Agent Lang sat in a chair across from the bathroom, door ajar, trying to listen and not listen at the same time. It had been about an hour since she'd handed Alex the phone and told him that Pam was on the other end. She could still picture the look of stunned disbelief on his face. He'd resisted for all of two seconds, protesting that he didn't want to jerk his wife around any more than he had already. But they both knew that he couldn't refuse the phone right then any more than he could refuse a suitable narcotic.

Lang had backed off a bit, monitoring what was going on so that she could intervene if Mahone seemed to be veering off the deep end, but trying not to hear specific details that she might be asked to testify to, should his misdeeds come to trial. This latter goal was difficult to achieve, since he seemed inclined to confess. Repeatedly. Given that his narrative was far from linear, however, one who wasn't familiar with the cases might have trouble following what exactly had happened in each one:

". . . He was a stupid kid, not a dangerous criminal. Shales deserved to die, but this boy didn't. I shot him."

"Yes, he's dead. I'm a good shot, remember?" (hollow laugh) "Oh, God . . ."

"I gave Franklin a better deal than they gave me – at least if he killed himself his family would be OK. He has a little girl, a couple of years older than Cam. Tell me again that Cameron's OK, that you're both OK . . ."

"He wanted my permission. He didn't want to go back to jail and I told him he couldn't go to Holland – hell if I know why Holland – and he didn't have any other way out. He just wanted it to be over. I gave him permission, gave him the push he needed to do it, and it was over . . . for him, anyway . . ."

Every so often Alex choked to a halt, overwhelmed. Yet he seemed compelled to keep going, words sometimes tumbling over each other in their urgency to get said. It wasn't clear whether he was trying to explain himself or beat up on himself, or both. But he was talking to a real person about real events, so Lang figured this was an improvement over his earlier state.

Finally, after a lull in his speech during which Lang heard the toilet flush and the water run in the sink, Alex appeared in the doorway and reported, "Pam says I should lie down."

He was able to walk under his own power, but he didn't object to the steadying hand Lang placed on his elbow as she accompanied him to the bed. He smelled of Listerine.

Once he was seated on the side of the bed, Lang went to check on what sleepwear, if any, he had in the travel bag that she and Sullins had taken along from Alex's office. Like most agents who might be called upon to travel at a moment's notice, Mahone kept a bag packed with a couple of days worth of clothing and other necessities. Lang found a blue t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants; the sweatpants were probably too heavy for the climate, but the shirt might be useful.

She returned to the bed as Alex was getting under the covers, having kicked off his shoes and pants. Lang was amused to note that, despite being half out of his mind, he had placed his shoes neatly under the bed and had folded his pants over the foot of the bed. She tossed the t-shirt at him, and, after giving it an appraising look as if wondering whether it was worth the effort, he pulled off his damp shirt and put the blue one on. Then he settled himself in the bed and returned the phone to his ear, saying, "I'm back."

Felicia felt awkward about sitting there while her companion had a personal conversation, but it turned out to not be much of an issue. While in the bathroom, Mahone had done a lot of the talking, but now his end of the conversation faded out and Lang could hear the soft buzzing of a female voice from the phone. Alex's hands were still shaking, so he kept dropping the phone until he curled onto his right side – facing away from Lang, toward the empty side of the bed – and laid the phone over his left ear.

As time passed, Alex's mumbled replies became quieter and less frequent. When Lang realized that she hadn't heard anything from him for at least twenty minutes, she came around the bed and saw that his eyes were closed and face slack, though he was still twitching a bit from muscle spasms. After waiting a little while longer to make sure he was deeply asleep, Lang carefully retrieved her phone. Heading toward the bathroom, she said softly, "Hi Pam – it's Felicia."

"Did you . . . did you know about all this?" the other woman asked, unsteadily.

"We had some evidence. I hoped we were wrong."

"He killed people. I mean, I always knew he'd killed people – in the army and for the FBI when he had to. But this is different. This is . . . this is . . ."

"If it helps, I do believe that he was coerced."

"He murdered people, and some of it was for Cameron and me. What am I supposed to do with that?" Pam's voice was quiet but it held a tinge of hysteria.

