Just after two in the morning, as Finch put the final touches on the mock files he'd created, Mrs. Romanov put a fresh steaming cup of white tea down at his elbow.

He couldn't help remembering another time when another woman had brought him tea while he worked at her computer.

"Thank you," he said. She had a mug of her own in her hands; coffee, by the smell of it. She clearly had no intention of sleeping.

They were the only ones awake. Reese and Kostmayer were stretched out on the two couches, both breathing evenly. Finch knew that if he called either of their names, no matter how quietly, they'd be awake instantly. But for the moment they were genuinely asleep.

They'd moved the coffee table, and the children were sprawled on blankets on the floor between them. Kostmayer had tried to convince them to go up to their own beds, but they were sure the adults would try to leave them behind if they did.

All three dogs were curled among the children's legs.

Finch had deep reservations about taking the children along to the meet with the Russians, but he had been preemptively overruled. The boys had made one convincing argument: If they were left at home, who would protect them if someone came to the house? Little Sarah had an even better counter: If they were left alone, they'd simply steal a car somewhere and follow the adults.

Harold didn't have the slightest doubt that Mrs. Romanov's eclectically-trained children could and would steal a car. So perhaps having them in plain sight was the best solution.

"You should get some rest," Lily said quietly.

"I don't think I could," he admitted. He gestured toward the sleeping former operatives. "I've never understood how John could do that."

"Basic training. Eat, sleep, hit the can whenever you get the chance."

"I suppose." He looked at her. She looked genuinely older, worried and tired. "You should try …"

"No." And then, "You want a sandwich or something?"

"Are there any cheddar biscuits left?"

"I think I know where Mickey hid them."

They went to the kitchen and got out biscuits and butter. The woman, Finch noted, was very quiet now. Despite her earlier rigidity, the late hour softened her and she seemed fragile. "I'm sure your daughter is alright," he said.

"She's a little girl," Lily answered. "She's alone and she's scared."

She has Dylan, Finch thought, but that hardly seemed like a useful comment. "Unless I'm wrong, she has more training than a great many professional operatives. You and your husband did everything you could to prepare her for an event like this."

Her hand went to the emerald that she wore around her neck. "It was just to make us feel better. The training. They were never supposed to have to use any of it."

"When did he die?" Finch asked. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to give her the opportunity to keep talking.

"It'll be two years in September," Lily said. "September 11th, of course. It always haunted him. Like Frodo on the anniversary of Weathertop."

Harold smiled gently at the reference. "You'd already left when the Towers came down, hadn't you?"

Lily nodded. "When it happened, Andrew wondered – we both wondered – if he could have made a difference. If he could have stopped it if he'd still been in charge. But then the intelligence started to come out and that … changed our understanding."

"Bin Laden Determined to Strike in the US," Finch remembered aloud.

"There were other warnings. Most of them weren't made public, but …there were others. Many others. All summer intelligence officials had been running around with their hair on fire. They were all disregarded."

"You think the government allowed the attack?"

She shrugged. "I think they got the excuse for the war they wanted," she answered precisely. "They got to send troops to Iraq. And a bunch of them got very rich behind that." She shifted. "In any case, the VP hated Andrew from back in his SecDef days. He didn't listen to Simms – his replacement – so he sure as hell wouldn't have listened to Andrew."

She picked at her biscuit, but didn't take a bite. "That day, the day he died … he was quiet. I knew it bothered him, but neither of us said anything. We were going to grill steaks for supper. He was out in the yard, in the hammock. Reading a book, maybe taking a nap. I went out to wake him up to start the grill. And he was gone." She shook her head. "His heart, they said. They don't think he ever woke up."

"That sounds very … peaceful." Harold was certain that his death, and John's, would not be that easy.

"It was." She tugged on the emerald. Her death, Finch realized, would not be that easy, either, if Racz had his way. But she wasn't thinking about herself. "I never should have brought them here."

"You couldn't have known. Your chance encounter with Mr. Racz …"

"This city is full our enemies," she answered. "I relied on the odds. A city this big. But I got careless. I went back to a place I'd been before. I was wrong."

Finch chewed his biscuit slowly. There was nothing he could say to dissuade her from taking on the guilt of her daughter's abduction. The most he could do was act as a sounding board for her.

