The Concierge & The Citadel

by RosalieReddington

"There are few that understand love and loss more than I..." Raymond Reddington once had a relatively normal life. A wife, a child, a few good friends. Fate was unkind when it took those he loved. Now, as he faces death row, fate returns a familiar face that will bring memories, joy, and love back to Red's life. Pre-Blacklist Years. (Mostly) Cannon Compliant.

37. A Fool's Game

Three Months Later...

Hillingdon, London, UK - May 28, 2000

The cobbled street was wet. The remnants of a rare June shower had already begun to dry on the hot stones, turning the air muggy and laced with the scents of summer.

Sweat. Blooming trees. Hot asphalt.

'You're sunlight and warm earth…'

Red shook the memory from his head.

It had been three months since Rosalie left him in Belgium. It had also been nearly three months to the day since he had last heard her voice.

When Rosalie chose to step back from their partnership, Raymond had genuinely believed they would remain in regular contact. He had taken no small amount of solace in the assurance that, despite the loss of their romantic relationship, the two of them would remain close.

Unfortunately, he was robbed of that minuscule comfort mere days later, when he attempted to reach out and was met with the stone wall that was Horace Asim Jabare.

Rosalie had apparently chosen to sequester herself in the darkest corners of her network, utilizing her guards as proxies for all incoming communication.

Ashamed though Raymond was to admit it, his initial reaction was to rail against their interference. He'd bellowed and roared, demanding to be put through to Rosalie to no avail. The shouts and threats got him nowhere, as Horace utterly despised him and Ted was ultimately bound to Rosalie's wishes as her right hand; facts of which Red needed to be reminded of almost weekly.

Whether Red liked it or not, Horace had become the gatekeeper Rosalie so desperately needed. At her behest, he now guarded her against every client, partner, and financier trying to breach the bubble of solitude she had created around herself.

In spite of himself, Raymond knew he was grateful for Horace's unflinching loyalty where Rosalie was concerned. At the very least, she would be safe with him.

The pain of Rosalie's departure had begun to recede, but Red still participated in their daily calls on the off-chance she might be the one to answer. The frigid exchanges between Horace and himself had eventually thawed as well, a reminder that one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Once his temper had cooled, Red was able to regularly bypass Horace and reach the infinitely more accommodating Teddy Beaumont.

Teddy would let slip what continent they were on at the very least, and on a good day, he might tell Raymond how Rosalie was faring, or what deals she was pursuing.

For Red, those splintered fragments of information were enough to keep the remnants of them alive. That kindling slowly took hold and smoldered into a plan which consumed him like an inferno.

A plan that was about to unfold.

Tugging irritably at the neck of his shirt, Raymond counted the row houses he passed before halting in front of #16.

Its crumbling red brick was the color of dried blood. Chips of white paint lay flaked and yellowing on the stoop and the flower bed beneath the bay window.

A quick glance was cast up one side of the lane and down the other, ensuring no prying eyes followed him up the cement walk.

Steady hands reached for the worn brass doorknob, picking its lock with precision. Raymond turned the handle, pocketed his tools, and disappeared behind the glossy black door without a break in his stride.

A small ground-floor flat extended before him, its layout and contents familiar after two months' reconnaissance.

Red's feet carried him through the rabbit warren of narrow halls, his movements fluid and practiced.

Side-step the collection of running shoes littering the tiled entry. Do not move them.

Avoid the squeaky floorboard at the threshold of the sitting room.

Cut the line to the wall phone outside the powder room.

Remove the battery from the mobile phone hidden in the top left drawer of the writer's desk at the base of the stairs.

The sound of running water drifted from the second floor where a feminine voice sang an off-key rendition of a Stevie Nicks tune.

Raymond turned toward the only room left untouched, a dated galley kitchen wedged deep in the farthest corner of the flat. He wandered over to the bistro table that sat beneath a small window beside the wall of off-white cabinets and twitched open one of the sheer curtains so he could see the black Mercedes parked in the shade of a hazel tree across the street.

Dembe stood inconspicuously off to the side, pretending to do some post-run stretches. His head tilted in a barely discernible nod when he caught sight of Red in the window.

Raymond nodded in response, leaving the drapes parted as he turned back to the room's interior.

The kitchen was stuffy and warm, cluttered with the odds and ends of a settled life. Half-opened junk mail was stuffed in a hanging basket beside the door, waiting to be forgotten and thrown away in a cleaning-spree months later.

A well-worn copper kettle sat waiting on the stove, its sides patinated from endless use.

Red approached the gas range and kicked it on. One, two, three clicks, then a blue ring of fire erupted inside the burner. He carried the kettle over to the sink and switched on the taps, pursing his lips when a string of curse words echoed from the upstairs bath.

"AGH…Bollocks…Colin!"

The running faucet had evidently caused a rush of cold water to douse the shower's occupant.

Raymond quickly switched off the tap and placed the kettle back on the burner, chortling to himself as he turned to rummage the various cabinets for the necessities. A quick turn about the room netted everything he had sought, save for the mint.

It was a bit of an old-fashioned thing, mint in tea. However, as the years progressed, Raymond found himself becoming more and more nostalgic for that small comfort. His grandmother had been notorious for cultivating little mint gardens in her kitchen windows, allowing him to pick the small leaves for afternoon tea when he was a small boy.

Minutes later, Red was seated at the bistro table with a tea tray and a plate of biscuits, complete with a sterling creamer full of milk and a powder blue chipped china sugar bowl.

To pass the time, he removed the burner from his jacket pocket and dialed the requisite numbers to bring him to his voicemail.

He had become much more adept at navigating the automated prompts these past few months, and in a matter of seconds was poised at the message he desired.

Saved message: February 27th, 2000 3:38 AM...*beep*

'Hey...I don't know where you've run off to, or what mischief you've landed yourself in, but I miss you.'

Raymond couldn't help the small smile which pulled at his lips as he listened to the message for the umpteenth time that week, its message calming every anxious corner of him as he waited.

The scent of something floral soon drifted down the stairs.

A pair of feet could be heard scurrying from one side of the second floor to the next. The squeaks and groans of aging floorboards reached his ears, punctuated by the dull thunk-thunk of each heel hitting the hardwood.

Red closed the phone and tucked it safely in his jacket pocket once more. He took a few leisured sips of his tea, keen green eyes traversing the various personal effects littering the flat took note not of what he saw, but how he saw it.

A collection of scarves hung on a nearby coat rack, making it lean precariously to the right, but no hats hung on its hooks. The cabinet beside him held a stack of used cookbooks, all proclaiming gourmet recipes in thirty minutes or less. The open pantry overtop the icebox was chock full of processed foods, the overwhelming majority bore some variant of the words 'quick' or 'instant'.

The space spoke to a rat-race existence; its occupants trapped in a perpetual pell-mell tumble from one day, one task, one paycheck to the next.

Raymond sat up in his seat at the sound of footsteps descending the central staircase.

"Colin? You're home awfully early."

A woman's voice carried amidst the groan of creaking steps, her West London accent easily distinguishable.

But Red already knew that about her.

He knew a great many things about her, most, he was sure, she'd rather he didn't.

He plucked his cup from the tabletop, taking another long, slow sip. Waiting.

The footsteps grew louder, carrying his target ever closer. Their owner halted at the threshold; something was amiss.

The woman stepped into the kitchen and peered suspiciously at the tea kettle, blissfully unaware of Red's presence.

She was relatively tall, rail-thin, with ash blonde hair tied up in a pin-straight ponytail. The flowy shirt and ratty jean shorts she wore gave the distinct impression she hadn't shopped for new clothes since her freshman year of university.

"You made tea?" A slender brow arched at the kettle when she lifted it to feel how much water remained, "Christ, how can you stand it? This humidity is positively ghastly…"

The kettle was returned to its burner with a clatter, its owner now preoccupied with rummaging through the icebox.

"I'm afraid you're out of milk, my dear."

The sound of an unfamiliar voice froze her on the spot.

A pair of startled blue-grey eyes peeked over the top of the refrigerator door, staring at Red with pupils the size of pinpricks.

"You do have a couple Ribena, however, and a selection of ciders as well. Though, I suppose those are dogeared for Colin." Raymond shrugged and set his teacup aside, "Regardless of the insufferable heat, I'll stick to my tea. Ciders are more of a European thing, and I do so love a good Earl Grey."

"Who-" the woman gave a brief, frantic look about the room, "Who are you? What are you doing in my flat?"

He pinched a biscuit from the nearby plate, taking a small bite only to wrinkle his nose in distaste. "I've always wondered what kind of people enjoy chocolate and orange together. The sour of citrus combined with the bitterness of cocoa has never been a combination I've truly enjoyed. Especially in a digestive biscuit. And the term digestive, could there be anything more unappetizing?"

She looked at him as though he had three heads, her features puckered in a haughty scowl.

"Are you taking the piss? Who the hell are you, and what the bloody hell are you doing in my house?"

Red dropped the unfinished biscuit on his saucer and brushed the crumbs from his suit. When he looked up again he wore a benign smile.

"It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mrs. Knightley. I'm Raymond Reddington. "

Mrs. Knightley sputtered in recognition and scrambled backward, closing the refrigerator door with a slam before taking off through the house.

The sound of the wall phone clattering to the floor reached Red's ears. The rummaging of desk drawers followed soon after. A string of distraught curses echoed in the hall, whereupon she came stomping back into the room, intent on the box of takeaway menus atop the icebox.

A petite firearm was pulled from among the various pamphlets, the barrel aimed directly at Red.

He cleared his throat and raised his own hand, the gun's clip resting leisurely between two fingers.

Mrs. Knightley glanced at the butt of the gun, seeing it was, in fact, empty.

"You should invest in a good pair of house slippers," Raymond commented, taking another sip of tea.

"Excuse me?"

"You walk on your heels," he waved the question aside, "Amongst all this hardwood, it's bound to slowly chip away at some tendon or another. I find a good pair of house slippers to be essential."

"What are you doing in my house?!" She bellowed, her frustration reaching its peak as she continued to wave the useless gun about.

Red found himself leaning away from the barrel's aim out of sheer habit, "All in good time, Emma."

The use of her first name halted Emma in her tracks. "How did you-?"

"As I said, all in good time, we'll need to get past the interrogations and polygraphs before our adventure can truly begin."

"The what?"

Emma looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Her hands shook too, still clutched about the firearm which was now pointing somewhere near Red's toes.

A pang of guilt prodded at Raymond's insides. He hadn't meant to terrorize her quite so thoroughly.

Slowly, he set the loaded clip on the floor, then sat up, and with a short jab of his foot, sent the item skating across the laminate.

