Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye or the Transporter.

.-.-.-.-.

Route 95 North felt like forever.

After the fill-up, the mood in the car was quiet but less intense. No one felt much like talking; Frank drove, Jackson and Lisa were both lost in their thoughts. From time to time, she could feel Jackson look over at her, though he never spoke.

She had meant it, when she thanked him, meant it more than she ever had. She also knew she was thanking her father. When he was alive, they hadn't talked about her experience more than they'd had to, so she had never fully realized the depth of his feeling before.

Jackson's revelation about how he'd thought of himself was another morsel she could digest. Not until he'd said that had she actually believed him about his friendship with her father. But now…now she could understand, now she could see it. The story of Joe's revenge on both Jackson and the nameless rapist had happened a good two years ago. Why would they still have talked afterward?

He was reading her thoughts again. "Joe figured we were even," he said softly, making her start. When he had her attention, he went on. "After that day. He contacted me again on his own and invited me out for a drink. I accepted."

"I wonder why." There was no accusation, just the simple query.

He shrugged. "I don't know. He never wanted to discuss it, and I was fine with that. I guess I kept going to meet him out of the expectation he'd explain himself someday. He never did."

"You said you and he had an agreement?"

"Yeah." Jackson idly stroked the soft black leather of the seat, avoiding her face. "He promised not to press charges or turn me in after the job, but he told me the only way to earn his forgiveness was to make sure nothing like that happened to you again."

Lisa shook her head. "God, Dad. Why didn't he ever tell me?"

"Don't you think the idea would have made you mad?" An easier smile had appeared. It both surprised and pleased Lisa.

"Don't you think I'd have been furious to find out you were still keeping tabs on me?" She answered in kind, let herself smile back. "I think I'd have thought my dad was crazy. I still think he was." She actually chuckled. "But I guess it's a moot point. Here you are."

"Here I am," he agreed, and they fell silent again.

Frank spoke up. "If you aren't expecting me to drive for sixteen hours straight, we should probably find a place for the night. You didn't happen to make reservations you forgot to mention to me, did you?"

Jackson slumped. "No. Shit." He looked out at the signs on the road. "I had been planning for us to take turns driving."

That was news to Lisa. "You'd have let me drive your beemer?" She asked, disbelief evident in her tone.

"It would have been necessary," he retorted. "But Frank won't let anyone else touch his precious car."

"Least of all, you," Frank snorted. "I didn't pay to have her shipped across the Atlantic only to get her paint chipped by some American who thinks he can out-Bond my homeland's dear Double-Oh-Seven. You're reckless."

Lisa interrupted them, laughing for real. "Boys, boys, calm yourselves." She fished around in her purse for her cell. "Now…let's see."

The men waited, interested, while she dialed a number.

"Good evenin'," a deliberately accented female voice answered. "Thanks for callin' Magnolia Inn. This is Diana, how can I help you?"

"Hello, I'm looking for Vince Mayfield. Is he in?"

"One moment, ma'am."

There was a click of being put on hold, then someone else picked up. "Vincent Mayfield speakin'. How may ah help you?"

"Vince, is that you? You sound like Foghorn Leghorn."

"Excu—Lisa!" The voice changed immediately. "I wasn't expecting it to be you."

"I know," she laughed. "What's with the fake accent?"

"Ahh, that. We found that customers reacted better to the more 'authentic' sound. Mine's pretty bad, but Diana does a better job. I sound too much like a Yankee pretending to be a local. Which is about right."

"You're telling me." Lisa ignored the two men who looked on with interest. "Listen, I know it's short notice, but I'm in South Carolina unexpectedly and I need a room for the night. Do you have a suite available?"

"For you? Anything." The sound of computer keys ticking, then, "I have a nice set of rooms on the third floor."

"How many beds?"

"One, a queen. What do you need?"

Her glance flickered to Jackson, then Frank, then back to Jackson. "Add two cots in the second room, please. I have a driver and a…" She was at a momentary loss as to what to call Jackson, then it came to her. She smirked. "…a bodyguard with me."

She could practically hear Vince's eyebrows climb upward. "A bodyguard? Really?"

"Yeah." She decided to roll with it. "It's actually not exactly something I can discuss without a security clearance. Sorry, Vince."

"No, no problem!" He sounded impressed. "When do you think you'll be in?"

"Within the hour. Have Room Service send up something, too. We haven't had much chance to eat today. Oh, and a nice wine. I could use a drink."

When she ended the call, Frank was already calling up a GPS map on a screen that had been hidden behind the cd player face. "Magnolia Inn, you said?"

