By the time Dylan came around, he was a lot calmer. He scooted around to sit next to Helen against the wall. "Who are these guys?" he whispered.

"Russians," she answered. She knew that much from the snippets of conversation she'd heard. They mixed the two languages together in a sort of pidgin stew, twenty-five percent Russian and the rest English, with a lot of idioms. That told her they were probably second-generation immigrants. She didn't know how or if that tidbit of knowledge would ever be useful.

"What do they want?"

"I don't know."

"I want you to shut up," the lieutenant called.

"Yes, sir," Helen answered clearly.

"But how do we …" Dylan whispered.

"Shhhh." Helen leaned sideways until her shoulder was pressed against his. The boy was trembling. He was scared. She knew she should be scared, too. No. She shouldn't be scared. She should be calm and focused. She should keep thinking. She should keep breathing, stay in control, keep her fear crammed in its little red box.

She would have time to panic later. When she was safe.

Maybe.

Just for a moment, she trembled, too.

Mickey Kostmayer didn't bother trying to pick the lock, though he knew he could have. He simply kicked the door in. It took him two tries, and his artificial knee reminded him of why that wasn't something he did any more.

He welcomed the pain. It made him meaner.

The apartment was a small efficiency in a grimy neighborhood. But it was overstuffed with very nice furniture. A silk loveseat, a velvet armchair. More velvet on the single bed, and over the windows. Statues and artwork everywhere. Thick carpets, so plentiful that they overlapped.

There was no sign of Racz.

Kostmayer checked the bathroom, which reeked of probably-expensive cologne, and the closet. Then he hit his earpiece. "He's not here," he reported.

"Anything to say where he went?" Reese answered.

"Looking." Mickey went to the desk – mahogany and way too big for the space – and rifled through everything on the top. Then he started pulling out drawers.

"He's not at work," Harold provided. "He was scheduled, but called off."

Mickey paused and looked around. He crossed and looked under the bed. Nothing. "I want to know who he cares about."

"Alright," the man answered hesitantly. Kostmayer knew he didn't like what Mickey was likely to do with that information, but he didn't argue.

"Anywhere else he goes?"

"Not that I can see at first glance. He seems to spend most of his income at art galleries and antique stores."

"I can tell."

"He frequents the restaurants nearest to his home. Other than that …"

Kostmayer ripped through the closet. Cheap suits and silk pajamas. "Damn it."

"Any chance we can track his cell, or his car?" Reese asked.

"He doesn't own a car," Harold answered. "And his cell is a cheap prepaid model."

"So now what?" Mickey sighed.

"So now," Lily said clearly, "we poke him with a stick."

The woman was wrapped in an unnatural, frozen calm. Reese was careful not to disturb it. He could see that Finch wanted to try to comfort her, but he warned him off with a look. Elizabeth Zane – Lily Romanov – was in full operational mode. She was the operative she had been years before. She was highly functioning, highly efficient. She was likely to be deadly toward anyone who interfered with her.

She pressed the numbers on the phone with careful precision, then hit the speaker button.

The phone rang six times, and then a man snarled, "Who is this?"

"Hello, Peanut," Lily said.

"You." There was two decades of rage in his voice.

"I want my daughter back." The woman, in contrast, was completely expressionless.

"And I want my lover back, but that's not going to happen, is it?"

"Jason Masur tried to kill my husband and failed. He knew he'd be killed."

"You betrayed your husband. And then you had Jason killed. You betrayed everyone!"

"Where's Helen?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, yes."

"You'll never see her again, you bitch."

Reese looked up. Lily's three younger children were crowded in the doorway, all wide eyes and attention. He waved them away, but of course they didn't budge.

"Oh, I'm sure I will," the mother answered, still dead calm. "I know that Azarov Gusev has her. I know that he's under orders from Moscow to get Control's black files. I know that he has a young daughter of his own, and I know where she lives. So he's highly motivated to see that no harm comes to Helen. I know that he doesn't like you, or trust you. And that there's no reason we can't cut you out of this deal right now."

