Ok. This is going to cause some MAJOR conflicts - I can just feel it. But I just ask one thing: please stick with me through this - we're going to make it through. I promise. Also - leave your reviews - they do help me continue writing! I'm already working on the next chapter.

WARNING: violent situation

"They've made contact."

Those were the words Bess heard what seemed like hours ago.

The motorcade drove at breakneck speeds from the State Department to the White House. But Bess barely noticed the way her body slammed against the door at each turn.

She'd phoned Henry. Listening to the ringing over and over again – until she got his voicemail. She'd hung up and called again, muttering and begging him to pick up. She knew he had his phone on him – but he sometimes couldn't hear his phone in his bag while he was teaching.

Even while calling him, her mind had been another place.

As she ran down the hallway to the situation room, her mind focused on one thing.

The kidnappers made contact again.

Just before she ran into the situation room, she yelled out, "Blake, someone go get Henry."

Even before she stopped running, she saw Conrad, worry on his face – as he looked at her, glad to see her. And she said, "What did they say?"

Then the door to the outside world shut behind her.

And she followed his eyes to the screen at the front of the room. And she heard him say, in a professional manner, "As you can see, Secretary McCord is here now."

A live feed. And she saw two men.

Her spy training took over. And she noticed all the details.

Dark hoods covered everything except their eyes. Brown eyes. Both of them.

Time of day – afternoon – outside. Sand hills behind them. Sun. Bright.

They both were covered, head to toe, in black. Completely covered in weapons – one gun slung across their chests, knives at their belt.

Bess pulled her eyes away from the screen as she looked again at Conrad, who moved to the front of the long table – so he was in the view of the men. And Bess followed. She knew – she kenw something was wrong. But she knew they were live.

She couldn't ask about it.

Until one of the men spoke. "I'm glad you could join us, Madam Secretary."

She stood tall, her diplomatic side taking over. Despite walking into the situation without any information, she answered the man with her own statement, "I want to speak to my daughter." All she wanted right now was to see her baby alive.

Conrad agreed, "We will not continue speaking until we have proof that she's alive."

The coverings over their faces made the already impossible situation even harder – she couldn't read their facial expressions. Only their eyes.

As the man again spoke, staring right at the camera, "We have waited long enough for our demands to be met."

His accent – Bess could tell he wasn't from the US – but his English was not the most broken she'd heard from someone from Iran.

Conrad spoke, his presidential tone meeting the man's haughty remarks, "As I explained before, our government moves slowly – we are doing as much as we can to get the money and weapons ready to send to you."

Bess knew that wasn't true. But she stared back at the camera, watching, and nodding her head.

A small chuckle came from the man as he stepped toward the camera and shook his head, "You think we do not know the United States' policy about negotiating with terrorists?"

Everything inside of Bess wanted to turn to Conrad and tell him to find some way to secure those funds – that she'd sell her house and steal the weapons if it meant her child could come home.

But she knew nothing would change Conrad's mind. Nothing.

Instead, she sternly replied, "We won't continue any negotiations until I see my daughter." She could hear the clicking of computers behind her, the hushed tones the NSA used to command those working here in the room, and in remote locations around the room.

She crossed her arms in front of her, looking through her glasses at the men – waiting. Wanting to seem strong when all she wanted to do was get down on her knees and beg to see her little girl.

And where was Henry? Why wasn't he here?

"You want to see your daughter?" The man facetiously asked, a small laugh in his voice. Gesturing to someone behind the camera, he said, in Arabic, "Give her to me."

Emma. Bess wanted to start to cry – she was going to get to see her baby.

And she heard a small whimper as a bundle of black fell into the sand at the man's feet. Bess forgot her diplomatic stance she needed to have, and stepped forward, never taking her eyes off the person shoved at the man.

He reached down and grabbed the girl's arm, ripping her to her feet, ignoring the small grunt of pain. As the person stood up, Bess watched.

Watched for some indication that the person clad in a complete black dress – and covering over her entire face – watched to see if this could be Emma.

