A/N: There are already 145 pages in Bejerot's Diagnosis and Jackson and Lisa haven't even left Miami.

This story is long.

---

It was the middle of July before Jackson heard from the organisation. The last month of high school had gone by uncomfortably, he and Melissa at odds with each other, but once they were jetted off to Miami, the tensions eased a bit. Although placed in the same apartment near the campus of Miami-Dade, their schedules varied immensely. Melissa preferred working on her assignments during the day so her eyes wouldn't be as strained by the computer screen, and he worked best under the cover of night. They typically ate dinner with each other, Melissa ending her day as he began his, but once they began to work with a research analyst from the organisation that she got on well with him, they saw less and less of each other.

On a horribly hot and humid night in July, he'd fallen asleep on a pillow of papers that were for his next assignment, the assassination of a Bulgarian government official, and was jarred awake by the phone on his desk ringing loudly by his head. He shot up, cracking his head on the edge of his lamp, and cursed lightly before picking up the receiver.

'Rippner.'

'Monsieur Rippner,' said an unfamiliar but smooth and polished voice on the other end. 'C'est votre patron.'

Jackson was suddenly very awake. 'Monsieur, enchanté.'

'I've an assignment for you,' the man continued in French. 'You'll need to catch the soonest flight from Miami to Tehran to meet your team.'

'My team?' Jackson asked softly, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

'Ouais,' the boss continued. 'We need a quick job managed. You'll work directly with the assassination squad to accomplish the task as soon as possible. I'll fax you a few key facts within the next few hours, but I expect you to contact your personal assistant immediately to make travel arrangements.'

'Yes sir,' said Jackson, glancing over at the clock. 'I'll get Greg right on the case.'

'I want you to use your Canadian passport for this. It will make it easier for you to enter Iran.'

'I'll make sure that Greg uses that identity, thank you sir.'

'Keep up the good work, Rippner,' said the man, a smile apparent in his voice.

'I will.'

There was a click, and the line went dead as a timid knock sounded on his door. 'Jacks? Are you still awake?'

He took his finger off of the telephone hook and placed the receiver back in the cradle. 'Come in, Melissa.'

The door opened and she peeked in, assuring that he was actually awake and working rather than just sitting up in bed because she'd woken him up. Slipping in the door, she closed it quietly behind her and leaned back against it.

'Do you need something?' he asked, trying his best to appear nonchalant, but really being vaguely excited that she was paying him a visit.

Without a word, she came over to him and held out her left hand where a little diamond was gleaming. He reached out and took her hand lightly, examining the ring with his brow slightly furrowed. She looked down at him, biting her bottom lip before retracting her hand and holding it to her chest.

'He proposed tonight at dinner,' she said to the top of his head as he stared at the place where her hand had been. 'I said yes.'

He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes hollow as he spoke in a choked voice. 'You barely know him.'

'Sometimes time doesn't matter,' she said with a smile, bending down to sit on her knees. 'You just know that something's right, and you don't have to spend a lot of time deliberating.'

She stretched her neck, placing her chin on his knees and looking up to smile at him.

'I love him.'

Looking into her eyes, his face softened and he reached up to run his fingers through her hair. 'Congratulations, Peach.'

Reaching out, she grabbed his legs and hugged them tightly. 'That's more like it.'

He leaned down and kissed her lightly atop her head. 'I'm leaving to go to Tehran tomorrow. I don't know when I'll be back.'

'Tehran?' she asked from against his legs. 'Why Tehran?'

'The boss just called me and told me to get on the earliest plane out to Iran. I was about to call Greg to buy plane tickets when you walked in.'

'Do I need to make anything?' she asked, trying to raise her head, but he kept his forehead against the top of her head to stop her from doing so.

'Nothing,' he said lightly.

---

'Howland.'

Jackson looked out at the bright landscape of Tehran two days later. 'Greg, it's Jackson. I've just landed in Tehran; who do I look for?'

