A/N: I'm not gonna lie... this is my favourite chapter in the entire story.

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Poulain kept delaying and delaying the opening of American operations once the terror alert system was initialised. It was far too hard to move people and their supplies from area to area, especially the assassins. Whilst the American managers studied the new systems with the help of their contacts at airports and within the government, the Europeans kept the business alive on the other side of the Atlantic. Services within Europe, Africa, Australia and Asia flourished as the Americas and to a certain extent the Middle East stagnated. Jackson spent his days studying the Miami airport carefully, but he had to be extremely covert because the state was under the careful scrutiny of the United States government after it came to light that the terrorists who participated in the attack all lived in Florida prior to 11 September.

Finally, on the first of January, as Jackson celebrated the ringing in of the New Year at the Miami office of the organisation, having been dragged there by his then-girlfriend, a clueless civilian working in the office, a toast was given to Jackson, who had just been faxed a document putting him back on active duty. As the people around him sipped their Kristal joyfully, he took the fax from one of the people in the office who actually knew the true aim of the organisation. He read it, smiling at the people who kept coming to shake hands with him. They all knew that he was stuck in Miami because their fearless leader wanted to keep his American businesspeople safe after the terrorist attacks, but very few people knew that he was one of the terrorists they talked about next to the water tank on work days.

'Congratulations,' said his girlfriend, taking the sides of his face and pressing her lips to his. He ran his fingers through her long, curly brown hair with a smile. 'But you're going to leave the city now, aren't you?'

He looked down into her pouting face, suddenly disgusted by that playgirl-ish, fluttery-eyed glance she was so fond of giving him when she wanted something. He felt the urge to hit her across the face, but instead twisted his fingers tightly into her curls and gave her a sad look.

'Yes, I'm leaving.'

Downing his flute of champagne, he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply, pressing into her mouth with his champagne-flavoured tongue. The ends of her curls teased the top of his hand as he kissed her, and in a sudden fit of rage, he let go of her and flung his champagne flute to the ground, sending the pieces shattering and the crowd into silence.

'Happy New Year, everyone,' he said with a winner of a smile before pushing past his girlfriend and out of the room.

As Jackson walked slightly inebriated to his car, he could hear the party inside counting down to the New Year. He got into the driver's seat, slammed the car door, lit up a cigarette, and turned on the engine, looking through the tall windows of the headquarters where everyone was toasting and smiling, even his solo girlfriend. Holding the cigarette in his teeth, he put the car into gear and drove off at top speed towards South Miami, wishing it were just any Tuesday rather than a huge holiday. He threw the fax from Poulain in the passenger's seat; what upset him the most was seeing Lyna face-to-face again. He'd enjoyed the time away from her.

Taking a sharp turn, he delved farther into South Miami and found a bar he vaguely remembered being dragged to by Melissa one birthday. It wasn't too fancy, in fact it was a bit run down, but the lights were always dimmed and the music classic. He parked his car in a crowded lot and walked over to the door of the place, trying to play it straight. Perhaps it was Ian who took him, he realised as he pushed open the door and the sounds of smooth jazz filled his ears.

Apparently at some point during his drive, people had started filtering home (or perhaps they were never at this bar at all) and just about fifteen patrons remained scattered about the place. There were a couple of empty stools at the bar, so he took one and gestured to the barkeep. The man walked over and looked at Jackson warily, but didn't say anything.

'I'll have an Absolutely Screwed,' he said, and the man turned, but Jackson cleared his throat to re-grab his attention. 'With Grey Goose, if you have it. Ah, and Grand Marnier rather than Triple Sec.'

The man turned back and began mixing up Jackson's drink as he looked up and down the bar. There were a couple of other guys who looked absolutely drunk off their asses but still managed to talk very loudly to each other about nothing in particular, an older woman who very obviously was trying to look younger with her over-tanned skin and bottle-blonde hair, a couple in the middle of a very noisy make-out session, and finally, at the very end of the bar nearly completely enveloped by shadows, a woman about his age. He watched her as he downed three of the cocktails and finally, in his completely inebriated state, decided it was a winner idea to go try to pick her up. Taking his fourth cocktail, he wove over to her.