She nodded and gave him the address, then stretched. "It's a really nice place."

"You sound like you've been there."

Lisa smiled at Jackson, definitely in a better mood now. "I have, a few times. Vince is one of the few people I kept in contact with after college. He only bills me for things like the food, never for the room. Of course," she grinned, "Now I have a staff credit card, so Keefe pays for it all."

.-.-.-.-.

The inn was, like so many in the area, a renovated Civil War building, all in white with an enclosed veranda. Frank dropped them off in front and then took the car around back. Vince came out to greet them. He offered his arm to Lisa, grandly guiding her up the steps while Jackson trailed behind.

"What do you think?" Vince gestured. "We redid the entryway; it was starting to fade a little, if you know what I mean."

"It's perfect," Lisa replied warmly. "I'm sorry I can't stay long this time. As much as I'd love to catch up, I really just need to get some sleep. We have an early start in the morning."

"Of course, of course." He seemed disappointed, but he handed her the key. "I already checked you in, so just follow me up and we'll get you settled. Is this your…ah…"

"Bodyguard, yes." Jackson flashed what Lisa instantly recognized as a patently false smile and pushed past Vince. "Excuse me, I'm going to sweep the room."

Vince looked perplexed. "S—sweep?"

"He means he's going to make sure it's safe." Lisa patted his arm. "It's ok. We do this all the time."

Jackson stuck his head out into the hall. "It's clean, Miss Reisert." He held out his hand.

She suppressed a sigh and took it. "Goonight, Vince. I'll call you when I have some time."

"Do that. It would be nice to get together for coffee sometime." He held out his hand to Jackson, who pretended to be engrossed in the door to the main bathroom. After a moment, Vince awkwardly let it fall and took his leave.

When he had gone, Lisa shut the door and quirked an eyebrow at Jackson. "Miss Reisert? I could get used to you calling me that."

"Don't," he warned, though the word lacked heat. He nodded to the cart that had already been placed in the room. "Nice of Keefe to foot the bill."

"Being a government employee has its perks. And you didn't need to be so mean to Vince. He's a good guy." She was delighted to find a selection of bread, thickly-sliced meats, and crisp lettuce leaves as well as some other garden vegetables. Metal cups of mayonnaise and different kinds of dressings divided the platter, and nearby a bucket of ice held several bottles of chilled water. Another, separate bucket contained a bottle of champagne and a pair of glasses.

"Everyone is a good guy to you, Leese, except me." He examined the label on the champagne. "Moët," he said, sounding a little put out. "I'm surprised it's not something more—"

"Expensive?"

"High-end." He gave her a sardonic smirk and uncorked it. "Either way, best not to let it go to waste."

She chewed on her sandwich thoughtfully as he poured them each a glass. "What, none for Frank?"

"Frank's just the driver," he grinned. The door clicked, and instantly Jackson was on full alert.

"It's just me." The door shut automatically behind Frank as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "Just the driver."

Jackson visibly relaxed and took a sip of his champagne. "Would you like some?"

"Nah. I'm working." Frank nodded to the other door. "That my room?"

Lisa opened it for him. "Everything you need should be in there. There's a door to your own bathroom, too."

"Then if you'll not be needing me, I'll turn in for the night." He dropped his bag and tested the cots, choosing the one by the window. "I'm up at dawn, and I'll be ready to go whenever you are."

Jackson glanced in, noted the cots with distaste. "Feel like sitting in with us while we work out what to do next?" His offer seemed genuine, but Lisa got the feeling that he really didn't want Frank to say yes.

Frank seemed to pick up on the same idea. "Thanks, but that would be akin to opening the package, now, wouldn't it?" He grinned at Jackson, who returned the expression and saluted him with the champagne glass.

"Of course. I'll be in in a bit, then. Try not to kill me if I wake you up."

Frank only laughed. Lisa rolled her eyes and shut the door. "Boys."

"You've never seen him wake up," Jackson reminded her. "On that note, make yourself comfortable. You want to know what I'm doing, you'll hear it."

She didn't know if she liked the sound of that, but kept the thought to herself. Instead, she made another sandwich and picked up her untouched champagne. Kicking off her shoes, she settled herself on the bed, legs stretched out in front of her, the food balanced on a plate on the nightstand. Jackson made something for himself—all vegetables, she noted—and grabbed the chair from the cherry desk. He set his own food down on the desk and unloaded his files on the foot of the bed, once more putting them into a neat stack. The laptop came out as well.

