Becky McCall opened the bottom cupboard and brought out a large stock pot. She set it on the stove, then gestured for her much-taller husband to empty the contents of the plastic container into it. She turned the heat on low, then found another pot to start rice in.

"So?" Scott asked carefully.

"Bring me a cookie sheet," she said. "Two. There." She pointed to a lower cupboard.

He looked where he was told. She was right, of course. "How long have you been having visions again?"

"Just today," she said. "What's going on?"

"Someone tried to kidnap Helen at the Institute." He raised his hand quickly. "She's fine, she's upstairs. This cop was there, a detective, and he brought her home. Only he's not a detective."

Becky nodded. "Okay."

"Okay? Mama Bear's got him tied up in the garage. And I think she seriously considered killing him."

"She's still considering it," she answered calmly. She checked the refrigerator for ingredients. Everything she'd expected was there. She'd brought the rest from her restaurant.

"Becky."

"It's okay," she promised. "Mickey's with them?"

"He won't stop her. He'll help."

She smiled gently. "It's okay, Scott. We'll sort it out. I need a strainer for the shrimp. And a mixing bowl."

"How are you not freaked out about this?"

"We've been here before."

"Not like this. Not with Lily being …"

"Protective," Becky provided. "The cop who's not a cop saved Helen. Protected her."

"Yeah, but we don't know why. We don't even know who he is."

She shrugged. "Hence, dinner."

Lily came into the kitchen, carrying a man's watch. Becky brushed her hands off and wrapped her in a quick hug. "It's okay," she promised. "It's okay."

"I don't think it is," the woman answered tersely. "This guy's Company, or ex-Company. And he and his partner know way too much about me. If it wasn't for you …"

Becky held her hand out for the watch. It was a nice one, probably expensive, but not too flashy. He'd bought it for himself. He focused on durability and utility, rather than status. He didn't much care about status or about money. He was more interested in …

"Light and dark," she said to herself.

"What?"

"Light and dark," Becky repeated with more confidence. "Honor and betrayal. Failure. He's done things he's ashamed of, things he regrets. And he's done things he's proud of. He's found … friendship. Light." She handed the watch back. "He's a soldier. He's like Mickey. Dangerous, damaged, but very loyal."

"What did he want with Helen?"

She shook her head. "He's told you the truth. Part of it."

"Is he after me?"

Becky let her fingertips rest on the watch again. "He doesn't know you. He's really surprised to be where he is. Surprised and embarrassed. But impressed, too."

"What about the partner?"

She frowned. "There's just … nothing. Just a big blank wall. It's there, I can see it's there, but it's just a big empty space."

"That's scary," Scott observed.

His wife shook her head again. "Control was the same way." She gestured to Lily. "So were you. And you are again, right now."

"So the guy tied up in the garage is some kind of elite soldier, but his handler …"

"He doesn't think of him as his handler," Becky corrected. "He thinks of him as his friend."

Lily let out a long slow breath. "If he's like Mickey, then his partner is …"

"Like my father," Scott completed. "Is that good or bad?"

"It's terrifying, is what it is," she answered.

"He's a gentleman," Becky assured them both. "Like Robert. He won't provoke any unpleasantness over dinner if he can avoid it. Not while he's a guest."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Scott, go pick out some wine. I think we're all going to need it."

She went back to the garage.

Scott looked at his wife. "I'm not sure giving them all alcohol is really the way we want to go here."

"I'd only open one bottle for starters," Becky answered. "I don't think anybody's going to be drinking much."

"Except me."

"Don't you have to conduct?"

"Ehhh, I know the show, I'll be fine."

Finch purchase in a selection of pastries as instructed and returned to the house. This time he steered into the driveway.

"It's alright, Bear," Finch answered. He knew the dog heard the tension in his voice that belied his words. He reached over and rubbed the dog's ears.

The tall gate swung open.

Finch put both hands on the steering wheel and drove through slowly.

As expected, the exterior of the house was not much different. It had been spring, the trees had been flowering then, whereas now they were fully green. At least one old oak was gone …

Finch shook his head, forced himself to focus on the moment.

Ten yards from the house, an older man waited. He wore battered jeans and a black t-shirt; he was unshaven and his hair was unruly. At first glance, he reminded Finch of John Reese at their first meeting, under the bridge. Despite his scruffy appearance, the man carried himself with the same nonchalant power.

A very big Rottweiler sat quietly at the man's side.

The man waved one hand lazily, and Finch stopped the car. Another gesture and he turned off the ignition. He reached for the door latch, but the man gestured again and walked to the window. "Just stay there a minute," he said calmly. "Pop the trunk and the hood."

Bear growled. The Rottweiler did not move.

"It's alright, Bear," Finch repeated. He pressed the requested buttons and the hood rose slowly in front of him.