"We'll get her back," she said after a moment. "I don't know how we could make this work without you and John. So in case I don't get to tell you later – thank you."

"You can thank me after you have your daughter back," Harold countered with all the certainty he could muster.

They were quiet again. Lily took a single bite of her biscuit, then put it down and pushed her plate away. "This thing you do. Helping random people. I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but sooner or later this is going to bite you in the ass."

"It already has."

"No. It will bite you harder than you can recover from."

"I suppose that's inevitable," Harold conceded. He noted that she was trying to turn the conversation away from details about herself and onto details about him.

"But you're not going to stop."

"I can't. I have a … responsibility. A debt."

"It will kill you, then."

"I am aware of that probability."

The woman's eyes narrowed. She considered his answer. Accepted that she could not change it. She sighed and sipped her coffee.

"Is that why you cut your hair?" He tried to pivot the conversation back. "Because you helped someone and it went wrong?"

"Bosnia," she pronounced. "Srbrenica."

Finch was grimly unsurprised.

The woman went expressionless, her eyes a thousand miles away. "There was a boy. His name was Aamir. He had green eyes."

She pulled on the emerald so hard that the chain bit into the skin of her neck. "Stop," Finch said quietly, touching her hand. "Stop."

Lily blinked, surprised. Then she eased the tension on the chain. She shook her head and began again. "Before the air strikes, before we sent troops, the supply routes to the villages were mostly cut off. The U.N. had relief centers, but the people couldn't get to them on the roads. They had to hike down the mountains, through the forest. They'd go in groups, on dirt roads and game trails, all these farmers and shop keepers and teachers, they'd hike down and carry food back. They weren't equipped, they weren't strong … whole families starved because they didn't have anyone to make the trip for them."

"I used to embed with them," she continued. "It was the easiest way to move intel, just go with the pack. People knew I wasn't from their village, but they didn't care, everyone was displaced, on the move. I'd hike down, load up on food, grab or drop intel, and hike back up. But I didn't need the food, not all of it."

She stopped, sipped her coffee again.

"Aamir lived with his mother and his sister. They didn't have anyone to make the hike for them. They would have starved. But I gave them the food I carried in. I kept them alive. So this boy who would have died in his sleep, he lived. Until the soldiers came. They rounded them up, the men and the boys, and they took them to a field outside the village and they killed them in the mud." She placed her hands flat on the table. "They shot the men. But the boys, they saved their bullets and just beat them to death."

Finch wanted to ask her to stop. He didn't want to hear the end of this story. He didn't want to know about the boy. He'd seen enough ugliness and tragedy in his own life. He didn't want to know about this boy half-way around the world. Or about this woman across the table, about what had damaged her so badly. He just didn't.

But he could not betray her. He could not leave her alone with her memories.

He placed his hand over hers on the table.

"We found the mass grave," she said. "We found the boys. Aamir was there. His eyes were wide open. His big green eyes. They'd cut his head off with a shovel."

Finch closed his eyes, because he could not bear the look in hers.

After a moment she continued. "He would have died anyhow. He would have died with his family, curled up in a bed with his mother and his sister for warmth, they would have starved or frozen to death. But I saved him. I kept him alive. So instead of dying quietly in his sleep, in his mother's arms, he died in a muddy field, alone, terrified, with his head cut off with a fucking shovel."

Finch opened his eyes. "And you cut your hair and tore your clothes and sang your lamentations unto heaven," he said quietly.

"I cut my hair and tore my clothes and smuggled home the pictures that got the soldiers bombed straight to hell." She smirked painfully. "Basically the same thing. But I was done then. Done trying to save the world, done trying to save even one other person. I take care of my own now. Nothing more."

"I understand why you would feel that way."

Lily studied him. "You've lost a lot, haven't you? I can see it. But you're not ready to give up yet."

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"That … is complicated," Finch said. He knew she was turning the conversation again. He felt the very strong urge to retreat to his habitual Very Private Person stance. But the woman's hand was still under his, her fingers cold, and she had shared what he knew was her deepest secret, her deepest pain. "I have made terrible mistakes. I have done things that I deeply regret. But I have the opportunity to try to make amends for some of those things. I can … help people in an attempt to make up for those I've hurt."