'Do you mind if sit here?'

She looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, and from the pattern her mascara had taken, he could guess she'd been crying most of the evening. As her head turned, she nearly fell off the stool, but he managed to steady her with one hand, pushing her back towards the bar as he sat down. She slumped down onto her elbows, pushing back her hair from her temples. As she sighed, Jackson could almost taste the vodka, lime and cranberry juice oozing out of her pores.

Looking over at her, he smiled. 'Bad day?'

'Beginning of a bad year,' she slurred. 'Finished graduate school last month... started a job.'

'What are you doing?' he asked, taking a sip at his drink.

'Manager,' she said simply, running her finger on the edge of her glass.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Same here.'

Her finger stopped, but she didn't look at him. 'My parents are getting divorced.'

Jackson laughed a little into his drink. 'Aren't you a little old to have parents who are getting divorced?'

She looked at him in her peripheral vision but then looked back to the glass. 'Are your parents still together?'

'They're dead.'

'Oh,' she said, looking up at him uncomfortably. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' he replied quickly, downing his drink and then making a bitter face as he snapped at the bartender and pointed to the empty glass. 'I'm not.'

She furrowed her brow and curled in a little before slipping off of the stool and steadying herself on the edge of the bar. Digging into the little purse hanging from her shoulder, she threw some bills on the counter and then began to stagger away from him, but he spun around and caught her by the wrist.

'Let go of me,' she said, her speech clear as day but her eyes blurred with intoxication.

'It's not safe for you to go out like this, not on a night like this one,' he replied, loosening his grip. 'I can take you home.'

She laughed a bit. 'You move quickly.'

'What's your name?'

He could see her mind moving as quickly as possible before she answered. 'Celeste.'

'Is that why your purse has an 'L' on it?' he asked, giving her a cold look.

'I borrowed it,' she replied with a little smile, taking her arm from him before backing away on shaky but shapely legs. 'It was nice meeting you, Mister...?'

'Poulain,' he said quickly but confidently. 'Christian Poulain.'

'Not a very American name,' she replied, obviously less tense.

'I'm not American, I'm Swiss,' he admitted. 'But I was born and raised in New York.'

She gave an affirming noise, nodding her head a little so that one of her curls fell out of her already loose French twist. 'What are you doing here in Miami, Mr Poulain?'

Without thinking, he reached out a long arm and curled the hair around his finger. She held her breath as she looked at him, not sure how to respond.

'Business,' he finally said, looking into her tear-cleared green eyes. 'I work for my adoptive father's company.'

'The World Society,' she said with certainty.

He nodded his head, tipping it to one side, puckering his lips, and narrowing his eyes. 'Good guess. You know your International Business.'

'A required course,' she replied simply. 'Your father is very... influential.'

He smiled at her choice of words. 'Indeed he is. And how is my influence?'

She laughed. 'Lacking.'

With Jackson gaping after her, she walked unsteadily out of the bar and found her way to the curb. By the time Jackson threw down an over payment onto the counter and followed her, she was already getting into a taxi. He caught the door before it closed and looked in at her.

'At least tell me your real name,' he pleaded. 'And then I'll leave you alone.'

'Lisa Reisert,' she replied before reaching out and taking the door from him.

As the cab drove off, he watched after it and then staggered off to finish his evening. By the next morning, however, neither of them had absolutely any recollection of the events that transpired. Lisa woke up in the entry hall of her apartment with a pounding headache; Jackson woke up in his condominium on the coast, realised after a short while that he had absolutely no clue where his car was, and was completely convinced he bypassed the system when he had no hangover. That, of course, was before he had the hangover pass over him when he was awake, and he immediately wished for the sweet release of death. The New Year was ushered in for them twenty minutes away from each other but completely alone.