*MY* Reddington?

Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and a lot of the actual DIALOGUE in this one isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: The ever-amazing Didou27 provided us with a STUNNING portrait that Liz draws during this episode. Check the link in my profile to see her gorgeous artwork! And thank you, darling! You're a goddess. 3

…:::…

Chapter 10: Anslo Garrick Part 1

…:::…

Liz hadn't slept well in days. Tom had been playing the part of the dutiful husband perfectly, to the point that Liz had had moments of doubt that he was anything other than what he pretended to be.

But she always came back to the box of money and passports, and Gina Zanetakos' prints, and the fact that Reddington knew things about him that he refused to tell her.

That morning she'd made up her mind to corner him and get some answers out of him sometime soon, entering the Post Office a little late –everyone knew the circumstances, and no-one said anything about her arrival time. She got off the elevator to find Reddington in handcuffs, standing with Ressler, Meera, and Cooper, arguing about safety.

"Why am I in handcuffs, Harold?" Reddington demanded. "You're violating our arrangement."

"There's an imminent threat to your life," Ressler answered.

Reddington scoffed. "That condition is constant."

Meera launched into a detailed explanation of her contacts and the intercepted communications that indicated Reddington was being targeted for assassination.

"With all due respect, Agent Malik, if the intel were worth having, then I would have it," Reddington interrupted, not looking at Liz as she arrived to stand next to him.

"There's a price on your head," Ressler said with vehemence.

Reddington laughed. "There's a running price on my head, Agent Ressler! But just out of curiosity, what's the number up to these days?"

"Anslo Garrick." Cooper's voice was steady and deep.

Reddington's smile tightened and dropped from his face, all joking gone. "Listen to me. If this intel was disseminated, it was done so directly to you. It's canned, which means Anslo Garrick intends to attack this facility. We've got a songbird in our midst, and until I find out who's singing, I don't trust anyone, because someone helped to bring him here. I don't need visas, passports, travel documents; I can't be tracked, and I can't be easily caught. Garrick knows this."

Liz chimed in. "Reddington's right. Garrick would have needed him contained, landlocked. This site and our security protocol is the perfect way to get us to do half the work for him—bringing Reddington here so he would know exactly where to attack to get to him."

Ressler shook his head. "He doesn't even know this place exists," he argued.

The group was suddenly plunged into darkness, and emergency lighting flooded the room in beams of harsh light. Liz raised an eyebrow at Ressler. "Obviously he does."

"Garrick is a blunt-force object, Harold. And seemingly immune to bullets. I can attest to this first-hand, having put one in his head years ago at point blank range. He's here, and he's already in." Reddington looked to Liz, counting on her to lend credibility to his statements.

Cooper also looked to Liz, and she had a momentary dizzying sensation as she realized both the Assistant Director of the task force and the FBI's Most Wanted #4 were both looking to her to make a call. Liz looked back at Cooper, steadily, and nodded.

Cooper grimaced. "Initiate full facility lockdown."

As he barked orders and demanded non-essential personnel evacuate the building, Reddington turned his back to Ressler, motioning with his restrained hands as best he could. "Get me out of these damn cuffs."

Liz looked at Ressler. "We should put him in the box until the threat is neutralized." Ressler nodded, already having come to that decision himself. He grabbed Reddington by one bicep and steered him off the main floor and down the hallway that led to the holding cell. Liz fell into step next to him.

"This is not a threat that can be neutralized, Donald, tell your boss not to make a stand. Get your people the hell out of here. I don't think you appreciate the sheer firepower that has entered this building. He means to take me, and he'll kill anyone in his way or in his wake. This isn't about digging in. This is about escape."

"Shut up," Ressler said tightly, stepping forward to check around a corner before waving Liz and Red to follow him. Liz had taken Red's arm, lightly, and while her position mirrored the way Ressler had been leading him a moment before, she was barely touching him now. If he had wanted to break away and run, or fight (as much as he could, in handcuffs), he easily could have. Yet he walked docilely along with Liz, allowing the pressure of her hand to speed him up or pause him when they came to corners.