Lang's analytic mind spat out the options: Pam would have to either learn to live with what her ex-husband had done or learn to live without him. Not being burdened with a Y chromosome, however, she was able to resist the urge to give a concrete answer to what was clearly a rhetorical question. She shut up and hoped her silence was companionable.

After a long pause, Pam said, "I just want him to be all right. He seems so . . . shattered, and I guess that's good in a way because I can't imagine him still being Alex and not being torn up by all this, but at the same time I can't stand for him to be in so much pain. Is there any way he can get better? How can you get over something like . . . I'm sorry, I'm freaking out a bit. I swear I was much calmer when I was on the phone with him."

"I've heard that the secret to a healthy relationship is to stagger your meltdowns – it was his turn before, now it's yours," Lang joked. At the other woman's somewhat-less-hysterical sounding laugh, she continued, "Whatever you said, it worked. He's asleep, which he needed desperately."

"You'll . . . you'll take care of him?"

"I'll do my best. I probably won't be able to contact you again for several hours, until after the hearing."

"I need a drink," Pam sighed.

"You can have a drink."

"I'm going to have a drink – just one – then I'm going to go sit in my son's room and watch him sleep until it's time for him to get up for school."

"That sounds like a great plan."

XXXXXXXXXX

Returning to the hotel just before 8:00am, Lang mused about how rare it was that she needed to play both the important-FBI-agent card and the damsel-in-distress card in the same conversation. But play them she had, and successfully. A short time ago, she'd gone into the local medical clinic and spun a tale of how she needed to fly back to the States to start a new assignment, how she would be traveling all night and just can't sleep on planes any more since 9/11. And was there anything they could give her that would help her relax a little and get some rest? She wasn't disappointed that the doctor only prescribed three tablets; a three is easily altered to become an eight.

Lang entered the corridor on which Alex's hotel room was located, falling into step with Sullins who was headed the same way.

Sullins began, "Good morning, Agent. We're on the road at nine. Ramirez said you didn't want to get Mahone going until now?"

"Yes sir. Alex was, uh, in the bathroom most of the night. Apparently Panamanian prison rations don't agree with him. I doubt he'll want much breakfast and I thought he could use the sleep."

As predicted, Sullins' amusement at the other man's discomfiture distracted him from asking Lang any probing questions. She subtly edged ahead as they approached Mahone's door, pausing and looking back at Sullins when the guard stepped aside.

Sullins took the hint, "You want to deal with him? Fine. Downstairs. One hour." He headed off down the hall.

Lang knocked, then motioned to the guard to use the key card. Upon entering the room, she saw that Mahone was just as she'd left him: sleeping on his side with the covers pulled up over his shoulders. Lang came around behind him, to the side of the bed, and said tentatively, "Sir?" Getting no response, she tapped his shoulder and called, "Alex, wake up."

He groaned and pulled away, but after a couple of repetitions he muttered, ". . . 'mm awake, I'm awake."

He didn't move or give any other signs that he actually was awake, however. Lang reached across his body to try to unlock the handcuffs she'd fastened loosely around his wrists when she'd left earlier, in case Ramirez or Sullins looked in on him while she was gone. Not able to reach the lock without pulling on his wrists, which already bore some cuts and scrapes, she went to the empty side of the bed and climbed on to get a better angle. As she sat on the bed with him, fiddling with the key and the handcuffs, she noticed that he was looking straight at her. And laughing. Well, not really laughing – he hadn't cracked a smile or made a sound. But his eyes were twinkling teasingly.

Finally getting the cuffs off, she quipped, "I won't tell your wife if you don't."

That did elicit a chuckle, followed by a wince, as if even such a small movement pained him. Shooting a quick glance up at Lang and then away, he asked, his voice rough, "Last night, Pam, on the phone – that, uh, really happened?"

"Yep," Lang answered, touched by his awkwardness at having to trust her to help him distinguish fantasy from reality.

"But she wasn't actually in the room here, after that, right?"

Lang smiled warmly, "Um, no. That would be a hallucination."

