AN: Thanks again to you all for your support of this fic. Your words never fail to bring a smile to my face, and I'm so glad that I get to share this story with you. I apologize for taking a while to update; I had originally written this chapter differently, but I wasn't quite satisfied with how it turned out. So I rewrote it, and I like this version far more than the original. I hope you all enjoy it as well.

We're getting to the end of this trilogy – one more chapter to tie everything up, and then the epilogue, and that's it! What a wild ride. Of course, I'll keep writing for The Mentalist, but it will probably be in the form of oneshots since multichaps tend to be much more draining. So keep your eye out for more work from me in the future!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.

Chapter 8: A Ruthless Game

"It's really bothering you, isn't it?" asked Lisbon. She and Jane had just finished breakfast at their hotel, and she was now driving them both to meet the rest of the team at the FBI field office.

Jane stared out the window, taking in the way the rare winter sunshine refracted off of the snow.

"Not so much bothered as unsettled," he finally admitted. "I don't usually read people wrong."

"Look, Jane, I know you're good, but nobody's that good."

"But you read Jimmy wrong as well," he pointed out. "It's statistically unlikely for both of us to get the wrong impression. We act as a sort of check and balance system in that way. If I misinterpret something, you're there to remind me of another possible explanation—and vice versa." Jane glanced at her, concerned. "I'm just worried that something else is going on here."

"Look," said Lisbon, putting on her turn signal and merging lanes, "we drew the erroneous conclusion that Jimmy was gambling because of two things: him fidgeting in his pocket with something—at the time, we thought it was a pair of dice—and him checking his phone. Turns out he was fidgeting with his three month chip. We don't know about the phone; for all we know, he could have been checking messages from a new girlfriend." She softened her tone. "I called Stan last night on my way to the hotel, and he confirmed Jimmy's story."

Jane sighed. "I just want everything to be okay. He's your brother, and you care about him—so I care about him. Maybe I was just overanalyzing everything because of that."

"Hey, we both overanalyzed the situation," said Lisbon, shooting him a soft smile. "You know how doctors aren't allowed to have their family members as patients because it's difficult for them to remain objective? Maybe the same thing stands for reading people."

Jane looked like he was about to argue, but Lisbon watched out of the corner of her eye as he processed her words, and his body language conceded to her that she'd made a good point. "Fair enough," said Jane. "That would explain why I have a difficult time getting a read on you more recently."

"You do?" asked Lisbon, taking the exit that would bring them to the field office.

"You were certainly easier to read when I first met you," confirmed Jane. "At the time, I had less invested in you—and less emotional attachment. It was easy to stay objective then. It's not nearly as easy now. My emotions make everything about reading you slightly hazy." He smiled at her. "And this haziness, I guess, extends to your family as well. You realize, Lisbon, that though you are the person I know best in the world, you are the hardest for me to read?"

"You always were drawn to mysteries—it explains a lot actually," said Lisbon, glancing over at him. "Listen, Jane, I've been thinking about the case…"

"Oh god, don't say that," said Jane with a look of apprehension. "You always say that when you're about to suggest something dangerous. Can't we be done with dangerous, Lisbon? Can't we just be a normal couple with a tulip garden and a dog?"

Lisbon sighed. "I want to wrap this case up. You know how much this means to me."

Jane held her gaze until she returned her eyes to the road. "I do," he said. "I do know how much this means to you. Actually, it has come to mean just as much to me. But I'm not willing to sacrifice your safety in order to solve a case, Lisbon—no matter how important it is to you."

Lisbon took his hand. "We need a DNA sample from Dellinger, Jr. for comparison. All I'm suggesting is a means by which to obtain that sample."

Jane grimaced. "Why do I have the feeling that whatever this plan is, I'm not going to like it?"

Lisbon opened the door to the bar. Frozen air from outside swooshed past them into the building, exchanging places with the smoke and loud music which rushed outside. Jane adjusted the baseball cap on his head.

"What team is this for anyway?" he asked.

"The Bears. They're a football team," said Lisbon, raising her voice over the music, and the door swung shut behind her. "And they're playing tonight against the Packers. One of the NFL's greatest rivalries."

Jane snorted. "Why put a football team on something that's called a baseball cap? These sports you enjoy, Lisbon, don't seem to make a lot of sense."

Lisbon turned around to eye her partner. For once, he was clad in jeans, and she didn't deny that the bar-inspired attire oddly suited him. "Quit talking like that here, Jane, or you'll blow our cover."

And she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him further into the bar.

They passed a particularly pale head of hair, and Lisbon made sure to avoid making eye contact with Wylie, who was sitting near Michelle Vega—another young agent—at the end of the bar nearest the door. Wylie was completely absorbed in whatever story Vega, a feisty-looking brunette with dark eyes and a witty smile, was telling him.

