See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes.

Chapter 5 - Point of No Return

It was a strange thing to drop a coded message that would spell out for its recipient "I have to kill you." John felt bad about it. He really did. And he felt backed into a corner as well, because despite a very long, quiet day after his "escape" from Ivanova and his confrontation with Morden, he was no closer to figuring out how to get out of this one with both his and Ivanova's heads still in tact.

The other thing – that is, the thing other than saving his own skin – that had him on edge was the woman he'd met. Delenn. He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind. She looked so… fragile… like she'd break if you squeezed her too tight. And yet, he reflected, she must have been stronger than she looked. Given Morden's offer to him, he couldn't bear to think what she might go through on a daily basis, what her life might be like. It made his heart hurt.

And when his heart hurt, it reminded him that he had feelings. He was, he reflected, OK with acknowledging that – except that right now it was 4 a.m. and he was mindlessly wandering the catacombs of the Shadows' underground lair, a place where everyone's blood ran cold, everyone was emotionless, hardened, unfeeling.

He came to an empty room – it contained a television, a couch and a rocking recliner, and he sank down into the recliner without turning on the light. He'd come down into the Shadows to do a job. He'd come here with the guise of a man seeking revenge. He'd come here to save a city, and to find redemption for himself, and it was important enough to him that he was willing to die for it. But what if…

He closed his eyes and saw Delenn's face again. What if he could find his redemption not through a grand act of revenge, not through saving a whole city, but through the rescue of one person, out of the darkness – one lost soul, pulled from danger, pulled from harm? Would he be recognized for that, even if he did not survive it? He didn't know. He wasn't sure it mattered.

"You're up early."

John started, nearly jumping out of his skin at the voice. His eyes focused on Garibaldi, who leaned casually against the door frame in the darkness. He responded with a shrug. "Couldn't sleep."

"You? There hasn't been a day since you got here that you haven't passed out from overindulgence." The blue-eyed man gave a short laugh as he entered the room and sauntered over to the couch. He studied the old black leather for a moment before sinking down on it. "Penny for your thoughts?"

John rubbed absently at the scruffy goatee he'd been growing since his jump-in. "I met Delenn yesterday."

Now the bald man laughed and flashed him a knowing grin, visible in the low light of the room. "You mean you met Delenn, or you uh… met Delenn?"

"What's her story?"

"She swallows."

Inside, John's stomach rolled; outwardly, he smiled, slow and emotionless. "Good to know. But – no. I mean, where did she come from?"

Garibaldi shook his head. "Who cares?" Behind his words was the bigger question – Why do you care? There was just enough of an edge there that John knew he was treading on dangerous territory. He backed off.

"And the other girls, the ones who took care of me?"

"Ah. Lyta and Talia. Here in the Shadows, my friend, you may have noticed that female members are few and far between. Those two… they're family of Bester. He's got them wrapped around his little finger so tight they'll follow him anywhere, do anything he asks. So when he came… so did they."

"And do they swallow too?"

"Sometimes. If you ask nicely." The edge was gone from his voice, the relaxed tone returning. "But if you've been given the keys to Delenn's kingdom, that's easier. She knows her place. Won't give you any guff. Take my advice and take the easier path."

John wasn't smiling. He hoped this didn't draw too much attention. "Sometimes I like a challenge," he replied.

"So you're looking forward to your meeting with the esteemed Commander Ivanova, then."

John hesitated longer than he should have. To make up for it, he pulled his 9mm out of the waist of his jeans, cocked it, pointed it forward and mimed pulling the trigger.

"That how you're gonna do it?"

"It's clean. Quick."

"She doesn't deserve that mercy. You ought to know that." Garibaldi stood up, shooting John one last look as he headed for the door. "Murder sits better on a good night's sleep," he encouraged.

"Yeah, fine." John watched him go, then tilted his head back, kicked out his feet in the recliner and closed his eyes. Sleep. Right.

Garibaldi, meanwhile, walked slowly but purposefully down the dark hallway until he reached the back of the lair. Morden's quarters were larger than the others and had an actual door that closed and locked – one of the few. Garibaldi grasped the handle and turned it – it wasn't locked tonight. He barged in, not bothering to knock. "I'm blowing the horn on Sheridan," he said by way of greeting as he ventured into the dark quarters. "He's – Jesus Christ, Morden. You're a nympho, you know that?" He waited while his leader pushed a nameless blonde aside and sat up, draping a sheet over his lap as a courtesy.

"I'm sampling the merchandise. And should I have expected you to come barging in here at four in the morning, wailing about how the new guy's about to show you up?" Morden asked, not bothering at all to disguise the annoyed look on his face. "Don't get your panties all in a twist, Garibaldi. Sheridan'll do the job."

"I'm not so sure. He's… He's just different since he got back." Garibaldi paced restlessly for a long moment. "I smell bacon," he said at last.

"Don't give me that. You ran his background check. You fucking told me he's got a record, he's done time, and he didn't exactly run his unit by the book in Minbar, even before his wife met her… unfortunate end."

"I know, I know. It's… it's just… he's different."