Lisa watched him pull out his glasses and put them on. She rather liked them; they made him look like a banker or a lawyer, someone in a more acceptable profession than international outlaw. It was harder to remember that he was a killer, whether he liked to be or not, when he looked like nothing more than a harried businessman. He moved one of the files too close to her legs, and instinctively she drew them away. The action made him look up at her; their eyes met across the length of the bed, over the tops of his glasses, through the hair that kept falling in front of his face no matter what he did.

Then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He looked back down at the files as though nothing had happened. Lisa felt a little chilled, a little lightheaded. She took another sip of champagne and waited for him to speak.

"Tomorrow," he began, "We will pass through North Carolina and then into Virginia. I plan to stop here, in Fredericksburg." The laptop was spun to face her, a red dot marking a map online. "There's a coffeeshop where we'll be meeting a contact of mine."

She looked up. "A contact?"

"I need information before I can proceed. This is frustrating; nothing I get is certified first-hand, but I have to deal with what's available." He gritted his teeth, and she knew it must gall him not to have access to the network his old job had afforded him. Jackson dealt with absolutes, certainties, well-researched dossiers. "My contact is someone who knows someone else who can get me Rowe's schedule, which will help me determine what the best time is to hit Connolly."

Right, they were still planning to assassinate someone. Lisa felt her head begin to ache again, right at the temples. "I stand by my earlier statement. This is a bad idea, Jackson."

"We don't have a choice." He seemed to get the same ache; he rubbed at his own temples before taking another sip of champagne. "As pleasant as I'm sure you find traveling with me, I don't think you want to spend the rest of your life on the run. Not to mention your whole family and the Keefes are still at risk."

Lisa bit her lip, thought, looked away. "There has to be a better way."

"Can you think of one? 'Cause I'd really love to hear it right about now."

"No."

He was quiet for a while. "You already know how much I don't want to do this. I know it's not going to get my job back for me, but wouldn't it be nice to be able to walk around on the street without dodging the kind of attacks we've been dodging for the last few days?"

She could only nod.

"Unfortunately, that's really all I have right now. I'm making this up as I go, so I don't have more planned out than that. We'll know more tomorrow afternoon." He closed the laptop, powering it down, and put it away. "Frank has the right idea; we should get some rest." He reached for the pile of folders.

Lisa decided she was tired of seeing the mysterious folders in their piles, never opened, always ready. She was tired of having them taken away before she could look at anything. Without another thought, she scrambled across the bed on her hands and knees, slapped her hand down on the one he had just picked up. His head snapped up, startled. She kept her eyes on his and slid the folder back toward herself, slipped a finger under the cover.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, a little breathlessly.

"Research of my own," she replied. When she looked down at the label, the name and the three-year-old date, she felt her chest constrict. She swept the folder open.

An 8x10 black and white photo of herself lay atop of a stack of neatly-written notes on yellow legal paper. She was getting out of a taxi, looking at something over her shoulder, even as her body was turned the other direction. It was a good photo, technically, catching her in a moment that made her look like a poster girl for the modern working woman. Her luggage was on the sidewalk, the extendable handle already in her hand, her suit was pressed and perfect. As if on cue, a city breeze had picked up a tendril of her hair and she was in the act of absently pulling it back, probably tucking it behind her ear. The taxi door hid the front of her body but the line of her back was fully visible; just the right curve, just the right angle to show that she was fit and healthy. It was, all in all, the quintessential picture of her life as a hotel manager on the move. She couldn't have planned a better image.

She could sense Jackson standing at the foot of the bed, nervous, but she ignored him and leafed through the notes. There were pages and pages of them, all in the same precise handwriting, each letter effortlessly scribed in print that reminded her of blueprints and drafters' annotations. Her daily routine was first, a detailed account of when she woke, what she did first, second, third, onward. Hits snooze alarm twice. Gets up at third alarm, goes into bathroom. Drinks one(8 oz?) glass of water, then takes one pill. Brushes teeth. Closes door. Shower, ten to twenty minutes.

The next few pages went on like this. Her weekend routines were kept separate with a paper clip; deviations were highlighted, then noted further if they proved to be part of a larger routine, such as her Friday night drink at a restaurant bar. She skipped ahead. Here she found her personal tastes listed: colors she wore, styles, brand names. Foods preferred. Magazines she read, shows she watched, shows she flipped past. Books she bought. How many times a day she talked to her father.

Lisa pressed her fingers down then, covering the number. She didn't know how she felt to see it all written out like this. She had known Jackson kept meticulous notes on her, but she hadn't thought of what they would contain. She hadn't visualized a tidy file folder with her name printed on it, hadn't imagined the photo, though she could think of a dozen similar times it might have been taken.

