"What exactly did Boston PD do to reign in the CIA?" I inquired.

"Trust me," Stanton replied, resting on the corner of the table. "This was their work, not yours, that pulled our interests together." Again, she lead the initiative. The rest remained quiet, solemn, under her lead. Somehow, that bugged me. I didn't like answering to superiors, especially ones that muted others, and it was clear she was the one in full control. She wasn't the only one with a spine though. From the rumors she'd supposedly heard, I guess she knew the wild fire she'd welcomed by inviting in Rose Hathaway.

I wasn't one to disappoint.

I shot my allies (if I could still call them that) a look before accepting Alberta's earlier invitation, sitting. I barely had time to straighten before a vanilla folder, stamped with the FBI seal, slid in front of me, papers teeming out the sides. I glanced up at her questioningly. "What is this?"

"Your case, detective."

I gave her a doubtful look before opening the folder, immediately taken aback. I sat up ramrod straight as my lips parted in shock. Laying on top of the unruly pile was a photograph of a soldier in uniform, throat slit and limbs bound, splayed on a chair. It mirrored our current victims. The apprentice's handiwork, a voice in my head whispered. "I don't understand," I said slowly, staring at the soldier, "this case wasn't reported. Where was this taken?"

"Afghanistan," Sydney said quietly. I looked up at her, startled. How was that possible? As the cogs in my head began to stir, fueled by this knowledge, I flipped through more images, more urgently. This was the connection I had been missing. It was one thing to run rampant in a US city. It was something else entirely to target a war zone. There were at least 6 victims in the folder alone, all soldiers in uniform.

"It looks like Dashkov's work," I said, stating the obvious.

"A war zone is a serial killer's paradise," Dimitri said gravely.

The puzzle pieces continued to fit together. My fingers stilled. I looked up, meeting Sydney's glazed, honey-colored hues. "Our apprentice is a soldier?" I whispered in disbelief. A soldier. One of our own. I wanted to say it was impossible, unthinkable. But I knew the reality. At this point, anything was possible.

Sydney was still playing cold and apathetic, but I could see empathy stirring behind the mask as I struggled to deal with this revelation. No one wanted to believe a soldier could slaughter like this in cold blood. Her gaze flickered to Stanton, asking silently for permission to divulge the case they had bottled up so long. She got the go-ahead. "When the CIA first started to investigate these killings overseas, we wrote them off as war crimes. I was the only one working the case that had Dashkov's signature imprinted in my mind. That was only because I was lucky enough to have a connection to Dashkov."

"A connection?"

"Yes," Sydney said simply. "You."

I stared. "Me? You used me to get leverage, information?" Again, she didn't reply, letting the silence do it for her. My earlier upset twinged. "So, what, you withheld crucial information from my unit so you could play your game and watch the dumb Boston police run around in circles?"

"You can blame me for that," Stanton cut in. "This is a sensitive investigation, I could inform the FBI and your superiors, but directly involving Dashkov's target, or that target's unit, would have been a liability."

I was about to make a snappy comment about her calling me a liability, but Dimitri, probably for the greater good, jumped in before I could start anything. "We believe the apprentice recently finished his tours and came back to Boston to find Dashkov." I shot a glare in his direction. I knew he was just trying to distract me with information, but it still managed to work. That alone kind of pissed me off. However, a rational part of my brain told me I didn't have time to be angry.

"He wanted them to kill together," I muttered, bottling my irritation and putting it off to the side, reminding myself of my priorities. I couldn't be seeing red and blinding myself to the fact we were all on the same side. We all wanted to see them put away. And, grudgingly, I could understand why Stanton didn't want me springing into action. I was known for being a loose cannon.

Refocusing on the case and returning to the folder, I scanned over the victims in uniform. It was hard to imagine one of their own turning on them, a brother by bond instead of blood. That's when it dawned on me. "Wait no," I said suddenly, sitting up on my forearms. I shuffled through the photos. "If our apprentice was a soldier, we would have gotten a hit on his DNA in the military database. We didn't get a hit." I glanced up at Dimitri, but it was Sydney that had shifted in my peripheral.

There was another moment of silent communication between Sydney and Stanton before the former spoke again. "Rose, have you ever heard of sheep dipping?" The only reply she got from me was a blank stare- mostly because the only image that came to mind was a baby lamb swimming in fondue. Sydney sighed, seeing the answer written on my face, explaining, "It's where the CIA borrows a soldier for a black ops mission. Green berets were chosen and their identities were wiped from all databases. We couldn't risk them being recognized as American military."

"So you believe... our apprentice is a green beret working for the CIA?"

"Yes," Stanton confirmed.

Well, damn. That certainly changed the playing field. I ran a hand through my hair again, pushing back the folder in sync with my chair as I stood. The idea was overwhelming. Hell, the images sitting in front of me where overwhelming. There was another void smile on my lips as I said, "So we train our best men to be killers and we're surprised when they are."

