Finn Bainbridge was a happy man.

Lightman didn't show so Finn had his freedom. The look on the prosecutor's face was priceless when the judge tossed the case out. He wished he had had a camera but he had the next best thing: a really good memory.

Now it was time for a little fun. The old man wanted him to hop the first flight out of the country but that would interfere with his plans. Make so mistake, he did plan on lying on a Rio beach very soon but there was something he wanted to take care of first. Berkley hadn't said that he'd help him yet but Finn was confident he would. Whoever had the gold, made the rules and Finn had a hell of a lot of gold.

Both the old man and his attorney were currently talking to him. Correction, they were talking at him. Something about how he needed to watch himself, keep his nose clean and other assorted clichés until he was on that flight. Finn wasn't really paying attention. His mind's eye was filled with something else and it made him giddy as he thought about it. After all, his imagination was like a high definition movie. And his imagination was currently filled with revenge scenarios. It was because of Lightman that he'd been stuck wearing orange pajamas for the last several months and it was payback time. It was just too good to be true that Lightman's partner had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course for Finn, it was actually the right place at the right time. From everything he knew, Foster was Lightman's Achilles Heel. And Finn fully intended to exploit that weakness.

"Finnley, do you hear what we're telling you?" The old man's voice was exasperated. He sounded like that a lot.

"Of course dad," and he proceeded to repeat what had been said verbatim. He really hadn't been paying attention but some part of him heard and memorized. It was a gift.

"Good." Senior Bainbridge grunted but didn't sound satiated. He knew his son too well. "One more thing."

"Yes dad?"

The older man looked at his son, scrutinizing him, knowing about him, loving him despite what he was. Finn Jr. had been a change of life baby. At 27, he was smart, charming, handsome and ambitious. But he also had a deadness behind his eyes that most people didn't see. His father saw it from the moment he caught him torturing a baby bird when he was five. Lightman had also seen it. Almost immediately.

"I want you to stay away from him."

"Who?"

Finnley senior narrowed his eyes. "You know damned well who I'm talking about."

"I thought you had that all taken care of." Finn raised his brows innocently.

"Don't try that garbage with me. I know you too well." It should have been angry but it just sounded tired.

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about dad."

The older man sighed. "I am having it taken care of. He shouldn't remember much of anything and that's going to work out perfectly for us. I don't want you mucking it up."

"Wouldn't dream of it." The comment was snide but the smile was sincere.

The old man hated that smile. Maybe it would be a good idea to have someone keep an eye on the kid. Just in case.

(BREAK)

"DA just called." Loker found Torres in the lab. His expression was grim. "Lightman didn't show. Bainbridge walked."

"Oh my God." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Are the cops going to lift the 72 hour policy considering the situation?"

"Looks like he's going to lean on them. Whole thing smells bad to him too."

Torres nodded, eyes sliding away, expression bordering on horror as she considered the ramifications. "I can't believe that sadistic bastard is free." Her words were low as his image invaded her head for several moments. She unconsciously shuddered.

Eli placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

(BREAK)

Finn knew that the old man would have one of his watchdogs keeping an eyeball on him. He would have been surprised if he hadn't. But Finn was smart. Smarter than most people. That's why the law hadn't really been able to gather an adequate case against him. That's why they had to rely on Lightman to reel him in and pull off his carefully constructed mask. A flare of anger shot through him before he took a breath and calmed himself. It's okay. It's all okay. The son of a bitch wasn't going anywhere thanks to Berk. He was helpless and waiting, practically dressed like a Christmas goose. Finn smiled at the image.

He'd retired to his room citing fatigue but he was anything but tired. Pacing heavily, his brain continued to fantasize. They were angry, blood drenched fantasies and they made him extremely excited.

Now all he had to do was wait. A little bit of patience and the night would be wide open to him.

The smile broadening, he pulled out his phone.

(BREAK)

Gregory needed something to do with his hands. At one time he would have just lit up a smoke but now he flicked out his pocketknife instead and whittled. His mind went on cruise control as he worked. He really didn't want to think. If he thought, he'd picture Dr. Foster crying and angry, he'd think about how this job was starting to carry an increasingly foul odor. He'd think about how he was up to his eyeballs in something that he didn't want to be up to his eyeballs in. And then he'd think about her again. Shit.

