Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I do, however, own Mr. White and Mr. Vondar...not that anyone is about to steal them for their own twisted ends, but hey.

AN: You guys get a long chapter today; I couldn't break it up any other way. Lucky you:P

.-.-.-.-.

The tang of metal and salt water was the first thing Lisa became aware of when she woke again. The second thing was that her wrists were handcuffed to an exquisite wood and metal headboard; the third was that she was not alone.

A very tall, very angular man stood at the door of the luxuriously-appointed room, watching her with polite interest. He inclined his head to her as though there should be nothing odd or frightening about her being chained to a bed in an unfamiliar place. "Miss Reisert," he said, "I'm glad. Mr. White asked me to check on you; he will be pleased to know you are conscious."

Terrified, Lisa shrank back from him when he approached her. "Stay—stay away from me," she warned, her voice so dry that all that came out was a harsh croak. It sounded more like Jackson's than hers. She swallowed and tried again. "I mean it."

The man seemed amused. "Very well, but I won't be able to unlock your restraints if I can't get closer."

"Why am I here? Where am I?" Lisa adjusted herself so she could lash out with her feet if need be. She was mortified to see that she was still dressed in her pajamas and robe. "Where's Jackson?"

Amusement hardened into grim seriousness. "Mr. Rippner is being held in a separate room. He was…less than cooperative after you were neutralized. I apologize for the rough treatment of our messengers. They misinterpreted Mr. White's invitation, I'm afraid."

There was that name again. She held herself very still while the man carefully unlocked the handcuffs. Immediately, she snatched her hands back to her chest, rubbing where the metal had chafed her. The man made no other move toward her, instead setting a white, unmarked department store box she hadn't even seen him holding onto the other end of the bed. "Who—" Her voice was still shaky, so she tried again. "Who is Mr. White?"

For an answer, she received another polite smile, though his eyebrows rose a bit. "Mr. Rippner said he received our message; he didn't tell you?"

Lisa frowned. "He doesn't tell me much of anything."

At that, the man chuckled. "That does sound like our Mr. Rippner. I apologize, then, Miss Reisert. I am certain Mr. White will explain everything. He has provided suitable clothing for you to change into, if you would." He indicated the box. "I am Mr. Vondar; please, do not hesitate to call if you need assistance. Mr. White expects you at dinner in an hour. Through that door is a rest room—I took the liberty of providing some aspirin and a cup as well, as I'm sure your head is not feeling its best right now. There are also guards stationed outside your door. I would not recommend attempting to, ah, wander about unescorted."

Which meant that she was a prisoner. Lisa nodded, and Mr. Vondar's smile grew wider. "Excellent," he went on, bowing at the door, "I will be back later. It is a true pleasure to meet you."

With that, he was gone. Lisa caught a glimpse of the hall beyond her room, and true to his word, there were two black-suited men standing on either side of her door. They reminded her more of Secret Service agents than anything, though they gave off a dangerous impression that the Secret Service just didn't have. She shivered.

She opened the box to see what clothes had been 'provided' for her. What she found inside made her feel torn between laughing and crying. In the end, she simply rolled her eyes. "I don't believe this," she muttered, holding the crisp white creation up by one shoulder. The designer label sewn discreetly into the seam didn't make her feel any less like someone in a James Bond movie.

Perhaps the first thing, she decided, should be to take the aspirin. It looked like she'd need them most.

.-.-.-.-.

An hour found her showered, her hair fixed properly, the pounding ache dulled by the painkillers. When she had stepped into the bathroom, she had frozen at the thought of being covertly watched. Then the more powerful desire to be clean took over, and she finally realized she didn't care. The warm water had been soothing on her iron-knotted muscles, and the very act of getting dressed in real clothes had calmed her down a little.

If one could call what she'd been given 'real' clothing. She recognized the designer's name immediately, though even on her salary she never dreamed of affording something like this. It was also not as bad as she'd originally thought, though she hated the way the neckline scooped dangerously low. It was just low enough to reveal her scar, and she had the feeling it had been deliberately chosen for just that feature. Otherwise, it was a simple sleeveless sheath, all in white linen with a few discreet organza details. Underneath it in the box, she'd found white open-toed sandals. Aside from the fashion rule that one wasn't supposed to wear white after Labor Day, it was precisely like something a movie star or wealthy businessman's wife would wear to a formal dinner on a luxury yacht.

Which, given the fact that she saw only ocean outside her window, was probably a close guess. She watched the sky change over the ocean while she waited, thinking. If she was a prisoner here, she had no way of escaping. With nowhere to turn, she had to play it safe and at least go quietly to talk to the mysterious Mr. White. Something told her that she wouldn't like what he had to say, but at this point, what choice did she have?

A knock on her door announced the return of Mr. Vondar. His brows rose appreciatively at the sight of her in the dress, though his perusal was professional rather than lascivious. "The dress suits you, Miss Reisert," he said with another of his small smiles. "Come, Mr. White is quite eager to meet you."

Lisa took the opportunity to study her surroundings as they filed through the narrow, carpeted hallway. They might be on a boat, but someone seemed to have thought of every comfort imaginable: oriental carpets on the floor, rich woods and gleaming polished metal. This Mr. White certainly loved his details.

