In his hotel room/apartment, Nicholas Donnelly turned on his laptop. While it booted, he went to the bathroom and washed his face, then changed into work clothes – khakis and a polo shirt. His days of wearing a suit to the office were long gone. By then the computer was awake.

"Asena?" he called softly. "You here?"

We watch. And we are always there.

Donnelly sat down in front of the computer. "Do you know who tried to hit New York?"

Y/N: N

"Are there more attacks on the way?"

Regardless of your faith, you can never escape uncertainty.

It wasn't the time for literary quotes, Donnelly thought impatiently, but he didn't tell her that. She might stop talking altogether. "You don't know if there will be another attack?"

Y/N: N

"But you're not aware of any."

Y/N: N

"But you weren't aware of this one, either, were you?"

Y/N: N

He nodded to himself. "This thing you did, the rally call. Your Bad Wolves. That was impressive. You did well."

I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself. I take the words … I scatter them in time and space. A message, to lead myself here. I want you safe, my Doctor.

"Doctor Who?" Donnelly guessed.

Y/N: Y

"I'm going to have to watch that whole show just so we have something to talk about, aren't I?"

Y/N: Y

"You kept us safe today, Asena. Thank you."

The computer did not answer. Donnelly had the sense that she was embarrassed by his thanks. But that was just him, reading his own emotions into the computer's silence. He did that a lot lately. Anthropomorphized her – it. Partly it was because of his own loneliness, his need for a friend. Partly it was because if he didn't pretend she was a person, the enormity of what she really was would be overwhelming and terrifying.

He hadn't asked a question, so she hadn't answered. It was that simple.

Perhaps.

"I have to get back," he said. "You'll keep looking, right?"

Y/N: Y

He realized it had been a stupid question. Of course Asena would keep looking. Looking was what Asena did. "You can … call me or whatever, right? I'll come back up and see what you need."

Y/N: Y

Donnelly stood up. He felt awkward, somehow, leaving her alone. As if, after the day's excitement, she might need company. Someone to talk to. Which was ridiculous. Anthropomorphizing again. And still, he said, "I'll be back when I can."

He lowered the lid of the laptop, but didn't close it all the way.

Reese stole a car a few blocks from the hospital and headed for Ground Zero. Finch had assured him that Christine was safe and with Fusco, so he didn't break many traffic laws. He knew Finch was very eager to talk to her. He wanted to get eyes on her himself. But there wasn't any break-neck urgency.

It was funny, he thought as he drove. There was no great urgency, and there was also no flutter in his stomach. When he'd first fallen in love with Jessica, he used to get butterflies whenever he was on his way to see her. It was distinctly un-Ranger-like and he would never have admitted it to anyone, but he'd gotten a warm sense of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. It was somewhere between the clench of anticipation right before a mission and the beginning of sexual arousal. It had been pleasant. He missed it. And he wondered why he didn't feel it any more.

Of course, he was a different man than he'd been then. Older, sadder, much more deeply scared. Darker. Maybe the flutter was a young man's thing.

Except – he'd gotten that same feeling, or at least a soft reflection of it, a couple times when he'd been on his way to meet Zoe Morgan.

Zoe was his friend, but on those occasions it had been pretty much completely sexual. Sex was easy for John Reese. Relationships were much harder. Perhaps that was enough to explain the lack of flutter.

Or maybe, he thought, it was just that he needed to end things definitively with Zoe before he could move on. She didn't have any expectations, of course. They weren't exclusive. It was a strictly friends-with-benefits arrangement. But maybe that entanglement, however informal, was holding him back.

It was worth a thought.

He didn't have any trouble finding them at the memorial. Fusco was Fusco, after all, not tall but very square. Christine was wrapped in a navy blue blanket with the FBI crest on it. It looked like they were laughing. Fusco saw him first. He hugged the woman for a long moment, then walked her to the car.

"Go get your boy," Christine said.

"I will, I will."