There was typing in the background. 'They haven't assigned you to someone you know. This is a joint assignment; you'll be working for the team created by the people who hired you to manage.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'I've never heard of a joint assignment.'

'They're not common,' the man assured him. 'You'll be looking for a man named Reza, a tall Lebanese in his late thirties. He'll be wearing a business suit and carrying a copy of the Iran Daily.'

Jackson looked at the business travellers around him. 'That… really doesn't narrow it down.'

'He'll be waiting by the baggage claim for the seven-fifteen from Paris, holding up the newspaper to shield his eyes from the sun as he looks at the baggage carousel and checks the tags of a couple of bags our people put on in France.'

'That's more like it,' Jackson replied, pressing his cell phone close to his face as he made his way quickly to the baggage claim. From a distance, he could see the man and smiled a bit. 'Found him. Please alert the organisation and expect a report once the assignment is complete.'

He pushed the end button before there was a reply and slipped the phone into his bag. He took long strides towards the exit as he pulled out his sunglasses but dropped them right before he got to Reza. The Lebanese man noticed the sign and looked over at Jackson, who had bent down to retrieve his glasses.

'Problems finding your bag?' Jackson asked the man as he straightened himself, popping the lens back into the frames of his sunglasses.

'They must have forgotten to put it on the plane in Paris,' Reza replied, putting his copy of the Iran Daily under his arm. 'It will probably come on the next flight.'

'Hopefully,' Jackson replied, slipping his sunglasses on. 'Do you at least live around here so they can send it to you when it gets here?'

Reza nodded slowly. 'I live right near the Bazaar. There are a lot of tourists every day, but it is very convenient.'

'Ah, I'm staying near the Bazaar while I'm here.'

'Is that so?' Reza asked, leaning down to pick up his briefcase from the floor next to his feet. 'Perhaps you would care for a ride?'

'Oh, I couldn't intrude,' said Jackson as he placed his hands in front of him.

'Really, it is fine. I am sure you do not speak Farsi, and it would be easier for you to just take a ride right now and use a taxi to come back at the end of your trip when you know the city better.'

'In that case, I'm very thankful.'

Jackson followed Reza out of the terminal and to a parking structure near the airport. They didn't speak a word to each other as they drove away, mixing into the morning traffic as Jackson pulled out his glasses case and replaced the sunglasses on his face with his prescription glasses. Reza looked over at him with distaste.

'They told me they were going to send a professional,' Reza spat, swerving through traffic. 'But you are nothing but a school boy.'

Blue eyes turned on the Lebanese man. 'I assure you, I am a professional.'

'You can not be any older than eighteen,' hissed Reza, glaring over at Jackson.

'You're right, I've just turned eighteen a couple of months ago,' Jackson said honestly, slipping his glasses case back into his briefcase. 'But sometimes age doesn't matter. This business is reliant on ingenuity which is something that I have plenty of.'

'What are your credentials?' Reza asked with an air of what Melissa would best define as 'general douchebaggery.'

'I managed the Rabin and Hebborn assassinations,' Jackson said, setting his jaw. 'In addition to April's plane crash in Croatia that killed Secretary Brown and the other thirty-something people on board.'

Reza gripped the steering wheel tighter, seemingly upset that Jackson was able to pull out such high-profile assignments as those. 'The file is under your seat. We'd like to put your plan in effect within the next twenty-four hours.'

With a quick glare at Reza, Jackson reached under his seat and pulled out the classic manila folder, flipping it open on his lap. As they sped along, he glanced over all of the information, creating a workable plan in his head. It was a businessman in his early forties, two children, married. He'd become involved in the government as of recently and had threatened the interests of the wife of one of the members of Reza's group, which Jackson was surprised to notice wasn't mentioned anywhere by name. Despite paying for the help, they obviously didn't trust the World Society, and for a moment, this fact made him very uncomfortable. He shook it off and went back to synthesising the information: the man always worked late nights at his office and took the same route to and from work. Apparently he had absolutely no idea that he'd disturbed anyone with his policies or he'd have changed something about his daily tasks.