"He can't," Racz barked. "He needs me to verify the files."

"Like you'd know what was in the files."

"He doesn't know that."

"I can have Cherkashin tell him."

There was a pause. Reese could tell that the dark man was unnerved that Romanov knew who the contact in Russia was. He nudged her hand.

"We've already talked to Grigory," she continued. "He agrees that it's not in his interest to let any harm come to my daughter. So I don't see where you have a whole lot of room to negotiate, Peanut."

"Don't call me that!"

Lily nodded grimly.

They could hear the man breathing heavily on the other end of the phone. Finally he seemed to gather himself. "I don't want your daughter anyhow. I want you."

"Of course you do."

"So you'll bring the files, and you'll meet me. In the morning. Six o'clock."

"Where?"

Racz snorted. "I'll tell you ten minute before you need to be there. You'll need to drive fast."

"Fine."

"Gusav gets the files. I get to kill you. Your daughter goes free."

Reese nudged her hand again. "And the boy," he mouthed silently.

Romanov rolled her eyes. "And the boy," she answered.

"What boy? Oh, him. Fine," the man answered absently. "You'll bring your friend Kostmayer with you, of course. I'll want him in plain sight, unarmed and a safe distance away."

For the first time her hand shook. Reese wrapped his fingers over hers. "Of course," she answered steadily. "But Peanut? We know where you live and we know where you work. You lay a hand on my daughter and I will end you."

He chuckled unconvincingly. "See you in the morning."

"Racz. I want to talk to Helen."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

"If I don't hear from her in the next hour, I will call Cherkashin and tell him I'm about to drop a house on him. And he knows I can do it."

"You really think you hold all the cards here, don't you?"

"I hold enough cards," Lily answered, "to be sure that if my daughter doesn't come home safely, your life will come to a slow and painful end."

"I could just kill her now."

From the doorway there was a muffled whimper. Reese looked at the children sharply. Finch went to stand with them.

"No, you can't," Lily answered, still dead calm. "I don't know who you thought I was when you came after me, Peanut, but you were wrong. Gusev is more afraid of me than he is of you. He won't let you hurt her."

"We'll see," he snarled.

"You're a nasty little man who never had any authority except the rank your father bought for you. And now you have nothing but a tiny apartment full of tacky antiques and too many rugs. You think you hold some power here, but you're wrong."

"I'm going to kill you."

"You're going to try," she corrected. "See you in the morning."

She clicked off the phone.

Then she drew her arm back and hurled it against the wall.

Helen guessed it wasn't quite midnight when the creepy little guy from Madam Toussad's came in.

The Russians all jumped when they heard the footsteps, and the three underlings drew weapons. A Beretta, a Glock, and a Colt revolver. The Colt had some of its shine worn off; it was really old. She didn't know when she'd use that information, either.

The big guy had a Glock of his own, but he didn't bother to draw it.

They all relaxed when the dark little man came in. So he was with them. Shit.

He stomped over to the mat and glared at her. "Get up."

Helen blinked. "I can't."

"Get her up," he ordered the men.

Nobody moved. "She's okay," Gusev said. "Leave her alone."

The little man stomped onto the mat and grabbed her by the arm. "Up!" he ordered.

"Leave her alone," Dylan said.

It would have been more impressive, Helen thought, if his voice hadn't cracked. Still, she gave him points for trying.

The man released her and punched Dylan. His head snapped back and hit the wall, and then slumped forward.

Then Rat-Face hauled Helen to her feet.

"You know who I am?" he demanded.

"No."

"Your mother killed the love of my life."

"Leave her alone," the big guy said.

"Shut up!"

Personality assessment, Helen ordered herself. He'd punch a kid who's tied up. But the Russians had no respect for him. He was little and mean. A bully. Bold with people who were helpless, but not strong on his own.