"Here we go," said Mr. Vondar, indicating a door that blocked the rest of the hall. Voices came through, muffled, one placating and sure, the other angry and restrained. It struck her that the angry one was Jackson's. She didn't have long to contemplate beyond that, however, for Mr. Vondar opened the door. "Mr. White, Mr. Rippner," he said by way of greeting them, "Allow me to present Miss Reisert." He gestured that she should step into the room, then discreetly closed the door behind them.

"Holy shit," Jackson muttered, outburst forgotten. His whole body seemed to relax, the angry posture changing to one of nonchalance as though he hadn't been completely startled by her appearance. Predictably, his gaze traveled over her, head to toe and then back up to linger at her neckline. Lisa had to will her hands to keep from flying up to cover the scar. A few breaths went by, then she purposefully turned her attention from Jackson to the other person in the room, finding him equally as fascinated.

He wasn't imposing or frightening; quite the contrary, this Mr. White had an avuncular air about him that might have been comforting if she hadn't been knocked out and handcuffed at his behest. He was fit, though not young, well-cared-for and manicured. His hair was sandy-brown, his eyes also a warm, ordinary brown, edged with lines that crinkled as he smiled. Had she met him through her job, she would have pegged him for an important and successful businessman, perhaps someone who gave yearly contributions to charities and played golf on a private course.

Which was probably exactly how he wanted to appear. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, stepped further into the room. She would not cower at the wall. "So hi. Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Jackson made a strangled noise, shaken from his daze. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to warn her against being reckless, but the other man chuckled.

"Miss Reisert," he said, moving forward with his hand outstretched. "It is a pleasure." When she went to shake the proffered hand, he smoothly changed his grip to bring her fingers to his lips.

Past him, Jackson's face was a study in a struggle for self-control. Lisa might have laughed if she hadn't been so very creeped out by the situation. Instead, she bore the chivalrous gesture with cold stoicism.

This did not go unobserved. "Of course." The man straightened, releasing her hand. "Mr. Vondar informs me that you know less than we'd hoped, so perhaps I should start at the beginning. I am Mr. White; I woud appreciate it if you called me that, as I do not care to share any further names with you." He smiled. "Why don't we talk over dinner?"

Lisa noted with surprise that all three of them were wearing white, even Jackson, who still showed signs of an internal struggle. Was he warning her? Trying not to laugh? Trying not to stare? Or was he simply appalled that he had to break a fashion law for this mysterious man who now offered them a meal? Her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the eggs—how long ago? It was growing dark now, so it had been at least a day. "I'd like that," she replied, proud of how steady her voice came out. Mr. White held out his arm like a gentleman and she took it, aware of Jackson's stare burning holes over Mr. White's shoulder.

It appeared that Mr. White was aware, too. "Come now, Mr. Rippner," he said pleasantly, though his tone changed somewhat, "Some food will do you good as well. Get some meat on those skinny bones of yours." He leaned toward Lisa and, in a stage whisper, he said, "The boy never gains weight. It's a crime, I tell you. I have to watch everything I eat, but with him, poof. Nothing."

What should she make of this man? He wasn't in any hurry to do anything but have a dinner party. She decided to play along; it was all she could do. She pasted on a smile of her own and allowed herself to be led across the room to an elegantly-set table. Mr. White helped her into her seat as Jackson sat warily across from her. Mr. White took the end of the table and motioned to the food. "Please. Eat."

Despite the rumbling of her stomach, Lisa suddenly didn't feel hungry. She felt cold, drained, no little bit afraid, lightheaded, even. Instead of obeying, she put her hands in her lap and turned to Mr. White. "Actually," she began, willing her courage to stay with her, "I'd like a few answers first."

Jackson froze, eyes widening slightly as he tried to tell her something without words. For the second time, she felt like he was trying to warn her of something.

The other man, however, merely chuckled. "You know, Miss Reisert," he said amiably, not looking at her and instead studying the meat on his plate, "You never know when you're going to eat again." He cut a morsel and lifted it, twirling the fork slowly, his eyes still on the food. "The future is uncertain, wouldn't you agree?"

His words, coupled with Jackson's expression, chilled her further; the underlying meaning was not lost on her. Rather than argue more, she quietly picked up her knife and fork and began to eat superb food that she could barely taste.

.-.-.-.-.

Dinner went too slowly for Lisa. She listened to Mr. White hold forth on any number of topics, from the calm sea and how it made for such fine sailing to why he chose cherry instead of mahogany for the paneling around the walls of the room. Jackson said nothing beyond a few mumbled agreements when Mr. White addressed him directly. Once or twice during the meal, Lisa caught his gaze drifting toward her scar before he noticed that she saw him. Each time, his eyes would snap up to hers, then to Mr. White, who didn't appear to detect any of this.

At last the ordeal was over, and Mr. White invited them to the other side of the room where a bar curved protectively around the finest selection of alcohol Lisa had ever seen. He went behind the bar and gazed thoughtfully at the wall. It struck Lisa, suddenly, unpleasantly, that she knew precisely what he would choose.