"It will never be enough."

"No. All I can do is try. And keep trying, as long as I'm able."

She nodded thoughtfully. "When it bites you, if you survive, look me up. I've got lots of spare rooms. We'll sit on the porch and be cynical together. You can bring your running girl with you."

"My …" Finch started. "Oh. No, she's not … mine."

"She should be."

"Miss … Christine is a friend. A very good friend."

A tiny spark of mischief glinted in the woman's eyes, the first life Finch had seen in them for several hours. "Is that why your face twists around like that when you hear her voice on the phone?"

"My face certainly did not … it's just that I've been very worried about her … we've been very worried about her," he corrected, too late.

"Okay," she said, clearly not believing him.

Finch was uncomfortable with the topic, but he was also gratified at the tiny bit of levity he's managed to give the woman. "All other considerations aside, and there are many," he said carefully, "she's a great deal younger than me."

"Oh, dear, the horror of that."

"Twenty-five years, was it?"

"Twenty-four."

"Did you ever regret marrying a man so much older than you?"

"No."

"Not once."

"No." After a long moment she went added, "What I regret? I regret wasting so much time. We were together ten years before we left the Company. I was very … stubborn. I thought I had a lot to prove. I regret that I wasted those years we could have had together."

Finch nodded thoughtfully.

"Does she know what you do?" Lily asked.

"Yes."

"Does she know why?"

Harold hesitated. "In part."

"The only reason that Andrew let me get involved in his life was that I went in with my eyes wide open. I knew exactly what I was getting into. And how it would probably end. Although … then it didn't. End the way we expected."

"You got out."

"We had a hell of a good life, Andrew and I. Way better than either of us expected. Or deserved. I wish we had had more time. But I don't regret one minute of what we had. Or anything I gave up to get it." She regarded him for a long moment. "So when your girl's done running, don't waste any more time. Tell her everything and let her in."

"No," he protested quickly. "It's not … that wasn't why I was asking. I'm not …"

"Oh, hush."

Finch's mouth started a few more protests, but none came out as words.

Bear walked into the kitchen quietly and sat hopefully at Harold's feet.

"You don't eat table scraps," Finch said firmly.

The dog wagged his tail.

"He has nice timing," Lily commented lightly. She stood up and went to refill her coffee cup.

Finch broke off a tiny bit of his biscuit and fed it to the dog.

Finch and Reese went out to the van with Kostmayer before dawn. "I know I have some gear here," the man muttered. He tossed several fishing rods and two tackle boxes aside.

"You enjoy fishing?" Finch asked absently.

"Used to. Before I had nothing else to do."

"Retirement doesn't agree with you?"

"It wears thin."

"You could always go back," Reese said. "I'm sure they'd welcome a man with your experience."

"Experience and two metal knees. They'd park me behind a desk. I'd rather fish." He pulled out a flat blue case. "Here it is." He flipped the case open. Inside was a single massive tangle of wires and headsets and comm units.

"Oh, dear," Finch said.

"Batteries are probably shot. I'll see what I've got."

Finch closed the case. "I'll just … get started with this, shall I?" He carried the case into the house.

Reese touched his counterpart's arm. "Are you sure she can handle Racz?"

"Lily?" Kostmayer nodded. "I'm sure."

"With no weapon?"

"She'll have a weapon."

"You want to share with the rest of the team?"

"Don't worry about Lily. Just handle your assignment. She'll handle hers."

Reese scowled and followed the older man into the house.

"There's a real good chance," Kostmayer said, "that your mom and I will both be off comm. So you listen to Reese, and you do what you're told. Understand?"

Lily Romanov's three youngest children nodded sullenly. They had all checked their comm units and were not, Reese was glad to see, fussing with them.

"Positive target acquisition is critical," he went on. "Do not shoot anyone unless you have to, and do not shoot anyone unless you're absolutely certain who they are. It's dark now, but it should be light by the time the meet goes down. That will help. But be positive. And remember your training. You've got the range time. You're qualified. Don't doubt that."

"I would really prefer," Finch said, "that we didn't shoot anyone at all unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

"Uh-huh," Kostmayer answered, unimpressed.