Reddington stopped and tilted his head, looking at Ressler's tense form with curiosity. "Why not just let them have me, Donald?" His voice was low, and while obviously still trying to be obnoxious and facetious, Liz could tell he was testing the words out as truth, readying himself in a way for the possibility that what he described might actually happen. Had a very good chance of happening, actually. Reddington cut his eyes to Liz, since he was being summarily ignored by Ressler. "I'll likely be tortured for weeks and left to rot until they finally deign to put a bullet in my skull."

Liz's insides twisted painfully, horrified at the option, and panicked by the mental images that suddenly flooded her brain. She squeezed Reddington's arm slightly, hoping he would take it as silent reassurance that she wouldn't let that happen.

Reddington pursed his lips and looked back in Ressler's direction. "That would probably please you, wouldn't it?"

Liz shook her head, answering for her partner. "You're an adjunct informant for the FBI, Red. That means you're our responsibility. That means we fight for your life against anyone who wants to take it," she said fervently.

A loud bang echoed down the hallway, and the sound of bullets ricocheting off the pipes above them caused Liz to shove Red against the wall and down onto the floor, stepping in front of him and firing down the corridor in the direction of the vague outline by the stairs. She and Ressler managed to drop the form, and Liz spun to shoot a second man who came sideways at them through another door.

Ressler gave an agonized cry and crumpled to the ground, clutching his left calf where the second man had managed to hit him before Liz dropped him. "Ressler?" she shouted, leveling her gun back down the hallway and checking to make sure no one else was there to surprise them again. "Where are you hit?"

"My leg—" he groaned through gritted teeth.

Reddington had moved over to where Ressler lay, and he grabbed the handcuff keys from the gasping man's belt without hesitation. He quickly freed himself and went about stripping the dead gunman beside them of his gear.

"Can you move?" Liz asked quietly, kneeling beside Ressler. She quickly undid his tie and wound it around his calf, causing him to roar in pain.

"I can't walk, no," he rasped.

Footsteps on the stairs could be heard, and before Liz could stand and spin toward whoever was approaching, Reddington had drawn a gun and shot out a pipe above them, causing steam to spill down and obscure the hallway. For good measure, he pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it toward the stairs. Liz and Red turned their backs, and all three hunched and squeezed their eyes shut against the noise and percussive force that shook the corridor.

"Come on," Liz said, grabbing Ressler under one arm.

Reddington walked over and grabbed him under the other, but spoke to Liz. "We can't take him with us. This wound isn't going to be fatal in the next few hours as long as he keeps pressure on it. But he can't come with us."

Liz grimaced, knowing he was right. "Maintenance closet," she suggested, jutting her chin in the direction of a door several feet down the hallway. Reddington nodded, and they dragged Ressler toward it.

They situated him in the dark, small room, leaving him with a gun, a grenade, and a walkie talkie.

"Be careful—" Ressler managed, looking up at Liz as she closed the door, nodding.

Liz and Reddington jogged down the hall, both pausing at juncture points, checking to make sure the coast was clear before proceeding. Reddington ran the last few steps to the box, Liz jabbed the code into the keypad, and slammed her hand down on the biometric scanner. Footsteps echoed at the other end of the long room as the alarm sounded, signaling the slow closure of the door to the box.

"Agent Keen?" Reddington yelled, pulling a gun and emptying it in the direction of the approaching mercenaries.

Liz sprinted the rest of the way to the box, throwing herself in behind Reddington as he swung the shotgun up and blasted several shells at the men firing on them. The door thumped closed, several heavy bolts sliding into place around the edges.

Reddington stayed near the door, peering out through the impenetrable glass, as one of the men approached the box and pulled off the balaclava he wore over his scarred face.

"Hello, Red," he said pointedly. "Did you really think there was a distance you could cover or a hole deep enough that you could hide in? There is nowhere in this world that I cannot reach you, Red. Fortification be damned." He attempted a smile, but it pulled horrifically at his drooping mouth, giving him an even more maniacal look. "I heard you made yourself some sweet little immunity deal, Red. I heard that you fitted the FBI with strings, and now they hang upon your hip like a hatchet." Garrick leaned to the side, peering past Red. "And what about her? Is she one of your puppets? Do you pull her strings? Or does she… pull yours?"

Liz backed up a step, and immediately regretted the action, since she knew it gave off an impression of weakness. Red turned toward her and methodically began stripping off the weapons and vest he'd liberated from the dead man in the hall, placing the things in a semi-organized pile in the corner of the box.

