Finch offered, "if you have the equipment."

"Mom …" Helen began, half-apologetic.

"Go finish your supper," Elizabeth said. "Then help with the dishes."

"I know it was dumb …"

"It wasn't dumb," her mother countered. The older woman was still very tightly wound, Finch realized, but the argument was over – at least for the moment. "You're right. I taught you to be curious and you were." She nodded toward Reese. "But you should have told me right away."

"I didn't want to go home," the girl answered sadly.

"I know. Go eat."

The teenager looked around the room, then shrugged sadly and went out.

Kostmayer cleared his throat.

"Not a word," Elizabeth warned. "Not a fucking word."

"Wouldn't dream of it." But the older operative was either too foolish or too confident to leave it alone. "She is her mother's child, isn't she?"

"Shut up."

The older operative grinned wryly. "Was he really twice your age?"

"No."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Twenty-four years. And that's not the point."

"Right. Because you weren't sixteen. You were like, twenty, right? Twenty-one?"

Lily glared at him, but her anger had eased back. "I was old enough to buy beer."

He snorted.

" … and three pack mules," she continued, "and load up the beer and a bunch of ammo and bring it to you in those mountains in Cambodia where you idiots got yourselves pinned down."

Kostmayer grinned. "We weren't exactly pinned down …"

"Bullshit."

"Fair enough. But Helen's not a child. You're gonna have to let her grow up sooner or later."

"Later," Lily answered firmly. She looked at Finch, and then at Reese. "I'm sorry for the unpleasantries," she said sincerely. "And thank you for your help. You are free to go."

Finch looked to his partner. John shook his head. "If you don't mind," Harold said, "I think we'll stay. I would very much like to know what's on that film."

"Me, too," Reese added.

Elizabeth glared mildly at both of them. She was clearly surprised, and more than a little exasperated. But they were secondary on her list of aggravations, well below her inquisitive daughter. She looked to Kostmayer again. He shrugged, and then she did. "Thank you."

"I've got a darkroom at my place," Kostmayer said evenly.

"I'll stay here," Reese offered, "and keep an eye on the house."

Finch stood up. "Shall we take my car?"


Misha climbed into the van, shaking his head. "No go, Boss."

Gusav scowled. "I figured, when I saw the address."

"What's the problem?" Black demanded. "Just go in there and get her."

"Can't be done," the boss told him. "Too much security."

"You brought guns, didn't you?"

"It's not a question of guns. A neighborhood like this, they've got fences and gates, cameras, alarms, everything. And that's before you get close to the house."

"Dogs," Misha added. "I saw dogs."

"Shoot the dogs," Black snarled. "Climb the wall and shoot the damn dogs and get her."

"Tthe cops will be here in sixty seconds," Gusev told him.

"And they're all on alert now," Misha added. "Everyone inside."

"Because you're idiots. Idiots! You can't pick up a teenage girl on the street. How damn hard is it to pick up a teenage girl! I thought you were a gang, but you're just a bunch of bumbling idiots. Morons!"

"Hey!" Gusev barked back. "You watch your mouth."

"I should have called the Armenians. They aren't a pack of cowards and idiots."

"Then go call them!" Gusev shouted. "Go! See if they'll even talk to you, you little troll."

"Maybe I will. And maybe I'll call Moscow on my way." Black reached for the door handle. "Can't even pick up a girl. Mother of God."

"We'll get her," Gusav snapped. "We'll find a way to lure her out."

Black shook his head, but he didn't open the door. "You'd better."

Gusev looked at his lieutenant. Misha nodded, just a little. He understood the plan perfectly well. Whatever happened, however they got the girl or her mother – when this was over, the little pain in the ass Black, or whatever his name was, was getting a bullet in his brain.

Then the man said, "I have an idea."