"Thanks for your help."

The detective smirked. "Like I did anything. Take care." He shut the door, nodded to Reese. "See you around."

Reese drove off before the detective could ask where he got the car. "You okay?" he asked Christine.

"Fine," she answered cheerfully. "Good."

Wounded introverts retreat, Reese thought. So what the hell is this? Maybe the prospect of having the city destroyed around her – again – hadn't caused any wound.

He glanced at her legs. She was bouncing her heels lightly against the floor, so her knees rose and fell as if she was running in place. She wasn't as calm as she wanted to pretend.

He was glad she was there with him. He wanted to watch her for a while. He was concerned, and happy to be close. But the flutter still wasn't there.

He drove, keeping an eye out for a tail. He didn't see one. He took the scenic route anyhow.

Christine looked out her window and giggled.

"What?"

"Those people," she said, pointing. "All those people. They're not dead."

He glanced over at her. Her feet were still bouncing. Her hands were moving, too. Like a hummingbird, she couldn't seem to settle. "Uh-huh," he answered carefully.

"I mean, they don't even know they're not dead. But they're not dead."

"Right." He turned right at the next corner, detouring again from the general direction of the library.

"You see something?" Christine asked.

"No." He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Just being careful."

"Can we stop for cigarettes?"

"No. You stopped smoking."

"I did? When?"

"A month ago, when Ingram had to stab you with a meat thermometer so you could breathe."

"That had nothing to do with smoking."

Reese shrugged, ready for an argument. He didn't get it.

"Can we stop for pixie sticks, then?"

He glanced over at her. She was still bouncing gently in her seat. "Pixie sticks?"

"The big ones." She threw her hands wide to demonstrate. "Pure sugar and food coloring."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"You never let me have any fun." She looked out the window again. She still didn't argue.

They passed a group on a corner, maybe twenty high-school aged kids gathered around a teacher who was speaking and pointing to buildings.

Christine giggled again.

They don't even know they're not dead, Reese thought. Those kids were standing there, half-bored, safe, because of Christine, and because of Harold and his Machine. They don't even know. But I do.

He chuckled to himself, checked the mirror one more time, and turned back toward the library.

Carter tensed when she saw the captain come out of his office. She flicked her eyes toward Fusco's desk without raising her head. He still wasn't back – damn it. A long lunch was one thing. Being gone all afternoon was another. He could have at least called in.

The captain stopped beside her desk. "Carter."

She had to look up then. "Sir?"

"Fusco's not coming back this afternoon. Got an e-mail from the FBI, something about a bomb scare he was helping with."

Joss frowned at him. "I didn't hear anything about it."

He shrugged, unconcerned. "Not our precinct. False alarm, anyhow, but he was on the scene and they tasked him to help with the follow-up."

"Thanks for letting me know."

He grunted and walked away.

As soon as he was gone, Carter stood up and took her cell phone into the interrogation room. "Damn it, Fusco," she barked quietly before he could even speak, "what the hell did you get into this time?"

Fusco chuckled. "It wasn't my idea, I promise."

"Let me guess," she said, making a face.

"Yeah, no. It wasn't our disruptive friends, either. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Right now I'm going to pick up my kid from school."

"So you weren't tasked by the FBI for follow-up, either."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From the captain."

"Huh," Fusco answered. "Okay, that part might have been our friends. Or not. I did see Moss at the scene. I dunno."

"Was there really a bomb threat?"

"Yeah. Sorta."

Carter considered. "But everything's okay now?"

"Everything's fine," Fusco promised. "Just, uh … when you get home tonight, give your son a big hug and an extra kiss."

"How come?"

"Because you came real close to not getting another chance. We all did."

"Fusco … "

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he promised again. "Everything's fine for now. I'll see you in the morning."

"Don't you dare …" Carter glared at the phone in her hand, because her partner had already hung up on her.

She stomped back to her desk. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of calling Reese and demanding to know what was going on. But it sounded like she'd missed it already. Whatever it was.