"But no matter who you align yourself with… they can't keep you safe, Red. I spent five years thinking about the pain I was going to inflict on you while slowly breaking your will, your body, and finally your mind."

Liz wanted to burst out of the box and beat Garrick to death with her bare hands. The threats he leveled at Red made her feel sick, and the way Red's face didn't waver—not even the slightest flinch—away from his slightly bored, mostly irritated expression made her sad. He had gotten used to people detailing the atrocities they wished to visit upon him. Liz's teeth clenched, and she let out an angry, harsh breath. Her fingers curled in to fists.

Reddington sensed her change in posture and looked up at her, closing his eyes for the briefest second, and giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don't take the bait, he seemed to silently warn her.

"That day is here, my friend," Anslo continued, stepping up to the glass, a sneer slicing across his face. "And it will end with your screams, as God is my witness."

Liz raised an eyebrow at him through the glass. "So you're Anslo Garrick, huh? I've heard a lot about you." Liz sat down on the low cot in what she hoped was a nonchalant way. "That scar looks much worse in person than it does in pictures," she said honestly. If she could get him to talk, maybe they could find out who sent him? Why he was there? How the hell he'd gained access and decimated their defenses so quickly and thoroughly?

"Now, I'm afraid I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, love. You know my name, but I have no clue who you are," Anslo said, sitting down next to glass and leaning against it to look up and in at them. "Red, don't be rude, now. Introduce me to the pretty little girlfriend you've got in there with you?"

Reddington gave a chuckle. "You never were any good when it came to the ladies, Anslo, but now that you look like that—" Reddington gestured to his face, "—those kind of lines come off truly horrifying, rather than flirtatious. I'm sure if this one weren't currently trapped in a box, she'd either be slapping you, or running in the other direction."

"And I think it's a little ironic that you're mocking Red for working with the FBI when you've got a history of doing exactly the same thing?" Liz spoke up suddenly, narrowing her eyes at Anslo, who scoffed. "You seemed quite chummy with us in Brussels back in '08 when you got in touch with the team to give Ressler Red's train number and itinerary."

"Ha!—what a massive cock-up that was," Garrick crowed. "I never met him in person, but if good ol' Don had done his job correctly at the time, I wouldn't be here now. I gave him everything. All he had to do was supply the bullet, but no." Garrick shifted, tilting his head differently to get a better view of Liz instead of Red, who had sat in the small chair near the center of the tiny space. "But let's go back to your statement: you said 'us'. 'Chummy with us'." Anslo's mouth pulled up on one side. "Were you a part of that little kick murder squad at Waterloo Station, too?"

Reddington's eyes cut to Liz, but his expression and posture didn't change. Liz didn't see a benefit to lying, so she answered evenly, "I was there, yes." She turned to Reddington. "But I wasn't—"

"Not the time," Red interrupted in a low voice.

Garrick gave a bark of delighted laughter. "Oh, that's wonderful. You didn't know! That your little pet in there has tried to bite you before. She was one of the ones who tried to kill you, Red."

"Mmm. Then I guess it's just lucky for him I'm not great at my job, and really lucky that someone found out about the planned hit, and knew enough about him to get a warning message through." Liz said with a glare. She turned back to Red, her expression softening. "Lots of crazy luck that day. You should have bought a lotto ticket."

Reddington frowned, and swallowed. The message to run, warning him of an impending assassination attempt, had been delivered to him scrawled hastily across an American lottery ticket.

It had been the only thing in Liz's pocket to write on when she'd managed to sneak away from the rest of the team.

"You're right," Reddington said quietly, studying Liz's face. "I guess I missed an opportunity there."He paused for a long moment, his eyes locked with Liz's, before he abruptly continued, raising his voice and turning his attention to Garrick. "And speaking of opportunities, Anslo, I'm looking at you, and I got to say I'm really surprised. With the access you now have to top-notch plastic surgeons, why you haven't done something—anything—about that horrific scar…?" Reddington shook his head. "I mean, how do you wake up to that staring back at you in the mirror every morning?"