Knightley blinked down at the olive branch which spun to a stop at her feet. She couldn't even bring herself to move.

"Emma. Emma," Red repeated himself when she still didn't move, his head tilting in order to catch her eyes, "You're going to be just fine. I have no interest in harming you or your husband."

She knelt at a snails pace, snatching the clip from the floor and jamming it into place without taking her eyes off the intruder to her home. "If you're so bloody harmless then what are you doing breaking into my flat?"

Raymond's lips pursed into a tight pout.

He had no interest in giving up the impetus for inserting himself into her life. His reasons were his own.

Still, he needed her cooperation.

"I'm turning myself in to MI6, and you're going to be the one to bring me in."

She let out a scathing laugh, "You're mad if you think I'd ever believe one of the most wanted fugitives in the world would just turn himself in to MI6 by showing up at my flat. Why on earth would you do such a thing?"

"I want immunity," he stated simply, "You want a promotion. Your superiors want the kind of intel only someone of my status could provide."

Emma peered out from behind the gun, eyes wide with fearful suspicion.

"But…why me?"

"I find it best not to look a gift horse in the mouth." Red advised sagely, setting his teacup aside and rising to his feet.

"Perhaps you would feel more comfortable if I were cuffed?" He held his hands sedately out in front of him, "I believe there's a perfectly good pair of handcuffs in the third drawer of the davenport upstairs. Forgo the fuzzy ones from the nightstand, though. My skin abhors polyester, and god only knows what those ones have been up to."

---

Kate sat across the street, watching the events unfold through the safety of the car's tinted windows. She noted when Dembe gave a minute nod, confirming Raymond had reached the galley kitchen.

"She would want to know." Her brow furrowed as Dembe slid into the driver's seat once more, "Rosalie, she would want to know about this."

A tense quiet filled the space while Red could be seen making tea in Knightley's cramped kitchen.

"I tried to reach her," Dembe's focus remained on the home's small windows, eyes peeled for any signs of a problem, "The last time I managed to get to her was when Raymond went missing in Tajikistan…"

---

Three Weeks Post-Split...Unknown Location - Dushanbe, Tajikistan - April 12, 2000

"Tell me something I don't know about you," Red purred, shifting to his side so he might trail his lips down the long line of his companion's neck, kissing and nipping every sweet spot he found along the way.

"Mmmm...I miss sailing," Rosalie offered with a smile, allowing herself to be turned into his hold so he might continue his exploration further.

Red's hands smoothed up the curvature of her spine, fingertips moving to frolic amongst the soft blonde curls at her nape. His lips brushed teasingly against hers, "You never told me you knew how to sail."

Rosalie tried to kiss him, a delighted laugh tumbling from her lips when he purposefully evaded her, leaning just out of her reach with a boyish grin.

"What kind of boat?" He bartered, nuzzling her nose with his, "How long was it?

"Is that really what's on your mind right now?"

His grin widened when she grumbled, his lips having eluded her once more.

"Among other things..." Red sucked on her pulse point, earning a husky mew which made his blood heat. "Tell me about the boat."

"It was a schooner, 46 feet," Rosalie's voice dropped to a breathy whisper, her body arching into his mouth's tormenting, "It's still docked in Ajaccio."

A deep chuckle resonated against the newly-made love bite on her skin, making her writhe against him.

Raymond leaned back to admire his handiwork along with the rest of her. "The rigging?"

A note of distinct impishness had entered his voice.

Rosalie gave a mighty stretch in his arms then relaxed into the plush mattress once more.

"Staysail," she replied as her fingertips reached to card lovingly through his short locks.

"You know I happen to have a number of boats docked all over the globe..." he kissed her shoulder, practically purring with contentment for her pastime.

The bribe did not go unnoticed, judging by the sly grin which tugged at Rosalie's lips. Her palms moved leisurely to smooth along his chest and shoulders, " So do I," she countered, "Why then have you failed to take me out on the water, sailor?"

Red's hands wandered down the dip of her waist and over the crest of her hips, outlining her figure with obvious relish. "It's at the very top of my to-do list, though I could very well ask you the same."

Rather than answer, Rosalie leaned in to kiss him. Her lips sought his softly at first, barely managing to brush their surface.

Raymond deepened the contact without thought. When her tongue swiped at his bottom lip, he roughly cupped the back of Rosalie's thigh. In one smooth motion, he hitched the appendage over his hip and rolled so she was on top of him.

Their exploration grew more heated by the second, tongues tangling playfully, fingertips scratching at burning skin to send prickling shivers coursing along every nerve.

"Tell me about that schooner, who taught you to sail it?"

He gasped the question against her chin, breaking the kiss long enough to grab a lungful of air before he was stealing her breath again.

Rosalie didn't respond at first. Instead, she leisurely finished the kiss to her satisfaction then rose to perch herself atop Raymond's hips, thoroughly out of his reach.

"Florian," she answered finally, "He used the boat as this spectacular tool to teach me about being a criminal. Who taught you?"

Red watched her chest rise and fall with each breath she took, supplying her body with the oxygen he had robbed from her. His hands soon followed, eager to caress any part of her he could reach. His fingers curled around the soft outline of her waist, smoothing downward to settle on the supple thighs which bracketed his pelvis.

"What did he teach you, my dear?"

Rosalie caught the subtle diversion but allowed it all the same. Lifting one of those wandering hands, she turned it over to pepper its calloused palm with kisses, "Our world is filled with uncertainties. Circumstances change as quickly as the wind and the tide..."

Raymond lay entranced as her slender fingertips curiously traced the tan line where his watch usually sat, her touch tickling the fine blond hairs there.

"...To succeed in such a life, one must be fluid; drop the sails and hoist them high as needed to keep moving forward. We cannot waste effort adrift in situations which we cannot control."

Heated gray eyes batted coyly down at him, placing one more peck to his wrist before guiding his hand back to her body.

A shaky inhale left his lips when she brought the palm she had been kissing to cup the fullness of her breast, pointedly directing him toward her desires.

All too happy to succumb to her every whim, his fingers sought out the tightened pearl of her nipple and thumbed it back and forth until her legs tightened around him, a breathy gasp rushing from her throat at his touch.

"Is that the lesson, little dove? Damn the wind, damn the tide, just keep moving forward?"

"Raymond..."

His name sounded positively sinful when it fell from her lips like that.

A slender hand reached back to grasp his already rigid length, garnering a sharp hiss in response. Red smirked when he felt the familiar sensation of a condom being unraveled over his tip.

"The lesson," Rosalie cooed, rising up on her knees to position him where needed, "Was how to chase the life I desired without yielding-" her voice shook as she lowered her hips, "Without yielding to the circumstances which attempt to lodge themselves in my way."

A guttural moan leapt from Red's throat when her pelvis fell flush with his own, sinking him to the hilt within her.

"Rosalie..."

His hips rocked upward of their own accord to settle even deeper inside the tight wet warmth surrounding him.

The sensation of being filled too full made Rosalie gasp, her body working frantically to accommodate his girth.

Raymond growled when she began to move, undulating her hips to ride his cock in a smooth, steady rhythm.

He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes from the view of his lover above him, her breasts jostling with each movement, the look of agonized pleasure which crept over her features with each delicious push and pull within her.

It didn't take long for Red to shift so he could sit up against the headboard. The move earned a thready whimper of protest from Rosalie, who was more than a little invested in their endeavors at that point.

He pulled her roughly back into his lap and guided himself once more to her center, cooing softly in her ear all the while. His fingertips dug into her backside with a bruising grip, bringing her flush with him once more.

Firmly in place, Red planted his heels into the mattress and used the leverage to thrust up into her with abandon.

Rosalie gripped the top of the headboard and rocked herself down into his upstroke, making them both moan loudly. The sounds of their combined pleasure ricocheted among the exposed rafters, creating a sensual echo in the rapidly heating room.

One of Rosalie's hands dropped to the nape of Red's neck, tugging at the short hairs there.

Goosebumps sped down his spine at her touch. He could feel her tighten around him when he took her tightly pebbled nipple into his mouth and sucked.

"Raymond,"

She was getting close, he could feel it.

"More." Rosalie's entire body gave a violent shiver as he dragged her to the precipice of orgasm. "Hard-" she gasped when he bit the junction between her neck and shoulder, "H-Harder..."

Red moved to meet her demands, slamming himself inside her with breathtaking force.

"Raymond-"

" Raymond."

"Raymond!"

" Raymond!"

Red woke and scrambled to his feet, bleary eyes blinking rapidly to bring Dembe's concerned face into focus.

"What- What happened?"

His head swiveled to take in his surroundings, the blissful memory quickly dissipated to vapor and brought a fresh wave of vertigo crashing over him.

He was no longer in the safe house. The dark, squalid room was completely unfamiliar. Rosalie was still gone.

"Where are we?" He asked, turning to Dembe for answers.

The question went unaddressed as gunshots broke out in another room.

"No time to talk." Dembe shoved a gun into Raymond's hand and moved to check the door, hearing another barrage of shots echo in the hall. "The German unearthed your location last night, Rosalie has a black site prepared in Islamabad."

Raymond perked up immediately at this, "She answered? You...You called, and she answered?"

Dembe pulled the door closed as another bullet went whizzing by. His expression was apologetic, "Horace is still blocking her calls."

Men could be heard shouting directly outside the door.

Red loaded a bullet into the chamber and grabbed his hat, cramming it on his head before helping Dembe lodge a nearby dresser in front of the door, just in time to keep it from being blasted open.

The shouting beyond the door increased, and the dresser rocked haphazardly on its feet as the intruders attempted to ram their way in.

"The window." Dembe hissed, jerking his head toward the opposite side of the room.

Red butted his shoulder against the chest of drawers, "Go. I can hold them."

Dembe rushed across the room, trying in vain to prize the old, rotted window open. No amount of pushing or shoving could break the seal, and he was finally forced to slam the butt of his firearm into the glass, using the barrel to knock out the jagged shards which survived the initial blow. He dove through the window and out into the night, scanning the dirt alley before waving for Raymond to follow.

With an almighty shove, Red backed the dresser flush against the door and sprinted for the narrow window.

He was halfway through the opening when the makeshift barricade toppled and a shot rang out. Searing pain flooded his left arm, nearly sending him toppling back into the breached room.

A hand surged forward from the dark, yanking Raymond out into the alley by the collar. Dembe was barely visible as he fired several shots through the window as cover.

The pair took off running down the lampless dirt lane, relying on the encroaching darkness to swallow their retreat.

Two hours later - Raymond's Jet - Tajikistan Airspace- April 12, 2000

A makeshift tourniquet, a harried sprint, and one hot-wired car later, they were all safely in the air.