She should probably be happy about that.

She let out a long slow breath, tried to shake off her aggravation, and went back to work.

Then she paused, picked up her phone, and typed in a text to her son.

Just wanted to let you know I love you and I'm proud of you. Mom

When it was sent, she could concentrate on reports again.

Teddy Edwins stood across the street from the apartment building, watching as the firemen packed up their gear. There was one squad car there; the cop leaned against the hood, watching for traffic that needed directing. Bored. His partner was inside the squad, napping. He didn't recognize either of them.

Edwins took his hand out of his pockets and walked over to him. The cop glanced at him, at his empty hands and his calm demeanor. "Help you, sir?"

"Just wondering what happened here. Anything I need to worry about?"

The officer shook his head. "Squirrel nest in a heater vent. No big deal."

"Everyone okay?"

"Some kid got a head full of carbon monoxide, but he'll be okay."

"Good, good."

The cop shook his head. "These old buildings, furnace in each apartment. Stupid idea."

"That's not up to code, is it?"

"Grandfathered in." He made a little gesture, rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. The international signal for cash; someone got paid off. "They checked all the other units. No problem. So no, nothing to worry about. You live here?"

"Couple blocks over. Just going out to the store and saw the lights."

"Nothing to see here." The cop waved as the last firemen got in their truck. "Take care."

"Thanks."

Edwins moved back out of the way. The emergency vehicles left. He stood and looked up toward the windows of the building. The bare branches of the big tree nearly touched the building there. Squirrels. It was possible.

He stuck his hands back in his pockets and walked back to his car.

Donnelly walked down the steps to the Den slowly. Something was tickling at the back of his brain. Instinct, or just something that he'd meant to remember. He couldn't catch it.

The rest of the team was still in the kitchen. It was odd, perhaps a throw-back to all of their earliest days – homework at the kitchen table. But the kitchen was where they went to talk together.

They were in the middle of a conversation about the Office of Special Counsel and how to get a look at their financial transactions. It was difficult, because OSC had a slush fund and a hefty level of immunity from oversight. But it wasn't impossible. Especially for the Den.

He remembered then what he'd wanted to ask about. But before he could speak, Maxwell said, "It's kind of a long way to go to get the Cascade down, isn't it?"

Poole shrugged. "Nine thinks there's a government conspiracy behind everything."

"Well, take a look around," Irini suggested. "She's not wrong."

"If they want the Cascade down," Northrup offered, "then the bigger question is, what are they planning next?"

"If they were planning anything more," Aguilar said, "the Source would know about it."

"The Source didn't know about the missiles," Donnelly offered.

Poole glanced at him. "Which means that they knew exactly how to get under her," he sighed. "It would have had to all be planned without electronics. No phones, no e-mails, no bank transfers … face to face and hand-written until the moment it was executed."

"If they knew what they had to do to get around her," Irini said, "they had to know she exists."

"No one but us knows it exists," Poole snapped. "And even we don't know exactly what it is."

I do, Donnelly thought, with some wonder. I know what she is, because she told me. And I know who built her. And where to find him. And if someone else knows, too, maybe that's why they aimed at New York: To kill the Admin. But if they knew what she was and who her Admin was, they had to know, too, that she'd do anything in her power to protect him. The minute they'd activated the missiles, they had to know she would respond. "If they'd aimed for D.C. instead of New York," he said aloud.

"We wouldn't have had time to respond," Maxwell finished. "We've been over that."

"Maybe they wanted us to respond," Donnelly rejoined. "Maybe they wanted to see what the response would be."

"What our defenses are," Aguilar said. "That would make sense."

Poole straightened up. "They've guessed what she is. They want to know how she's defended." He nodded. "That could be it."

"One of the privacy groups?" Maxwell guessed. "Vigilance? FreeSpeech? Snowden fangirls? Anonymous?"

