Hello everybody! We are nearing the end (I promise). Only two or three more chapters to go I think. Thank you for being so patient and for all the comments and constructive criticism. Just a head s up: this one is violent and has some gore. Consider yourself warned.


A.J. Chegwidden had been in love. He knew its pangs and its heady passion. He knew the torture and helplessness of it as well. He also knew that Harmon Rabb and Sarah Mackenzie had been in love with each other for years. He was not blind after all. In truth, he had felt the strange charge in the air the moment the two of them touched for the first time, all those years ago in the White House rose garden. "Don't get too familiar." He had not planned to say that, but the confused blush in Mac's cheeks and intensity of Harm's gaze immediately spelt trouble. He had been there with Rabb particularly. He knew of the indiscretion committed with Kate Pike, resolved quickly with her transferring out. And while Meg Austin had not confided in him exactly, it had been clear she was losing her struggle to keep her feelings for the handsome Commander in check, when she too brought up her request for another billet. He did not want to lose Sarah Mackenzie the same way. No matter she had been thrust upon him by the machinations of the CIA. The moment she arrived A.J. knew he had an exceptionally talented and dedicated litigator on his hands and was not about to let her go.

It had not taken long for the obvious attraction between Rabb and Mackenzie to manifest itself, more often than not in a manner disruptive to his own mental health but beneficial to their work abilities. Rabb had been among his finest from the start, but it was really only after Mac infused herself into his life and work that he became the best. She kept him sharp and always on his toes. It was her own determination and take-no-prisoners approach that made him strive for what at times seemed impossible. It worked the other way round too. They both knew they were good. It was the competitive spirit and the desire to best each other that let them grow and outrun nearly everybody else. At time A.J. wished for a little peace and merely hoped they would figure it out - whatever "it" really was - so he could just transfer one of them and be done with it. At the same time, he dreaded the same prospect because he was not ready to let go of either of them. He did not envy general Cresswell who would have to do just that - if not anything worse considering the fraternization charges that were still hovering in the air - now.

When he and Kershaw had finally managed to coax the half-laughing, half-sobbing couple out of a snow pile and back into the house, both Harm and Mac were soaked. Still half-embracing they stumbled into what was now Harm's bedroom to change. A.J. had assured them that Mac could borrow whatever clothes Francesca had left behind.

A.J. poured bourbon into two glasses and handed one to Kershaw as they both sank into comfortable armchairs. The snow behind the windowpane was falling steadily, the grey morning remaining somewhat murky.

"So how did you find her?" A.J. asked, sipping on his drink.

"We didn't really," Kershaw smiled wryly. "As usual, your JAG officers have a way of sorting things out themselves. Even the most damn situations imaginable."

"Meaning?"

"She called us. Didn't know where she was exactly but simply let the call go on until we could trace the signal."

"So... where was she?"

"I'm afraid that is classified. Let's just say it was a very well hidden mansion in the woods, in the middle of a lake and CIA has already claimed it for its own future needs."

"Are you really not going to tell me?" A.J. pressed, rather annoyed.

"Need to know," Kershaw just shrugged and downed his bourbon in one swig. "Isn't it enough that she has been found and this whole shameful matter is over for good?"

"Is it over?"

"Clayton Webb is dead."

"I do recall he has been dead before," A.J. scoffed.

"He is dead," Kershaw simply repeated, his eyes fixed on the hearth, as if the fire in it was lit and burning. It wasn't.

"How?"

"That is why I'm here. Mackenzie refused to be debriefed until she met Rabb. All I know is what I saw there."

A.J. leaned forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees. It was not a threatening posture but one which still indicated more needed to be said. Kershaw let out a long, tired sight and rubbed his temples. He looked worn down.

"When we got there," he began quietly, "Mackenzie was standing at the edge of the lake just in jeans and a sweater. She must have been freezing but said nothing, just demanded we got her off the island. Her clothes, her hands... were all bloody. She had a gun. We send her away but she had to wait for us at the other bank. The agents secured the area but there was nobody else. Or maybe I should say nobody alive."