'I can have the final plan for you in ten hours,' Jackson said confidently, closing the file and putting it in his briefcase. 'Would your men be ready to participate in the kidnapping this evening?'

'Of course,' Reza replied, driving past the Bazaar. 'We will be extremely upset, however, if we gather and you do not provide the plan.'

When Jackson looked over at Reza, the man was giving him a dark look, but it didn't faze him. Rather, he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and then just looked back at the road. 'I'll have your plan, you can be sure of that.'

---

'Good evening, sir.'

The Persian businessman stepped towards the car, raising his eyebrow at the driver. 'Good evening… where is Kamyar?'

Reza smiled lightly at the man, thinking about the dead driver curled up in the trunk of the Mercedes. 'He fell ill earlier in the day. His doctor believes it may be food poisoning, but he should be better in a couple of days. The agency sent me to replace him.'

The man still seemed hesitant, but he took a careful step towards the car anyway, scanning the backseat before getting in and setting his briefcase next to him. Reza closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, slipping in and starting the vehicle. They drove along quietly before Reza took a sharp turn onto the Bozorgrah-e-Afriqa and the businessman looked around, confused.

'I'm afraid you must have received the wrong directions,' he said with an uncomfortable smile, looking back at the Bozorgrah-e-Shahid Hemmat. 'Kamyar usually cuts through the Park-e-Ayatollah Taleqani… it's the fastest way to get to my home.'

Reza slammed on the brakes and the businessman's briefcase went flying forward just a moment before the other back door opened and a thin Caucasian man stepped in, sitting beside him with a serious look on his pale face. The doors locked and the car sped off again as the businessman pressed himself against his door.

'Mr Fathi,' said Jackson, offering his hand to the older man. 'A pleasure to meet you.'

'What's going on?' the man asked fearfully, ignoring Jackson's outstretched hand.

Jackson frowned and took his hand back, leaning back against the seat. 'Well, it should be obvious that you're being kidnapped.'

'Kidnapped?' asked Mr Fathi, looking between Jackson and Reza. 'What… what have I done?'

'You've intervened against Anooseh Mugniyah,' replied Reza in angry Farsi, glaring at the man from the rear-view mirror. 'You're being kidnapped now, but don't worry, you won't be held for long – before morning, you'll be dead.'

Tears formed at the corners of the businessman's eyes and Jackson looked at Reza questioningly. 'What did you tell him?'

'The truth of the matter,' Reza responded, turning quickly onto another street. A minute later, they pulled up to a warehouse and were immediately surrounded by six armed men.

The businessman was pulled harshly from the car and shoved towards the warehouse as Jackson, carrying Mr Fathi's briefcase, followed, watching Reza's reactions to the entire process. They all walked in the large sliding doors of the place and slammed them shut, locking them before taking Mr Fathi to a back room that had previously been used as a shipping office.

'I don't even know who Anooseh Mugniyah is!' said Mr Fathi, tears running down his face. 'How could I make threats against someone I don't know?'

Jackson looked at the group of people before stepping back to lean against the wall. He didn't speak a single word of Farsi, so beyond planning, he was pretty much hopeless. A heated conversation broke out between Reza and Fathi, and, lulled by the unknown language, Jackson let his mind wander until a loud beeping from his hands brought him back to reality. At first, he thought it was his cell phone, but he quickly found that it was Fathi's ringing from the recesses of his briefcase. He dug out the phone and looked at it questioningly before focusing his attention at Fathi.

'Who's calling?' he asked, holding the phone up as he crossed the room to press it in Fathi's face.

'My wife,' Fathi replied with a choked sob. 'The children are going to bed, and I sing to them every night before they go to sleep.'