"No, Red, you know what?" Liz chimed in. "It's not the scar. It's really the eye." Liz peered closer, leaning toward the glass. "How did he survive that shot anyway?" she asked Reddington, her phrasing purposefully rude, talking about Garrick as if he couldn't hear her.

Red laughed. "Talk about lucky—I normally carried Hydra-Shok hollow points. I was trying out a new series of center-fire wadcutters that week."

Liz raised her eyebrows, amping up the theatricality a bit, playing in to Reddington's story. "Really? So the only thing that saved his life was… you switching ammo?"

Red bobbed his head, a smug smile ghosting across his face. He dropped his eyes back down to where Garrick was visible on the other side of the glass, his voice dropping low. "Make sure you think about that little irony now every time you randomly find your reflection or are reminded of that… unfortunate thing I've done to your face."

When Liz had first had the opportunity to hear Raymond Reddington—hear him speak, hear his voice—it had been a terrible-quality wire tap, too quiet and too brief. She'd been struck by how rich it was when he'd turned himself in to the FBI and she'd watched him on the monitors above her head, in the main room at the Post Office.

When she'd sat in front of him and actually had a conversation, in person… His voice was decadent. It truly was.

And it seemed to get even better when he was threatening people.

Liz immediately mentally rolled her eyes at herself. She was trapped in a box with a killer and a criminal, there was a maniac outside trying to get in to kill them both, and she was stuck on how deep and attractive his voice was when he pointedly referred to a brutal attack that should have left this man dead, but instead turned his face into a twisted, puckered, drooping caricature. 'Not the time or the place, Liz…'

Liz jumped as Anslo raised his weapon and fired point-blank at the glass, aiming directly at Red. The bullet ricocheted, and with a grunt, one of Anslo's men, twenty feet behind him and just to his right, dropped heavily to the ground as it struck him in the abdomen. Anslo didn't bat an eye, and continued to fire an additional two rounds.

Reddington laughed, and Liz did her best to twist her shocked expression into a smirk. "True to form, Anslo," Red said. "Why take time to think when it's so much easier to shoot?"

"This glass was developed by Darpa for secure cover and housing in combat zones," Liz piped up from the cot. "Your .45 might as well be a spit straw."

Anslo ground his teeth. "Laugh while you can, you two. I've brought a whole picnic basket to this party. And little pig, little pig, you are going to let me come in."

…:::…

Liz shifted on the bed, and reached down to grab a spiral notebook left over from when Reddington had drafted his immunity agreement. She'd spotted it on the floor under the cot, along with a pencil. She was getting antsy, and Reddington kept shutting down every attempt at conversation. He obviously didn't want to give Garrick and his team any additional information, but she needed something to take her mind off their current situation or her poker face was going to slip. She'd been watching as explosive charges were placed around the sides of the box, and when Anslo ordered one of his men to grab more from the Post Office's own armory, Liz had had enough. Time to get her mind off the current situation.

Drawing had always settled her nerves. There was something comforting about the very slight weight of a pencil in her hand, and the soft sound the tip made as it was dragged across paper. She loved the way initial shapes and broad strokes became more detailed, and the way shading gave her subject immediate depth. She didn't have any of her more professional smudge sticks, but her ring finger would do for now. She just hoped she didn't break the pencil—she knew she didn't have anything in here to sharpen it with.

Well… Red probably had a knife on him somewhere.

She'd been drawing Raymond Reddington since she was ten years old. It began as a way to remember his face, a childish need for vengeance pushing her to practice and improve so the picture would be more accurate. She was afraid she'd forget how the man's face had looked as he lay unconscious at her feet that night. By the time she had learned his name, she had become quite the artist.

"You know your blood type is the only one other than O-negative that we stock here?" Liz said absently, sketching quickly.

Reddington turned to look at her. "You know my blood type?"

"B-negative. There's only 2% of you. Did you know that?"

Reddington tilted his head and regarded Liz from the other end of the box, watching her closely as her pencil flicked across the page. "I did. How did you know that?"

"It's my job to know things about you," she answered, her face serene, her eyes still on her drawing.

Reddington leaned against the glass, crossing his arms over his chest. "Like the house I lived in before I abandoned my family?"

"Abandoned?" Liz said pointedly, pausing her movements to look up at Reddington. "We both know that's not the whole story, now is it?"