"Rose," Alberta said, her tone about as gratifying and soothing as she could be, "we hate that he's a soldier. You know we're doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this." She continued to speak, but I didn't listen after that, the rest of her words drifted off as I clung onto the one, reflecting inward. A soldier. It clicked. It just clicked. The connection I had been missing all this time.

"No," I said quietly, breaking Alberta off, eyes distant. "That's it. That's the connection." I looked up, becoming aware of my surroundings again. "You all wouldn't know it because it wasn't in the file. Dashkov used an assumed name when he was younger to get into a combat medic training program at Fort Stuart. That has to be where they met. That's the connection, that's where he found his apprentice!"

This time, Stanton shared a look with Dimitri, a glint in her dark eyes. "It's a worth a shot," she admitted, Dimitri already mobile.

The gears in my head kept spinning, revelations tumbling out before I could think twice. "Cross-reference Dashkov's records, we'll nail both these bastards at once." Dimitri nodded nimbly, setting to work.

Stanton's growing smile was surprised, but approving. "I'll be damned, detective. Nice work. You should have charged in much sooner." I smiled back, excitement welling at my fingertips. It was enough to banish my earlier anger. Because, bottom line, we'd done it. It didn't matter how. We'd caught them. Stanton's attention flitted to her student. "Sage, follow Belikov, get the lead. Rose." She paused. "Rest easy. We'll take it from here."

Naturally, I began to protest. One look at Alberta stopped me though. After years of seeing the job, she wasn't one for sugarcoating the truth, and man, did her look speak legends. She knew I wanted to jump on the wagon with Sydney and Dimitri, but this wasn't a normal case. She was telling me to hold back. I was the one they were after and just showing up would probably give Dashkov some creepy satisfaction. So, reluctantly, I backed down.

A phone call did a long way in distracting me as well. The Joker's laugh, emitting from my jacket pocket, cackled through the conference room, earning curious looks from my colleagues and an exasperated one from me. Lissa. I excused myself, ducking out into the hallway, drifting toward my unit. I hadn't realized how much time had passed. Navy blue glimmered behind the windows, night spilling over Mason's shadowed desk in the corner. "What's up, Liss?" I asked, tucking the phone in the crook of my shoulder to slip on my jacket.

"Rose," she sighed. "Rose, I'm in your apartment." Her voice on the opposite end of the line, normally delicate, was strained, faint crunches of glass under foot coming through as well.

"Why are you in my apartment?" I asked, momentarily confused, wondering if she'd knocked a wine glass over and that was what I'd heard. Did I even own wine glasses? If it was anything alcohol-related it would be beer or my stolen ("borrowed") stash of liquor from Jill.

However, I realized quickly it wasn't a broken cup she was stepping on. It was shattered glass. "They- they've been here, Rose," Lissa said, the distant hum of PD coming through the static as she walked across the floor. "Dashkov and his apprentice were here."

For a moment, I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My gut wrenched sickeningly, my throat drying up along with my witty one-liners. So. A 40-year old could still manage a climb up 4 stories- if propelled by the right motivation, that is. For Dashkov and his apprentice, that was killing me. And they'd been in my apartment ready to jump at the chance.

I started to say something when something from across my department caught my eye. I searched it hastily as, gradually, the final pieces clicked together. I should have seen it sooner. The yellow and blue pins gloated in my face. 'It's not so important who starts the game, but who finishes it'.

"Oh God," I breathed, striding over to the map. My eyes darted around at the brown-and-green landscape before picking up a red peg and poking it through the paper, the dot pushed out further than the others, laughing at me. I stared. It was right in front of me the whole time. The pins marking the two victim's homes, including my new addition, made a perfect triangle, a perfect pattern. The red pin?

That was pinned on my apartment building.

The line that Robert had kept repeating? That was from the prologue of my favorite book, the only worn paperback lying on my bookshelf. This wasn't the first time they had been in my house. They had already invaded it. "Alright," I finally managed to say to Lissa, not voicing the growing pit in my stomach, walking out. "I'll be right there."

I didn't waste any time. Forgetting all about crazy operations and government divisions, I flew out of headquarters and across town, pushing my car to its limits. My mom used to tell me to always go 5 miles above the speed limit. Tonight I was pushing 20 plus. Fear can drive you to pull insane stunts. The imagined scenarios my mind was brewing in the background didn't help things; but given the circumstances, speeding was a pretty sane outlet.

They'd been in my apartment. My last sense of security was stripped away with that knowledge, leaving me battered and raw. It was one thing to send me flowers or haunt my dreams. Those were empty gestures, taunting tests. This, breaking into my house, was a physical act. Victor had grown serious.