Kate had managed to gather all of their belongings from the previous safe house and meet Edward in the hangar while Raymond and Dembe were committing grand theft auto and tearing across Dushanbe. She was now occupied with stitching together a rather impressive bullet wound and chastising her employer for his carelessness.

"...you disappear for seven days without so much as a phone call only to turn up starved, dehydrated, and wreaking of opium. A decision undoubtedly brought about by the dozen empty bottles of Glenlivet Dembe and I found littering your suitcase. Honestly Raymond, Rosalie would be livid. If I thought I could get ahold of her, she'd be on the first flight to Islamabad to tear into you, and it'd be well-deserved. You're lucky this is only a flesh wound; another five centimeters to the left and your brachial artery would have been blown to shreds..."

Raymond lay the length of the jet's sofa in impassive silence, his left arm resting above his head while Kate tended to his injury. A fine layer of goosebumps soon covered the exposed plain of his blood-streaked torso, the tattered remnants of his bloody shirt discarded in a crumpled heap on the jet's floor.

Kate tutted once more as Dembe brought a couple of dark blankets and tucked them securely around Red's middle.

They couldn't be certain if the chill descending upon him was from shock or withdrawal.

"How long, Raymond?" Dembe bent to catch the other man's eyes, "How long have you been using?"

Raymond shifted uncomfortably beneath the blankets, his teeth starting to chatter. He stared at the ceiling for several seconds before finally fessing up.

"Shortly before I ended things with Rosalie."

Kate and Dembe shared a somber look. The former reluctantly ceased her chastising and returned to stitching him up in quiet.

Once Red's arm was sewn shut and sufficiently wrapped, Kate helped lower it to his side, pursing her lips when he winced and groaned. She took a seat beside him on the sofa's edge, waiting patiently for him to look at her.

Dembe moved to take a call from Rosalie's team on the ground, allowing Kate to take up the responsibility of bringing Red back to reason.

Unable to stare at the ceiling any longer, he turned to meet her eyes, quietly loathing the scolding frown she was giving him.

"What were you thinking?"

His brow puckered in a dispassionate scowl. He didn't want to talk about this.

"...Rosalie."

"You're worried for her." Kate flicked a bit of lint from her skirt, "That is understandable; though, I'm not sure why your concern is manifesting as a deep-seated urge to destroy yourself with narcotics."

Red gave a feeble shake of his head, "I fear it's something far more selfish than that."

He looked as though the truth was costing him everything he held dear, but Kate needed to hear that truth if she had a prayer of helping him.

"Talk to me, dearie."

Her coaxing finally breached the wall Red had been trying to build around himself.

"Being with her showed me what life could be like. What it was to have someone who was…mine."

Agony distorted his features, the emotions he had painstakingly suppressed over the past month churning back to the surface, aided by the drugs still coursing through his system.

Kate gently reminded him he was, in fact, human. "You're allowed to miss her, Raymond."

"I don't want to." Red snapped, grunting when the plane hit a bit of turbulence and jostled his arm. "I don't want to miss her. I don't want to worry about her. I don't want to feel like this every waking moment."

It was Kate's turn to frown, her own grief for Annie resurfacing at his words. "I know," she sympathized, reaching out to take his hand in hers, "I've sat with that feeling, and you're right, there comes a point where you just don't want to feel it anymore. Numbness, nothingness, anything is better than having to face the fact that you're now living in a world without that person. I understand."

"What kind of cruelty is that?" He turned to glare at her, green eyes sparking with anger for all the things which fate had taken from him, "What kind of crude deity is calling the shots here? To take a man who knows nothing but darkness, a man without a soul to call his own, and show him paradise. To place in his aching hands the one thing in this world he'd gladly die for. To make him feel as though finally, at long, long last, he could belong to someone steadfast, someone kind. Only rob him of her. What a capricious, vicious thing to do."

Kate couldn't argue with him. It was excruciating, and there was little that could be done about it. "You love Rosalie-"

"I don't want to love her anymore," he snarled, another frigid tremor racking his frame, "I don't know where she is. I don't know if she's safe. She hasn't made contact in weeks. No one told me that despite all good intentions, ending things between us would bring about such profound agony."

Raymond pulled his hand from her grasp with another sharp hiss of discomfort and tucked the appendage beneath the blankets with the rest of him. He no longer had the energy to argue with either of them.

Kate took several long seconds to respond, unsure as to what she could say to make the matter any better. She finally settled on what she believed to be the truth.

"You haven't seen the last of Rosalie. She will come back. You may not wish to feel the pain of her absence now, but the only real way to get past it is to direct your discontent toward a solution to your problem."

Red's head lifted, suddenly on point. "What do you mean?"

"You made a promise. Elizabeth must be protected."

He flopped back into the cushion, instantaneously annoyed once more. He didn't need Kate preaching to him about obligation at this moment.

"When the German realizes you and Rosalie are no longer actively working together, where do you think he'll turn next?"

"Nobody knows about my connection to Elizabeth-"

Kate cut him off, resting a soothing hand on his shoulder. "It's imperative we keep it that way. We've learned that outpacing the German is not going to be enough, Raymond. All the money and connections in the world isn't going to make him go away."

Red's eyes narrowed, "What are you getting at, Kate?"

"You want a future with Rosalie," she reasoned, "There's only one way to guarantee that future. Fortunately for us, it works for Elizabeth's benefit as well."

This seemed to pique his interest well enough, so she continued.

"You need to put that formidable intellect of yours to work. You've watched, you've waited, you've silently guarded the gates against all comers for nearly a decade. Perhaps it's time we started taking up an offensive approach."

Red sat up abruptly, a pained grunt paling his face. "What exactly are you suggesting, Kate?"

Kaplan leaned in conspiratorially, "I'm suggesting we stop being reactive and start systematically dismantling the threats to you and Elizabeth."

Raymond didn't respond.

He hadn't dared consider stepping up to the offensive just yet. The very idea of picking a fight with one of his foundational adversaries made his stomach turn.

Red had always known he would eventually be forced to step into the fray. Becoming the Raymond Reddington had taken all of the past decade to accomplish, but being the biggest fighter in the ring could only serve Elizabeth as long as he was alive to keep the wolves at bay.

Whether he liked it or not, there would come a day when he could no longer hold the line. He could only hope when that day came, it didn't come about from his demise.

If Raymond was honest with himself, he had been holding out hope that Rosalie would be there at the end of it all.

Kate waited patiently as his mind wandered, but was forced to interrupt when Dembe re-entered the room.

"We don't need to decide the course of action right this second. You're in no shape to make decisions of consequence. Once you've had a week or two to detox, we'll revisit this discussion. Just take some time to think it over."

---

Kate turned in her seat, eyeing Dembe shrewdly, only now recognizing just how long it had been since any of them had heard from their friend. "She won't even take your calls?"

Rosalie's refusal to speak to Raymond could be considered par for the course given the circumstances; but avoiding Dembe was completely unlike her.

Dembe sighed, "Rosalie has retreated deep within the underground. I believe she is burying herself in another round of expansions."

"What makes you say that?"

"When I last spoke to Ted, he mentioned they had an appointment in Sitka for black site number one hundred and thirteen."

"So?"

His focus finally left the row house, turning to settle on Kate with a look of quiet concern. "The site we are about to move into is black site number eighty-eight, and it was finished a mere week before our arrival. That means Rosalie has built out twenty-five new black sites in the span of three months."

Kate managed a dry laugh, "God, they're quite the pair, aren't they? Masterminds of criminal enterprise and self-destruction..."

Dembe shrugged and turned back to watch the flat once more. "They are coping in the only ways available to them. You know Raymond. Once he's decided upon a course of action, there's nothing and no-one who can change his mind."

"Oh trust me, I know," Kate shook her head at the memory, "I'm the one who tried to talk him off the ledge, remember?"

---

Twelve Days Later...Black Site #62 - a.k.a 'Kanwal' - Islamabad, Pakistan - April 24, 2000

"You want to what?"

Kate's crisp, barking voice echoed loudly in the home's enclosed office.

Red winced, the sudden increase in decibels grating to his newfound sobriety.

They had been laying low in Islamabad for just shy of two weeks, and he had touched neither opium nor alcohol in that amount of time.

"You said it yourselves, the only way to glean any useful intel from the MI-6 sector processing immigration cases is through Emma Knightley. We need her, and we need the intel she possesses."

Dembe stood leaning against the heavy oak door, deep in thought, his arms crossed over his chest. "Raymond, we've been over this. Knightley doesn't have the access necessary to search those files-"

"Which is why we're going to get her access," said Red, perfectly unconcerned, "Turning me in would put Knightley on the fast track to intelligence officer status. She would jump seven clearance levels overnight."

Kate was still white as a sheet. "Raymond, this wasn't what I meant by taking an offensive approach. It's too great a risk. There has to be another way."

"The United States and Britain have a longstanding extradition treaty," agreed Dembe, "There's no way for us to ensure you won't be shipped back to the states and put on trial for treason."

Raymond pulled out the box of intel from their altercation with the cartel, the battered ledger crowning the stack."Unless Oliver can successfully trace the German's bank account, we are at a dead end. There is no other recourse."

Kate and Dembe both stared at the heavy book with obvious trepidation. The former reached out and took it, tucking it safely in her arms.

"I'll reach out to Oliver and see if there's any stone he's left unturned. Don't make any rash decisions until I get back."

She took off through the house, intent on reaching out to their contacts before Raymond could jeopardize everything they'd built.

Dembe closed the door behind her, leveling Red a stern look. "Have you consider all of the contingencies involved with such a plan, Raymond? Turning yourself in to MI6? What if they find out you are not who you profess to be? What if they run your DNA?"

Raymond gestured him closer, lowering his voice so the truth would not leave that room.

"That's the beauty of it. Raymond Reddington's DNA isn't on file, anywhere. There's nothing for them to compare me against."

Grabbing one of the armchairs, Dembe pulled up a seat beside him. "How can you be certain? There are remnants of Reddington's DNA out there, if people know where to look."

Red shook his head, "There are only four remaining traces of Reddington's DNA: The bones, which only the three of us know about. The shirt, which is locked safely in an FBI evidence locker-"

Dembe nearly leapt from his seat, "Raymond, if MI6 ships you back to the U.S. they could use that shirt to confirm your identity. The chaos that would ensue when it came up negative-"

"Harold Cooper is the only one with direct knowledge of that shirt's existence, and he's far too low on the totem pole to be brought into the fold should I be extradited."

He watched as Dembe pinched the bridge of his nose, concern still rolling off of him in waves. "The other sources of Reddington's DNA, I'm guessing they are Jennifer and Elizabeth?"