He turned back and got right in her face. "I gave up everything for him. Everything! And your whore of a mother killed him, just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "Like he was nothing."

She forced herself to be bold. "If he was that easy to kill, he must not have been very important."

He pulled his hand back to hit her. Helen braced for it. But the blow never came. When she looked back at him, the big Russian was holding the little guy by his wrist. "You're not going to hurt her," he said firmly.

"You fucking coward. You're afraid of her mother. Of a woman."

"We don't beat up kids." He yanked the dark man off the mat. "Leave her alone."

Helen sat back down and squirmed up to the wall.

The little man glared at her, but he didn't come after her again. "If doesn't matter," he said. "I'm going to kill her anyhow. And then I'm going to kill you."

Dylan made a frightened little noise.

"And you," the man added.

The big guy's phone buzzed. "Da?"

The smaller man stormed to the other side of the room, muttering darkly.

"Ya," the big guy said. "Understood."

He clicked off the phone and walked toward Helen.

"You're all a bunch of fucking cowards!" the little man shouted.

"Shut up," the big guy answered. He sat down heavily on the edge of the mat. "Your mother wants to talk to you."

Helen took a sharp breath. Suddenly all the fear that she'd boxed up was right there, flooding her brain. She'd been okay, she'd been handling it, but now the idea that she could talk to her mother, hear her voice, let the panic nearly overwhelm her.

She was smart and she had training. But in that moment, embarrassingly, all she could think was I want my mama.

"You're not going to tell her anything about where you are," the Russian said, "or how many of us there are, or what weapons we have – nothing like that. If you do, I'll walk out of this room and leave you with him." He jerked his thumb toward the angry dark man. "You understand?"

Helen nodded, blinking back tears. "Okay."

"What's her number?"

Finch looked over the list of names and whistled softly. "Impressive."

"Andrew was very thorough," Lily answered quietly. "I know the names, but what was inside the files …"

"That's not important," Harold assured her. "I'll create dummy data, format it as if it were reports and charts and such, and encrypt it."

"We'll tell the Russians," Reese continued, "that they can have the encryption key when we have the hostages."

She nodded. "Good."

"This still doesn't get you out, though."

"The Russians don't give a shit about you," Kostmayer said. "If they get the files, they're out. That just leaves Racz."

"They won't let you carry a weapon in," Reese countered. "They will search you."

"It doesn't matter," she answered simply.

"We're not going to let you just march in there and surrender yourself to be killed," Finch protested.

"No," Kostmayer answered, "we're not. And that's where we'll need you." He nodded to John. "If you're still in."

"We're in," Reese answered firmly. "What's the plan?"

Sarah appeared at the doorway again. "Mama?" She held her phone out like it was a bomb.

Lily snatched it. "Helen?"

"Mama?" the older girl repeated.

Kostmayer nudged her, and the mother clicked the speaker button.

"It's okay, baby. I'm coming to get you."

"I'm sorry, Mama. I know I screwed up."

"Yeah, you did," Lily answered gently. "But we'll fix it. Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm okay. Dylan's … he's okay. They said they want some files …"

"I know. They can have the files. There's no one I give a rat's ass about protecting in them."

"But this other guy, Mama, the guy from the museum, he wants to kill you."

"Shut up!" an angry man said behind her.

"I know," Lily repeated soothingly. "I know all about him, too. Don't worry about it. I'll handle it."

"Mom …"

"Helen. Keep your head down. Stay calm. I'll come get you in the morning. It'll be okay. I promise."

The girl laughed sharply, half-way to a sob. "At least I remembered to put my good bra on before I went out," she said, in a forlorn attempt at humor.

"Well, see, that's a good thing, anyhow. I suppose clean underwear is too much to hope for."

This time the short laugh ended in a gasp.

"Just keep your shirt on, Helen. I'll handle this."

"We'll see you in the morning, Mama," a deep-voiced man said.

"She'd better not have a mark on her, Yuri."

The man chuckled and the call went dead.

