Sorry about not updating in a while, I have been so focused on my first fanfic.

Trev

"Blah, blah, blah," there is not enough blahs in the world to express what I'm feeling, "Leave the operations to the operatives."

"You blatantly disobeyed orders!"

"Tell me, where are you right now?"

"Why?"

"Because, I'm sitting in a stuffy van, watching a computer screen, with more video feeds than a Angeles game watching for a world-class hitman," I explained, "At any time, he could show up, and I would be out here in the line of fire, risking my life to capture an assassin that has the info we need to launch, and this is my estimate, nine major wars. So, were are you?"

"I am conducting this operation from HOPE IN THE NIGHTMARE," he said, "From here, I can see the big picture, not just the three feet in front of your foxhole."

"Exactly," I emphasized, "You're in a secret base in the Rockies built in the fifties to repel a Soviet invasion. I'm in a 'foxhole'. Well, guess what they don't teach you in private school."

"What?"

"It's always the guys in the front foxhole that know what Charlie is going to do." I hung up.

REMFs.

Well, looks like Kate and Castle are on the move. They just got into her car. Luckily, I placed a tracer on it the night I gave her a concussion. I would easily be able to follow it.

Ooh, looks like they found the apartment that I killed Romanov. I hadn't bothered to clean up the mess I made. It's not like the property value can get lower. And I hadn't touched anything with my skin, so I didn't need to wipe fingerprints.

Besides, confuse your enemy with inconsistencies. If they see you as a coward, they will be caught with their pants down when you charge. By adopting the alias of Jake Tanner, I had brought with it certain expectations. They will be confused, disoriented. It gives me time to find Bourne and capture him and not have to let Kate see me alive. Again, I like breathing.

A knock at the door of my van. I grabbed my gun and hesitantly opened the door.

"Coffee?" offered Patriks as he climbed in.

"Love some," ah, cream no sugar. The last time some one gave me sugar no cream, Patriks and Booth had to restrain me from killing the fool, "You do realize we aren't supposed to meet until Bourne is caught, right?"

"REMFs," was all he said.

"Good excuse," I admitted.

Patriks grimaced as he drank his straight black coffee. He looked old. He was only in his mid forties yet he looked fifty-five. His brown hair was streaked with silver, and his face was lined and haggard. His grimace was due to the fact that he hated coffee. His alcoholism was one of his defining features. When not on a mission, he got plastered every night, alone in a bar. He was the only one I knew who could do a high-wire performance with a BAC of .16.

"So," he began, "I heard you used to know this girl."

"I did," I admitted, "But her mother died, and she sure as hell changed."

"How?"

"Not really sure," I shrugged, "I wasn't there when she changed."

"Ah," he took a sip of his coffee.

"Can I ask you for advice?"

He stared at me in disbelief "Um, okay."

"You have an adoptive grand-daughter, right?" I asked.

"Yep," he confirmed.

"I just recently found out I have a daughter," I admitted.

He spit-taked his coffee. He looked at me with wide eyes, "A daughter?"

"Yep," I nodded, "Jenny, seven years old. Thinks I'm dead and is being raised by my sister.

"You have a sister?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes, "Why does everyone ask that?"

"I just thought you were a foster kid," he admitted.

"I'm gonna find the one who started that rumor and beat the shit out of them," literally, "What I want to know is, how do I stay away?"

"You don't," he admitted, "You check up on them. I do it with my granddaughter. She doesn't see me, but I sneak in the background and watch."

"You sound like a stalker," I observed.

"That's because being a parent, or grandfather, requires being a stalker," he said, "You love them, want the best for them. You try to keep the dangers of the world from getting to them."

"Huh" I sighed. Made sense, "Thanks, man."

"No problem," he watched the screen, "You ever read Castle's books?"

"Haven't read a fiction novel since al-Jihan," I admitted, "Same as listening to Blue Öyster Cult and Bon Jovi."

"Those guys are masters!" he objected, "When I was a kid, I would kill to get to their concerts."

"Exactly how many children did you father at Woodstock?" I asked.

"Very funny," he said, "Seventeen."

"Seventeen?"

"Plus another fifteen from my drunken binges."

I stared in shock. I can tell whether or not some one is lying by looking at their facial muscles. Patriks was as serious as a heart-attack. Let me rephrase my original thought: Drunken binges are a bitch.