"Dream, I think. My hallucinations are never nice." He closed his eyes. Lang couldn't tell whether he was steeling himself to get up or drifting back to sleep. In case it was the latter, she scooted off the bed and announced briskly, "We have to be out of here in an hour. You should get ready."

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, Mahone pushed himself up to a sitting position, then wrapped his arms around himself as the tremors kicked in again in force. He stared over at the bathroom as if it were a distant shore.

He really did look wretched, Lang observed. Always a bit on the pale and thin side, his complexion had faded to the color of oatmeal and lines of strain sharpened his features. Bloodshot eyes, framed by dark shadows, seemed to be propped open through force of will alone. If she didn't know that he'd just woken up she would've guess that he hadn't slept in days. Mentally, however, he seemed reasonably all right, though there was something about the fixedness of his stare right now that was troubling. He began scratching at the inside of his left wrist, caught himself doing it, and, in a jerky motion, tucked his left arm under his right.

Lang sighed, "I have something that might help." She drew the small amber prescription bottle out of her pocket and held it out for him to see.

Alex's eyes lit up, relief washing over his features. Then the corners of his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly as he read the label on the bottle: Valium, 5mg.

Hey, getting you through today was my goal, not getting you your drug of choice, and if something lighter does the job, so be it. Plus, not surprisingly, health care workers tend to become suspicious if one asks for a particular medication by name. And guess what: I'm not completely comfortable with having just committed fraud to get this stuff, so you'd best back off and not give me any crap about it . . .

Lang didn't actually say any of this, but some of it must have shown through her expression. Mahone looked duly chastened. A smile ghosted across his lips and he said very sincerely, "Thank you, Felicia."

Lang shook a pill out of the bottle and gave it to him, then went to get him a glass of water. She was pretty sure he'd already dry swallowed the pill by the time she got back, but he accepted the water and took a long sip. "One, ah" – his voice cracked and he took another sip of water, studying the way the water swirled in his shaky grip rather than meeting her eyes – "One isn't going to be enough."

"I know. But you kind of look like you might pass out at any minute, even without chemical help. Assuming that doesn't happen, you can have another before we go."

Mahone nodded, a slight flush over his cheekbones the only indication of how humiliating this must be for him. Now might be a good time to give him some space, Lang thought. She brought Alex's travel bag over to the bed, and prepared to take her leave for a while under the excuse of making a coffee run.

Before she could announce this intention, however, Mahone threw her for a loop by asking, "So, ah, when were you gonna tell me about what happened to the last guy who testified against these bastards?"

His tone was far from accusatory; in fact, it was almost playful – like he was messing with her in order to change the subject. Lang responded in kind, "Would it have made a difference in your decision to do it?"

Something flickered within the pale, deep-set eyes, something that reminded Lang that the broken down man before her was the same dynamic, indomitable bloodhound of the Fox River chase. While the prospect of having his mind crumble to pieces in a foreign prison clearly scared the hell out of him, the prospect of a sudden violent death . . . didn't. That was a fear that Mahone the FBI agent, Mahone the soldier, had dealt with long ago. Of course he didn't want to die, but that particular stick wasn't one they could hold over his head to control his behavior. Solemnly, yet with a hint of a self-satisfied smirk, he shook his head and answered, "No. No, it wouldn't."

"All right, then. I'll leave you to get ready while I go find some coffee." Since Alex's hands were still shaking, and he had just taken a depressant, and he was probably dehydrated from the sweating and vomiting, she remarked, "I guess caffeine is the last thing you need right now, though."

His look of dismay was truly comical.

"Oh, relax," Lang laughed, "I didn't say I wouldn't bring you one."

XXXXXXXXXX

It was 45 minutes into the hearing, and Alex was looking harried.

"So, Mr. Mahone, comparing your testimony with previously documented facts, it seems that your primary contacts within this 'Company' – Mr. Kellerman and Mr. Kim – are already dead. What evidence do you have that the organization exists beyond these two men?"

Things had gotten off to a less than stellar start when the chairman of the committee asked him when he was first contacted by the Company. An easy question, one would think, but Alex drifted off into a diatribe about how you never know when you are in contact with the Company so he couldn't say exactly when he was or was not. That might be true, Lang acknowledged, but it made him come off as evasive or paranoid. It took a verbal slap from Sullins (hissing under his breath, 'Say something useful!') to rein him in.

