Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. This is for my entertainment, and I hope yours as well.

AN: Don't normally do these, but I wanted to let you all know that I actually have a reason for just about everything that happens in this fic. If you're unsure about some plot twist or the way I set something up, I ask you to keep reading. Not everything is cut and dried; as it is in real life, there are many layers to every situation. Please stick with me, guys. ;) I promise that the ride will at least never be…dull. XD —CG

.-.-.-.-.

The air between them had changed a little; there was still the wariness, the mistrust on both sides, but the edge of worrying whether or not they would try to kill each other had dulled. In its wake, all that remained was a sense of exhaustion that both of them felt from locking horns constantly since ten-thirty that morning.

Jackson's building came into view again just as the sun had begun its descent into the west. Traces of orange and pink tinged the high cirrus clouds, not yet brilliant but definitely there. Lisa might have bemoaned the loss of most of a day except that she was feeling much luckier than she had when she'd woken up. She had made it through alive so far, and her sparring with Jackson—both physical and verbal—had stoked the furnace within her that burned away her fear, her anger, her grief. All that remained was fire-tempered steel, cold fury that lent her strength to face what would surely make her first experience with Jackson seem like a game.

Rejecting his help was now out of the question. Someone was trying to kill them—whether it was some mythical cleanup crew or someone else, Lisa didn't know and at the moment, she didn't care. All that mattered was that those men in the alley had not been gang members on a spree; they had all been dressed as sharply as Jackson himself, if not as fashionably, and that bothered her more than the mixed-up brand-name colorful getup of a gang thug.

That she needed him was a hard thought to acknowledge, but she understood that she had to cooperate with Jackson on some level in order to stay alive, to keep save her remaining family, Keefe and his wife, his children. It rankled, but she would just have to get past the blow to her pride.

The hardest part would be finding a new way to avoid killing Connolly. Lisa was a great believer in 'live and let live', and no matter what Connolly had done, he should be taken down by legal means. Perhaps she could convince Jackson to hear her out, but first she would have to work out how to make everyone happy.

People-pleaser, 24/7, indeed. Some things never changed.

And so it was that Lisa found herself following him into the very building she'd resisted entering that morning, into the elevator where he studiously looked straight ahead at the cream-colored doors as it took them to the thirtieth floor. They had said nothing more for the rest of the cab ride, nor as they walked into the building, boarded the elevator, hit the button to go up. Jackson seemed drained, somehow, oddly distracted, though with a new determination. It was as if they'd traded places, where he was the uncertain one and she the cold-blooded manager.

With a soft chime, the doors opened into a well-kept, if sparsely decorated, hallway. Jackson stepped off first and headed down the corridor without a word. Lisa followed, mildly exasperated. The hall branched twice; Jackson turned first left and then right, ending at a lone door at the end of the last turn. A brushed brass nameplate read, "RPNR Management, LLC".

Jackson entered a code on the electronic lock beside the door and went in. Lisa noticed that he was on alert, and that the .45 was back in his hand. When they were both inside, he immediately stalked through the suite, checking everything in an almost routine manner. He closed the last door and sighed, putting the gun away as he walked to the middle of the main room.

"Home sweet home," he said, spreading his arms. "Don't get too comfortable; we won't be staying here long."

"Why are we here in the first place?" Lisa looked around. The place seemed to be half apartment, half office. It was neat but worn, utilitarian, as if he had simply moved in after a business had moved out and hadn't changed a thing. Then again, perhaps that was just what had happened; the framed posters on the walls were the kind every generic office had—art exhibits from the 80s, motivational concepts, golf courses. Plain grey low-pile carpet still showed signs where cubicles and chairs had compressed it. Even the blinds over the windows were right out of the customary décor of the inoffensive, hyper-sanitized, middle-of-the-road company. She wondered for a moment what the former occupants had been.

A single desk and chair, both ordinary, had been placed by one window. On the desk, a laptop waited beside a small file and a stack of manila folders that had been stuffed with notes, forms, photos. That last drew Lisa's attention, as one image that stuck out seemed familiar.

She picked up the file, checking first to see if Jackson could see her snooping. He had gone into the door to the right, the room that appeared to be a bedroom, and she heard him moving around in there. She quickly tugged the photo out of its file to see it better, then nearly dropped it when she realized what it was.

"You didn't believe me?"

This time, she did drop it, startled. How could he be so quiet? "He must have known who you were. I don't understand." In the picture, her father looked alive, relaxed, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling the way they did when he was with friends. But he was sitting next to Jackson Rippner, the two of them leaning on the dark wood bar behind them and grinning for the camera. It might have been the poor lighting in the bar, but Jackson's smile appeared slightly forced. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth."

As well as he could read her, she could read him. He wasn't joking with her now, was taking this seriously and his answer had been serious as well. Lisa sat down heavily and looked away. "Why didn't he tell me?"

He laughed darkly. "Probably because you wouldn't have believed him, either. Or you'd have called the cops on me, or had his head examined." Jackson walked over to her and bent down to pick up the photo from where it had fallen on the ground. "How did you get this?"

Something in his voice told her not to dissemble. "I saw it on the desk in one of the folders."

"Don't lie to me, Leese," he snapped, and she stood up, offended.

"I'm not lying!" She pointed. "It was in that folder, right there."