"Any of them." Poole shook his head. "This exercise wouldn't have given them the answers they want, though."

Donnelly picked up his cup, turned it around, set it down. "You said that no one knows who the Bad Wolves are. That the Source picks them."

"Yes."

"But you also know that Nine thinks there are government conspiracies everywhere. You know who she is."

There were uneasy looks around the table. "We know some of them," Maxwell finally said. "From investigations, other places – we're not supposed to, but some of them, yeah."

Donnelly nodded. "If they knew about the Wolves, or they guessed about them, they wouldn't be hard to identify."

"How do you figure?"

"There's a hacker on every corner in every city. But elite hackers? This level? They're rare. Call it, I don't know, a dozen in Greater New York?"

Poole leaned forward. "So?"

"So if you wanted to know who protects the Source, how it protects itself – you could cover all of them and then start a crisis."

"Start a fire," Maxwell said, "and see where they run to save the silver."

There was silence around the table.

"Do you think the Wolves are in danger?" Donnelly finally asked. He hated the idea of putting Christine under surveillance, or in protective custody – and she would hate it more – but it beat letting these unknown killers have a free shot at her.

Poole shook his head. "If they were, the Source would tell us about it."

Further silence. The Source hadn't known about the missile breach until they were already in the air.

"If we call for protection for them," Irini offered, "we reveal their identities to OSC and everyone else."

"If we don't," Donnelly argued, "we leave them vulnerable to whoever just tried to blow up the city." He felt sick. Christine.

"It's not the hackers," Aguilar said suddenly. "They change all the time. Different ones for every rally call. They don't have access except during a call. They don't know how to contact the Source. Or us. Or each other. They do what they're told and then they're cut off again. If these guys know who they are, how they work – they know getting to the Bad Wolves won't do them any good. They're just … well, tools."

"So what are they after?" Irini wondered.

The man shook his head. "I don't know. Like he said," he gestured to Donnelly, "maybe they want to know how we respond. They're testing the defenses."

"Which means that they have something bigger in mind," Donnelly said.

Silence fell for a third time.

"We don't know all of them," the director finally said, "but the ones we know, let's see if we can get a fix on where they answered the call. See if we can spot any surveillance. Maybe that will give us an idea who we're up against."

He stood up. The others did, too. Some went for more coffee; others headed to their cubicles. Donnelly stayed where he was until he was alone in the kitchen. Then he glanced toward the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling. "Is she safe?" he whispered.

The red light on the camera blinked off once, then came back on.

He nodded. "Thank you."

Donnelly walked to Poole's office and stopped in the doorway. "Director? What's the Cascade?"

Poole shook his head. "You're not going to like the answer."

"The only thing I've liked so far today was my workout, and I didn't get to finish that."

The director gestured to a chair. "Sit down, then, and get comfortable."

Christine ran up the library stairs with her shoes in her hand and her stolen blanket flying behind her like a cape. Reese followed her more slowly. By the time he got to the hallway, she was just leaving Finch's embrace. She dropped to the floor to hug Bear. The dog's greeting was enthusiastic. So was hers.

"Did you see?" she asked Finch as she popped to her feet. "Have you heard it before? The Bad Wolves? The rally call? It was amazing. It is so amazing."

"Rally call. Is that what they call it? I heard," Finch assured her. "I'd like to hear more. You've been called in before?"

"Twice, before this. In the past two years. There were other calls I heard about, but I wasn't in on them."

"How were you initially contacted?"

"You don't know?"

"I told the Machine to develop a protocol and execute it. I didn't give it specifics."

"You just … really? Wow. I was contacted initially by a hacker I know personally. And then I received a follow-up from a … what I thought was a government group, but even then I wasn't sure it wasn't … electronically generated. That was before I knew. Before I knew I knew. You know?"

"Yes, yes. And then were you asked to contact someone in turn?"

"Yes. Later. Just one. So of the Wolves, I know of three for sure, the two I spoke to and me, but I kinda know who some of the others are, by reputation or by voice or by style …"

"And the assignments are generated based on those strengths?"