"Not long enough to trace it, I'm afraid," Finch said.

"That's okay." Lily handed the phone back to her daughter. She seemed suddenly calmer. "Now we have a plan."

"We do?" Reese asked.

"We do," Kostmayer assured him.

"I assume you're half-way decent from a distance?" Lily asked.

"Adequate," Reese answered modestly.

"Then you handle the Russians. I'll deal with Peanut."

Root stared at the ceiling of her cell, watching the fluttering light through her window. A flag waved lazily out in the courtyard, making random patterns in front of a security light. There had been one night when she'd thought it was a message from the Machine. But it was only the breeze.

She knew the Machine was trying to reach her. So far her idiot captors hadn't left Her any means to do so. They knew about the Machine, at least enough to stand in Her way. For a while. But sooner or later the Machine would break through. Sooner or later …

And in the meantime, she had a new playmate.

If the Machine can't come to me, Root told herself, I'll have to figure out a way to get to Her.

It wouldn't be easy, of course. Everything about her days was structured, monitored, planned. Everything except this new playmate. And the new thing was the thing to be exploited.

Any exploit is a total exploit. Harold had written that in several of his papers. Root knew it was true. Give her room to get her fingernail under the door, and she could find a way to rob the vault. It was true of computing, and it was true in life.

Shaw was the tiny crack she needed. The space to get her nails under the door.

Of course, they'd be watching to see how she tried to exploit that crack. Control might be slow-spoken, but she was smart. And also ruthless, or she wouldn't be Control. It was a game between them, and Control thought she had the upper hand because she had a pawn to play.

Root would need to be patient, she told herself, and careful. But not too careful. She didn't want Control getting discouraged with their game. It was a long game now. A slow grind. But in the end, Root was certain she would be free.

And then she and the Machine would make Harold regret the day he'd locked them both away.

Root grinned in the darkness and let the dancing light lull her to sleep.

"I'm really sorry," Dylan murmured.

"It's okay."

"No. I should have fought them harder or … something. I didn't know what they were going to do until I saw you come out of the house. I just thought … I don't know what I thought."

"It's okay," Helen said again. "My mom will get us out of this."

He looked across the room. The four Russians were playing poker. The little dark man was in the corner, leaning back in a chair, maybe sleeping. "Is your mom like Rambo or something?"

"No. She used to be a courier."

"A what?"

"Never mind. Just try to sleep now. Tomorrow, stay close and follow my lead. We'll be okay."

"How can you be so calm? You been kidnapped before or something?"

"No, this is my first time."

"Yeah. Mine, too." He shifted around until he was lying on his side on the mat. "I hope it's my last."

Helen stayed where she was, with her back against the wall. No, she'd never been kidnapped before. But her parents had prepared her, from before she even went to school, just little games at first that she didn't realize until later were really serious training. Hide-and-seek took on a whole new meaning when you found out your parents were former spies. They'd never made it scary. It was always a fun challenge – can you find a hiding place in the house where we can't find you? How about in the woods, or by the water? How about in the city? Can you put five rounds in the center mass of a target at twenty yards? How about thirty? Or fifty? You're eight now, let's teach you how to drive. How to build a fire. How to find water in the wild. How to track your father through the grass. How to tie knots, and how to get out of them. How to escape from this room, and that room, and the room on the third floor. It had all been taught in terms of games, all rewarded with hugs and encouragement, with discussion and suggestions over ice cream after.

And despite all of that, she was tied up on a dirty mat in an empty building, a prisoner of a bunch of second-gen Russian immigrants.

But her fear, even when she let it out a little, was greatly diminished now. Because even though she hadn't learned enough to get herself out of this yet, her mom, who had taught her all of it, and her Uncle Mickey, and the guy with the fake badge who was obviously One of Them, and the guy with the glasses who she couldn't begin to figure out – they were all coming for her.

Mom said it would be okay. Helen believed her.

She closed her eyes and rested, though she did not sleep.