Red nodded, "Jennifer is in WITSEC and nobody knows that Reddington was Elizabeth's father. There will be no way for them to genetically verify my identity. The fact that I look like him and share his blood type will be enough."

He watched as Dembe mulled things over, thoroughly unconvinced of the plan's stability.

Tugging open one of the office drawers, Raymond pulled out a scrap of paper.

It was wrinkled and stained, scribbles of black ink covering most of its surface in what at one point had been neat, straight lines.

"What is this?" Dembe asked, taking the crumpled slip of paper

Row upon row of familiar names lined the page.

"It's my list." Raymond shifted to the edge of his seat, a quiet thrill entering his voice, "Every threat is on that list. Every person or entity with a vested interest in Raymond Reddington and Katarina Rostova is there."

Realization dawned on Dembe's features, "You are initiating the first protocol? We are going to begin dismantling them?"

Raymond gave a curt nod, "This isn't a reckless decision, Dembe. The future of my enterprise, my life, my ability to keep Elizabeth alive, it all hinges on getting this right. I can't do it without you and Kate."

A resigned sigh punctuated the silence.

"This could be the beginning of the end?"

A guarded hopefulness had entered Dembe's voice, the notion that they could be making the transition into the final phase of their task felt too good to be true.

"Are we ready for this, Raymond?"

Red smiled softly, "As ready as we'll ever be. This is the beginning of the end, Dembe. It will take years to level this many players, but this is it."

Dembe nodded and took Red's hand, putting the slip of paper safely back in his palm then coaxed his fingers closed around it and patted the knuckles in solidarity.

"I will call our friend in the East, we will have to move quickly."

---

Present - Emma Knightley's Flat - May 28, 2000

Kate and Dembe shifted in their seats when the door to the flat opened and Red stepped outside.

His arms were secured behind his back, his hat and sunglasses perfectly in place.

The thin blonde woman they had been surveilling for weeks stepped over the threshold as well, stopping to lock the door behind her before quickly guiding Raymond into the passenger seat of her car.

"Slowly," Kate advised, keeping an eye on the vehicle's progress, "We don't want to be noticed."

Dembe gave a silent nod and kicked the car into life, following their target at a reasonable distance.

Knightley unknowingly guided them deep into central London, all the way through to the eastern boroughs where they eventually parked in front of a crumbling stone building beside the Thames.

Dembe kept a couple hundred yards back so they would not be caught, while Kate observed the proceedings through a pair of binoculars.

A trio of agents bore down on them the moment they stepped outside the vehicle, grabbing them both by their arms and forcefully leading them into a hidden entrance on the building's left side.

"Three plainclothes," noted Kate, "We should leave, I'm sure there will be external surveillance. They could already know we're here."

Dembe glanced in the rear-view mirror, then shifted the car into drive. "How long do you believe it will take for him to make contact?"

Kate tucked the binoculars away, her face puckered with concern, "He's in the hands of MI6 now. If we don't hear from him in a week, we start initiating the necessary protocols to break him out."

"What should we do in the meantime?" He asked, pulling out into the lane and speeding off in the opposite direction.

"You need to reach out to Rosalie or Teddy and get access to the black site where we'll be living for the foreseeable future."

"And you?"

Kate tutted to herself, "Drop me off at Oliver's office. I need to ensure Raymond's adjusted will and other affairs are all in order should this ridiculous plan of his go belly up. You have Rosalie's side of things?"

Dembe nodded, patting the front of his vest without taking his eyes from the road.

---

Earlier That Morning...

Raymond's Jet - May 28, 2000

"You have the phone?"

Dembe held out the small flip phone Red had him purchase before leaving their location in Prague.

The man took it, then pulled his own burner from his jacket and called the new phone number. His feet carried him to the rear of the plane while Edward completed his final checks before takeoff, allowing Raymond a modicum of privacy as he pressed the necessary buttons to send the call to voicemail.

He waded through the automated prompts until he heard the telltale beep telling him he could leave a message.

With a long slow breath, he began.

"Hello, little dove..."

The endearment rolled off his tongue with a warmth he'd scarcely felt in their months apart.

"If you're hearing this, the plan I've set in motion has gone to hell-"

Kate and Dembe pretended to make themselves busy with final preparations for that afternoon's stakeout, alternating between adding superfluous detail to their already copious notes and pouring uselessly over second-tier intel they didn't truly need. Each took turns throwing covert glances in Red's direction, nursing their own theories as to whom he was calling.

He'd came back minutes later, pulling a small square from his waistcoat pocket and tucking it inside the flip phone before putting both in a small manilla envelope.

"Kate, please reach out to Sharif and his team, let them know they're on standby for extraction until further notice. Then call our man in the CIA, Vincent. The moment I'm on the inside, I want him to provide you with updates every half-hour regarding the DOJ's knowledge of my capture. If they're made aware, give Sharif the go-ahead to pull the plug."

Kate pulled out her own satellite phone and stepped into the secluded office.

Raymond immediately turned his sights on Dembe, his eyes beseeching as he held out the manilla envelope. "If the worst happens, you will contact Rosalie and have her meet you at our apartment in Paris. I trust you to give this envelope to her personally, along with the deed to said apartment. Her ring is in the safe there; the two of you will need to sift through the rest of its contents away from prying eyes. Neither her security nor Kate are to know about this."

Dembe took the envelope and tucked it safely in his chest pocket. "We are prepared, Raymond. I look forward to giving it back to you."

Red could only nod, reaching out to pat Dembe's hand in gratitude before turning to the rear of the plane once more.

---

Present...

Undisclosed Location, MI6 Custody - May 28, 2000

A series of hidden archways stretched before them, creating a labyrinth one needed to know perfectly in order to reach the building's interior.

Raymond and Emma were shoved this way and that, navigating the narrow halls until they finally emerged in the center of the building.

They were in one of London's old pumping stations. The iron grates partitioning off the various equipment were painted shades of emerald, burgundy, and creamy yellow. The ornate pattern adorning the metal was a testament to the Victorian era in which it was wrought. Fading sunlight poured through a glass skylight, illuminating the central maze of pipes for them to see until black cloth sacks were crammed over their heads.

Red tutted when he heard his hat and glasses fall carelessly onto the dirt-strewn floor. Rough hands rummaged through his pockets, removing his spare magazines, money clip, and, burner phone.

The clanking of metal on metal could be heard before they were forced forward, the clunk of steel grated beneath their feet then a loud bang echoed behind them.

The floor below them started to vibrate and what little light beyond the black veils disappeared. They were in some kind of elevator.

Raymond could hear Emma's stuttering, terrified breaths beside him.

"You're going to be fine," he soothed, his voice perfectly calm. "You've done nothing wrong. Tell them exactly what happened."

"Quiet!"

An irritable grunt could be heard when a rough hand smacked the back of Red's head.

The jostling halted a minute later, whereupon they were forced out of the confined space and into another which smelled of mildew.

The deep, velvety voice of a woman could be heard

"Take her to the conference room for debriefing. Director Bazalgette wants this one in the central interrogation cell."

Raymond heard two pairs of footsteps retreat down a hall to his left. The two remaining guards and the woman flanked him as he was led straight ahead down a long tunnel whose end seemed to take several minutes to reach.

He could tell instantly when they arrived at their destination. Daylight burst behind the microscopic gaps in the black fabric's thread and the steady hum of computer screens could be heard all around him.

His guards turned him about and shoved him into a metal chair. The cuffs around his wrists were removed, his arms brought forward and restrained once more with a set of chains which now included his ankles.

"Out. All of you, out."

The voice was that of a man's, crisp and authoritative. He must be the director the woman referred to earlier.

A heavy metal door slammed shut, throwing the room into silence once more.

Raymond waited patiently, hearing the soft footsteps of those that remained slowly quieten to nothing.

The covering was unceremoniously torn from his head, the sudden change in light positively blinding.

Red winced and blinked, slowly coaxing his eyes into adjusting to the newfound brightness.

Four figures emerged from the blur, each glaring back at him with a sanctimonious scowl.

The man who removed his hood was the most relaxed of the group, dressed in plainclothes and strewn sideways in one of those spinning office chairs, a lone finger lazily twirling the black hood around in circles. He was shorter than the others, younger too.

Another of the plainclothes agents stood off to the side. He was tall, gangly, with short black hair and a neatly clipped beard. His face looked gaunt, pale with dark circles under his eyes that told Red he was married to the miserable role of an MI6 agent and knew little else outside his job.

The lone woman in the room sat in a leather office chair beside the central desk, her legs neatly crossed. A brief look told Red she was the right hand of this operation, and without question the most formidable face in the room. Her onyx hair was shorn so short he could see her scalp. The pantsuit she wore was a striking cobalt blue, the crisp white shirt beneath it perfectly pressed, each article beautifully complimenting the rich umber of her skin.

The only remaining occupant was a man. He was tall, bald, and black, dressed in a three-piece suit not at all unlike Red's. His fit frame leaned against the center desk, one foot dangling while the other remained firmly planted on the marble floor. The lax in his limbs was deceiving. He was a man in his prime, the keeper of this domain, and at that moment, Red's captor.

The two men stared back at one another for several long moments before the former spoke in the same crisp, authoritative voice Red had heard earlier.

"Mr. Reddington, my name is Director Albert Bazalgette. I'm the Head of Secret Defense here at MI6. You seem to have fallen into the hands of one of our agents."

"Alby! Of course. I thought I caught a hint of beans and toast."

"I beg your pardon?"

Raymond tilted his head in a benign fashion, "Your friends, coworkers, they call you Alby. You're single, married to the job, live in a one-bedroom flat in Westminster. You meet your lovely young colleague here," he nodded toward the woman on his right, "Every morning for breakfast at an unassuming pub across the river from the National Archives, the Bull's Head. Beans and toast, every time, without fail."

The two male agents turned suspicious glances on the pair between them, suddenly intensely curious.

Red's eyebrows hit his hairline, "Oh, was that a secret? Well, I suppose the cats out of the bag now. Though, Alby, can I call you Alby? On second thought, for our working relationship I believe Albert would be best…Albert you must try a more varied diet, try something other than your staple plus the slices of mango Agent Boateng never eats from her morning bowl of fruit." He turned to the lone woman in the group once more, "What is it about mangoes, is it the texture? For me, it's the texture, almost like the canned peaches they served in primary school. Grizzly things..."

A comedic shudder rippled down Red's body, starting at his cheeks and ending at his toes.

"Anyway, don't be foolhardy Albert; you believe someone like me would ever mistakenly run into one of your agents? You're wrong. I clocked you and your team here before you even knew I was on the continent." He turned to each of the agents in turn, "Ezra Yadin, Skip Sutherland, Sika Boateng. They're your lovable but sadly misguided underlings, and you," he eyed Bazalgette with an infuriating smirk, "You're the man who's been upending Europe trying to sink your teeth into me."