"Like that. How do you know any details pertaining to those events?" Reddington quieted his voice, glancing over his shoulder to check that none of Garrick's team were anywhere near the box. "You know how I prefer my beds made up in the hotels I frequent. You know my favorite wines. You apparently watch my previous residence from more than twenty years ago so closely that you were alerted about its recent opportunity for purchase within three hours of it being listed." Reddington narrowed his eyes. "Brussels…?"

Both fell silent as two men approached to lay more charges along one side of the box. They finished placing them and headed back toward Garrick. "He chased you for five years," Liz said. "Ressler. His fiancée left him. He tried to make a name for himself by catching you. Yeah, sure, he tried to kill you—and got damn close that time—but it wasn't personal, Red. You shouldn't give him such a hard time." Liz glanced up briefly before returning her attention to her paper. "It's the nature of your business and your job. People try to kill you."

"Yes, but I generally return the favor. I saved a man's life once under a beautiful old cedar tree in Lebanon. A month later, he tried to kill me in a hotel in Damascus. I understood, allegiances shift, but I wasn't about to let that kind of thing go. Three weeks later I broke his neck with a shower caddy."

"You tell stories like that to try to cover yourself in a layer of apparent ruthlessness and violence. Why?"

"How do you know I'm not actually ruthless and violent?"

Liz licked her lips and squinted at her sketch. She smudged part of his temple a bit more, then went to work on the darker material of his lapels. "You can't judge a book by its cover. But you can by its first few chapters, and—most certainly—by its last." Liz stopped working and looked up, past Reddington, through the glass to the group of men, arguing near the foot of the stairs. "Do you think this is our last chapter?" she asked, her voice quiet, but unwavering.

Reddington sighed, and pushed off from the wall, seating himself in the chair near the cot. "No. I need too many more things to happen in my life for this to be the end. I want to be in the Piazza del Campo in Siena, to feel the surge as ten racehorses go thundering by. I want another meal in Paris at L'Ambroisie in the Place des Vosges. I want another bottle of wine. And then another. One more night of jazz at the vanguard. I want to stand on summits and smoke Cubans and feel the sun on my face for as long as I can. Walk on the wall again. Climb the tower. Ride the river. Stare at the frescos. I want to sit in the garden and read one more good book. Most of all, I want to sleep. I want to sleep like I slept when I was a boy. Give me that...just…one time."

Liz's hand had stilled awhile ago, and while Reddington spoke, his voice quiet and rhythmic, his eyes closed and his head lolling to one side, she couldn't find it in herself to look away, even though watching his face as he ran through his list seemed like an invasion of some kind. As if she were intruding on something that should only be admitted to a priest. Or a lover. Something confidential. Her heart ached happily at the realization that he was sharing these things with her willingly, and in an attempt to soothe her.

He was trying to comfort her.

Reddington's eyes opened, and he stayed silent a moment longer, looking off into space, unfocussed, before he turned to look over his shoulder at Garrick. "That's why I won't allow that punk out there to get the best of me… let alone the last." He swung his head back to look at Liz, and smiled tiredly at her. "You and I both have more chapters to write."

Just then, Cooper, Meera, and a limping, grimacing Ressler were marched into view, with Luli and Dembe, and several other agents.

"Ah! More guests joining the party…" Anslo smiled maniacally. "And one is just the man I wanted to see. Assistant Director Cooper: I need something from you. I need to get into that box," he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of Reddington.

Cooper stayed silent.

Anslo grabbed him by the bicep and shoved him forward, toward the box, and kicked a foot into the back of his knee when he'd gone far enough, forcing him roughly to kneel on the hard concrete floor. Anslo gestured to his men, and several more pushed Luli, Dembe, and Ressler forward and lined them up just feet from the glass.

Liz had thrown the pad of paper down when her team had been led into the room, and she and Reddington both approached the door.

Anslo walked behind Luli and pressed his gun to the back of her head. She winced, and silent tears began to roll down her face. "Ten seconds, gentlemen. Red, come out now."

"Wait—" Red said, his voice tight. He spun on Liz, and she took a step back at the look on his face. "You got us in here; you know the code. Open the box."

Liz opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words.

"Ten… nine…" Anslo began to count.