He brought the knife up and down in a steady fluid motion, the sharp blade easily skinning off the bark and nubs as the end whittled to a spear like point. As much as he tried to ward off the images, they invaded just the same. Maybe he just needed to cut his losses but then where would that leave Foster and Lightman? Gregory was afraid that he might just know the answer to that question and it made him feel sick inside. Of course there wasn't much he could do. The idea of being on the old man's shit list was one thing but being on Finn's shit list…that was an entirely different beast. He shuddered to think about it. That guy was fucking nuts.

Fragments of conversation drifted his way from around the corner of the house. Berk usually roamed as he spoke on the phone. That was normal but the bits of dialogue that Greg caught on the breeze weren't. He stilled his hands and strained to listen.

"…I'll come back to help with clean up but I'm not going to stick around…"

That was all he caught. That's all he needed to catch. A terrifying coldness seeped into him as his testicles pulled up into his body. Fuck. His instincts had been right. Fuck. But what could he do?

Tossing the stick aside, Greg got up quickly and slid noiselessly back into the cabin. He didn't want Berk to know that he'd been eavesdropping. He was to know nothing unless told directly. That was how it worked.

He paced the room a half a dozen times before flopping into the armchair. He could vaguely smell Foster's perfume and immediately jumped back to his feet. Greg found himself back at the fridge, grabbing another beer, wishing for something stronger. Sitting down at the table, he proceeded to busy his hands again. This time he sharpened his knife. The wood would have no doubt dulled it slightly and he didn't like that. A dull knife was perhaps more dangerous in some ways than a sharp one. He concentrated, pretending not to hear the screen door when Berk walked in. At that point he closed and pocketed his knife.

"Have some news."

Greg glanced up, feigning disinterest. "Yeah?"

Berk was looking down, frowning at the wooden floor. "Looks like you've got a 'get out of jail' card."

Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the other man. "Why's that?"

He finally looked up. "Just a change of plans. You'll get the full amount that you were promised, so don't worry about that."

"So I'm getting the boot? You don't need me help any longer?"

"Have everything under control."

"What's going to happen with-?" He jerked his head toward the stairs.

"Not your concern anymore." Berk's eyes were flat, like mirrors. Hanging out with Finn too much?

With a hopefully not too exaggerated shrug, Greg got to his feet. " 'Kay, let me just grab my stuff and I'll bail." He gulped the rest of his beer before heading upstairs. He'd dumped his rucksack in the second bedroom when they'd arrived here, not realizing that he'd be stuck with the couch.

The other man nodded distractedly before stepping into the living room and dropping himself heavily on the couch. His conscious was currently kicking the shit out of him. He'd always been a fairly decent guy and soon he wouldn't be able to look in a mirror and think that about himself ever again. One big hand rubbed over his face in fatigue. He wasn't physically tired but mentally, that was another story. Part of him was disbelieving about what he was going to do. The other part insisted that he wasn't doing anything at all, he was just looking the other way, that's all. Shit. He rubbed his face again, this time purposely making it hurt. So much for being a man of medicine.

(BREAK)

Greg grabbed his bag from the second bedroom but couldn't help but stop a moment and listen at the door to the other room. He heard the occasional drunken sounding murmur followed by Foster's voice, low, kept to a whisper. She was being extremely careful. Not that it mattered.

The nausea returned and he tried to shake it off as he stepped away from the door.

They didn't have a chance. They were probably going to die tonight.

He stopped again, the nausea continuing to rise up. Any moment he'd be puking on his boots. Closing his eyes, he took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. It helped. A tiny bit at least.

Not a fighting chance.

Greg remembered the look on her face. He remembered thinking that she'd happily use a weapon on them to protect herself and Lightman.

Maybe they should have a fighting chance.

Risky. Very risky.

The old man had plans that hadn't involved anyone dying but his son had apparently paid off Berkley. Greg was actually a little surprised by that. He didn't think Berk was the type of guy that would be bought off by a first rate psycho. Must have been an exceptional offer. He supposed most people must have a price.

They deserved a chance.

An anonymous call would be good but it would take Finn all of 5 minutes to figure who ratted. Unless he went to the old man directly with his suspicions, but that would still be construed as a betrayal. From both of them.

Fuck my life.

Making his decision, he pulled his knife from his pocket, wiped it carefully with his shirttail, leaned over and slid it under the door.

Throwing his rucksack over his shoulder, he purposely kept his gait casual and headed back down the stairs.

Hope there wasn't TOO much exposition in this chapter. I try to be concise but sometimes, well, it doesn't work out that way.