Chapter 8

There are a number of things that destroyed John Reese, that turned him into a homeless man just looking to score enough money to buy his next fifth, enough money for one little bottle of oblivion. But of all the things along his spiral downward, none did more damage than the slip of paper Cara Stanton handed him when he returned to the safe house in Islamabad.

"Burn it when you're done," she'd said. "Take the night off. Try not to do anything rash."

Although he'd reeled when he read the details of Jessica's death, the burnt body with the gunshot wound to the head, he hadn't taken Cara's word for it. She'd been insistent about him cutting off all ties, and Jessica had always been the most difficult tie to cut. So he'd booked half an hour at an internet cafe, a grotty little place in the center of the city used only by locals, and confirmed it was true. And then he'd bought a bottle of unlabeled back-alley vodka, checked into a cheap hotel, and drank himself unconscious for the first time.

Now, to have that entire event invalidated, to know not only that she wasn't killed because of him, but that she is alive, here, real, in his arms, produces a sense of relief in him more profound than any he's ever known. He breaks down, pulls her closer, desperately closer, and feels some distant sense of gratitude towards Finch when he hears the privacy divider go up. Finch doesn't need to see him like this.

Some time later — it could be minutes, it could be an hour — when the flood of relief recedes, just a bit, he pulls back from her, wipes at his damp face with his hands, and realizes he has no idea what to say. That he's deeply relieved she's alive does not need to be voiced.

"Are you all right?" he finally asks, for lack of anything else. "We didn't expect you to be in the hospital for so long."

"Just dehydrated — they gave me an IV. And tired."

"We'll get you someplace safe so you can rest," he says.

She's beyond tired, he realizes. He's been so focused on the simple things — that she is alive, and here in the car — that he hasn't really looked at her.

He's seen her exhausted before, six in the morning, satiated, soft sleepy eyes and a quiet little smile on her face, after the nights they used to stay up making love and talking. This is not that sort of exhausted. This is the exhausted he sees in the numbers he helps, the way the body deflates when the adrenaline and the fear are gone.

"John, I wanted to live, this morning," she says. "But I didn't want you to give yourself up for me. I don't know why those men wanted you, but I know whatever you've done — if you've even done anything — you must have had a reason for it."

"It's complicated, he says. "But there was never a reason for anything that was more important than your life."

He doesn't want to talk about anything he may or may not have done in the last few years now, maybe not ever, so he lets the conversation lapse as the car creeps along in the traffic towards midtown. Finally, when it seems enough time has passed, he asks her:

"Jess, what happened in 2007? What made you go into hiding?"

"Do you know anything about the FA32 engine that Fuller was working on? For the Black Hawk?"

"Yes, we looked into it when we were looking for you."

"It failed in testing, terribly. Fuller was trying to cover it up. I went to my boss and threatened to go to the government, but he indicated that there were people in the government that already knew, that he'd bribed them. A couple days later I came home and there was a man in my house. He tried to kill me — he almost succeeded."

"How did you get away?"

"Another man intervened. He killed him, and then he helped me fake my own death, to get away. I never figured out how he knew to be there — I found out later he was some software executive. But he told me he had reason to believe my was in danger."

Reese knows enough about Finch's past for a cold chill to run through him when she mentions a software executive, but he asks anyway. "Did he give you his name, this man that helped you?"

"Yes, Nathan," she says. "I saw a newspaper article in 2010, that he had died. That's when I found out his full name was Nathan Ingram."

The car swerves violently for a moment, confirmation that Finch can still hear at least some of the conversation. Jessica dives for the door handle; he has to grab her arm to keep her from opening the car door, and he realizes now that she is no longer part of the innocent world, hasn't been for quite some time. Even if she has done nothing, she is as wary as him, as Finch, as anyone he's worked with in the Agency.

"John, we have to go —"

"Stay, it's okay. We won't let anything happen to you."

"Who is this 'we' you keep talking about? Who else knows about me?"

"Harold, my —" Friend, no. Boss, no. There is no good way to describe Finch. " — associate, is driving. You've already met Detective Carter. That's it, aside from the men who took you, and we'll find a way to deal with them."

Reese does not tell her that his current plan for "deal with them" involves finding Snow & Company again with his M24, if that's what it takes to keep her safe. But slowly, she releases her hand from the car door, relaxes back against the leather seat.

He wants to tell her she shouldn't doubt that she's safe now, that now that he has been absolved of her death, there is nothing he won't do to keep her alive. But all he can manage to do is reach out and take her hand in his, squeeze tight and hope she understands.