A.J. looked up sharply. "Are you saying... Mac killed him?"

"She was the only one breathing and she had the gun. Not to mention a cause."

A.J. could not help himself but remember Clayton Webb as he had first met him. Annoying, selfish brat who somewhat still managed to charm, unwittingly, almost everyone at the same time. Young. Promising if exasperating. A man was willing to do anything for his country. That was something the old seal could respect. He lost contact with Webb in the last few years. The information about his affair with Mac, her disappearance and the fact Webb went... not rogues exactly, but off the rails for sure... were still new to him. And now... now the man was dead.

"Webb is gone," he mumbled under his breath, trying out this new reality.

"Not just Webb," Kershaw said suddenly as he got up and helped himself, completely without asking, to more bourbon. "It was a slaughterhouse, A.J. There were six other people dead besides Webb. Two were domestic staff, a maid and a cook. She was shot in the back, apparently, she had tried running away. Upstairs there were four more. Two men, bodyguards. One had his head blown right off. The other had five bullets in his torso. Then there was a woman we identified as one Letizia Polarski. Used to be a CIA psychiatrist before she married into some serious money and inherited it all sometime later. We have not had her in sight since, but I suppose she kept in contact with the Webbs. She would have known them from work."

Kershaw sat down again and studied the liquid in his glass. A.J. could imagine that he was replaying the gruesome scene in his head.

"You said there were six others. Who was the sixth?" A.J. asked, though he already suspected which name was on the list of the dead.

"Porter Webb. One shot to the stomach. She bled out. Was probably the first one to be shot because somebody tried to save her. She had a makeshift bandage wrapped around the wound, but it was too ineffectual."

"You think Mac killed them." It wasn't a question.

"I don't know," Kershaw replied. "But what would you think? She is the only one who was found alive and unharmed. Not to mention she was holding the gun when we arrived. Look, A.J., I am willing to hear another theory. That is why I am here. She needs to talk though."

"I will," Mac's voice came suddenly as she stepped into the room. The offer of Francesca's old clothes notwithstanding, she was wrapped in one of Harm's new T-shirts and slacks. She obviously did not give a damn about what she looked like in front of her former CO or the director of the CIA. Harm was right behind her, ushering her to the sofa. There they sat down together, his hand holding hers, his eyes never leaving her face. He still had that relieved look but there was also something darker in his gaze. A.J. could not have known that Harm had spend the past few minutes tracing bruises, new and old, that now marred Mac's skin.

"You don't need to go through it all right now," Harm said, disregarding Kershaw's obvious desire to finally learn the truth. "You do not have to relive it right at this moment. They can wait. I can wait. Until you are ready." he would be damned if he would let anyone force Mac to remember anything that she might not want to.

"I'm ready," was her simple answer as she brushed her thumb reassuringly over his knuckles. Was it her or him who really needed the support not to break down right now, A.J. wondered.

Mac slowly sat up straight, looking Kershaw directly in the eyes.

"It was Webb. He killed everybody. For weeks I was trapped in that house with him and his mother, Polarski would make a visit every now and then. They tried to force me to take care of him. He... he was having a really difficult time dealing with his withdrawal from the drug... Webb's mother, she pretty much promised Webb could have me if he got better but... eventually it backfired."

Mac paused. Her voice was cold and composed, but it was obvious there would be no details shared. As much as she held it together, as much as she could almost convince everyone she was completely fine, whatever she had lived through was still too raw.

"What was Polarski's role in all this?" Kershaw asked. "Why was she brought in?"

"She tried to shrink my head," Mac let out a bitter laugh. "She was trying to manipulate me, to feel guilty and act on my guilt towards Webb. When I did not give her this reaction, she chose to intimidate me. She... she was horrible."

"Mac, you don't have to..." Harm interjected again, but she only shook her head.