Jane leaned over to whisper in Lisbon's ear. "Wylie looks enamored, doesn't he?"

Lisbon nodded, grinning to herself. When she'd picked Vega to complete the quartet for the assignment, she hadn't counted on Wylie falling in love with her as soon as they'd met. But Wylie's admiration of Vega had actually worked in the team's favor, as the two younger agents actually looked like the couple they were supposed to be playing.

Cho's voice came over Lisbon's earpiece. "Vega spotted Dellinger at the back of the bar twenty minutes ago," he said.

Though Lisbon would have preferred the assistance of Cho, Rigsby or Van Pelt over the less experienced Wylie or Vega, Van Pelt's pregnancy had precluded her from being able to help out, and Rigsby and Cho had already interviewed Dellinger and would be easily recognized by him. Vega had already proved valuable, however—she was the one who'd tracked Dellinger into the Irish pub Jane and Lisbon had just walked into.

Lisbon hoped Jane's worries about her idea would be for naught—all they had to do was acquire something of Dellinger's—a beer bottle, or even a used napkin—which had his DNA. They wouldn't even have to make contact with the man himself.

However, the bar was massively crowded that night, and getting close enough to steal a bottle or napkin proved more difficult than Lisbon had imagined. After thirty minutes of maneuvering, Lisbon became frustrated when Dellinger's third empty bottle (by her count; he'd certainly had more before she'd arrived) was whisked away by the barman before she had a chance to get to it.

Not long after that, the Packers scored a touchdown, and Dellinger furiously smashed his fourth bottle of beer onto the counter in front of him. The glass shattered, and the liquid spilled out on either side of him, soaking an unfortunate Packers fan.

"Watch it, buddy," said the Packers fan, his cheesehead hat tilting precariously and his words slurring together.

"Watch the freaking game, moron. And enjoy it while you're ahead—your shitface of a quarterback has got nothing on us."

The Packers fan smiled ironically. "Yeah, well, speaking of shitface quarterbacks…"

Dellinger didn't seem to understand the insult but knew somehow that he had been insulted. Instead of returning the volley in the verbal sparring match, he swung his right fist around, connecting with the other man's stomach. The Packer fan fell to the ground with a large crash.

The bartended, however, didn't turn around until the Packers fan had retaliated, swinging at—and connecting with—Dellinger's face. Blood started to spill from Dellinger's nose, and the man with the cheesehead was thrown out. The area around Dellinger quickly cleared out as people tried to escape the blood flow.

Jane and Lisbon moved slightly closer, and Lisbon got her first view of Dellinger, Jr. in person. If anything, Cho and Rigsby's description—and the pictures she had looked at—didn't do his injuries justice. Sure enough, the long gash on his forearm was striking, and the fresh stitches on his eyebrow appeared to be healing nicely. And underneath all the blood on his face, which Dellinger was attempting to absorb with a few napkins, Lisbon noticed that his nose was crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice before.

Dellinger motioned to the barman for another beer, but the barman wisely cut him off, and Dellinger got up to toss the bloody napkins into the trash. Frustrated, Lisbon let out a groan. No beer bottles and no napkins—where the hell was she going to get DNA from now?

Jane tapped her on her shoulder and touched a finger to his upper lip, just underneath his nose. Lisbon looked at him, confused, before she realized he was referring to Dellinger.

Sure enough, a trickle of blood was still leaking out of one of his nostrils.

"I abhor absolutely every single aspect of what I'm about to suggest," said Jane in a low voice in his ear.

"But?" asked Lisbon.

"But," said Jane, "I think it's our only chance to get that DNA. And I know how important this is to you, so I'll suck it up."

"What is it, Jane?"

"The only way you're going to get a sample of his blood is if you go over there and wipe it off his face yourself. And the only way to do that is to pretend to hit on him."

"You're joking."

"Teresa, would I joke about something like this?"

No, she decided after a moment of deliberation. He wouldn't.

"But I'm not very good at hitting on people."

"Trust me, Lisbon. You are well-versed in the art of seduction. Go. He won't know what hit him."

She debated for a while longer, only agreeing to his plan because it had been his idea in the first place. "Alright," she said softly. "You might not want to watch."

"Oh, I most definitely don't want to watch," said Jane. "But I have to."

She shot a glance at him, whispered "I love you" in his ear, and walked away, fluffing her hair with one hand and grasping her half-finished beer with the other. She walked toward Dellinger, whose eyes were glued onto the game. As she approached, his eyes landed on her.

He definitely wasn't unattractive, Lisbon noticed, which made her task slightly more believable. He was even handsome in a rugged, roguish kind of way.

But he wasn't attractive to her.

He wasn't Jane.

Let's get this over with, she thought disgustedly.