She didn't take her eyes from the girl, but she heard as the man said, in English to the camera, "Here she is."

And Bess shuddered as he violently ripped the hijab from the girl's face.

And she saw the blond curls.

And blue eyes.

And her little lips.

And Bess' hand flew to her mouth, unable to calm herself as she saw her little baby. Her Emma.

Dirt cased along Emma's skin, and bruises littered her face – under her eyes, dark circles. Her cheekbones protruded more, and her bottom lip was split. The rest of her body, shrouded in the traditional dress of the oppressed woman, covered Bess' ability to see if she was hurt in any other way.

"Take a good look, Madam Secretary."

Bess ignored the man – and instead did what she'd been longing to do for months. She stepped forward. And called out, "Emma?"

And Emma must have seen the monitor as the man held her in front of it. Bess could see it in her eyes – the disbelief as she called out, "Mom? Mom!"

Bess' heart felt like it broke – hearing her little girl call her "Mom" again. And she blinked the tears away from her eyes. "Emma, are they hurting you?"

Emma's eyes moved back and forth along the ground, and she started to talk.

But the man interrupted her. "Does it really matter if we are?"

Emma looked up at the camera, and her eyes filled with tears as she called out, "Mom, I want to go home. I want…"

And Bess watched as the man's hands around Emma's shoulders shook her daughter, and he yelled at her in Arabic to shut up. Emma cowered and lowered her head.

Bess felt her anger rise, and she didn't care to stop herself. She pointed her finger at the man and, between gritted teeth, hissed, "Get your hands off of her. Now!"

The commotion behind her increased a little. She heard the typing increase, and the voices rose a little. She heard someone say, "We are working on tracing the signal."

But she focused. She willed her heart and anger to not overtake her – but watching Emma shaking in the man's arms – she was ready to rip his body to shreds.

The man laughed. "Exactly how are you going to… enforce that, Madam Secretary?"

Bess' heart began to pound harder against her chest as she watched one of his hands move from Emma's shoulder and slide up Emma's neck to cup around Emma's chin, pulling her head back against his chest.

And she heard Conrad turn to the room and say, "Where are we on tracing the location?"

Bile tugged at the back of Bess' throat – and she said, "Do you know what we're going to do to you when we find you?"

"You can't find us." The man stated, and then, his voice lowered as he leaned his head down to rest against Emma's trembling cheek, "But we've taken good care of your daughter, Elizabeth."

Conrad's voice rang into the conversation, "Do you really want us to send in the might of the American military against you?" So stoic. But concerned, "If you want to have nay hope of negotiations, take your hands off the girl."

Bess' fists clenched into fists at her side as the man pressed his lips against Emma's cheek, closed his eyes, and whispered, "My hands were all over her this whole time, Mr. President. You should've sped up the process on my demands if you really cared about her well-being."

Bess' chest constricted, and she turned her back to the camera, stepping out of the line of sight of the camera – and she willed her stomach to keep from seizing up and spewing all the contents of breakfast.

Thinking about that man having her daughter – watching his hands on her face, hurt her, talk lewdly to her, Bess couldn't separate the feeling of anger and absolute disgust in her body.

Conrad continued the conversation, "We don't want any harm to come to her. Do you know what we will do if you do not release her? Right now we're working on triangulating your location. But if you give yourself up now – let her go – allow us to come get her – you can go free."

Bess knew all of that was a lie. She watched Russell's face – who had been working with the directors as they attempted to track the signal – she watched as his face, out of sight from the camera – shook his head.

They didn't have a trace at all.

They had to stall.

The man seemed to know they didn't have any clue where he was. And he just shook his head, pulling himself away from Emma as he said, "Sir, it's too late for you to threaten us and for it to mean anything."

