Author's Note: Wow, some of you guys have sent me the sweetest messages in reviews and over PMs. I have friends over this weekend and I'm going to an Android Lust gig tonight (they're great, go listen) but I'll get around to replying to you all over the next 36 hours. Thank you! Have more Jane.

Jane's mind was racing with elated adrenaline. Freedom tasted so sweet that she swore she'd never take the sunlight or the breeze in her hair for granted again. Sure, she had a killer headache coming on from not taking her time to adjust to the brightness of natural light, but being able to feel the sun on her skin was worth it.

She managed to ascertain that she was in the Pacific Northwest from reading road signs, but with no memory of having visited the area, she had no idea where she might be able to safely lay low. During her time in CIA custody, she'd had a lot of time to think and plan, so she had her first basic steps planned out.

The first thing she'd need to do was find shoes and clothing to hide her institutional appearance. Operating on a hunch, she turned into a residential street not too far from the black site and found that some homeowners had hung laundry in their backyards to dry, taking advantage of the fine weather.

With a silent apology to the owners, she stole a functional pair of underwear, a mismatched pair of socks, a green shirt that looked about the right size and a pair of blue jogging pants that were definitely too large. She'd lost fat and muscle mass during captivity.

She thought she'd struck out when it came to shoes, but spotted a pair of muddy sneakers on someone's back porch. They were neon pink under the grime, and they pinched her toes uncomfortably, but at least she could walk into public places and be judged 'sloppy with bad fashion sense', rather than 'escaped CIA detainee'. A droopy yellow sunhat completed the disguise.

Thanking her stars she hadn't run into any territorial dogs or irate homeowners with firearms, Jane got back into the truck and drove as far as she dared before finding a pawn shop in the seediest part of town.

The owner didn't blink an eye when she pawned the shotgun and ammo she'd stolen from the CIA agent, handing over the cash as though he saw battered women in crazy outfits desperately trying to get money every day. Maybe he did. What mattered was that he wouldn't call the cops on her.

She thought about using the money to buy a handgun, but decided against it. It would need to stretch as far as possible, and though having a gun would make her feel better, food, shelter and gas money were more important at the moment.

Her conspicuous burden unloaded, she got back into the pickup and scoped out the area, before finally abandoning the vehicle near a busy intersection close to a train station, with roads leading four different directions. The CIA wouldn't know which way she'd gone from here, and there was always the possibility that she'd travelled to another city entirely via public transport.

It was tempting to do just that—take a train far away—but her bruises and tattoos would be remembered and if the ticket salesperson was questioned, they might remember her destination. That would make her no safer than if she stayed here.

She'd need to find a car that wouldn't be reported stolen for a few hours—enough time for her to travel, abandon it and be on her way before it was found. Hotwiring wouldn't be a problem for her—apparently, it was one of her many talents—but eventually she was going to need to lay low and nurse her injuries. Preferably somewhere soft, and with food.

Just the idea of sleeping in a real bed brought tears to her eyes. She walked quickly, keeping her head down to hide her face from any cameras, and clutched her money tightly in one hand, cursing her lack of foresight. Should have stolen clothes with pockets. Damn women's fashion designers.

She had four hundred dollars. She'd have to be sparing, but at least she could grab some food. She stopped at a corner stand and bought a hot dog, longing for coffee as well, but knowing she would have to stop to eat if she had to juggle a hot drink and one of the giant dogs. She walked and ate at the same time, devouring the hot, delicious junk food without a thought for the terrible meal she would have been given at the black site. Then she stopped at a second stand to grab a coffee.

The woman serving her blinked at the sight of Jane's bruised face. "You need help, honey?"

Yes. God, yes.

She shook her head. "Thanks, but I'm fine."

After an hour of walking, Jane hit another residential area and commandeered a cloth bag and a second set of clothing, not quite as mismatched as the last. Switching up her disguise made her feel marginally safer, and she ignored the protests of her bruised body to walk for another hour, finally giving in and breaking into an old building that looked to have once been a video rental store. It had definitely gone out of business.

Exhausted, she dropped the bag containing her spare disguise on the floor and did a quick sweep of the building, a discarded metal pipe held in front of her in case she wasn't alone. The place was empty, though it hadn't been too hard to break into. She might have company from the local homeless population later on, and maybe a few cats or rats. As long as they stayed out of her way and minded their own business, she wouldn't care.

With a longing thought of a real mattress and blanket, Jane wadded up her spare clothing to use as a pillow and tried to get comfortable in a corner, out of sight of the door she'd entered through. She didn't want to rest, but her body demanded it. Plus, if she didn't get out of sight she might get swooped up off the streets by Jake and his men.

With all her heart, she wished she could find a payphone and call Weller, but she couldn't depend on him, not anymore. Patterson, Reade, Zapata and Borden would all go straight to him if she tried to contact them.

Oscar was dead, but she'd tried to make it look like Cade had been responsible. She still had the number memorised for 'Joey's Pizza', the fake business she used to call to arrange a meet with her handler, and eventually, she'd use it. But not now. Before she got back in contact with Oscar's people, she'd need to heal, make some cash, get back into fighting shape. Eventually, she'd find Shepherd and demand answers. But that would have to wait until she could hold her own.

God, everything hurts. Especially her right arm. She'd had real trouble lifting it over her head to change shirts, and since then it had stiffened up even more. Fearing her strength had waned too much to knock out her captors, she'd overdone it.

Where could she go now? She had no passport to cross the border into Canada legally, and no contacts she could remember who could help her get the right papers. It made the most sense to settle someplace within a reasonable drive of New York, so she could keep whatever cash-in-hand job she managed to find while being able to follow the instructions of whoever was now her designated handler.

Pennsylvania? If Kurt ever found her, the proximity to Clearfield might rub him the wrong way. Though she no longer trusted him, the last thing she wanted was to add anything else to his list of grievances.

They'd expect her to go north of New York, to look for a chance to cross into Canada. She'd go south instead. New Jersey was within decent driving distance. At least the ZIP hadn't wiped out her basic recollection of US geography.

Jane tried to turn over, winced, and stayed in her original position. Uncomfortable was better than painful.

Her last thoughts before she fell into an uneasy sleep were of Kurt Weller. She'd always relied on him for guidance and help when she needed it. Knowing that avenue of aid was denied to her now hurt more than she could describe.