"Hey," said Lisbon, in what she hoped was an explicitly flirtatious tone. She held up a napkin from the bar. "Allow me?"

And he did, smiling at her and tipping his head back to allow her better access to his lower face. Lisbon set her beer on the counter and gripped Dellinger's face with one hand, raising the other with the napkin to his nose to absorb the blood there. She wiped the blood off and made a show of caressing his face with her free hand so her other could sneak the blood-soaked napkin into an evidence bag in her jacket pocket.

"Never seen you here before," said Dellinger.

"I'm only visiting," said Lisbon, wanting to bolt but knowing it was safer to allow the situation to play out. Ditching Dellinger right after she'd essentially hit on him would only draw his attention to the situation, and he might figure out something was afoot. Instead, Lisbon attempted a flirtatious smile, which must have worked because she saw Dellinger's pupils dilate in arousal. Lisbon immediately said an internal apology to Jane, who she imagined was silently furious behind her.

"Does that mean you need a place to stay for the night, babe?" said Dellinger, his smile scrunching up the scars on his face.

Wow—desperate much? thought Lisbon.

Instead, she said, "Well, that depends."

"On?"

Lisbon took a sip of her beer. "On how well things end up going here," she said, and she had to restrain herself from reacting as Dellinger checked her out, his eyes starting out by staring at the connection between her lips and the beer bottle and moving downward, stalling at her breasts and then again at her hips.

Creep.

"Oh, I think things are going pretty well, don't you?" he said.

"I'd have to agree," said Lisbon. She added internally, but only because you haven't tried to feel me up yet.

An eighties rock ballad blasted over the speakers, and Dellinger stood up, swaying slightly. He leaned over to Lisbon, alcohol on his breath and desire on his mind.

"Dance with me?"

She didn't want to, but at that moment Dellinger shifted, revealing the outline of a gun holster on his lower back.

Shit, thought Lisbon.

She couldn't think of a way to refuse him which didn't seem obvious.

She couldn't think of a way to refuse him that wouldn't make him angry. He'd killed before for far less.

So she allowed herself to be pulled away from the bar and into Dellinger's arms.

It felt all wrong, angular and rough and nothing at all like being held by Jane, where she felt like she just fit, but she leaned into him and allowed him to sway their bodies to what he drunkenly believed was in time with the music.

His words became more suggestive with every passing minute, even without any additional encouragement from Lisbon. After three seemingly never-ending songs, she finally felt it was appropriate to make a break for it.

"My head feels a bit fuzzy," said Lisbon, tilting her head up. "I'll be right back—I just need a glass of water."

And she darted off, trying to swerve behind tall bar-goers to hide her route of escape from him. Lisbon breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't follow, and she burst through the door to escape into the bitter and icy night.

Jane was waiting for her outside the bar.

"You got it?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good," he said, and he grabbed her hand and dragged her down the street. They turned a corner into a dark, deserted alley, the snow falling around them and sparkling like miniature crystals. Before even checking to see that they were alone, Jane pushed Lisbon against the brick wall and crushed her lips with his.

She gave in easily, sighing with contentment to finally be in his arms—arms that fit around her like a lock to a key—and she didn't admonish him when his hands roved over her, rougher than usual but somehow with necessity.

"Mine," said Jane. "Never his—never someone else's. Never again. Mine."

His touch was like a cure, erasing every trace of the man who had just held her.

"Yes," breathed Lisbon. "Yes—yours. Yes."

Jane's hand slid from her hip to the side of her breast, and her next moan was interrupted by the sound of a gun being cocked.

"Actually," said a voice, "she's mine."

Lisbon's eyes sprung open in horror, and she quickly took in the barrel that was pointed at Jane's head. Jane tensed but didn't move, his hands still on either side of Lisbon's ribcage.

"Give her to me, and you can live."

Lisbon grabbed Jane's hands and pushed him away from her before he could understand what she was doing. She moved over to Dellinger, who grabbed her waist and pulled him flush against her, all the while keeping his gun trained on Jane. He looked at Lisbon.

"You're in for a good time tonight, babe," he said.

Lisbon shivered.

A gun went off.

Someone screamed.

It took Lisbon a second to realize that it wasn't just someone who had screamed—it had been her. In another second, it registered that it wasn't Jane who had been shot.

Fifty feet away, Vega stood at the entrance to the alley, her gun trained on Dellinger, who was now lying on the snow-covered ground, moaning and clutching his left knee. Lisbon darted forward to grab his gun, and she took out the bullets before turning to Jane. Vega moved closer, keeping her gun up, and Cho and Rigsby moved past her to put Dellinger in handcuffs.

Jane looked paler than normal, but his eyes widened in recognition as she held the gun between them.

"That's what I think it is?" he asked.

She nodded.

It was the gun that matched the reverse engineered bullets.

It was the gun that had killed her father.