Bess whipped around – walking back into the video, and said, "You think this is a threat?" Her anger took over, and she could convince anyone of anything whenever she wanted to if she was angry enough. Her voice grew a bit louder, and much more pointed, "Remember what we did to Bin Laden? How we stopped the coup from happening less than a year ago in your country? We have the greatest spy network in the world. It's not a matter of if we find you." She stepped in front of Conrad and got close to the monitor, "It's rather a question of when we find you, how badly will we treat you. And that is up to you." And she lowered her voice and hissed, "Let go of my daughter."

Nothing she said – nothing Conrad threatened – nothing – seemed to rattle the man. He seemed to have no care in the world about being caught – found out – or tortured.

Instead he just shrugged his shoulder and said, "Your daughter is quite the fighter. I suspect she takes after you in that area, Madam Secretary."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to let out a long chain of cuss words at the bastard, but he held his hand up, and said, "But this was not a negotiating call, Mr. President."

"So you're going to give her to us?" Conrad asked, leading the man away from the statement he'd just made. A classic interrogating move to allow someone to recant after hearing their plans put into words. "I think that's…"

Bess jumped as she watched the man grab Emma's hair and rip her head backwards, her neck completely exposed as he held her there.

Bess whirled around and hissed, "Something. I need some leverage. Something. That we know…"

Then she turned back to the camera as the man said, "We're not waiting any longer." Any longer for goods? What was he… "This is to show you that we are not to be trifled with – that we mean business."

Conrad spoke as Bess stared at Emma. "Kidnapping the Secretary of States' daughter made us pay attention. We are working…"

But Bess knew Conrad wasn't changing his mind – no one would believe they were working towards anything – not when it had been months.

Bess watched as the man laughed, and pushed Emma's face to the camera, and said, "Do you have anything you want to say to your daughter, Elizabeth?" The tension in the room rose – and no one was being careful behind her as he said, "A mother's voice is normally the first thing a child hears after birth. And we thought that maybe it should be the last thing she should hear."

Bess couldn't breathe. Every muscle in her body tensed up – froze – and her jaw tightened as she looked at Conrad, her eyes wide as she said, "Conrad. Do something." And she didn't give him a chance as she looked at the camera, "Put her down. You don't want to do that. Now. Leave her alone."

Her diplomatic and commanding tone was slipping away at the thought of what he was insinuating. She whipped around and said, "Get me some INFORMATION!" And she turned back, now to find herself looking right at Emma's terrified eyes, wide with fear.

She watched as Emma's face went white – looking at something beyond the camera – and then Emma's bruised mouth began to go faster and faster as she, in Arabic, cried out, "No. Please. No." And then her eyes turned towards the screen, and she loudly called out, "Mom, don't let them. Mom… no…"

"Conrad." Bess called out, but saw he was talking to the directors, and she turned back to the screen. And watched as the scene in front of her began to fall apart.

The second man – who had been standing there doing absolutely nothing – reached down and grabbed both of Emma's arms, and pulled them behind her back, clicking them in cuffs behind her. Now Emma was standing on her own feet – held by the second, as the first man stepped behind the camera.

Her dress flew in the wind, her hair wisping around her cheeks that began to fill with tears and sand. Her black dress so out of place compared to Emma's pale skin.

Bess' eyes flew from one corner of the screen to the other – trying to figure out what was happening.

And Emma's cries grew louder as she strained against the man's hold on her cuffed arms, her head shaking back and forth while she twisted to get away. "No. Please!" She begged.

Bess called out, "Emma, what are they…"

And Emma looked straight at the camera – like a deer in the headlights – and she cried out, "Mom, don't let them do this. Mom I want to come home." And the words flew out of her mouth faster and faster and mingled with tears and sobs, "MOM! PLEASE! Bring me HOME!"

She heard Conrad, "Why can't you get a damn signal?" And his hand pounded against the table.

"Something's rerouting the signal over and over again – everytime we get it about there, it sends it through something else."

Then the sadistic man stepped back into the picture.

And Bess ripped her glasses from her face, tossing them behind her, and she pulled out every stop.

