We don't speak the entire cab ride back to the apartment. At home, Phillip mumbles something about getting cleaned up and heads back to our room. I collapse onto the couch, hoping to continue the night's sleep I never was able to finish. Just as my eyelids begin to droop the phone rings-two solid rings and then nothing-the center's signal for a last minute meet.

I scribble a quick note for Phillip and leave it on the kitchen counter. I change into some fresh clothes and run a comb through my knotted hair. I let the sound of his shower mask my movement and slip out of the apartment.

I knew he'd want a meet. There was no way he'd let me off that easy. By now, our contacts must have figured out that we weren't coming-and, more importantly, neither was Wyle.

I find Vlad's superior, Ilya, waiting for me in his office. He sits behind his desk in his usual tan suit and thin tie, tapping his fingers as he reads. My heart thumps against my chest at the site of him. Not even the slight smile coming from the corner of his lips help his menacing eyes, his powerful hands, his protruding jaw.

"Elizabeth, please sit."

He gestures to a small chair across from him and I comply. As soon as I sit, he rises to his feet. His stature towers over me as he paces across the room.

"It has come to my attention that the events of last night did not go according to procedure."

"Sir, I'd just…"

He stops and holds up one finger, "You will wait until I'm finished."

I settle back down in my seat and stare straight ahead. He looks down at the floor and continues with his pacing.

"You said at our last meeting that in the past Phillip's work has not been up to your expectations."

I swallow hard at the recollection. He takes out a small scrap of paper from his pocket.

"That he," Ilya looks down at the paper in his hands, "lacks focus. Is too emotional. Not right for the job."

"That was—a long time ago." I say.

"The report's dated three weeks ago."

I shake my head, unable to find the right words.

"And now, on what was supposed to be a night of celebration, our guest of honor, Wyle, is nowhere to be found."

He kneels down beside me so close I can smell his sharp cologne, follow the maze of wrinkles that crease his forehead.

"So I'd like to know how two of our greatest could lose a weak, old, American."

I can feel the sweat beading by my ears. I grip the arms of the chair tightly and take a deep breath.

"Phillip had been shot." I say.

"So I've heard," he says flatly.

"When I stopped the car to get supplies to take care of Phillip he fled."

"Why wasn't he in restraints?"

"The ankle cuffs were not functioning properly. We-couldn't get them to lock so he only had hand restraints."

"Is that right?" He says.

I nod, hoping he can't hear my heart pounding just feet away from him.

"Yes, sir."

"They found the ankle cuffs beside the car. Phillip's key was still in the lock."

The color drains from my face and my skin turns cool and clammy. Ilya leans in closer to me. When he raises his hand I flinch back, expecting the worst. But instead he takes my hand in his.

"Elizabeth, you don't have to cover for him."

Shock stops the words from coming and I simply nod. He takes his other hand and gently strokes the back of my hand.

"A woman should be protected by her man, not the other way around And I know Wyle couldn't have stolen Phillip's keys and opened it himself—after all he was in handcuffs." He leans in closer, "Now, tell me. What really happened?"

I stay quiet and he grows impatient, "Whoever responsible needs to be punished. Tell me, what happened."

His grip around my hand grows tighter and I can see the pink fading from my hand. Finally I manage to speak.

"Phillip was injured."

"So you've said."

"He was in a lot of pain. The doctor said he could help him, if someone took off his restraints."

"And who took off his restraints."

By now he's squeezing my hand so forcefully I can feel my pulse across my fingers.

"Who took off the restraints?!" He commands.

"Phillip!" I say, "It was Phillip."