"Or at least not to shoot them fatally."

"Right." Mickey gestured to Reese. "The whole kneecapping thing. Sure."

"Our purpose," Finch insisted stubbornly, "is to save lives. And to see that criminals face justice. Not execution."

"I'm more interested in saving Helen's life, and Lily's, than I am about saving the criminals."

"And Dylan's," Sarah added, very quietly.

"Yeah, him, too."

Reese looked at his partner. Finch had always been uncomfortable with firearms. The prospect of these three young children with guns in their hands made him visibly unhappy.

John wasn't crazy about the idea himself. He'd encountered child soldiers a few times, in Africa and in Bolivia; they were terrifyingly unnatural. On the other hand, he'd known children younger than Sarah who'd brought down their own ten-point buck. It wasn't the guns. It was the context.

He didn't like this context. With their sister's life on the line, and their mother's, these kids were likely to be erratic, emotional. It was a formula for disaster. Kostmayer's emphasis on target acquisition told him that he had the same concerns.

They couldn't leave the children behind alone. They wouldn't stay with Scott and Becky. Or with Finch, safely away from the action. They were trained, and like it or not, they were armed. He could either take them with him, so that he knew where they were, or he could risk them creeping up on him at the worst possible moment.

Reese hoped devoutly that none of them would need to fire a weapon. But he was resigned to the possibility. "Aim low," he advised the children, "and don't fire unless you absolutely have to."

Finch still didn't like it, but he didn't argue any more.

Lily Romanov didn't speak. She walked out to the dark driveway with them and hugged each of the children in turn. Then she loaded the three of them into her black SUV. Bear jumped in and scrambled over Sarah to get into the back. They'd talked about bringing the Rottweilers along as well, but with neither of their familiar handlers likely to be available, they might be problematic. Reluctantly, they left them behind.

The mother turned to Reese and held out the keys. As he took them, her hand closed over his. She still didn't speak. She looked at him and he could see that she was looking out of her own personal hell. She hadn't let her children see it. But he saw, and he knew, that she did not speak because she did not dare.

She didn't fear dying, if it would save her daughter's life. But saying good-bye to her children, knowing that it might be the last time, was torture. If she tried to say one word, she would fall to pieces.

He squeezed her hand back, hard, until she pulled away.

Lily touched Finch's arm in passing as he got into the passenger seat. Then she went up on the porch with Kostmayer and simply waved, as if they were leaving Sunday dinner.

Reese knew that they watched them until they were out of sight down the road, but over the comm he didn't hear either of them say a word.

At this point in the operation, there wasn't anything for them to say.

Just as it started to get light outside, four more guys showed up. They were about the same at the others, vaguely middle-European looking but with home-grown New York accents, twenty to thirty years old, fit enough to be menacing. They all looked over at her and Dylan, then went on to the empty poker table.

One of them had brought two boxes of donuts. Another carried eight paper cups of coffee in two carriers, one stacked on top of the other. Guzev, the boss, had stayed awake all night, but the others woke up to get breakfast.

From the darkest corner, Helen heard the little man's chair thump down and he half-staggered to the table. "Where's my coffee?" he demanded.

The man who'd brought it in looked confused. "I didn't bring you any. Who are you, anyhow?"

"I'm your client, you moron." He grabbed the cup out of the man's hand. But he grabbed too hard and crushed the cup, splashing the coffee all over his fist. "Son of a bitch!"

"Serves you right," Guzev chuckled.

"Shut up. Get me a towel."

"No towels here."

The dark man swore again. Then he stomped off down the hall.

"I'm hungry," Dylan said quietly. He twisted around and sat up. "And I gotta take a piss."

"Just wait," Helen said.

"Hey! I gotta take a leak!"

The lieutenant came over to them. "What?"

"I gotta take a leak," Dylan said, quieter. "Please."

The man checked with his boss with a look, then grabbed Dylan's arm roughly, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him towards the hallway.

"What about you, sweetheart?" Gusev called.

"I'm good," Helen answered. She wasn't, actually, but asking these guys to let her use the bathroom, with her hands tied behind her back, seemed like a tremendously bad idea.