Because he held a machete in his hand. The long knife glistened in the sun as he walked over next to where Emma attempted to pull away from him.

"Listen." Bess cried out, "This is Elizabeth McCord talking, not the Secretary of State." She'd do anything. The man looked at the camera. "I know the government hasn't offered you what you wanted… but I'm her parent – I can get things for you."

The man laughed – "This is what we want now. We want American blood." He nodded, and the second man wrenched Emma down to her knees.

Bess shook her head, "No, you don't. Please. You want leverage." She couldn't stand still – she moved back and forth between her feet as she reached her hands out and said, "I can get a burner phone. You can call me – I'll go wherever you want me to. You can have me."

She would gladly go wherever they wanted her – she'd put herself in Emma's place. And she said that, "Listen…" Her words flew out, desperation strangling her. "You want ot make a statement?" She saw Emma's terrified face looking at the knife in the man's hands. "Killing my daughter doesn't make a statement to the world. But…" She pointed to her chest with shaking fingers, "Killing an American diplomat? You want recognition? That would do it. Tell me where – I'll go. You can have me."

The man shook his head, and said, "Elizabeth, we have what we want." And he pointed at the screen, "We're going to kill your daughter."

And Emma's head dropped against her chest as a loud cry rang throughout the room. Her head still shook back and forth, but the cry… had no hope.

"I'm much more…" Bess started to offer herself again, but the man interrupted her.

"If you want to say anything to your daughter before we send her to hell with the other infidels, now is the time to say it." Cold. Calculating.

Bess shook her head, and then turned to the room, and she yelled, "What the FUCK is taking so long. I need some information! Where is the seal team? Air support?"

Hauntingly, the man's voice crooned, "Elizabeth, nothing is going to save her. You're powerless. You're a failure. You can't save your daughter. The sooner you come to terms with that, the more you can tell your daughter."

And she went. From the NSA director. CIA director. Around the table. Waiting – wanting something. Anything. They had to have some information. They had been on this call for what seemed like ages. Anything.

But then she got to Russell.

The man who would shoot straight with her.

And he shook his head and said, "Bess..."

And she felt Conrad's hand in the middle of her back, and she turned to him, pulling away, and said, "Do SOMETHING CONRAD! That's our baby! My little GIRL!"

"Anything to say?" The man again antagonized.

And Emma's cries still rang through the room.

And Conrad put both his hands on her shoulders, and he looked her straight on. His eyes drilling into her. And, quietly, he said, "Bess. Emma needs you."

And Bess pointed at the screen, "She needs me to find her."

Conrad shook his head, "Bess, I'm going to negotiate. I'm going to try. But, Bess…" And he moved his face closer to hers, "Let her hear your voice. Let it help calm her."

She knew that line.

This was the line when nothing else was going to work.

Nothing else was going to change.

And her lips began to tremble, and she turned away from the camera. She leaned her hands on the table, willing her world to stop spinning, steading herself as she tried to understand.

Or. Tried to be ok with understanding.

Conrad began to negotiate.

And everyone continued working.

But if they didn't know by now – nothing would get help there in time.

"If you do this, we will hunt you until we kill you and your whole army." Conrad threatened.

"Any signal?" "No. Nothing. Rerouting us through China." "Any heat activity sensed from the drones?" "No, sir"

But one thing – one thing stayed as the tunnel began to form.

Emma's crying. A gut-wrenching, helpless cry. Fear-ful. Bess could hear as Emma's chest caught and she tried to suck in air.

Her baby needed her.

And Bess turned.

And blocked everything else out.

Blocked Conrad yelling at the man.

Ignored the pounding on the table behind her as Russell demanded they find something. Anything.

Ignored the way the man stood behind Emma.

Instead, Bess just saw Emma.

Kneeling there on the ground. Her entire body shaking as she looked at the sand underneath her knees. Her blond curls, matted with dirt and blood, clumped around her face.

She saw her baby. Afraid. Not afraid – terrified. Absolutely terrified. Alone. In the desert somewhere with horrific men.