"Leese," Jackson said quietly, making her jump. She realized her hand was shaking. "Leese?" His own hands came into view, carefully placing the photo back on top of the notes and closing the folder. He tugged it out of her grasp and added it to the ones in the laptop bag.

She felt very cold, very light. She hugged her arms to herself, rubbing them as if to get warm.

"You ok?" He actually sounded worried. "Leese?"

"Yeah."

The laptop bag disappeared from sight, placed on the floor beside his suitcase. He put the chair back under the desk and came back to sit on the edge of the bed. She could feel the mattress compress under his weight, the bed tilt as he leaned over to peer up at her face. "Are you s—"

"Don't." Each indrawn breath caught, threatened to pull her over the edge to tears. "Don't you dare ask me that. You of all people know better."

"There's a reason your dad kept asking you, you know." She glowered at him, but he went on. "Because he didn't actually ever believe you when you said you were fine. I'm starting to understand. You're a very poor liar."

Suddenly he was there, and she wasn't moving out of the way, just…down, to her back, with Jackson above. She hadn't expected him to lean in, to put an arm on either side of her head, to study her with his inscrutable, wintry eyes. She froze then, hardly breathed, at once terrified and electrified.

"What are you doing?" She barely whispered. He was so close to her, she feared that if she spoke too clearly her lips would brush his. If they did, it would be all over. It had been hard enough to stop days ago, but if he kissed her now? She lacked the inner strength or the power of will to make herself pull away.

"I don't know," he replied simply, quietly. There was bitterness in his voice, but there was confusion, too—signs of conflict within, something she at least understood. "I never know what I'm doing around you." He let his head drop to hers, at the last moment turning his face so he laid his cheek against hers. She stared up at the ceiling, blinking, fighting the rise and fall of her chest. "You're not pushing me away, I couldn't help but notice." His voice had lowered as well, the words making warm swirls against her ear.

She kept her breathing shallow, though his observation was disconcerting. Her arms hadn't come up to stop him, nor had her legs moved to kick him back. She moved a hand just to see if she could—just fine. Maybe it was the champagne? "So now what?"

His body lowered, almost imperceptibly, still hovering inches above hers, but she felt the difference. It was like being in a room where the ceiling was slowly coming down, or like watching a blanket float downward to cover her in comfort. "We could do one of several things," he murmured against her neck. The contact came as a shock, one that made her skin tighten, made the hairs on her arms stand up, made her gasp—which in turn made her chest come into contact with his. Together, this time, they stilled, then he pulled back to gaze down at her.

Seconds could have passed, or minutes, hours. Then he smiled softly, tilted his head, shifted so his mouth nearly touched hers. "You have to meet me halfway," he said, lips so close but just out of reach. "You have to make the last decision. I already showed you what I want, Leese."

He always tells the truth, her logical self whispered.

Her emotional self was louder. She didn't believe him. She couldn't. He was Jackson Rippner, the man who threw her life out of balance. He had done it before. He would twist his own words back around until there was no such thing as simple truth. Everything he did was for his own ends.

She could feel the heat of his breath, could almost taste the champagne he'd had. She had to close off the warring voices in her mind to think clearly. Did she really have the choice? Would he let her make it, and abide by her word? What if he didn't? What if she said…

"No."

His weight disappeared at once. Lisa opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and saw him grab his glass of champagne from the desk and down it in a single gulp. His eyes stayed upon her the whole time as she struggled to sit up.

"You meant it," she said in a voice that nearly resembled his, and he nodded sharply.

When he finally spoke, his tone was weary, defeated; he sagged against the wall as if it was all that held him upright. "So did you."

She didn't know what to say to that.

He pushed off from the wall and grabbed his suitcase. "Goodnight, Lisa," he said, forcing an ironic twist to his lips.

She understood how he felt. It seemed that every night would end like this, with the two of them gasping for air, both wanting something that seemed somehow just not right, not yet, not now. It made her body ache and even her mind was nearly ready to allow it.

But not tonight. "Goodnight, Jackson," she replied, turning to her other side. There was silence for a while, as he stayed where he was, watching her, then she heard the door to the other room open and close with a soft click.

Lisa surreptitiously checked over her shoulder. She was alone in the room.

Too tired to change, she turned out the light and crawled under the blanket. When sleep finally did come, her dreams were full of caresses that never quite made contact, kisses that almost and never were.

Then even those dreams left, and she slept deeply.

.-.-.-.-.