"Yes, definitely. Absolutely. That must be just a king-hell algorithm …" She took a deep breath. "Who were those guys? Who launched the missiles? Do you know? Do they know?"

"I don't know," Finch answered, "and neither do the authorities, yet. But I've … got my ear on activities. Believe me, every available asset of the United States government is searching for the people who did this."

She rocked back on her heels. "And everything's locked down? Locked up? Whatever?"

"It is. And you can be assured that the Machine is now sharply focused on this matter. However well they concealed their intent prior to the attack, it's aware of them now."

Christine nodded, reassured, but still agitated. "How in the world did you –" She stopped abruptly. "Sorry."

Reese watched closely. Generally such a direct question would have caused Finch to shut down. But this time, though he shook his head, he gave his apprentice a little smile. "Trust that the Machine will identify them and stop any further attacks." He put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "You and the other hackers gave it the time it needed. And it will call you again if it needs you. But unless it does, try to be calm. You are quite safe now."

She leaned, and Harold wrapped his arms around her.

In this, Reese knew, Finch could comfort her in a way he could not. Present and physical threats, personal threats, were his domain; potential mass-casualty events were his partner's. She believed him implicitly.

Then Harold stepped back and gently changed the subject. "Tell me again. About the government contact you received. What did they say? How did they convince you?"

Reese walked to the little kitchen area. He listened to them talk – Christine too quickly, Finch more animated than he'd been in a long time. They got into the weeds of the program and its implementation. In the time it took him to make himself a cup of coffee, they might as well have been speaking a different language. They talked over each other, finishing each other's sentences, sometimes each other's thoughts. He made tea for Finch and soup for Christine. When he went back to the main room they were standing exactly where he'd left them, face to face, inches apart, still talking a mile a minute.

"Soup," he said, handing the woman a mug. "Tea." He gave a mug to Finch. He went back for his coffee.

"I don't want soup," Christine said.

"I don't care." Reese moved to the board.

"You should drink it," Finch said. "It will help."

"Help what? I'm fine."

"You're a bit … agitated."

She smirked at him, then at Reese. Then she let it go and sipped the chicken broth.

"Better than pixie sticks," he said.

"Not better than cigarettes, though."

"You should really stop smoking, you know," Finch said. "Your lungs have already been compromised by exposure to …"

"Random."

"She already stopped," Reese said calmly. He turned away from the board and looked at them. "What's the Ellsberg Cascade?"

They looked at each other. It wasn't a guilty look, exactly. More of a shared secret look. Finch shrugged, just a little. Christine took another sip of her soup. "Daniel Ellsberg," she finally said. "Patriot or traitor?"

John frowned at her. "The Cascade is related to the Pentagon Papers?"

"Just answer the question."

He considered. Ellsberg had leaked top secret information. It had led to the end of the Vietnam War, and likely saved the lived of thousands of soldiers. But he'd betrayed an oath. John knew that his father had considered him the worst of traitors. Personally, he wasn't so sure. "Both, I suppose. I never gave it much thought, honestly."

"And Snowden?"

"Are you evading the question?"

"I was trying to, yeah." Christine dropped onto the couch. "Do you know there are weaponized drones in the U.S.?"

"Surveillance drones," John corrected.

"Weaponized drones," she repeated.

Smokey, her cat, who had for all practical purposes become Finch's cat, the library's mouser-in-residence, jumped up on the back of the couch and then climbed down to her lap. Bear put his chin on her knee to get his share of the petting.

Reese looked at her for a long moment. He hadn't known, specifically. But he had no reason to doubt what she said. He glanced at Finch. The genius watched without comment. Without argument. "In case of invasion?"

"Or civil insurrection. Or whatever. Just in case."

John closed his eyes briefly. Oh, yes, he believed it. He just didn't like it. He really didn't like it. "Go on."