About to die.

And Bess found her words. She found them. First they were demanding.

And loud.

"EMMA." She had to get her daughter's attention. "EMMA I need you to look at me. Emma."

After saying her daughter's name a few times, she saw Emma's eyes pierce through the video. And Bess nodded, "Good job, Emma. Just look at me. Emma…" She kept saying her daughter's name – because she needed Emma to see her – needed her to listen to her – needed to keep Emma from everything around her.

Emma shook her head, "Mom, I don't want…"

She couldn't hear it. Instead, Bess shook her head, and just started to talk. Loudly. Over everything else.

"Emma, do you remember when we got Falstaff? Do you remember how wild he was? Do you remember?" Bess brought up Emma's favorite, wild horse. Bess needed Emma to focus. "Nod your head, Em, if you remember." A nod through the crying. And Bess continued, "Remember riding him for the first time? Do you remember getting thrown off, and how you couldn't walk for a whole week?"

Bess' hands began to shake as she got distracted just a little at hearing Conrad arguing, "I can fly to Iran. I can meet with you." No. He couldn't. No one could. Last ditch efforts rarely worked. And Bess' stomach tightened, and she wished she could bend over and try to breathe. But she couldn't.

She had to keep going.

"Emma, Emma, look at me." And Emma opened her eyes and looked at the camera. "Emma, do you know how special you are to me?" Bess had to talk about emotional things without acknowledging her own emotions. Instead she began to think back, "Emma, I remember holding you. I remember the first time I held you. You were so small. So small. And you grabbed my hand…"

Bess watched as Emma looked at the camera, and then Emma said, "Mom, please. Please don't stop talking…" And The thirteen-year-old girl seemed to age in a matter of seconds. "I need to hear you."

And Bess talked. Bess talked. "You were the cutest little baby, because you were so small. All the clothes didn't fit you, and you came so early you had to sleep in a laundry basket for the first few days at home." Bess watched as they placed a hood over Emma's head, but still she kept talking, "As a baby, you wouldn't sleep unless I rocked oyu to sleep for what seemed like hours." The second man pushed Emma's head down just a little. Bess kept talking, "I would hold you and rock you, singing to you, reading to you, telling you stories, venting a little about my day… and I'd wait for that little moment just before you'd sleep." She heard almost everyone in the room's voice escalate – their attempt. Their need to try and help. Conrad forcefully yelling at the screen. The man just laughing. "And then, I'd lean down and kiss your face, and… She watched as the man raised the machete, aligning it with Emma's neck before he lifted it above his head. "I'd tell you that I loved you – I love you Emma. I love you."

Silence. She could hear it. The whizzing through the air.

And the blade came down.

"I love you, Emma."

The only blood Bess saw was the blood that splattered onto the camera before Bess' eyes flew closed while her body recoiled. Red. Dark. Blood. All the air left Bess' body.

Her hand went to her mouth, covering it in horror.

And no one in the room moved.

Not when the screen went black.

She still couldn't breathe.

She covered her face with her hands.

And lost the ability to stand.

Sinking to her knees.

Unable to breathe.

Her hands moved from her face to her hair.

And she breathed.

Gasping.

Heaving.

And then gasps. Over and over. Just air.

And she again covered her face with her hands, letting her head fall down so she rested her head against her knees.

Her nerves felt on fire – like her body was on fire – and with each breath, her chest hurt – felt like it was caving in on her – the whole world. And she began to rock back and forth.

Back and forth.

As she saw the blood. In her mind.

And then came the first sound.

A deep.

Full bodied groan that came tearing from her stomach all the way up her throat, clawing the inside of her throat, ripping her in two.

And she rocked back and forth from her feet to her knees, drowning in her grief – drowning in blood – in the blood – in tears – in her daughter's tears – in the blood – all the pictures flew through her eyes as she took a recovering breath and then another groan followed the first.

Over and over again.

Back and forth. Gasping for breath. And being sawn asunder with grief.