AN: It is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone living in a top secret bunker does not simply drive straight to that bunker after fleeing the scene of a murder.

I don't own Timeless or Pride and Prejudice.

Flynn glanced in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time. Frankie was asleep, sacked out in her car seat, while Roxanne gazed down at her, one arm slung over the seat back. She still held the gun, but resting on her knee, and glad as he was she hadn't taken him up on his offer, he suspected her ease was more a result of resignation than trust. She had nowhere else to go, and no matter how well she handled that firearm – and she did – she had to have recognized Flynn and Wyatt were far better.

She'd just barely gotten the drop on Tyson, one shot through his shoulder and the other clean through his heart. Given the time lag between shots, he guessed she'd tagged his shoulder first and finished the job after he fell. At that range, and steadied by the bed she'd taken cover behind, she was good, but Flynn would have plugged the son-of-a-bitch between the eyes given the same circumstances. He suspected she had some tactical training, enough to recognize when she was outmanned. Her decision to go with them had been desperate, a pragmatic calculus of her shitty options. He'd been careful as possible to make her feel safe – comforting without pandering. It was one of the rare situations Flynn's more uncouth manners trumped Wyatt's charm.

That was why Flynn was currently driving her beat up '90s era Jeep Cherokee while following Wyatt in the Aerostar. The two men had rushed to get as much loaded in the van and the SUV as they could grab – thankfully, the police didn't respond all too quickly to calls in that neighborhood. Still, never in the history of mankind had two adults managed to pack up all the necessities required for any kid in so short a time. Roxanne, clearly prepared for the possibility of needing a rapid escape, had bug-out bags ready for both of them, but without a Rittenhouse team imminent, Flynn and Wyatt had grabbed whatever they could shove into spare suitcases and trash bags. It wasn't everything, not by a log shot, but it was enough to give them a more solid footing somewhere new.

And that was a fresh problem, Flynn mused as they drove to the bunker. They'd gotten Roxanne and Frankie out of the apartment, but there was hardly enough space for the standing team, never mind two new additions. Additionally, Wyatt had been quick to remind him the dangers of inviting new people into the bunker. Flynn had just barely restrained the instinct to viciously upbraid the hypocrite, but he'd managed to express in no uncertain terms his determination to get these two to a safe place without starting an argument and escalating the terror and tension their new charges must be feeling.

Flynn took another look in the rearview, letting his gaze linger a little longer over the clearly wrung out woman watching her child sleep. She looked up unexpectedly, meeting his glance and his eyes darted back to the dark road and the tail lights ahead of them.

"How did you know where he was?" she asked softly. Flynn was silent a moment, considering what to tell her. They still hadn't explained who they were. She'd be in for a hell of a shock

"How much do you know about what your– what Tyson was involved in?" he asked instead.

"Not much. I thought he was a branch president for Kline Porterhouse."

"The real estate developer?"

"Yeah. We'd moved to Bethesda for his job, a promotion from vice president in Shreveport. I had just…" she hesitated, swallowed, "I had just quit my job and we were ready to start over."

"How long before you suspected something?" he asked, trying his best to sound more like a confidant and less like an NSA agent. There was no immediate response, and he didn't press her.

"I didn't," she said finally, her voice wavering, "I thought he was having an affair." Flynn closed his eyes a moment in recognition. Of course. No one would think to suspect the truth, not in a million years. That their spouse was a hired gun for some shadowy terroristic cult. She continued, "All those late nights, coming home in the morning freshly showered. I started monitoring his email. It was harder to do than I thought but I had been– I had more training than most. I saw emails from someone, I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, with dates and times and locations. They matched the times he'd been out so late, most of them."

"Did you ever–" Flynn paused. He'd had experience with how well people initially responded to this information, and he tried for a casual air. "Did you ever see the name Rittenhouse?" He chanced another look in the mirror to see her shake her head.

"No, the email accounts were anonymized. I didn't know how to dig any deeper into the meta data," she explained. Flynn was somewhat relieved. Maybe there was a chance she could escape after all, stop hiding now that Tyson was dead. Then again, she'd known enough to run away, hadn't she? "Is that who he was working for?"

"Yes," Flynn said. They were both silent for several minutes before he spoke again, "How did you find out?" He feared he already knew, the suspicion sitting in the pit of his stomach like brick.