"There was significant dispute about the program, in the government, in the military, and in the intelligence community. Dispute at the very top levels."

"Are you still evading the question?"

Christine shook her head. "No. This is background. There were major fights about it. Very quiet fights, obviously, but serious and protracted and passionate. In the end, the hawks that wanted the drones got them, but the doves won a concession. Like the nuclear arms, the drone launch codes require separate authorizations. Three, actually. Three different high-ranking people have to specifically authorize any drone strike in the continental U.S."

Reese glanced toward Finch. His partner was back behind his desk. He was listening, but he was also typing. He already knew everything Christine was about to say.

Which meant that it was true. "Go on."

Christine rubbed the cat's ears until Smokey bit her gently. "Control measures can be removed, as you know. Restraints can be circumvented. So once the dust settled and the program was in place, the doves decided they wanted some insurance. Some outside means of stopping a drone strike. A group of them got together secretly and went looking for a civilian who could install a kill switch on the whole thing."

Reese whistled. "And they found you."

"Not me, baby. They already had a hacker in custody. His virtual name is Hoo-Doo, and he's brilliant."

Finch snorted in derision.

"But not brilliant enough not to get caught," Reese observed, "if he was already in custody."

"He murdered his ex-girlfriend and her family with an ax," Finch said drily.

"You knew him?" John asked Christine.

"We used to run the net together. I never met him IRL. In real life."

"I'll be grateful for small favors. So they asked this murderer to write them a kill switch."

"Which he did. A damn clever one. Well-concealed. Within twenty-four hours it has been discovered and disabled, and Hoo-Doo had lost all his extra privileges."

"The Machine?" Reese guessed.

Christine nodded. "We already guessed that something existed, somewhere, but that was the first time we'd actually run up against it. We didn't know exactly what it was, or who built it, of course." She stood up, holding the cat. She adjusted the blanket so it stayed draped over her shoulders. "They found another hacker. They gave him the same task. They got the same result. This one took a little longer to be discovered. They managed to get him out of the country."

"The Machine saw it as a direct threat to national security."

"And responded accordingly," Finch said.

She moved over to the cracked board and looked at the pictures. "I know this guy," she said, pointing to one of the security guards. "He's a cop."

"He was," Finch agreed. "He took medical retirement last year following a car accident. Do you know him well?"

"No. I met him a couple times. Enough to say hello. Teddy or Eddy, something like that."

"Edward Edwins."

"I think his partner got killed," she said slowly. "Young guy. It might not have been him, though. I don't remember."

"Carter would know," Reese said. "I'll ask her. After you finish telling me about the Cascade. How did you end up with it?"

She made a little face. "By the time they came to me, we – the community - had an idea what we were up against. Not the specifics, but a pretty good idea of the outline. And I guessed that whatever it was saw the kill switch idea as unallowable interference, as you said."

"So you found a better way to shut it down."

"I knew that wouldn't work. So I thought about the most secure program I'd ever encountered. The best engineer I'd ever hacked." Christine moved around the desk and put her hand lightly on Harold's shoulder. He looked up at her fondly. "He was all about thresholds. Not absolutes, but levels. This much causes a response; this much doesn't." Smokey squirmed, and she dropped the cat onto the desk. "A kill switch clearly provoked a reaction. So I took my best guess where the threshold was, and I wrote a program that was below it."

"How does it work?"

"It doesn't stop the drones. The Cascade doesn't interfere their drone capabilities in any way. They can still strike anyone they like, for any reason. But it requires three authorization codes, irrevocably. And the minute there's a strike, the names of the people who enter the authorizing codes are released."

"Released to whom?"

"Everyone," Finch said warmly.

Reese raised an eyebrow. "Everyone?"

"Major press outlets first," Christine confirmed. "Broadcast and cable news, all the big newspapers, radio bureaus. National and international."

He waited.