"Is that so?" Albert remained unshakable, "Well, despite that neat little party trick, you are still in our custody. You've stumbled into no-man's land, Reddington. This place does not exist. We do not exist."

Raymond wasn't listening; he was far too busy taking a good look at his surroundings.

They were in a glass dome submerged in green water. The bubble was just close enough to the surface to allow the sun to pour into the space without hindrance.

He nodded his understanding.

They were beneath the Thames.

Red knew exactly where he was being held.

"Wasn't Joseph Bazalgette responsible for that magnificent sewage system London has enjoyed over the past century? I'm sure you're aware, up until the late 1800s, the mighty Thames was a literal river of shit. This resulted in the Great Stink of 1858-" he couldn't help but chuckle, "God, imagine living in a city responsible for an event like 'The Great Stink'. What an accomplishment, what a feat."

The foursome before him scowled heavily once more.

"Speaking of shit," he quipped, "About a century before the mighty Thames was cleaned, a man by the name of Oliver Cromwell was rumored to have built a tunnel leading from the Bull's Head pub to a small island out in the Thames. Legend says he used the ait as a hiding spot during the war against King Charles the first."

"As fun as this little history lesson has been," Albert's careless drawl cut across the conversation with ease, "I've got a phone call to make. The Americans will be delighted to hear you've been found safe and sound after all this time."

The threat didn't so much as scratch the surface of Red's unblinking facade. "I was brought here via Crossness, one of the dozens of pumping stations built by your ancestors, Albert."

The plainclothes officers, Skip and Ezra, managed to give themselves away. Both exchanged the briefest of furtive looks toward one another before looking back at Red.

That was all it took to know he was spot on.

"I believe the locals have affectionately dubbed Crossness 'the Cistern Chapel.' It's a monument to the lavish grandeur of Victoriana and operates as a perfectly unassuming access point to the tunnels Cromwell built. You know, the one connected to the Bull's Head tunnel you and Miss Boateng use after your little rendezvous?"

Albert's nostrils flared, "Fairytales and ghost stories, nothing more."

Raymond chuckled to himself, "You can deny it all you want Albert, we all know the stories are true. Like a bunch of modern day mudlarks, your government commandeered an historical landmark to bastardize for their own gain. You think I'm in no-man's land? I think we're a mere five feet below the Thames on the south side of Oliver's Ait, in a black site crudely dubbed The Cromwell."

The smug smile curling at Red's lips was enough to change the temperature of the room.

Bazalgette immediately rose and turned to Sika. "Put out a code orange, I want this site on total lockdown. If he knew he was coming here, there's no telling who might be following him. Once the site has gone dark, pick up the blue phone in the bunker and contact the Ministry of Justice. Ask them for Black Ops Team X."

"What about the woman?" Ezra asked, rising to his feet as well.

"Bring her here. Skip, ensure all unnecessary personnel are evacuated from the vicinity. No one but the four of us will remain on-premises."

The trio of agents scurried out through the tunnel, the last of whom closed the circular door with an echoing bang. The low hum of metal could be heard as a protective shell rose to cover the dome. The interior fell into darkness, lit by the glow of the dozen or so computer screens and a lone desk lamp.

Bazalgette turned to the dome, typing rapidly on the nearest keyboard to project a bay of security cameras onto the glass panels. He noted the locations of each of his agents before turning back to his captive.

The frown beneath his clipped mustache gave an almost imperceptible twitch.

"We don't have much time. What the bloody hell are you doing at my black site, Red?"

---

Black Site #88 - "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location - London, United Kingdom

Dembe was en route to the safe house to meet up with Kate when the burner rang.

"Mr. Zuma?"

"What have you found?"

"Your quarry made a payment to an extractionist in Prague."

"When?" Dembe asked, easing his foot onto the brakes. He rolled down his window and quickly prodded the requisite code to open the warehouse before him.

"A quarter-hour ago, I just got off the call. He didn't come into the office, but I did manage to take down the number for his new burner. Perhaps one of Mr. Reddington's associates would be able to trace it?"

The metal door rolled slowly upward, staying open just long enough for the car to pass through. Once the building was secure and the vehicle stalled in the correct spot, the center of the warehouse floor tilted. The concrete slab lowered to create an underground ramp leading into a stone tunnel lit by low lamps.

Dembe waited until he was safely through the tunnel before putting the car in park and pulling out a pad and paper. The floor beneath him began to shake as the platform rose into a separate parking structure made of cobbled stone and catacomb-like arches. "What is the number?"

"+44 20 7946 0050"

The platform ceased its movement with a shudder, revealing the figure of Kate Kaplan standing with arms crossed at the edge of the platform opening.

Dembe capped the pen and tore the sheet from the notepad, "Thank you. Mr. Reddington will be in touch." He closed the phone with a snap, removed the keys from the ignition, and stepped from the car with but one nod to his compatriot.

The two moved in tandem toward one of the huge stone columns, uncovering the hidden biometric scanner which allowed a portion of the brick facade to bump out and reveal the door to a small elevator. Once inside the capsule, both turned to face the bronze and glass doors.

Dembe didn't even look when he passed the note to Kate, "Our adversary's newest burner. Thomas and his team need to trace it as quickly as possible."

Kate lowered her glasses to the end of her nose and squinted down at the slip of paper, "Do I even want to know how you acquired it?"

The elevator rose with a barely audible hum and arrived at the black site's mezzanine within seconds, a pleasant chime accompanying their arrival.

"The German," Dembe confided at last, "He's turning out to be quite the asset."

They each heaved a weary sigh, recalling with ease the incident which had sent Raymond into a blind rage and ultimately initiated the insane plot which was unfolding around them.

---

Black Site #62 - a.k.a 'Kanwal' - Islamabad, Pakistan - April 29, 2000

Dembe came haring through the first floor in search of Raymond, opening every door he came across until he finally found him enjoying a cold glass of lemonade in one of the home's flourishing greenhouses.

Red didn't even bother looking up from one of the enormous climbing roses he'd been admiring on the abundance of trellis work scaling the greenhouse's southernmost wall. "Yes?"

He could hear the excitement in Dembe's voice when he replied, " Oliver, he has found the German."

The rose fell from his grasp when Red pivoted, his every atom immediately on point.

"Where?"

"Knightsbridge," said Dembe, "Oliver used the account where the payment originated and followed its activity to a transaction for the purchase and ongoing maintenance of a property on the northern edge of Ennismore Gardens in London."

Raymond reached out and squeezed Dembe's shoulder, instantly and utterly delighted by the news. "Scramble our associates in the area; have Wallace and Toddrick run point. I want eyes on that property at all times, but under no circumstance are they to give themselves away. If the German gets the slightest bit skittish, we'll lose our chance."

The two turned and strode quickly through the neatly kept garden, back up to the home's sweeping veranda. Kate was already waiting for them.

"We need to pack up shop. Ted Brimley is en route to London as we speak. Edward will be ready for departure in ten minutes, and Mr. Beaumont has assured me the Kensington safe house is ready and waiting for us.

Ennismore Gardens - London, UK

It took a little over seven hours to reach London, disembark the plane, and meet up with Red's associates outside The German's hideout.

They stood waiting across the street from a normal three-story row house at the edge of Ennismore Gardens. Its plain white facade was as quiet and unsuspecting as its identical counterparts.

Wallace greeted them from the shadow of a nearby tree, lurking just out of sight from the house alongside Toddrick, who was busy murmuring into his comms piece to keep their team appraised of their movements.

"Boss," Wallace reached out to shake Red's hand, "We've got eyes on the inside, the guy hasn't left all day."

He nodded, taking the offered binoculars and focusing on the lone lit window which indicated their target was at home. A shadow passed across the curtains twice in that short period of time, confirming the room was occupied.

Raymond passed the binoculars back to Wallace, "Has Ted arrived? We will need his services."

Toddrick ceased his radio chatter long enough to point at the nearest black sedan. "Brimley arrived twenty minutes before you did. We had to keep him in the car though, he's too damn loud."

One of the sedan's rear windows rolled down at that exact moment, revealing Ted Brimley's plump face and oversized glasses. He took a look around, his brow creasing when he realized what was missing.

"Where's Rosie?" He all but bellowed, "She promised to put me up in the Mayfair the next time we were in London! I hope Teddy's forgotten about that bet we made for the World Cup, if not I'm gonna need to add $500 to my usual fee to cover my ass!"

Baz could be seen inside the driver's seat, shaking his head woefully at his passenger's antics.

Wallace rotated so he was looking Red in the eye, "You know, now that Ted mentions it, I haven't heard a word from Rosalie or Teddy either. Is she alright? She always setup our lodgings personally, but I've only heard from that property manager of hers in Kensington-"

"We should move in immediately," Raymond ignored the question entirely, "I don't want to give the German any further chances to slip from my grasp."

Toddrick radioed their team of soldiers. Pairs of armed guards in bullet-proof vests on top of plain clothes seemed to pour out of every nook and cranny along the road. Even Baz exited his sedan with pistol in hand.

He and Dembe flanked Red on either side as they crossed the street with Wallace and Toddrick leading the way. A silent two-finger wave was all it took for their team to pick the home's locks and barrel through the front door.

When Raymond crossed the threshold, it was to the sound of toppling furniture and muffled shouting. Dembe closed the door behind them, the thumping of heavy footsteps and bodies colliding ceased within seconds.

The home's remaining lights were snuffed out, save for one.

A lone reading lamp lit the way to a secluded home office rich with mahogany furniture and plush oriental carpets. Behind the desk, a figure sat slumped, a length of binding rope circled about his torso.

"Clear the second floor," said Red with a gesture toward Wallace, "Once you're certain we're alone, fetch Brimley."

Wallace flagged his men toward the staircase, their group ascending the wooden steps as silent as shadows.

The others stepped into the office where Toddrick remained on guard against the crumpled figure that was rapidly regaining consciousness.

Red waved them out, took a seat at one of the wooden armchairs across the desk and waited for him to come to. The short dark hair which covered the man's head caught Raymond's eye, reminding him of the various descriptions he had received of The German.

'White, dark brown hair, clipped mustache…'

He lifted the name placard from the polished oak desk, turning it over and over in hand as the man finally came to.

"Ferdinand Müller..."

Ferdinand flinched when the nameplate went soaring across the room, breaking in two very near to his head. "Please, take what you want and leave, I don't want any trouble!"

His accent was High German, familiar and easily recognizable.