The building was like a lighthouse in the middle of the city, lights flooding the block. My tires squealed as I stopped in a swerve in front of my house, police tape barring off the front of the street. My phone rang again. It was Dimitri this time. I answered, both of us skipping welcomes. "Rose, you were right," he said. Footsteps echoed on his side. "Sydney's tracking down another lead, but we got the records from Fort Stuart. Our apprentice is Special Forces Officer Keith Darnell, 29. He did 2 tours in Afghanistan as a part of a direct action force."

I had been digging through my car searching for my badge, accidentally turning up my nazar and chotki in the process, before freezing, looking up. "What unit was he assigned to?"

"618, Medical Care Specialists."

"Oh my God," I said, popping out of the car. "That's Dashkov's unit."

"Darnell lives at 412 Chestnut Hill Square, I'm going with the SWAT team now."

I glanced at my swarmed apartment, hesitating. "Yeah, okay, I'll get over there as soon as I can." I hung up, beginning to jog to the scene when a voice pulled me back.

"Detective Hathaway," a man called from behind, making me stop and turn around. It was a medical examiner, clipboard, uniform, and all, walking from the unit van. I didn't think much of him. He was lean, albeit tall, the brim of his hat partially covering dark hair and blue eyes. It might have just been the light, but his one eye looked strange, almost... glassy.

"Yeah?" I asked, angling back, wondering what Lissa's medical team was doing hanging around my apartment with PD. Maybe they really had all come over to throw a unit bonfire. My house was a hotspot to be at these days.

I could tell though he wasn't the pass-a-Miller's-Lite-around-the-fire kind of guy. He jabbed a gloved thumb over his shoulder with his free hand as he turned back and walked toward the van. I glimpsed back before following expectantly, the examiner ruffling through paperwork. "Dr. Dragomir asked if you'd ID the body before you go inside," he explained. While his stride remained steady, mine faltered.

I felt my lips part in shock, my eyes flickering in the dim halo of the lamppost. "Body? What body?"

He glanced over his shoulder, looking perplexed. "Sorry, I thought you knew. Dr. Dragomir said it was your neighbor, young female, early 20's."

My blood ran cold, freezing my step again for a moment. A face, sweet and innocent, flashed through my mind's eye, piercing green eyes and curly hair completing the package. No. No, it couldn't be. "Jill?" I whispered, my voice strangled as I picked up my pace, hand half on my belt. "Oh god, no. Please, no." Not Jill. Jill couldn't be dead. I was the one he was after. If Jill was the one lying inside a medical bag...

The wave of nausea hit me full force. I couldn't bear the idea of it.

He led me to the van, parked about five cars down from my own, and opened the back door. Apprehension driving me on, I hoisted myself up into the back, silently praying to whatever deity that would still listen that Jill was alive. That plea intensified as I saw the body bag laying peacefully on the harsh, cool metal. "Please, God, no," I mumbled, unzipping the bag.

I expected to see Jill dead, marked as one of Dashkov's victims. Hell, maybe even Marissa, a much less friendly college student from two stories down.

What I didn't expect was Victor himself popping out like a jack-in-the-box.

"Hello, Rose." I barely caught his voice or his haughty, smiling face before he tasered me in the stomach, the painful shock coursing through my body like a bolt of lightning. "How lovely to see you again."

I didn't have time to respond, or be surprised, my nerves shutting down under the shock. Words died on my lips. My vision swam in front of my eyes as I felt my body give way, knees buckling under me. The medical examiner from before caught my limp, almost lifeless body, and I remotely felt something sharp go into my neck. A needle, I realized through the clouding haze. He was injecting me with anesthesia while I was rendered paralyzed.

I should have been prepared for it. It was a classic Dashkov trick. I should have been. But I wasn't. I'd acted impulsively again, jumping into a dark, windowless van.

Way to go, Rose. Some things never changed.

At least I'd saved Dimitri and Sydney the trouble of finding Dashkov's apprentice. The price, though- well, it would cost me big time.

Because it looked like Victor was going to get exactly what he wanted. He was going to finish the game we started- and he was going to win. "Lay her down," I heard him instruct to his apprentice.

Through my partially-veiled, blurred vision, his face swam by, darkness ebbing around the edges and closing in fast. I don't exactly remember what my last thoughts were. They could have been with Dimitri, my former mentor and partner racing to find my killer's right hand man as he broke all the traffic laws going down I94, a God-like warrior in the making. They could have been with Lissa, my best friend tiptoeing around broken glass as she vainly and anxiously waited for me to arrive, a presence that would remain void. They could have been with Sydney, my CIA informant barking into her blue tooth as she went to hunt down her last lead, a skilled assassin at her finest. They could have been with Mason or Mia or Mark, even my mother. And I hope they were.

But the last thing I really remember was accepting my death by Victor's hand- if it truly came to that- before my eyes rolled back into my head. Then, like a switch, everything went black.