Since then, Alex had done a bit better. As far as Lang could tell he wasn't hallucinating, and his tremors had diminished considerably, but he was clearly struggling to keep focused. In response to specific questions, he'd managed to give a fairly coherent account of what he'd been blackmailed into doing and how that fit into the goals of the Company. Yet, trying so hard to be absolutely truthful, he tended to get tangled up in the details.

"There were . . . there were others who they reported to," he answered, "Neither of them was in charge of everything."

The interrogator wasn't hostile, but he was persistent. "Names?"

Mahone looked perplexed for a moment, then he blurted out, "Look, it wouldn't be much of a secret organization if I knew that, would it?"

Restrained chuckles rippled around the room. Mahone pinched the bridge of his nose and took a steadying breath. "Kellerman, sometimes there was a woman he spoke to on the phone. And Kim, everything about him just screamed upper-middle management. It was obvious when someone was pushing his buttons, when he was throwing his weight around because he could. How do I know? This is what I do – figure people out – what I did, anyway . . ."

He trailed off, recoiling from the phantom pains of his old life, but then he looked sharply at Sullins and said, "They must have a hold on someone in your office. After . . . after Apolskis, who told you to back off my case?"

Sullins, looking startled at being addressed directly, replied, "I got the call from Central – don't remember anything hinky about it." He sneered, "I just thought somebody high up had way too much confidence in you."

"Well, if we track down who gave the order, that might tell us who's involved . . ," then, wheels turning, Alex jumped to another tack, "The nephew – Borroughs' son. Lots of weird decisions made in his case. If we can find out who was pulling the strings . . ."

"That," the chairman interrupted, hand upraised, "is an avenue that can be explored at further length stateside – pending the decision of this panel, of course. If no one has any further questions . . ?"

XXXXXXXXXX

'That could've gone worse,' Lang thought. In comparison with Mahone's normal, tightly controlled press conferences . . . let's just say he would probably look back on today's performance with embarrassment. And the hearing clearly was not the mere formality that Sullins had predicted. But if she had to lay odds, she would bet that Alex done well enough to convince the panel that he had something to offer as a witness.

She would have shared these thoughts with Alex, but, at the moment, he seemed to require all of his energy to sustain locomotion. Lang and Sullins were escorting him to the place where they would await the committee's verdict, with Mahone walking between the two active agents, hands cuffed in front of him. Lang was pretty sure that, were his hands cuffed behind him, he would not be able to manage. As it was, his gait was slow and stiff. He'd begun to tremble again, though it was probably as much from fatigue and muscle strain in the aftermath of last night's exertions as from the withdrawal itself. He paused, swaying slightly.

"What the hell is going on with you?" Sullins prodded.

"I . . . need to sit down," Alex replied weakly.

The lack of snark in Mahone's retort and lack of color in his face apparently convinced Sullins that this was not the time to hassle him. Sullins shifted his posture so that he could catch the other man, if need be, while Lang scanned the corridor for benches. Spotting one, she said, "There's a place to sit up ahead. Think you can make it?"

Apparently he did, because he continued walking. They had only gone a few yards further, however, when a sound riveted their attention. It was so soft that one wouldn't think it would be detectable in a moderately crowded corridor, yet it poured a shot of dread into Lang's soul: the swish of guns being drawn from beneath suit coats.

Time slowed, prolonging hurried actions into a languid ballet. Two men in dark suits took aim at the agents, while a third, in a bomber jacket, covered the rear. Lang willed her hand to move quicker, to get her weapon out to return fire, all the while trying to ignore the voice in the back of her mind that did the math: drawn weapon vs. getting weapon out of holster, the former always wins.

Before she could complete any action, a forceful push to her shoulder sent her stumbling sideways into a hallway off the main corridor. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of Mahone pivoting gracefully back to face the gunmen, hands still outstretched from shoving her.

Then the corridor exploded with the sharp percussive beat of gunfire.

XXXXXXXXXX

Author's note: Uh, please don't hate me! Let me know what you think.