The Russian made a face. He put down the remaining half of his donut, wiped his hands on a napkin, and strode over. "C'mon, sister. Let's go." He leaned down and picked her up by the shoulders.

If his flunkies snickered, they did it too quietly for him to hear.

The hallway was very dark. Gusev brought out a flashlight. He kept his other hand on Helen's arm. They walked past four classrooms and came to the restrooms. Helen could see light flickering inside the boys' room. The other was dark.

"Wait here," Gusev said.

Helen waited, with growing anxiety.

The dark small man came out of the bathroom, wiping at his shirt angrily with a brown paper towel. "What?" he snarled when he saw them.

"Get back to the others," Gusev said.

"You untie her, you'll regret it," he warned. "Just let her piss in her pants."

"I'll handle this."

"Fine." He stomped off, his footsteps echoing along the empty corridor.

"Should have brought him decaf," Helen said under her breath. But Gusev heard her, and huffed with a little laugh.

The other guy brought Dylan out of the bathroom. "You stay right here," the boss said. "This little girl gives me any trouble, you kill him. Clear?"

"Sure, Boss."

He turned to Helen. "This boy here? Nobody cares if they get him back, right? And I know lots of places to dump his body. You want him to die, you try something. Understand?"

"Understood, sir," she answered seriously.

"Sit down here and put your feet through."

"Why didn't you let me do that?" Dylan protested.

From the floor, Helen could see a small wet spot on the front of his jeans.

"Because it was funnier this way," the lieutenant answered.

Helen got her bound hands under her butt, then managed to pull her legs through so that they were in front of her. She walked into the bathroom. Gusev followed behind her. But he let her go into the one stall that still had a functioning door on it and lock it behind her. "Plumbing don't work," he told her through the door. "Water's off."

"Okay." She struggled some to get her jeans unbuttoned with her hands tied, but she was deeply grateful she'd been allowed to do it for herself. The idea of Gusev unzipping her jeans – or worse, the little man – gave her goosepimples. Rape was a tool of war, and of gang war, she knew, but her parents had pretty much glossed over that aspect of her training. Helen thought that was probably an advanced course. But there was also something in the air that said there was some history there. Anyhow, it hadn't been addressed enough to help her now. She was glad Gusev didn't seem to have that in mind.

He's a dad, she thought suddenly. The dad of a daughter. She didn't have a single bit of evidence to base that on, but she was pretty sure she was right.

She wriggled her jeans and panties down and sat down on the toilet seat. It had a gritty feel to it, and it was room-temperature, nearly hot to the touch.

Helen reached both hands over her head and touched the sheath between her shoulder blades. If she ran out of the stall, she could gut Gusev. But there was no chance she'd get to the lieutenant before he put a bullet between Dylan's eyes.

Her mom had told her to keep her shirt on.

She urinated, a lot, into the empty bowl. Then she stood and wiggled awkwardly back onto her pants.

She left her shirt untucked.

When she left the stall, Gusev made her put her hands behind her back again.

The clock on the dashboard read 5:50. And then 5:51. Over the comm, there was no sound of an incoming phone call. They were parked on a side street not far from the house, ready to speed to whatever address they were given as soon as the call came in.

"What do you think about?" Robert asked from the back seat, breaking the tense silence.

Reese glanced over his shoulder at the boy. "What?"

"Right now, when we're about to go in. What do you think about?"

"Oh. Logistics, mostly. Which weapons I have, how many rounds I have for each, what's the optimal range for each."

Beside him, Finch shuddered gently.

"And then whatever I know about my opposition. Numbers, size, training. Where they're likely to come from and what they're likely to do."

"Anything but the hostages," Michael supplied.

John nodded reluctantly. "It's better to consider them objectives, right now. But also, you have to never forget that they're people."

"Precious objectives," Sarah said.

"Exactly."

The clock ticked over to 5:52.

"If you were them," Michael asked, "where would you want the swap to be?"

John considered. The children were anxious, of course. They were also picking his brain. Learning his tactics, coming them to the ones they'd learned from their parents.

It occurred to him that if he came up against them in the future, their knowledge of his thought processes would be an asset to them.

He shook his head. It wasn't the time for paranoia.