"But I do. I do have to. I have to get it out of my head because if I don't... I truly will go mad. And then they will have won, even if they are all dead."


It was ironic, really. The day was gorgeous outside. The wintery gloom was gone for once and the sun was piercing the clouds in the bring blue sky. It made the snow on the ground sparkle like diamonds and for some reason, the smell of the pine seemed sweeter and stronger than usual.

They thrust her into the room with Webb again. But when he looked at her she could see something had changed. He was as haggard-looking as ever. But his eyes were clear. Truly clear. Not just of the hazy fog of drugs and alcohol, but of the madness that had so often overtaken him. For a moment there she could almost forget, for a moment there he was her friend, Webb, from the old days when he could be relied upon.

"Sarah?" he asked. It was all surreal. As if he was seeing her for the first time in years. As if he hadn't almost broken her wrist just yesterday. She did not answer. She would never say a word to him again.

They spend the next few hours in that room: she crouched in the corner, he sitting cross-legged in front of her. For the first time since this torture had begun, he was not begging or yelling. He was just sitting there, in silence. He was crying.

His eyes were clear.

He tried to touch her then, gently.

She flinched and he quickly withdrew his hand away. She was expecting that hand to ball into a fist and fly into her face. It never did.

Then the next day came.

And the gunshots.

the gunshots were what woke her up. She ran out of the room and down the stair only to see the cook and the maid already dead in the living room. Webb still had the gun in his hand, his arm was still raised. When he saw her he let out a cry. She did not wait and darted back up into the room. Hide. That was all she could think about. Hide! But where?"

She barely managed to get upstairs when he caught up with her. He pressed himself against her. She struggled in vain. The muzzle of the gun was wedged under her chin. Hot tears streamed down her face. She was terrified.

His mouth was pressed to her ear.

"Love you... Sarah... love you... I will... save you... us..."

The guards tore him away from her. The one who held him died first, underestimating Webb's strength and speed. The bullet tore off half of his head.

Blood and brain splattered over the room, over Webb.

The other guard was holding Mac in a vice-grip. Wanting to defend himself he roughly thrust her away to reach for his own gun, causing her to fall. She cried out as she painfully hit the corner of the closet. Webb reacted without thinking. He fired. Once. Twice. A hundred times perhaps? The other guard slummed to the ground, lifeless.

Blood. Over the room. Over Mac.

She was completely helpless and that feeling terrified her more than the knowledge that she would be next. Surely she would be.

Screaming. Polarski ran into the room, Porter Webb on her heels. Polarski looked like she would faint, but she started to throw up instead. Porter Webb started to tug on her son's arm. Her face was ashen but she tried to remain calm. She stepped over the mess that once was her employee and tried to take Webb's face in her hands.

He had already grabbed the dead man's gun now that his own became useless.

"Clayton, please, stop this madness," she half-pleaded, half-commanded. "You have overcome the worst! It will only get better."

"It's too late!" he only laughed. His laugh was ugly. "Too late!"

"No, it is not!" she insisted. "You just need to relax now. You have beaten the drugs. Now if you just let good doctor here..."

At that mention, Webb finally noticed Polarski's presence.

"You," he said coldly. That was all.

A shot. A scream. Another shot. Somebody was screaming. Not Polarski. Polarski was dead, her eyes wide and terrified and unblinking now that she stopped breathing.

"Clayton!" Porter Webb slapped him hard. The witch was crying. And screaming. How could she be scolding and screaming at the same time?

"Let's leave! Let's go somewhere else! Darling boy! Just me, and you... and Sarah here. See? Your lovely Sarah..."

"Stop it!" he shouted in her face. "Stop saying that! Stop lying to me! She is not mine! She hates me! She hates me and she will always hate me! And you know what, mother? She is right!"

He roughly pushed her away and looked at Mac. He too was crying.

Somebody was still screaming. Why wouldn't they stop screaming?