"OK, fine. Look. Starting tomorrow, we'll sequester him here until he's ready to make the hit. When he goes out for the job, you tail him. If he does it, we have nothing else to talk about. If not—" Morden shrugged and made a gun firing motion to his temple using his thumb and forefinger. Then he gave Garibaldi the annoyed look again. "OK? Now go away. I'm busy."

"Fine." Garibaldi turned and stalked out of the room. Before pulling the door closed behind him, he paused to look back at Morden and his visitor. "When's this one move out?"

Morden let out a dejected sigh as he strolled over to his dresser, considered for a moment and finally selected the 9mm. "She doesn't want to play." He gave Garibaldi an overemphasized pout for a full two seconds before turning the same face on the girl. She met it with terrified blue eyes and at that, Morden's lower lip retracted and both of them slid up into a thin smile. He relished in the girl's terror a moment longer, watched her start to scramble, and let her get up from the bed just enough that her blood wouldn't mess up his sheets before he pulled the trigger. The quiet night was shattered for a split second by a single, deafening shot – right to the heart, and the girl crumpled to a motionless heap on the floor.

Morden lowered his trigger arm and let a sad smile slide into place as he faced Garibaldi with a helpless shrug. "Pity. Take care of her for me, huh?"

"In the morning."

Still riding the high from his kill, Morden lifted the gun again, this time turning it on Garibaldi, the smile disappearing and his head tilting slowly to the side. "Now," he challenged.

Garibaldi hesitated only a beat. "Fine. Now." He moved forward and lifted the nameless girl's lifeless body over his shoulder. As he stepped into the hall on his exit, he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow, someone retreating just paces ahead of him, but he checked the adjacent doorways and there was no one around. Sheridan appeared to have succumbed to sleep in the recliner. With a satisfied nod, Garibaldi continued down the hall and around the corner to the back exit, swinging by to pick up Bester on his way. Together the two of them would drive this body to the wooded area at the edge of town and bury her in a shallow grave.

Just like all the others.

His mind on the task ahead, he did not see Delenn, pressed up against the wall of their conference room, and he did not see her slip back down the hall toward Sheridan.

John was not sleeping. He was laying back in the recliner, eyes closed, and he was sincerely creeped out because he could feel someone watching him. Friend or foe? He wondered for just a moment before his senses reminded him – idiot. You have no friends down here.

If there was going to be a fight, John was glad for two things: His gun was loaded, and he was sober. He slowly grasped his gun with his left hand while opening one eye in the general direction of the room's entrance, ready to draw his weapon if necessary.

It wasn't necessary. Leaning against the wall, just inside the curtain of black beads that marked the curved-arch entrance to this little den, was the woman he'd met earlier. Delenn.

She wasn't any more clothed than when he'd first met her, and she looked like an injured animal, hoping for an ally but ready to bolt at a moment's notice if she was wrong. Slowly, he released the grip on his weapon and sat up to look at her. He knew concern and care was showing through in his face; he didn't care. But he didn't speak, either; he was afraid someone would hear him, and he was equally afraid that she would be scared away by any sudden sound. Instead he just looked at her.

And she looked at him.

And in the darkness, their eyes connected. "You're John Sheridan," she said quietly.

She had an accent he couldn't place. Eastern European, maybe? God, where did you come from? But all he said was, "Yes." His voice was barely audible, but in his head, in the total stillness of this predawn meeting that he had a feeling was no accident, it sounded booming loud.

"Be careful, John Sheridan. The Shadows move… when you're not looking at them."

She had a way about her… she was trying very hard to tell him something, but she'd been here a long time, a very long time, and she probably knew these walls were not soundproof. "I… I don't…" He sat up further, shook his head. Was he high? Was she an illusion? He didn't think so.

God, he thought. Ivanova was right. No more of that shit.

She stepped tentatively closer to him, hugging her arms across her middle – for modesty or warmth, he couldn't be sure which, and before he could stop himself he was thinking – I'd take her in my arms to give her either – or both.

She came close enough, just barely close enough, to touch – and he reached out to do so. It looked like she might take his hand, but instead, she slipped him a folded piece of paper. A knowing look, right in his eyes, straight to his soul, and then she was dropping his hand and ducking out of the room, the beaded curtain rattling in her wake.

Dumbfounded, he opened the note.

You've been sequestered. They are watching you.

With a frustrated scowl, he crumpled the note into a ball and raised his arm to throw it against the wall – and then, on a thought, he ate it instead. He chewed slowly, trying not to upchuck, head tilted back and eyes closed in defeat. How do you orchestrate a fake hit when you can't make contact with your target? How do you pull it off if someone's going to be there to make sure it's done for real? He had no idea. He'd never felt so backed into a corner.

A drink would make it better.

No, he reasoned, a drink would not make it better. A drink would make it worse. He'd gone down here, gone through all this, because he wanted to prove he could still be a good cop. He wanted to prove he could do this and not fuck it up. And he finally understood that if he was going to do that, he had to be the person he had been before he crawled into the bottle. He couldn't just limp along; he couldn't fake it; he had to be that person again for real, for good. It was now or never.