"I expected you to look...different." Red scowled at the pale, unassuming mouse of a man, "I expected the man who nearly robbed me of my closest companion to be far more robust. I suppose it goes to show I've yet to learn what a real enemy looks like."

The allegation sent a chill running through the room to converge on his captive.

"I'm sorry...I'm afraid I don't follow." Ferdinand pushed his newly-cracked spectacles up the bridge of his short nose, "You believe I did something to one of your people?"

"On the contrary, I know you did."

Raymond relaxed in his seat, keeping his gun trained on Müller, who visibly paled.

"Sir, I want to help, but I swear, I do not know what you are talking about!"

"You're the German," growled Red, tapping the butt of his gun impatiently on the chair's wooden arm.

"I..." Ferdinand seemed to recognize admitting as such could greatly shorten his lifespan, "I am. Yes, but how- How did you know that? Who are you? What do you want?"

Red didn't answer his questions. "I've been looking for you for some time now."

"Herr, I don't even know who you are-"

He couldn't help but roll his eyes, "Please, I have no patience for any thinly veiled attempts at self-preservation, you and your associate have already cost me dearly."

"My associate?" Müller sat up in his seat, "Listen, I'm not sure who you have me confused with, but-"

"Allow me to jog your memory…" Raymond brought the muzzle of his gun flush with Ferdinand's carotid, "A man they call The German, a UK national, made a payment to the Los Reyes Sagrados Cartel at the end of last year. That payment was for the abduction of an innkeeper named Rosalie Øllegaard, who was rumored to be in Palmira, Colombia the second week of February. My people traced the payments through dozens of offshore accounts to an IP address in this very room."

A sickening green hue blossomed on the other man's cheeks, "Yes. I- I moved those funds."

"Why?"

Dembe's low timbre echoed from the shadows behind them, voicing the outrage they felt at finally finding the man responsible.

When Müller didn't respond, a muffled shot rang out and a single bullet tore through the bookcase behind him.

"He asked you a question," Red growled, standing to grasp the man's chin and angle the smoking gun toward his cheek. "Why did you hire those thugs to take her?"

"I'm just the banker!" Ferdinand quailed, thrashing violently in an attempt to distance himself from the hot metal which inched ever closer to his face. "I swear on my life, I'm only a banker!"

The word halted Raymond in his tracks.

A rustle could be heard from the back of the room, where the door opened to reveal Kate and Brimley. Both shrunk at the palpable tension that ebbed from the room like a sentient pulse.

Red's hackles rose, suspicion churning unpleasantly in his gut. "You're lying."

Ferdinand shook his head frantically, "I'm not. I'm not."

"You admitted it," Raymond barked, the words dripping with hate, "You're The German."

"I am," said Müller, "That is what people call me. The men responsible for your friend's abduction, one of them is German, yes, but he does not go by any monicker. Among thousands of German criminals in the European underground, I'm the only one known as The German. It's a bit of a lexical ambiguity, you see?"

An angry twitch spasmed under Red's left eye. "You've got to be kidding me...

Ted stepped inside the office, an enormous leather duffle bag in tow. He dropped it on the glinting desktop with a deafening thud, his beetle-black eyes locking on Ferdinand with an appraising look.

"We'll find out the truth Red. Baz, help me remove his shoes. I'm gonna need every rubberband in this guy's junk drawer, six tubes of peppermint lip balm, and an encyclopedia letter 'Q' if they have it."

"Wait...Wait!" Ferdinand thrashed enough to loosen one of the ties on his wrist. He scrambled to snag a nearby ledger and flip its cover so Red could see. "I make transactions for hundreds of criminals, fund their operations, special projects, any financial needs they may have. I'm just a banker. The German you're referring to has been my client since last April. I can give you his movements over the past year-"

"I know his movements, and I know about his associate," said Red, growing more and more irate by the minute, "Ted-"

"The associate, I can give you his name!"

Raymond froze at the threshold, his head swiveling back toward his captive with obvious interest. "His associate, you have an actual name, not a moniker?"

"Yes!"

Müller nearly collapsed from relief at finally finding a bargaining chip. "The associate has been a client of mine for many years. He was the one to reach out on the German gentleman's behalf last year, and it was he who brokered your friend's capture."

"The name," Dembe insisted, emerging from the shadows once more, "What is the man's name?"

"Basir," the man whispered with a nod toward the ledger he had upturned, "Basír Ocee Maharaj. He's an eastern Mediterranean fellow who sought me out in 1993 to complete anonymous payments pertaining to new identities, extraction, transport, and safe harbor for himself and a friend."

Raymond and Dembe exchanged significant looks. The name Basír Ocee Maharaj did not resonate for them, and judging by the lack of response from their comrades, it didn't resonate with them, either.

"You have his contact, Herr Müller?"

Ferdinand's countenance drooped as he stared blankly at Dembe. He shook his head, "I have nothing more recent than February, which has undoubtedly been destroyed. I can, however, provide the name of the man who recommended my services to Basír seven years ago. He will know what faction he settled with."

Raymond's eyes traced his every feature in search of falsehoods, "You're being uncommonly helpful. Why?"

A look of trepidation scanned the room as Müller settled on his answer. "Truly? I would like very much not to die; or be subjected to whatever that man-" he pointed at Ted with a shaky finger, "-has in store. I'm just a banker, there's no life-pledging loyalty between myself and my clientele. They know this. Relenting to your demands won't demolish my business, but it very well might save my life."

"How can I trust you will keep your word, that you won't alert Maharaj and run?"

"You're Raymond Reddington." Ferdinand noted, his face still as pale as fresh-fallen snow, "I do not operate under any illusions that I could outrun you. I did not know it was one of your people whose capture I facilitated. It seems as though I owe you a great debt for my hand in what happened to your friend."

"So, what, you're going to move money for me at a discount?" Red jeered, already insulted by the offer.

"I can do you one better," said Ferdinand with conviction, "Basír and his cohort are recurring customers of mine. I can keep secret that we've ever even met and monitor all of their accounts. Any financing they pursue, any purchases they fund, you will know about before they're even completed."

Raymond knew without thinking that he would have to take the man up on his offer. As it stood, he was the only remaining link to their German assailant and his associate.

"Ted."

Brimley ambled forward once more, instigating a fresh wave of terror from their captive.

Red turned to leave without so much as a blink. "Ensure everything he's offered up is genuine. Then and only then will we have a deal."

"No, wait!-"

The office door closed with a bang, leaving Ted alone with Ferdinand while two additional guards waited outside.

Dembe, Kate, and Wallace followed closely on Raymond's heels, the latter voicing his concern for the man they'd left in Brimley's care.

"Boss, he told us everything we wanted to know. Shouldn't we let up?"

"No," Raymond shut him down without hesitation, "Ted will vet him like any other source, and god help us if he's right."

Dembe shook his head covertly, but Wallace remained insistent, "The guy's risking his life just talking to you. Is it really necessary for him to be put through the ringer?"

Red turned on his heel so fast Wallace nearly fell on his ass.

"That wretch gambled his life away when he funded Rosalie's abduction, not to mention what other schemes this German and his associate have perpetrated against me. I'd think very carefully the next time you wish to voice your opinion so freely, Wallace. Disloyalty is a cardinal sin."

The threat was enough to force Wallace to back down, his stony features darkening by the second as he recognized his loyalty had been put into question. Finally, his mouth snapped shut without a word.

He was left to guard the steps of the home while Raymond, Dembe, and Kate boarded their vehicle in silence.

Dembe only made it a block before Kate laid into Red.

"Rosalie would be appalled, Raymond."

The rear of the car was filled with a deafening quiet.

Raymond fought to keep his anger at bay, the roaring fury he felt at believing he had found his adversary only to be shortchanged was crippling in its intensity. It bowed his head and hunched his shoulders, the invisible weight of disappointment threatening to crush him into the asphalt passing beneath them.

"I thought-" he struggled to form the necessary words to explain what was bothering him, "I thought this was it. I genuinely believed we'd found him, that I wouldn't have to turn myself in after all. I allowed myself to hope that I could go back…"

He winced as the emotions battered at his insides, demanding to be released, to lash out at everything and everyone within reach.

"That is true," said Kate, "but it doesn't excuse your treatment of Wallace. Rosalie-"

"Rosalie's not here!"

Red had finally snapped. The anger he fought to subdue surged forth and swallowed all coherent thought. "Rosalie left. She's gone; so stop hanging her over my head. How she would feel or perceive the various misdeeds I've engaged in during her absence bears no standing."

Both Kate and Dembe shifted in their seats, weeks' worth of tiptoeing around their friend finally coming to a head.

The former turned in her seat, meeting Raymond's glower ounce for ounce. "Then stop verbally battering everyone about. It's not our fault she's not here, but bringing her up seems to be the only way to get you to consider your actions."

Kate's retort succeeded in directing Red's ire inward, forcing him to consider her words in their entirety. She capitalized on this.

"We're on your side, Raymond. We're all disappointed at finding out Müller wasn't the man we were looking for. We will find him and his associate, but that will take infinitely longer if we start fighting a war amongst ourselves."

She watched as he leaned his elbows upon his knees and buried his face in his hands, a long, heavy sigh of frustration pouring from his lips.

Just as quickly, Red sat up once more, the unreadable mask of the criminal back in place.

---

Present

The Cromwell - Oliver's Ait, London, UK

Raymond watched the agents scurrying across the screens with no small measure of amusement. "Come now, Albert, where's your sense of adventure?"

Albert glanced over his shoulder once more, noting his agents' progress before leveling Red a livid glare. "Adventure? You thought getting apprehended by an MI6 agent would be a treat, did you? Why didn't you just hop right in a bobby's backseat! Red, there's a CIA outpost on the other side of the Thames; if the Americans find out we have you in custody, there will be nothing I can do to protect you."

"I'm not asking you to protect me, Albert."

The comment brought the man's undivided attention back to his captive.

Red leisurely crossed his legs, shaking the restrictive chains into a more comfortable spot. "I have intel your government needs most desperately."

Albert spared another glance for the cameras, took one of the office chairs, and flopped into it right alongside Raymond, his elbows perched upon his knees. "You and I have our own methods of passing intel. Why in god's name would you get yourself captured?"

"This time I require a more substantial quid pro quo."

"…How substantial?"

"The kind you'd have to package in pretty paper and sell to your higher-ups."

Albert let out an audible groan pinched the bridge of his nose, "You cannot be serious…You're seeking immunity?"

The clunk clunk of the door locks disengaging reached their ears.

Both men turned to check the surveillance cams, seeing the three agents plus Emma Knightley entering the tunnel, flanked by a dozen armed guards.