"They're city-born," he said. "Street fighters. Dangerous, but not trained. They know how they fight, and that's all they know. Now if it was me picking the location, I'd want a solid building behind me and open space on the other three sides. Clear sight lines."

"So they couldn't ambush you," Robert said.

"Or flank me. Exactly."

"But they could still get behind you," Sarah said, "if they could get into the building."

"True. So I'd want to have someone watching my back."

"How many guys do you think they have?"

"I don't know. That's an unknown variable. We'll need to adjust once we know."

Just as the digital clock changed to 5:53, they heard the phone finally ring.

"You're late," Lily snapped over the comm.

"I could be later," Pavle Racz snapped back.

"I want to talk to Helen."

"I want Jason to be alive."

She took an audible breath. "Where do we meet?"

"Grayton Elementary School. In the back. Come in the east entrance and park by the fence."

"Fine."

"Bring Kostmayer with you. No one else."

"Obviously."

"Ten minutes. Don't be late."

The call went dead.

"You on?" Kostmayer asked over the comm.

Finch already had the location up on the car's nav system. He nodded.

"On our way," Reese answered.

Two blocks directly north of the school, on a residential street, Reese parked the car and turned off the engine. Finch held the laptop out to him; it had StreetView up on the screen.

The school faced south. In the back was a parking lot that doubled as a playground. It was surrounded by a five-foot high chain link fence. There were side streets at each end and a main street along the back of the lot. The pavement was cracked and heat-dried weeks were abundant. At each end of the lot there was a gate in the fence; presumably parents had been able to drive up to the back door of the school to drop off or pick up their students.

"Okay," John said, after studying both views. "Michael." He pointed to the west end of the parking lot. "Here, behind this fence. Robert, east end, here. Use this garage for cover. There's only two ways in and out of this lot. You cover them both. Any vehicle tries to leave with any of the hostages, shoot for the engine."

"What about the front?" Sarah asked eagerly.

"That's where I'm going," Reese answered. "They'll be watching the back, where your mom will come in. I'll go in the front of the school and get behind them."

"And us?" Finch asked, with a careful emphasis that indicated the smallest of the children was staying with him.

"I want you behind the wheel," Reese said. "Sarah, on the comm." He reached past Finch and got small binoculars from the glove box. "You watch straight down this street. You've got a clear view of the door. Keep us up on what's going on."

She gave him a remarkably grown-up look. She knew he was giving her a made-up assignment. Reese hoped she was right. He hoped the fight never got close to her, or to Finch.

"And all of you, eyes on the building. We know they'll have one gun inside. I'll find him. But they may have more. Watch the windows. If you see motion or a lens flash, I need to know about it."

"This vehicle is base," he finished. "Anything goes south, get yourself back here. Nobody engages on their own. Clear?"

The children muttered.

"Clear?" Reese repeated.

"Clear," they answered in sharp unison.

"Then let's go." He got out of the car, grabbed his rifle, and whistled Bear to his side.

"What's happening?" Dylan whispered.

"My mom's coming," Helen whispered back.

"Is that good?"

"Depends on what side you're on."

Getting into the building from the front was easy. The windows had been boarded up when the school closed, but half a dozen of the boards had been loosened and two more were completely missing. Reese could tell by the scent that homeless people lived here even before he saw the cold burn barrels and heaps of refuse. In the current heat, they'd probably gone elsewhere, but they'd be back when winter came.

Bear crowded against his leg, but stayed silent.

John moved quietly through the halls to the back of the building. He found another kicked-out window and surveyed the parking lot. Still empty. He couldn't see either of the boys, which was good. "Everybody in position?" he said quietly.

"I am," one of them replied. He couldn't tell by the voice which one.

"Me, too," the other added helpfully.

"I'm sitting in the car like a baby," Sarah grumbled.

John smiled to himself. "Keep your eyes open, kiddo."

He pushed the bottom of the loose board further aside, so that there was an opening only a few feet from the ground. Then he pulled over a desk and patted it. Bear jumped up eagerly. He gave the dog the hand command for down, and Bear obediently dropped to his belly.

Reese rubbed his ears as a reward. "Stay here," he said, "unless I call you."

The Malnois cocked his head, then put it down on the desk.

"Good boy."