Garibaldi stayed about thirty paces behind Sheridan as the other man staked out his target. Commander Ivanova lived in a pretty nice neighborhood, he reflected. She obviously did OK for herself. Maybe they could keep her death out of the news reports and put her place to good use. It was a garden-level apartment in a four-story brownstone, and by all accounts it would make a great place for the girls to stay, if nothing else. But – no. This news, this death, needed to be public – the city of Babylon, not to mention the thrice-damned Vorlons, needed a reminder of who was in charge.

It was about two hours after sunset, and the streets were lit only by streetlamps – this made it easier for Garibaldi to find cover but more difficult to get a good view of what was going on. He managed to find a place around the trunk of a well-established oak tree where he had a good view of the door. He watched as Sheridan, dressed in a dark 3-piece suit, hair gelled and spiked and face clean-shaven except for that stupid-ass goatee he'd decided to keep after his initiation, stepped up and rang the bell. There was a long pause, long enough that Garibaldi thought maybe no one was home – but then the door cracked open and Commander Ivanova stepped out.

She was hot, Garibaldi reflected, and she was in a bathrobe, which made it all the better. Why are we killing her again? He wondered absently. Why can't we just use her? He didn't have time to think further about it. The stillness of the night was broken by three quick, calculated shots. Somewhere in there was a stifled cry of pain, and then Ivanova crumpled to the ground. Sheridan tucked his 9mm back into the holster hidden inside his suit jacket, turned and walked briskly away from the body.

"Such a waste. Pity," Garibaldi muttered to himself, and then before Sheridan reached his hiding place, he ducked into the shadows and headed a different way back to Z'ha'dum.

"It's done."

"Proof?"

"Turn on the news and talk to your sorry excuse for a street coordinator," Sheridan huffed as he continued the brisk pace that had carried him all the way here from Ivanova's, fueled by adrenaline and nothing else and God, he'd forgotten what it felt like to feel so alive. He yanked off his suit jacket as he came down the stairs into the lair and turned his gun over to Morden for examination as he continued ranting. "He's damn lucky I wasn't a Vorlon or a pig or he'd be dead or in prison by now." Now he stopped walking and turned quickly, raising his eyebrows as Morden finished checking out the weapon. "Satisfied?"

"Recently fired. Three bullets. Bit much, don't you think?"

"I wanted to make sure it was done," he responded gruffly. "Now I've had enough of this little song-and-dance. I just took out the goddamn commander of the fucking Babylon PD and I think I've earned a number of things."

"And I promised you a reward. I keep my promises." Morden smiled smoothly. "I like my Board members to be happy."

Sheridan nodded, pleased. "That's a start. The girl, and the promotion. But I want more. You promised me that if I did your dirty work, you'd help me get revenge on my wife's killers. I want to know what you know. Now."

There was a long silence. By now they'd made enough raucous to draw the attention of Wade, Bester, and several lower-level gang members, who were watching television nearby. Morden studied Sheridan, rubbing slowly and thoughtfully at his chin. "First," he said, tone dangerously close to a growl, "I give the orders around here. Don't go thinking that just because you took down one bitch-ass lady cop tonight that makes you some kind of Starkiller. You've made an impression; you'll make a great Chief Enforcer, but you do what I tell you, when I tell you, how I tell you from now on or you won't live to have this conversation a second time. Understood?" Sheridan swallowed hard, nodded; averted his eyes slightly in submission. "Good. Second. You'll get your revenge, Sheridan, don't worry about that. Your new position will serve you well in that. We're building up to a big war with the Vorlons, and that's where you'll get your chance. Because, my dear, drunken, broken-hearted friend - the Vorlons killed your wife."

John's heart had been racing, threatening to pound its way out of his chest – but on these words it played a different beat, slowing almost to a stop and sinking into his gut. He processed this information carefully. "How do you know that?" He asked. "How do I know you're not just using me, using my anger to get what you want?"

"You don't. You'll have to take my word for it. In addition to money and drugs and weapons, there's another trade that comes in and out of here – and the Vorlons, they play the same game. They tried to sell your wife into our empire in exchange for a coke run that went sour. We said no. They had no further use for her, and she was a feisty liability… I assume they disposed of her. It's what I'd do." Morden was staring into his eyes now, unsmiling, cold and unreadable. John still had no idea if what he was hearing was the truth, but it certainly made sense.

Inwardly his emotions were a mess. His mind was screaming… I'm so sorry. God, Anna, I'm so sorry… and at the same time, he was ecstatic to have uncovered the rest of what went on down here, the parts he'd been kept out of until now. The hardest part was that all of this, all of the pain and regret and anger, all of the excitement, had to stay bottled up. He clenched it all down with a hard swallow. "When do we take them down?"

"Now, just… hold your horses there, Trigger. We're not quite ready. Don't worry; you'll know when it's time. For now… you've done a great service to this organization. I know you're still riding the rush, and you have every right to relax and celebrate this kill. You can even use my room. Delenn will be there waiting for you." He clapped John hard on the shoulder, giving him a giant Cheshire grin. "Have fun," he whispered in John's ear, and then he moved over to join the others who were engrossed in a late-season Dodgers game.

John didn't even try to catch the score as he moved out of the main living room and toward the quarters at the back of the lair.