"Hmm." He frowned, pushing aside the rest of the stack to get the one she had indicated. Once they were spread out on the desk, even Lisa could see that one was different, a different brand or style; its color was lighter and the cut of the tab was smaller. When he opened it, they saw a stapled packet headed with a minimalistic, swooping logo. Jackson flipped past it to reveal other photos of him, of Joe, of the Lux Atlantic from the street on the day of the attack, debris raining down—then Lisa gasped to see images of herself as well. Jackson seemed to remember she was seeing them, too, and he snapped the folder shut.

"What is that?" demanded Lisa, following him as he stuffed the folder and the others from the desk into a laptop bag, suddenly hasty. When he didn't answer, she got between him and the computer. "Jackson, so help me—"

"We need to get out of here. Now." He reached for the cord but she stopped him and he straightened, tense.

"Not until you tell me—"

He cut her off by physically, forcefully placing his hand over her mouth. "We. Need. To. Go." His voice was a harsh whisper underlaid with urgency. Lisa, wide-eyed, nodded, and the same hand pushed her to the side. He grabbed the computer, adding it to the bag with the folders. The cord followed, then he slung the strap over his shoulder and picked up a soft leather suitcase she hadn't noticed by his feet. "Now, let's get the hell out of here, quickly, calmly, in an orderly fashion, and we can discuss the invasion of your privacy or whatever, later."

Stunned, Lisa watched him stride to the door, then shook herself and went after him.

.-.-.-.-.

They only took the elevator down to the fifth floor, then Jackson burst into the hallway and headed for the stairs, Lisa at his heels. Though he still hadn't said anything to her since walking from the office, she could feel the tension radiating from him like heat. His pace quickened down the last few flights—and then he bypassed the ground floor's door entirely, continuing on to the basement. They went down one level, then two, and finally he hit the door at Parking Level Two.

Only when they were both in the underground garage did he actually break into a run. A few midrange luxury cars were in the lot, and they hurried toward a beautifully-polished black BMW.

"Get in," said Jackson, the first words he'd spoken since they had left the apartment. His voice was deep, ragged, the rasp more pronounced as Lisa had noticed it became when he was under duress. She did as he said, getting in the passenger side and buckling her belt while he threw the suitcase into the back. The laptop bag, he handed to her, then he did a brief but careful walk around the car, looking for something. He ended by opening the hood and checking the engine, then slammed it shut and finally slid into the driver's seat. A key appeared from some pocket, and he took a deep breath before putting into the ignition.

The motor purred to life, and Jackson released the breath he'd held. "Hold on," he instructed Lisa, not looking at her. She gripped the bag like a life preserver as he shifted into first. A quick glance at his watch made him grip the steering wheel harder, his knuckles whitening. Everything he did was focused on driving up and around the winding exit ramp to the ground floor and the street, which he did with the same smooth skill as he'd used with the .45. The way his jaw was clenched and his gaze was fixed ahead kept Lisa from asking what was happening, why they had to leave so quickly.

She had her answer the moment they reached the street. Something ricocheted off the window, then something else, as if gravel or rocks were hitting them. Lisa checked her mirror out of habit, only to see a man in a suit standing on the sidewalk they'd just passed. With a jolt, she realized that they were being shot at again. Her head snapped around to warn Jackson but the words died in her throat.

"I know," he said tersely, shifting. He glanced in the rearview and back at the road. "It's bulletproof. Get ready. It's going to get bumpy for a moment."

Lisa clung to the door handle and the laptop bag when a heavy THUMP! THUMP! sounded behind them. She felt it as much as she heard it. The car shuddered—no, it was the ground—and she braved a look back.

Where she figured the office had been, most of the way up the building, the remains of an explosive fireball were disintegrating into black smoke. A similar plume of smoke had erupted from the exit of the parking garage at the base of the tower. The force of the explosion had been strong enough to knock the suited man to the ground. Lisa didn't know if he got up or not; they turned a corner before she could tell.

By the time they heard the first sirens, they were two blocks away and getting further every second.

By the time the incident was reported on the radio, they were across town.

.-.-.-.-.

Jackson turned onto a main road, thick with the remains of rush-hour traffic. They blended seamlessly with the other cars until they were just another black BMW heading back to the suburbs after a hard day of work in the city. Lisa realized they were passing the street down which the Lux Atlantic was located, and she turned to him.

"Where are we going? My hotel is that way."

"I know," he replied. "We're not going there unless you want another problem like my office had."

"The explosions? But…didn't you—" She had thought he'd set the bombs.

He shook his head. "That was not my work. I like to think I'm a little more subtle than that, Leese."

"Then how did you know?" It was hard to keep the edge of hysteria from her voice. All this time she'd thought he was in control of the situation, but for him to reveal that he hadn't been…her hands shook, and she twisted them into the strap of the bag.

"The file. The one with the photo of your dad." He glanced over at her and then back at the road. "I kept all those pictures in a locked drawer. They were personal things. That's why I thought you were lying about where you got it. I never saw that file before today. It was probably a message for me."

"Oh my God." Lisa clenched the bag harder. "But why give you a file and then blow you up?"

He shook his head. "I won't know until I read it later. All I know is that the upstairs bomb was probably in that drawer, and someone didn't want me dead, while someone else did." His fingers fanned on the wheel. "I'm taking you to your dad's."

"Wait, what? I thought you said it wasn't safe."

"It's safer."

Lisa's headache had come back full force and she simply lacked the energy to fight with him. She rested her forehead against the cool glass of her window and just let him drive. The sky above had finally turned with the setting sun: brilliant pink and gold to the west behind them, deep blue and violet in the east.

East, the direction in which they sped toward her father's empty house.