When Albert whipped back around, his face had paled considerably, "You would need to prove your worth beyond any benefit we'd received from handing you over. If the heads of the Ministry of Justice don't trust your intel, they'll sell you to the Americans."

Raymond didn't so much as blink.

"In six days, a bomb is going to be planted on one of London's bridges. Left unchecked, it will kill thousands."

"Which bridge?" Albert pressed, hearing the tumblers in the main door lock start to turn.

"I don't know," Red lifted cuffed hands, "I can only tell you who's planning it."

At that moment, the entry opened and the black ops team poured in.

Albert schooled his features once more, "Who?"

The contingent of armed guards marched as one into the atrium, rifles raised at Raymond, a dozen little red dots centering over his heart.

"Who?" Albert hissed again, his voice low and his lips barely moving.

Red stared placidly up at him. He gave two short blinks, followed in quick succession by several blinks both short and long. He repeated the sequence once more, then smiled.

I...

R...

A...

The strategy worked; Albert's brows shot to his hairline, understanding dawning behind his eyes as Red was lifted roughly from the seat and turned toward the tunnel, another black cloth sack jammed over his head.

"I'll be awaiting your call, Alby," Red called jovially, following where he was led without a fight.

The Head of the Ministry of Justice strode past him, sparing a haughty scowl for the bound fugitive before stepping into the atrium.

He was a short man, rotund and rosey-cheeked, with the look of a once-towering lad gone slightly to seed. The leather soles of his shoes fell with muffled thunks on the metal floor en route to where Albert stood flanked by the remaining agents.

"Sir," said Albert, reaching out to shake the man's hand, "I require a word."

Hamish waved an airy hand, sparing a glance for his subordinates while they marched out of the site with their captive in tow. "Can't see what there is to discuss. You've made a capital arrest Alby, jolly good. You and your team will be rewarded heavily, no doubt. This might even get the Americans off our backs for quite some time!"

Albert nearly toppled forward when Hamish's big beefy hand surged forward and thumped him heartily on the back.

"Hamish," he hissed, his tone turning sour, "There really is something important I must discuss with you, it cannot wait."

Hamish's mouth ruckled beneath his bristly mustache. A puff of air disturbed the mix of snowy white and mousy brown whiskers when he finally and reluctantly nodded.

Albert hurriedly ushered the man toward his office, halting long enough to pull Sika to his side and whisper in her ear.

"The Real Irish Republican Army. Pull their intel and reach out to MI5 for a detailed log of their countermovements in the underground."

Sika hesitated, her dark eyes communicating her disapproval.

"Go."

The command made her turn on her heel and make a beeline to her office.

Albert and Hamish moved into the director's quarters, whereupon the latter deposited himself into the nearest armchair, the seat creaking and groaning beneath his weight. A noncommittal grunt was the only response he gave when Albert wordlessly gestured to a dusty bottle of gin and offered him a drink.

Once both men were seated and the doors safely closed to prying eyes and ears, Hamish spoke.

"Alright Alby, what the devil has you by the tail?"

---

Black Site #88 - "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location - London, United Kingdom

Dembe had only just finished unpacking in his room when the burner rang.

One of the tails they had left near the entrance to MI6's black site was preparing to follow an unmarked vehicle inside of which a man matching Raymond's build had been placed under heavy guard. An unexpected hesitation had prompted the call, and their tail was confused as to why the target was not moving.

He expected the hesitation was courtesy of Albert Bazalgette's efforts on Raymond's behalf, for which Dembe was grateful. If the vehicle wasn't making an immediate beeline for the nearest CIA outpost, it was a good sign. He advised the tail to wait as long as necessary for the vehicle to begin its journey, then follow at a distance that would not draw suspicion.

Once he'd hung up the phone, Dembe placed another call to Rosalie's burner, wading through the prompts to leave yet another message on her rapidly filling inbox. It did not worry him that he'd not heard from her yet. He had utmost faith Rosalie would listen to each message in its proper sequence once she was ready and the fresh wound to her kind heart had healed a little.

He would be there waiting when it did.

---

The Cromwell - Oliver's Ait, London, UK

Hamish's rosy face puckered in on itself the more Bazalgette spoke.

"The IRA?" His tone belied his disbelief, "Whatever for? The Belfast Agreement has been in place for nearly two years, Alby, we've made our peace with the Irish."

Albert shook his head, "Reddington has been a fugitive at large for a decade. He would never allow himself to be apprehended unless absolutely certain he held all the cards."

A throaty chuckle escaped Hamish's lips, "You honestly believe he wanted to be brought into custody?"

"He outright admitted it," Albert confided, threading his fingers over his stomach, "He sought out an MI6 employee and contacted my division so he would be brought to this exact site."

"Why? Why would he risk life in whatever hole the CIA is bound to put him in?"

The look of polite befuddlement on Hamish's face drained and was quickly replaced with the purpling hue of outraged disbelief.

Albert tried to jump in before the man completely closed his mind to the idea.

"Hamish, the kind of intel Reddington could provide would change everything. He-"

"Why would the assurances of Raymond Reddington ever be believed?" An unpleasant sneer crept across Hamish's mouth, "He's one of the FBI's most wanted criminals, for heaven's sake. He would say any old bollocks to keep us from handing him over to the Americans. How do we know his intel would even be worth the price of betraying our largest ally?"

"I can prove it," said Albert, waving when Sika arrived at the glass door with a stack of folders and paperwork.

She stepped inside and heaved the heavy load onto the only clear spot left on Albert's desk. "MI5 has confirmed they've seen an uptick in chatter regarding a renegade faction of the IRA in central London. We've got intel going back the past six months, all of it violent rhetoric. There have been calls for uprising and retribution. Until now, the secure intelligence agents have had no reason to believe the threats were valid."

Hamish lifted a few of the files from the desk, flipping through their contents. "If the Americans ever found out we have him…" He glanced between Albert and Sika, "What are you suggesting?"

The pair kept silent, the former casting a surreptitious glance at his subordinate, who eventually got the gist and headed for the door.

Albert winced when she threw him a caustic glare and closed the door with a bang.

"We offer him immunity for crimes committed in Britain and keep our knowledge of his whereabouts secret. In turn, he gives us intel on immediate threats to Queen and country."

A long stretch of silence extended throughout the room, interrupted by the steady tick-tick of both men's watches.

Two watery blue eyes bore into the top of Bazalgette's head, as though trying to rifle through his brain for a grain of truth.

Finally, Hamish stood and adjusted his coat, "Come along, Alby."

Albert's head shot up, as did his body when he caught sight of Hamish's retreating back. "Where are we going?"

"If we're about to violate an extradition treaty with a global superpower by hopping into bed with one of their own most notorious criminals, I am certainly not doing it without the Prime Minister's backing. Neither are you."

---

Three Days Later...

MI6 Detention Site - Sheep Rock - Fair Isle, Shetland, U.K. - Early Morning - June 1st, 2000

After nearly 12 hours' travel to include an unreasonably long drive and the world's most nauseating boat trip, Raymond had arrived at the underground prison of Sheep Rock in the Shetland Islands. The establishment's head guards braved the howling wind and torrential rain to greet him with nothing short of harrowing glee, obviously eager to begin the task of breaking him for the considerable intel he could undoubtedly provide.

He was stripped, hosed down and cavity searched immediately upon arrival, his clothing and personal effects packaged up and shipped back the Cromwell. They poked and prodded him within an inch of his life afterward, drawing blood samples, collecting fingerprints, cheering when his blood type confirmed they had the 'real' Raymond Reddington.

One guard even took great satisfaction in yanking a hair sample from the base of Red's neck. Though he secretly adored when Rosalie tugged at those strands, to have them unceremoniously ripped out at the roots was enough to make him snarl and lurch threateningly toward the man responsible, who tumbled ass over end in search of safety.

Red had smirked at the time. Though naked and chilled to the bone, he was still capable of making weak men cower. His self-satisfaction was cut short by the butt end of a rifle ramming into his gut. The action dropped him to his knees, his lungs fighting for the breath which had been knocked out of him.

"What's that on your back, Reddington?" The other guard had jeered, finally catching sight of the mottled scarring covering the man's back and shoulders. "Where'd you get those scars?"

"Côte d'Ivoire," Red had lied, wheezing and coughing around each word, "A group of rebels tied me to a jeep and dragged me through Abidjan by my ankles."

"Bloody fuckin' hell..." said the other guard, taking a closer look, his nose wrinkled with disgust.

They'd thrown a rough cotton jumpsuit at him then, demanding he put it on so they wouldn't have to look at such an eyesore. A white undershirt and boxers were blessedly tucked inside the deep blue fabric.

Once Raymond had managed a couple more wizened breaths, he'd stood and shook as much water from his person as he could, desperate to keep the clothes as warm and dry as possible. A nasty glare was flung at the impatient guard who bellowed at him to hurry up, but Red ultimately kept his mouth shut. If all went to plan, he needed only to survive the next four days in whatever hellhole he was about to be dropped into. It would be an unpleasant four days regardless, but keeping his head down would increase the likelihood of him making it out relatively unscathed.

However, by the time the third day was waning, Raymond had been thoroughly disabused of that notion.

The guards maintaining Sheep Rock had wasted no time in trying to pry intel from Red's subconscious. From the moment he arrived, every move they'd made had been in the service of trying to break him.

The jumpsuit was scratchy, uncomfortable, and dirty. He tried not to think about how many other prisoners had worn it before it came to be in his possession.

When they'd opened the door to his cell, Raymond's stomach had dropped unpleasantly.

The room was pitch black, like a closet without the benefit of light seeping in from the cracks in the door. Without seeing a single square inch of the space within, Red knew it was dank and cold.

The first sense Raymond experienced when they'd shoved him inside was the feeling of cold wetness beneath his feet. He had been provided neither socks nor shoes, so he could feel the cold slickness of the concrete floor beneath him with every step. His mind swam with all manner of grotesque imaginings of what might be on the floor.

They had slammed the door closed behind him with a cruel laugh, leaving him there without food, water, or light for what felt like weeks.

In truth, the first bout had been only 24-hours. Yet in that time, Raymond had not been allowed to sleep. Whenever he nodded off, deafening metal music would come pouring from the ceiling. When even that struggled to wake him, a guard would come in and douse him with a bucket full of icy water.

What little warmth the jumpsuit had provided was gone in a matter of hours. It was now tantamount to a cold wet burlap sack, always wrapped around him, but never getting dry. The thin mattress, if it could even be called that, was also cold and wet, soaking up the buckets of water the guards rained down on him at every available interval. Every time Raymond moved, the wet squishing sound and pooling water made his toes curl.

Red's days were spent in silence, his every effort devoted to keeping his mind from slipping into delirium from sensory deprivation and lack of sleep.