He heard the man rummaging in the trunk. Then the lid slammed. The man came around to the front of the car and poked around under the hood. Finch resisted the urge to ask him to check the oil while he was there. The situation was deadly serious, of course. Reese was in danger, perhaps injured, possibly dead. But this scruffy man seemed so casual, so matter-of-fact, that Finch felt unaccountably calm in his custody.

The hood slammed. The man gazed at him for a moment, then reached into his pocket. Bear growled again, and Finch felt a little clutch in his chest. But rather than drawing a gun, the man brought out a short pole with a bracket at one end. He pulled one end of the pole and it telescoped out to about six feet long. A selfie stick? Finch had to fight down the urge to laugh again at the absurdity of it. The man brought out his phone and turned on an app, then fixed it in the bracket and lowered it to the ground. He was using the phone as a mirror, Harold realized. He watched patiently while the man circled the car, looking underneath for explosives or weapons.

The man folded the up the device and pocketed his phone. Then he opened Finch's door. "Come on out," he said. "Leave the dog."

"Blijf," he said briefly. Bear tensed, but he remained in the passenger seat as Finch climbed out.

The man, surprisingly, left the door open. He gestured and Harold raised his arms slightly. The pat-down was swift and professional. The man took his wallet, watch, and car keys and dropped them on the car seat. He slid the battery out of Finch's phone and put the two pieces into his pocket. He checked Bear's leash end-to-end.

"I am unarmed," Finch said.

"Uh-huh."

"I assure you, I present no threat to you."

"Sure. I can tell that by the way you look." The man snorted. "Funny thing, though. The most dangerous man I ever knew wore bow ties and cheap polyester sport coats. He liked being underestimated." He handed the leash back. "Bring the dog out."

Finch glanced toward the big Rottweiler. "Bella won't hurt him," the man said. "Unless I tell her to."

That wasn't remotely reassuring, but the bigger dog sat precisely where she had been told. Finch knew from Reese and from personal experience that a guard dog was no use unless it was very well-trained, and the Rottie clearly was. "Bear, heir," her said. The Malnois scrambled across the seat and jumped down to the driveway. "Zit."

Bear sat, tense but obedient, as the man leaned down and checked his collar. He straightened and let Finch snap the leash on.

"The pastries are in the back seat." Finch kept his voice carefully calm, unchallenging. As relaxed as this man seemed, he had no doubt he could kill him without a second thought. He was very much like Reese.

"Cannoli?"

"Only the mini ones, I'm afraid."

The man scowled. "Eh, they're okay."

"Mocha mousse cups and tiramisu."

"Just what I needed." The man patted his slightly round belly. He got the pastries out of the car and checked the bag thoroughly – snitching one mini cannoli in the process. "Quality control," he said.

"Of course."

He closed both car doors. Then he brought a metal box out of his pocket and dropped it onto the roof of the car. There was a distinctly magnetic click. The man pushed a button on the side of the box and a red indicator light came on.

Finch recognized the signal dampener, of course. The patent was held in IFT's name, with Nathan Ingram listed as the inventor, but Finch had created it. This one was an older model, a bit battered and with only a ten-hour battery life. But it would keep any electronic device in the car from transmitting a signal.

Despite the danger, Finch felt a further sense of relief. He and Reese were in the hands of true professionals. It would make escaping more difficult, but it also greatly decreased their odds of being killed in a moment of panic or misunderstanding.

"I'm Mickey Kostmayer," the man announced.

"Harold Crow."

"Right." He gestured toward the house. "Come on in."

Finch tightened his grip on the leash. "Can you tell me, Mr. Kostmayer … is Mrs. Zaccardi here?"

The man's face flickered dark for an instant. "You know Yvette?"

"We met once. Some years ago."

"She's out of the country."

Harold exhaled. "I see."

The man looked at him curiously. "You seem relieved."

"Merely – adjusting my assessment of the situation."

"The situation is this," Kostmayer said calmly. "We're all going to sit down and have a good dinner. We're going to sort out what John Reese is doing here and why he approached Helen Zane. And what you have to do with all of that. We're going to make nice." He took half a step closer. "But be very clear on this. If you or your man or your dog make any move to harm anyone in that house, or if I even think you're going to, I will kill you all. And believe me, Yvette won't say a word about any mess I make. Understand?"

He hadn't drawn a weapon, nor come close enough to even touch Finch. He still held the pastries in one hand. He'd used nothing but his voice. It was impressive. "I understand completely."

"Good." Kostmayer gestured. "Let's go in."

Bear crowded close to Finch's leg as they moved, bristling and protective. But Harold was again oddly reassured. Professionals, he thought for a second time. Their objectives were clear, and they were not at odds with Finch's and Reese's. It would take some careful words to persuade them of that fact, of course. But there would be clear thinking, sound reasoning.