She was right. The food became a hard knot in her stomach when Mr. White turned to her and asked, "Domaine Charbay or Grey Goose, Miss Reisert?"

Lisa had to clear her throat before speaking. "Neither, if you don't mind."

He raised a brow. He held a bottle in each hand, weighing them. "I was sure Mr. Rippner told me you preferred vodka." He sent a questioning glance to Jackson, who looked away angrily. Mr. White's expression changed to one of realization, though he still smiled. "Ahh, I see. My mistake."

"You know," Lisa said tightly, "I'm really not up for drinking anything." She had to make her hands unclench. "I'd really just like to know what the hell is going on."

Mr. White sighed, though she got the sense that he didn't mean it, that he expected this. "Very well, Miss Reisert," he said as he put the bottles back on the shelf and poured himself a finger of Scotch. When he looked up at her again, his face was eerily reminiscent of Jackson's mask. "I suppose I've held you up long enough."

She nodded. "I think you have." Jackson made that noise again, as though he was choking on something, but she ignored him and put her hands on the bar. She kept her eyes on Mr. White's, constantly reminding herself that she could show no fear. "So tell me. Are you going to kill us?"

"Kill you?" Mr. White gave a hearty laugh. "Oh, my dear Miss Reisert, why ever would I want to kill you?"

"I don't know," she said, defensive, "Maybe the fact that I was knocked out and kidnapped?"

"Don't be stupid, Leese," Jackson said at once. "That very fact should indicate that he wanted us alive."

She stared at him, but Mr. White nodded. "Mr. Rippner is correct; if I wanted you dead, rest assured, you would be dead now."

Never mind the certainty she felt that he was being quite truthful. "Then why all the men chasing us?" she demanded. "Why the bombs? The people shooting at us?"

He made a noncommittal sound. "That was not my doing. I like to think my methods are more subtle than that."

Perhaps if she wasn't so tightly-strung at the moment, Lisa might have laughed at the turn of phrase she'd already heard from Jackson. "Then why—"

"Miss Reisert," said Mr. White, smoothly interrupting her, "I wonder if perhaps you could help me convince Mr. Rippner that he is being foolish."

A flicker of a glance at Jackson showed the muscle in his jaw twitching again. She waited until he looked back at her before returning her attention to Mr. White. "How so?" she asked, deliberately letting her tone convey that she felt he was being foolish in more ways than one. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jackson spin away in anger. Mr. White, however, laughed.

"You didn't tell me how much I would like her, Mr. Rippner," he scolded lightly. "Although now I see why she was able to defy you so well. I wonder how well you both would work as a team. You would be unstoppable—you with your intelligence, Miss Reisert with her common sense."

Jackson snapped over his shoulder. "I was the best manager you had, Whi—Mister White," he growled. "One bad job—"

"One moment of weakness," Mr. White said, putting his glass down on the marble bartop with a firm clink, "was all you needed to suffer. I can't hire you back after that. Not even knowing that the weakness was for such a good reason as Miss Reisert."

Lisa didn't know whether she should be insulted or not. The feeling was overshadowed by the understanding that Mr. White was Jackson's former employer, the very person who Jackson had been trying to impress with his plan to kill Connolly. Things made more sense now; the fact that they were still alive, the sense of familiarity between the two men, the way Mr. White knew things like her dress size and what she preferred to drink. "As flattering as it is to be known as the reason Jackson failed in his mission," she announced, letting the irony show through her tone, "I would really just like to know what. The hell. Is going. On."

Mr. White looked expectantly at Jackson, who threw his hands into the air.

"Fine," he growled. "Mr. White doesn't want me to go after Don Connolly."

"Okay, great. That means we agree." Lisa crossed her arms and Mr. White laughed.

"It doesn't—dammit, Leese." Jackson thrust his fingers through his hair. Lisa had noticed that he did that when he found her particularly immovable.

She scowled. "Let's think about this. You want to kill him because it will get the cleanup crew off our backs, Mr. White will hire you back, and you can go back to your life of killing people and making people arrange to have other people killed. Right?"

"It's not—"

"It is," she went on. "It is exactly what you want to do."

"About that." Mr. White held up a finger. "Killing Mr. Connolly will not create the opportunity that Mr. Rippner believes it will. I have already explained that to him."

"I don't care about getting my job back."

"Good. Because I cannot give it to you."

Lisa heard that undertone, the darker one from earlier. "But you can call off the cleanup crew, right?"

The look Mr. White sent her was both regretful and serious. "I am afraid, Miss Reisert," he said sadly, "That I cannot do that, either."

She had to grab the back of a chair to keep her knees from collapsing. If this man couldn't help them, who could? She hadn't known until now how much Jackson's faith in his plan had buoyed her own hope; no wonder he was so angry. She blinked and looked at Jackson now, fighting her shock and fear.

"Did you enjoy the meal?" Mr. White's question came from far away. She had to wrench her eyes from Jackson's to even think.

"I…I…"

Mr. White toasted her with the rest of his Scotch before downing it. "I hope you did," he went on as if she hadn't spoken, "It may be one of your last."

.-.-.-.-.