The removal of any light source threw off any perception of night or day, the only thing noting the passage of time was the arrival of his meager rations through the slot at the bottom of his cell door.

There was no telling what the substance was. Its texture was somewhere between oatmeal and grits, not a hint of flavor to be found, but failing to eat would ensure he would not receive anything the next meal cycle, and Red needed his strength.

In truth, Raymond couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so miserable.

'Phontong,' his mind supplied unhelpfully, 'Those four months in Phontong were a goddamn nightmare...'

When the enhanced interrogation started, Red's mind began to slip into a dissociative state, retreating to more pleasant places and times to protect his psyche from offering up anything of value.

Waterboarding, short shackling, and stress positions felt like child's play after his many years learning how to resist such techniques.

He slipped into the back of his mind with ease, treading familiar places like his grandmother's sitting room, the kitchen at his childhood best friend's house, his mother's garden, and much to his surprise, the apartment he and Rosalie had shortly shared in Paris.

The memory unfurled around him like a comforting embrace. The Christmas decorations twinkled in his eyes, the heat of the fireplace warmed him, he felt safe and comfortable.

'They can't hurt you here...'

Raymond sank into the sanctuary her voice offered without hesitation. He gladly disappeared behind those mental walls into recollections of a gentler sort, burying his psyche in memories which evoked feelings safety and normalcy.

It infuriated the guards, but the process made him a stone wall of inaccessible intel.

"Stop!" A voice managed to break the mental barrier he'd hidden himself behind, "We need to make him presentable, there's an MI6 director here to take him."

Finally

"What are you on about?" Another guard complained at length, bringing Red back to an upright position.

He coughed and spluttered, his lungs instinctively fighting to clear the water from his throat and sinuses.

"You've got ten minutes to get him on his feet and looking like a human. I don't care how you do it, just get it done."

A door slammed on the other side of the room, and the lights were thrown on, blinding Raymond in an instant.

"These MI6 suits are bloody tiresome," one voice complained, carelessly unstrapping Red from the waterboard.

The other guard grunted, just managing to catch him before he collapsed onto the ground. "Bugger me, he's a solid lad...Give us a hand, Bertie."

Red's limp form was dragged into a tiled room and deposited on a concrete bench. A shower's taps were turned on, the water just this side of scalding. The warmth brought him quickly back to awareness, and with it the ungodly ache in his muscles, joints, and lungs.

A groan rumbled deep in his raw throat, voicing his discomfort.

"Drink this."

His hand was lifted, a paper cup thrust into his open palm, its lukewarm contents spilling a little.

He didn't argue but instead downed the contents in one gulp, wincing at the artificial taste. It was some heinous concoction of electrolytes and synthetic energy-boosting substances to make him appear alert and functioning. His body would pay the price for this shortcut later, when his system crashed from an energy expenditure he couldn't afford.

The hot water and the energy boost brought him slowly back to life, and in a matter of minutes, Red was walking through the prison halls dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing when he first arrived.

"'Bout time," one of the guards barked irritably, sneering at the two lower-level officers escorting Raymond to the visitation room. "Bugger's been gnawing my ear off asking questions."

The metal door opened to reveal it was Albert Bazalgette who paced the room in a harried frenzy.

He halted in his tracks upon seeing Red, slumped and weary, but looking none too worse for wear.

"Mr. Reddington," he kept up their little act admirably, "How...How have they been treating you here?"

A slow, sarcastic blink was all Raymond could manage.

"Sign here, gov."

The shortest guard stepped forward, holding out a battered clipboard with a sheet of paper, his lips pursed with quiet loathing.

Three signatures were all it took to release Red into Bazalgette's custody.

Once the paperwork was squared away, Albert grabbed Raymond's elbow and guided him quickly through the prison's several security bays.

They descended into the underground staircase leading to the manmade transportation bay beneath Sheep Rock.

Red gritted his teeth, his stomach already in knots over the assumption that he would be forced back onto the god-awful boat that'd brought him to this wretched place.

Thankfully, Albert instead steered him away from the staircase which led to the docks and towards a large black range rover parked out in the open. Without a word, he opened the backseat and helped Red slide inside, a hand placed atop his pate to ensure he didn't bump himself on the car's frame. Albert then boarded the driver's side, quickly kicking the engine into life before peeling out of the lot and directly into an underground tunnel.

"We have a problem," he confided once they were in motion, "The bomb detonated at 4:30 this morning on Hammersmith bridge. No pedestrians were harmed, but with it went the leverage you had."

"That bomb isn't the first," insisted Red, "And it's far from the last."

Albert's voice held a distinct note of concern, "Be that as it may, the Prime Minister has made it quite clear that MI6 is not to engage in any sort of deal with you. The moment you arrive on the mainland, you are to be taken into CIA custody."

Raymond nodded; he had never really believed he would be granted immunity anyway. The ploy had merely been a Trojan horse to get him an in with MI6. Now, his in was going to get him out of here.

"What do you plan to do, Albert?"

A pair of handcuff keys were tossed into Red's lap, Albert's eyes never once leaving the road.

"I plan to take you up on your offer, in spite of my orders to stand down. I spoke to my team, and they are ready to follow my lead."

Red's eyebrows flitted toward his hairline while his hands got busy unshackling his wrists and ankles. "Really...even your young protégé?"

Though he knew of the deep fondness which lingered between Albert and Sika, all of the intel Red had gathered on Agent Boateng told him she was a girl scout, unyielding in her sense of right and wrong.

A sly smile threatened to overtake Bazalgette's features. He cleared his throat primly, "In the likely event I'm fired for coming here without backup and subsequently allowing myself to be...overpowered. Sika is the only logical replacement. It will take a few weeks, but she will take over the entire operation upon my departure."

Albert carefully avoided the appraising look Red was throwing him in the rearview mirror.

"You're certain you're content with losing your job, your pension, over this?"

"I've been looking for a change of pace," he said with unmistakable bravado, lifting a cardboard box from the passenger seat and passing it to the back seat.

"There are better ways to handle a mid-life crisis, Alby," came Red's sage advice, interrupted by the sound of the bright red evidence tape being ripped from the box's exterior.

A shake of the head was Albert's only reply.

"The box contains the personal effects you had on you at the time of your capture. Do be careful who you call, that phone has been scrubbed, searched, and quite likely bugged. I was to hand its contents over to the CIA at their outpost across the Thames, along with you."

Red nodded thoughtfully, wasting no time in emptying his burner phone, money clip, and fake identification into his lap. "If we're to do this, I will need something substantial in return."

"I cannot offer you immunity." Albert reminded, sitting up in his seat as the end of the unnaturally long tunnel finally came into vision.

"No, you cannot," he agreed, "You can, however, provide me with a reasonable exchange of classified intel."

The car swerved precariously, "You want my people to leak information? Are you insane?"

"I don't think so." Red's answered seriously, his voice dipping to a low, dangerous murmur, "At the moment, you and your team don't have much of a choice. I'll show you mine when you all show me yours."

In the blink of an eye, they were out of the tunnel and speeding along the only visible road. They quickly came upon a deserted T intersection, whereupon Raymond lunged forward and tore the firearm from Albert's side holster. The man didn't have a second to respond before Red switched his grip and rammed the butt of the gun into his temple, rendering him completely unconscious.

It took a few minutes to wrangle Albert's limp body out of the driver's seat and into the SUV's boot, but once Red had closed him in, he jumped into the driver's seat and tore off once more.

He pulled the burner from his pocket and dialed the emergency number for Rosalie's network. To his relief, the associate answered in seconds.

"Mr. Reddington?"

"It's me," he confirmed, "I need to travel."

"What is your location?"

"Fair Isle, Scotland."

He could hear the associate's keyboard clacking noisily in the background, searching out available sources of immediate transportation.

"You need an extraction to Black Site 88, correct?"

The tires squealed as Raymond rounded a corner, following a road sign which pointed toward the only airport on the island.

"Yes."

More clicking noises sounded from the other line until the associate finally responded in the affirmative, "We have a private charter fueled and waiting on the tarmac at Fair Isle Airport. The bird is a white and blue Cessna Denali, tags read Roger-Delta-8-3-9-1. The pilot will be awaiting your code of entry on arrival."

"Thank you." Raymond closed the phone and breathed a sigh of relief at having an assured exit plan. He could already feel his strength waning once more. The artificial boost he'd received was wearing off, and when he crashed, he needed to be in safe hands.

"How will I get in contact with you?"

Albert slurred the words, arms reaching feebly from the rear of the car.

"You won't," said Red, tossing the car keys into the boot so he'd be able to free himself. "Once things have cooled down and I'm ready to begin, I'll be in touch."

He closed the door and headed straight for the jet, blocked from entry by a burly, stoic lad in a pilot's jacket.

"I'm offered to the loved, but also to the dead. Varied are my hues, but most notably I'm Red. Razor-tongued I flourish, a titan, nay, a dame. A queen amongst my kindred, weary traveler, what's my name?"

"A rose," Red answered without hesitation, hurriedly following the pilot up the short set of steps when he nodded his approval.

He had chosen the peculiar code of entry nearly two years ago as part of Rosalie's security measures. No matter the question or riddle posed, the answer was always a rose.

"Black site 88, right?" The pilot called, taking off down the tarmac before Red was even in his seat.

"Yes. Forgive me if I pass out, it's been a miserable few days..."

They were in the air within seconds, and Red found his consciousness wavering as they climbed higher and higher.

Lifting the burner from his jacket, he absent-mindedly navigated the prompts to reach his voicemail, a corner of his soul aching to hear Rosalie whisper the story about the ostracods all over again.

'You have no saved messages...*beep*'

Red simply stared at the phone for several long seconds, trying to assimilate what was going on. He hung up and dialed again, wading through the automated system once more only to receive the same canned response.

The message he sought had somehow been deleted during MI6's search.

To say he was devastated was an understatement. Flopping back into the seat, Raymond found himself spiraling into a pit of despair fueled by his recent bout of captivity and enhanced interrogation.

It didn't help that his body was catching up with him, the pain had begun to set in before he'd even boarded the plane. Now, it was fighting a war with the bone-deep exhaustion he felt.

There was no telling which side would win.

A grating noise echoed from Raymond's chest pocket minutes later, drawing him out of his stupor.

He scowled down at the jingling bit of plastic, having not quite forgiven it for so easily losing his cherished message.

It continued to ring until the pilot reached behind him and gave Red's feet a smack, having assumed he was asleep.

Raymond scowled back at him, then he reached into his pocket, prodded the necessary buttons, and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Yeah?"

The world came to a screeching halt when he heard a warm, familiar voice echo over the line.

"...Raymond?"