"And then each of those contacts propagates to smaller outlets. On-line news, big boards, major blogs. And then to all of their followers. To smaller blogs, to chat groups, to newsletters. And so on. Until it's on the PTA's home page and the local restaurant's on-line menu and every smart phone in the country."

Reese whistled softly. "And they can't stop it."

She shook her head. He looked to Finch. The genius hitched his shoulders slightly.

"They can launch an attack," Christine said. "But they can't escape the responsibility for it. And everyone with a launch code knows it."

John took a slow stroll of his own around the library. It was brilliant, of course. The Machine wouldn't consider it a threat to national security, so it didn't respond to it. And that was, he realized, an assessment he agreed with. If the bureaucrats believed the threat was serious enough to warrant a drone strike, then let them defend it afterward. But to convince three different high-ranking officials to put their careers irrevocably on the line ... it was brilliant, yes.

It was also wildly dangerous. "If you grab the government by the balls," Reese said bluntly, "they won't hesitate to cut your hand off."

"I know."

"That doesn't worry you?"

"There are three things stopping them. One, they're not sure it's my hand. There are a dozen or more known hackers who may or may not be involved. They're not sure who actually has control, or if more than one of us does. Two, they're not sure we don't have a live grenade in the other hand."

"A dead-man's switch."

She nodded. "And third – remember, half of them support the idea. Not all of them have been open about it, but they're there. A lot of them."

He looked at Finch again. Back when they'd first met Christine, she'd been certain that the FBI couldn't touch her. Finch had known why almost right away. He hadn't seen the need to share the details with Reese – even though what she'd done had clearly put Christine in at least some degree of danger. Finch and his secrets. This one might have been important. It might still be.

He stalked around the room again.

"They protect her," Finch said quietly.

Reese glared at him.

"Agent Donnelly wanted to arrest her," the recluse went on. "Remember? He got his hand slapped, directly from Washington. Whether they fear or revere her, the government has a decided interest in protecting Miss Fitzgerald."

"I've seen people protected by the government before, Finch. Some of them ended up dead."

"I didn't ask his permission, John," Christine said, very gently. "Or yours."

"Christine."

"It had to be done. And I was the one who could do it."

Her words twisted around in his chest. There wasn't any bravado to them, no bragging. Just a simple statement of fact. But it wasn't simple at all. It was her life, put at risk, laid on the line. For the greater good. Just like Harold. Just like him, he supposed. But something rose up in him, something dark and fierce and protective.

A physical and personal threat. This was his domain.

The world could destroy him, and Harold too, if need be, though he would do everything possible to prevent that. But it didn't get to destroy the girl.

His face felt hot and his jaw hurt. He knew his emotions were showing. Kara Stanton had called it his Dangerous Face, and even she had been a little afraid of it.

But Christine – Christine was not afraid. Christine had never been afraid.

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him.

He stood still, stiff. Angry that she thought his ferocity could be so easily turned. His hands clenched at his sides. He was dangerous. She had to know he was. She simply refused to be afraid.

If she wasn't afraid of him, when he was this close, why would she be afraid of a nebulous, faceless government?

John growled, deep in his chest. Christine made a noise that might have been a giggle. He shook himself. Then he relented, wrapped his arms around her, squeezed. Hard. "Damn it, Christine." He looked over her head at Finch. "You should have told me."

"If I'd thought there was any chance of changing things, I certainly would have."

The woman wriggled out of his arms. "You two need to stop," she said mildly. "I created the Cascade way before you were back in my life. And I managed not to get killed behind it all by myself."

"Things change," Reese said firmly. But as fast as his anger had risen, it had faded. In her unassailable logic, and in her fearlessness, she'd found a way to comfort him. To calm the beast.

Still not sure you're in love with her? Reese thought. She can turn you on a dime. He grabbed her before she could move out of range and hugged her roughly again. "Don't die, Kitten," he said threateningly.

"Doing my best."

He kissed her on the forehead and turned her loose. "Finch," he said wearily. "Where are we with Cutter?"