Hands full of blood could have been his or hers. Somehow Mac was now holding a gun.

"Shoot me!" he seemed to be saying, but that could not have been it. "I want to die! You want me dead! Shoot me! I can't... I can't go on like this. Sarah, please... please?"

It was her that was screaming. She only realized that because suddenly Porter Webb was next to her as well and slapped her hard and viciously across the face. The pain made the reality less blurry. Mac stopped screaming. But there was still the gun and the blood and the hands.

She took the gun but it was immediately wrestled away from her. As if in slow motion she watched Porter Webb raising it to shoot her. Then Webb launched himself towards his mother. They wrestled for the gun, both desperate.

A shot. A howl. Blood and the smell of death that was already permeating every atom of oxygen in the room. Porter Webb was lying on the ground, holding her stomach, whimpering.

Perhaps it was hours as Mac watched and Clayton Webb watched as the woman was bleeding.

Then Webb slowly turned back to Mac.

This was it.

This was her own death.

But then he raised the gun and put it to his own temple.

"Clay..." she croaked involuntarily, breaking her vow. It was all too much. She could take no more. "Clay..."

"I love you," he said and then he pulled the trigger.


It was not yet noon. Mac was sitting on Admiral's sofa. Alive and safe. The three men were quiet. None of them knew what to say. Mac did not delve into the details. Her narrative was dry, almost academic and detached. But all of them had seen death, all of them had killed and all of them had vivid imagination. It was Kershaw who eventually cleared his throat and had a few more questions.

"You tried to save Porter Webb?"

"I.. don't know if I tried to save her," Mac shook her head. "I was just in that room and it smelled of blood and they were all dead. I don't know how long... then I realized she was still breathing and even though it was her... I just didn't want her to be dead. I could not be the only one alive in that house. So I tried to stop the bleeding but... I couldn't."

Her shoulders slumped, her eyes closed. Her strength was nearly spent. It was all she could do to hold onto her dignity and not just crawl into Harm's lap and sleep for a thousand years. It was all it took for him not to crush her to him and never let go, never let her remember all that horror. A.J. Chegwidden has made his way through half of the bourbon bottle.

"When she finally died, I just went through the house, rummaging. I finally found the cell phone. I... I couldn't recall any numbers at that moment. But there were some CIA contacts in that cell so I called one and requested to be connected to you... you know the rest."

Kershaw finally stood up, shook Mac's hand and turned to the door.

"Is this it?" Harm asked. "What happens now?"

"Well, I have no reason not to believe what I have heard. Frankly, even if my original theory had proven correct and Colonel Mackenzie would have been the one who shot them all... this is all top secret, as I imagine you already realize. You are not to talk about it with anyone. If Colonel Mackenzie needs any help regarding her mental health, feel free to contact me and I will get you some of our best people. To put it simply: Webb was on our sweep list, his mother was blackmailing the company and the others in the house were accomplices to kidnapping if nothing else. The case is closed. We have no more ghosts to hunt. Thank you, Colonel, for being so cooperative. I hope this is the last time we see each other."

With that, he left.

"At least that sentiment is mutual," Mac muttered. With closed eyes, she leaned against Harm's shoulder. Stead, warm shoulder. She sighed.

Whatever happened now did not matter. They were together.

"I imagine you don't really have the appetite," A.J. said awkwardly, unsure of what to do next. He felt like an intruder now that he was left alone with just the two lovers. "But how does a pizza delivery sound to you both?"

Harm looked at him as if he was crazy and A.J. wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Mac has just been through the most traumatic experience and he was offering her... a pizza.

Then to his immense relief, he heard a giggle. An actual giggle.

The Marine kept her head on Harm's shoulder and her eyes closed, but her words were quite clear.

"I don't want pizza. I want a burger. And mashed potatoes. And chocolate ice cream."

"Anything else, your highness?" Harm asked with a small smile.

"Yes," she answered. "Hold me."

He did.