And dinner.

He went inside.

You better not be enjoying this, Lily had said. Mickey Kostmayer felt a little grin twist around the corners of his mouth. He wasn't enjoying it, precisely. He believed that someone had tried to kidnap Helen and none of them knew why. The fortuitously-timed appearance of a former and presumed-dead Company operative was cause for even more concern. And the op's handler, an unknown man with a limp, a dog, and a suit that probably cost more than Kostmayer's car – Mickey was very, very concerned about him.

This guy knowing Yvette was just rancid ketchup on the shitburger.

And yet – it had been years since he'd felt this familiar little thrill of danger in his blood. Since he'd felt like he was actually doing what he was best at. He could feel both his muscles and his instincts stretching under this new challenge. He felt like himself again.

And God knew it would do Lily a world of good.

So, yeah. He was enjoying it. A little.

Like he'd told Reese, it beat the hell out of going fishing again.

Still, he touched the weapon tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. He was prepared to believe these guys, to a point, mostly because Becky McCall said they could. But he was also fully prepared to kill them if they presented a threat to the family.

If Lily didn't kill them both first.

The limping man paused just inside the front door and looked back at him. "Where is my friend?"

"First things first," Mickey answered. He gestured down the hallway to the left, toward the kitchen. The man walked that way without argument.

Kostmayer let the Rottweiler in, gave her the hand command to sit, and followed him. A spicy, delicious smell reached them before they even got to the door. In the kitchen, Becky was stirring a big stock pot with one hand and shaping drop biscuits with the other. Her husband was wisely standing against the wall out of the way. The second Rottweiler sat at his feet.

"Hey, Becky," Kostmayer said.

She put the spoon and the biscuit down and wiped her hands on her chef's apron while she looked his guest over. The newcomer stood very still. Mickey could tell he was observing everything, from the quality of the kitchenware to the smudge of flour on the chef's forehead. He might not be a professional, but he was very knowledgeable.

Dangerous.

Becky held her hand out. After a bare instant of hesitation, the man in the glasses took it, lightly. He shook it just once, made a little bow over it instead.

Over her shoulder, Mickey saw Scott straighten up. He raised his hand, just enough for the younger man to see it. He stayed where he was.

The woman looked up at Mickey. "He's hiding nearly everything, but he's not lying to you."

Harold startled visibly. Belatedly, he tried to take his hand back. Becky held on for one more moment, studying his face. Then she let him go.

"I don't …" he began, clearly rattled. Then he stopped and his attitude suddenly chilled. "I'd like to see my friend now."

Mickey looked to Becky again. She nodded encouragingly, even smiled at the man in the glasses. "It's okay."

There had been a time, many years ago, when he would have doubted her ability. No self-respecting Company agent, retired or otherwise, would ever admit that he followed the advice of a psychic. Hell, they'd never even admit that they knew one. But Becky had been right many times before her gift faded in the early years of her marriage. Right about lotto numbers, right about nuclear warheads. Right about Lily.

She was right about this. Mickey believed her absolutely.

He put the pastries on the counter and snatched a shrimp out of the pot. "Come with me." He led the man and his dog to the garage.

Reese was still tied up. He twisted to look over his shoulder when he heard them. The look on his face when he saw that his partner had walked into the situation willingly told Kostmayer what he needed to know: They were tight. They could be used as hostages for each other.

"You shouldn't have come, Harold."

"She's making jambalaya," the man with the glasses answered calmly. "I'm rather fond of that dish, when it's properly prepared."

"It will be," Mickey promised. He stepped around the smaller man and pulled his knife out. The dog growled, and Harold tightened his grip on the leash. Kostmayer ignored him and moved over to Reese. "I don't think I need to tell you …"

"No," Reese said sharply. "I got it."

"Good." He glanced at Lily. She was leaning against the workbench again, studying the new guy. Her face was completely blank. "Chef says cut him loose."

She shifted her thousand-yard stare to him.

"Not everybody who used to work for the Company is a bad guy."

"Since when?" After a long moment, she twitched one shoulder in what passed for a shrug.

Kostmayer cut her prisoner free. Reese stretched his arms and then his legs. He moved slowly. Mickey could tell didn't want to alarm them, especially not with his partner here and vulnerable.

The Malnois trotted over happily and nudged at Reese's hand.

"Hey, Bear." The op stood up slowly. He was taller than Kostmayer remembered. Had long arms, too. That didn't mean Mickey couldn't take him, if it came to that; he just made a mental note that he'd need to cheat right out of the gate.

"Are you injured, John?" Harold asked carefully.

"She tortured me a little, but I didn't give anything up." He gave him a crooked grin. "I'm fine, Harold."

He looked at Mickey. "So now what?"

"Now," Lily sighed, "we go have dinner."