"He's been admitted, as expected. I gather you didn't have any luck accessing his computer."

Reese took the thumb drive out of his pocket and handed it to the genius. "I couldn't send it from the ER. I also put a bug on his bag. Once they move him up to a room, you should be able to get audio."

"Very impressive, Mr. Reese." Finch plugged the drive in, then squinted up at him. "You didn't, by chance, have anything to do with Mr. Cutter's 'seizure', did you?"

"He needed a minor attitude adjustment. We need to find the threat before he leaves the hospital."

Finch studied the data his computer had pulled in. "This is not going to be much help, I'm afraid. Mr. Cutter keeps surprisingly little data on his hard drive."

Christine took two steps toward the desk, then stopped.

"Yes, yes," Finch said impatiently. "Come look. Kibbutz at will."

She walked around and looked over his shoulder at the screen.

They said, in unison, "Cloud."

"Can you access it?"

They both made the same vague, non-committal noise.

"We can, of course," Finch finally said. "But it may take time. He actually appears to have a decent password."

Reese sighed.

"In the interim," Finch continued, "I think that the most likely source of the threat is either Mr. Cutter's co-workers or his job."

"Or anyone he's ever met on the street," Reese grumbled. "Why do I think there's a uniform in my near future?"

Finch gave him a little smile and stood up. "Well, they are going to be a man short on the night shift." He walked to the side room and came back with a uniform on a hanger, under a dry cleaning bag.

"You bought another security firm?"

"Actually, Buckler Security is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Skydd."

"So you already owned it. Convenient."

Christine looked up. "You own Skydd?"

Finch nodded briefly. He gestured to the keyboard. "See if you can crack that password, will you?" He went to a side drawer.

"Sure." She looked startled as she sat down, but she grabbed the keyboard and started in.

She'd been on his computer before, Reese knew, but only when Finch had set her up with restricted access. This time he'd simply handed over the system to her. He caught her glance and she raised one eyebrow at him. Neither of them knew if that had been on purpose or merely an oversight.

Except – Finch would not make that kind of mistake. Not with his computer. Of course, he was within arm's reach; she wasn't going to stray too far off the path. Reese raised an eyebrow back.

Welcome to the inner circle, sweetheart. He gave her an encouraging smile.

Finch turned back with an ID packet. "You've been working in the financial district," he explained. "You're looking to transfer permanently because it's a shorter commute, so you offered to fill in tonight for Cutter."

Reese checked through the documents. John Holt. They were perfect, as always. "All right. I'll talk to Carter about Edwins. If you hear anything from Cutter, let me know."

"I will."

Reese got his coat. He glanced at the woman again. Smokey had nestled in her lap, and she was reaching around her to reach the keyboard. She was fully engaged in the task, and for the first time her feet had stopped tapping. "How do you get the updates?" he asked suddenly.

Christine glanced up. "Hmmm?"

"The access codes are updated monthly. How do you get the updates for the Cascade?"

"Oh. We have a bunch of different channels. And a bunch of different people get them."

He nodded. That was smart, tactically.

"But," she added, "it's a funny thing. If you're a girl who's known for her taste for military men, no one even notices when you take a full-bird colonel up to a hotel room."

Reese stared at her. That answer opened up so many questions. How many of her men in uniform had been sources and not lovers? Or were they both? Was she using sex as a reward for supplying the information? Or was it simply a convenience? Thanks for the data, and since you're here anyhow …

He stopped. He didn't want to know. He just didn't. Whatever was in her past, let it stay there.

Her eyes read his resignation. She smiled very slightly and dropped her eyes back to the keyboard.

He looked to Finch. "Keep her busy," he mouthed soundlessly.

"Obviously," his partner replied, equally silent.

John nodded. That explained the unthinkable access he'd given her. And, as Reese had already observed, Finch was right there watching her. But it was a good strategy. And a generous one. He smiled gratefully and walked down the stairs.