Jackson glanced at Reza for just a moment before pressing the speak button on the phone and holding it to Fathi's ear, the look on his face telling him not to try anything cute. Fathi regained his composure and spoke calmly to his wife in smooth Farsi. Every few seconds, Jackson looked back at Reza to make sure that Fathi wasn't betraying anything, but considering that Reza was holding an AK-47, he figured that if Fathi did say anything, he'd know about it pretty quickly.

There was a pause and Jackson looked into Fathi's eyes. The older man licked his lips before changing his voice to the higher-pitched tone that parents use with their young children. Jackson could hear young voices chattering on the other end, and in a moment, Fathi started singing an Iranian lullaby softly. Jackson, to his surprise, felt as though a load of ice had been dropped into the pit of his stomach, but he didn't let anyone around him know that the wavering tenor was bothering him. It was the longest couple of minutes of his life, listening to the man sing, and even a couple of the assassins around him were turning away uncomfortably. The song stopped and Fathi looked sadly at Jackson before whispering sweetly into the phone and then dropping his head.

Hesitantly, Jackson pulled the phone away from his ear and pushed the end button, holding the phone tightly in his hand as he watched Fathi starting to cry again softly. The room was silent except for Fathi's crying, but after a moment, there was the sound of a gun being raised and Jackson looked back, startled, as Reza squeezed the trigger of his gun and peppered Fathi with bullets before Jackson could even make a noise. Fathi slumped forward in his seat and Jackson backed up a couple of steps, dropping the cell phone into a pool of blood near his feet. Some of the men in the room backed up, looking between Fathi and Reza, complete shock apparent on their faces.

'This wasn't part of my plan,' seethed Jackson, glaring at Reza.

'And it was not part of my plan to pull in a third party,' Reza replied, turning the gun on Jackson. 'It is a pity that your organisation knows where you are, because if it were up to me, I would kill you just as I killed Fathi.'

Jackson's glare didn't break, and after a moment, Reza barked an order to the men and a couple of them dragged Jackson to the alley outside of the warehouse and shoved him in the car. They didn't actually drive anywhere for a few minutes, and for a short while, Jackson thought that Reza had ordered them to execute him despite what he'd said back in the office. When a hand reached back to him, he instinctively cringed back only to find that one of the men was offering him a cigarette.

'Sigaar?' asked the man, holding it up to Jackson.

At first, Jackson was hesitant to accept, but after considering it for a moment, he took the cigarette and placed it between his lips. The man gave him a light, and then they drove away from the warehouse, all three smoking a bit uncomfortably. Jackson took nervous drags of the cigarette, looking out at the dark roads of Tehran as he turned over in his head how things had gone that night. He wasn't sure what bothered him the most: the fact that someone who was supposed to be a subordinate went against the set plan, that the thought of Fathi's singing made that icy terror return to his stomach, or the issue that more than anything at that point in time, he'd have loved to ravage Lyna.

---

Jackson was stuck on the red-eye from New York City to Miami, so by the time he got home and threw his keys on the small table by the door, the apartment was completely silent. He dropped his briefcase and was surprised as Melissa popped up groggily from the couch, a gun in her hands. He held his hands up and she grunted, dropping the gun on the table behind the couch and slipping back down onto the cushions, her hand still propped over the gun.

'Have a good time in Iran?' she asked, her voice muffled by the pillows.

'Not especially,' he said, locking the door and then throwing his blazer towards the couch.

Melissa's hand crept over to take the blazer and he could hear her inhale deeply into the fabric. 'Shower, now.'

'I'll take one in the morning,' he groaned. 'It's not like you have to sleep with me.'

'I washed your sheets whilst you were gone,' she replied before dropping the blazer onto the floor beside the couch. 'Don't get them all funky.'

'I didn't ask you to clean my sheets, Mel,' he said darkly as he untucked his dress shirt.

'I was feeling domestic,' she grunted, turning over and burying her face back into the cushions.

'Goodnight, Peach,' he said as he walked past her to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. She smiled against the pillow when the shower turned on a few minutes later.