Reddington stepped forward, grabbing Liz by the neck and pushing her roughly back against the wall. "Give him the code!" he growled, his hand tightening.

Liz looked at him silently, apologetically, and managed a small shake of her head. "If he gets in here, you'll be tortured and killed," she whispered.

"Eight… seven…"

Reddington's right hand tightened again around her neck to the point of pain, but Liz didn't raise her hands to claw at his grip, or push him away. He slammed his left hand harshly against the glass just beside her head, and she cringed away from it, but still said nothing. "Let me out," he ordered.

"You're my priority," she rasped.

"Six… five…"

Reddington let go of Liz with a growl, spinning to face Garrick. Luli was shaking now, tears streaming down her face.

"Anslo, my people can't help you, but Cooper can get you in here. Put that gun to his head," Reddington suggested somewhat desperately.

"Four… three…"

"For once in your life, stop and think—"

"Two… one."

Liz watched Red's body jolt as the gun went off and a spray of crimson rained across the outside of the box. Luli's body slumped sideways to the floor, and Liz felt sick as Red slowly turned to look at her, still backed up against the wall where he'd left her. His gaze was accusatory, and angry, and laden with a profound sense of betrayal, and Liz thought frantically that she'd give almost anything in that moment to regain the trust she'd managed to earn over the past several weeks. Because she'd surely lost every single ounce of it now.

"Red, I don't have to explain what happens now, do I?" Anslo's voice broke the silence, and Red dragged his glare away from Liz and fixed it back on the man in front of him, who had now moved to stand behind Dembe.

Liz's stomach dropped.

"Would you prefer that I did the countdown again?" Anslo asked with a sneer. "You open the box, or Dembe dies."

"Harold, tell him," Red pleaded in a strong voice. "Ressler. You know the code. Give him the code. Anslo, wait—"

"Wait is over, Red. People are dying now."

Reddington turned sharply and strode over to the pile of weapons he'd brought in with them and grabbed a handgun. Liz's face crumpled as she realized the extent of what he was willing to do to save Dembe's life. She bit her lip, her eyes welling with tears, and shook her head miserably. Red leveled the gun at her, and she drew in a sharp breath, but the only move she made was to stand straighter, and to close her eyes with an anguished wince.

"Raymond." Dembe's soft voice broke the silence. "Raymond," he repeated, more insistent. "Ours is a friendship forged once in this life… and again in the next."

Liz opened her eyes to see Reddington's face turned toward his friend, but the gun was still pointed, steady, at her chest.

"Goodbye, my brother," Dembe added.

Red looked back at Liz, and his arm fell uselessly to his side, the gun harmlessly aimed at the floor. "Open this box," he begged softly. "I'll give you anything."

Liz's resolve shook. If this cost her his trust, and he refused to work with her ever again, was it worth it? If he got out of here and ran, she'd never see him again.

But if she gave up the code and that door opened, he was a dead man.

This was truly a no-win scenario.

Reddington's attention was pulled from Liz as Dembe began reciting from the Qur'an. "Qul huwal laahu ahad…"

Reddington joined in almost immediately, staring down at Dembe as he rose to his feet, only to be pushed back down by Anslo. "Allah hus-samad; lam yalid wa lam yoolad…" Both continued the prayer in unison, and tears finally began to fall down Liz's cheeks as Red placed both palms flat on the glass in front of himself and slid down to his knees, almost level with Dembe. "Wa lam yakul-lahu kufuwan ahad."

Liz could see Red's expression in his ghostly reflection despite his back being turned to her, and the look of desperate torment on his face was more than she could bear. She closed her eyes again and turned her head away, her heart hammering frantically in her chest.

When the second single shot rang out, she let her knees buckle, and sank miserably to the floor.

She would never win back his trust. It was over.

…:::…

TBC!

My sincere apologies if I got any of the prayer wrong—Lady Kerby was sweet enough to do some research for me, and this was what she found. If anything is incorrect, please let me know so I can fix it! What she found to be the translation (thank you again, darling!):

Qul huwal laahu ahad;
Allah hus-samad;
Lam yalid wa lam yoolad;
Wa lam yakul-lahu kufuwan ahad

He is Allah, the One and Only;
Allah, the Eternal, Absolute;
He begetteth not, nor is He begotten;
And there is none like unto Him