"I, uh," she began, darting a glance to the man sitting in front of her, driving them god-knows-where. "I followed him one night." There it was, the truth of it. She knew Flynn because she'd seen him, if only on the news, and unlike the reporters, she'd known he didn't do it.

"To Baltimore," Flynn replied. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she breathed, "Mr. Flynn, I'm so sorry. I had no–" Flynn was already shaking his head, sweating hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline.

"It's not your fault" he insisted, his voice gravely, tears that hadn't visited him in more than two years suddenly welling up and threatening to break free. He cleared is throat, "It's not your fault, you never could have known."

"How could he do it?" she continued, "How could anyone…" Flynn saw her in the mirror, eyes squeezed shut and her free hand over her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face. He had no answer for that. After a minute, she regained enough composure to speak again. "I didn't even know right away what happened. I was parked across the street and I heard – sounds, what I later realized must have been silencer shots. I saw– I saw someone come running out of the house and I sat as still as I could. I knew it wasn't Charles, he'd gone in in tactical gear, and I didn't know if the person he was after... I just saw a man trying car door handles, frantically, all along the street and coming closer to me. I was paralyzed but finally he gave up and broke a window with his elbow, the car right in front of me."

She drew a deep breath, and Flynn didn't speak – couldn't speak through the lump in his throat and the tears distorting his vision – the old wound suddenly ripped freshly open and throbbing like it happened only moments ago, like he was still there on that residential street frantically running from car to car in a grieving rage.

Finally, she corrected herself, "You started the car and drove away. I saw Charles and the others – four others – come back out and get in the two Suburbans they'd arrived in and I watched them take off after you. I still didn't know what to do, what had gone on. Maybe you were a terrorist or a drug dealer, I– I let myself calm down and then I left. I went to pick up Frankie. I'd asked a friend to watch her, a friend who knew what I suspected. I told her what I saw, but I was confused. I was prepared to confront him, and his mistress, but not this. I entertained the notion he was a secret agent – James Bond saving the world." She laughed at that, a dry, sardonic chuckle. "I didn't want to jump to conclusions."

"What changed your mind?" Flynn barely got the words out.

"The news. I went home that night with Frankie and tried to act as normal as possible. Charles never noticed anything was wrong. He usually didn't which is why–" Roxanne cleared her throat, "Which is why an affair didn't seem outside the realm of possibility. The next day I saw the report of a double homicide on the evening news. I knew the neighborhood, I'd just been there, and when I saw your photo and your wife and daughter's…" She was silent, then, and Flynn was speechless.

"I knew, immediately, what he'd done." She said finally, "I listened to the news report and barely stopped myself from losing it, from running from the room, from screaming at Charles that he was a liar and a murderer while he sat there sipping his damn Corona. I was disgusted and angry and… and terrified. He murdered an innocent woman and a child. Even if he didn't pull the trigger, he… I kept it together. I acted like everything was fine and went to bed that night. I couldn't sleep more than ten minutes at a stretch with him lying next to me. In the morning, I started planning to leave. I had some money stashed away and I drew as much cash as I could from our accounts. I didn't have the connections for a false ID, but I knew more-or-less how to stay off the official radar. Frankie was only 16 months old, and I was so thankful she wouldn't remember him. By the time he got home from work, we were gone."

"You did well," Flynn commented. She'd evaded him for four years, no mean feat when the full resources of Rittenhouse were at her estranged husband's disposal. But the outlook was grim. She'd left immediately after the hit, no explanation. It was the right thing to do, but he knew damn well Rittenhouse wouldn't have missed it. Even if she didn't know their name, she was a witness to an assassination they went to great lengths to pin on him. He'd counted at least a dozen shots after his wife and daughter were killed. Not even the most inept police department would look at that evidence and conclude Flynn was the only one there that night.

There was no doubt in his mind Tyson had tracked her down to kill her, and take back his child, on Rittenhouse's order.

"Not well enough," she choked out. "We made it to Terre Haute before I caught a news report from home. Rachel, my friend Rachel, the one who kept Frankie for me that night, she was killed in a mugging."

Ride – Lana Del Rey

I hear the birds on the summer breeze

I drive fast, I am alone at midnight

Been trying hard not to get into trouble

But I, I've got a war in my mind

So, I just ride, just ride

I just ride, I just ride