"When we get the brother's medicals, I want them matched to Hamid's," Brennan declared as soon as she was within hearing range of Hodgins and Zach.

Hodgins handed over a piece of paper to his boss. "I'm starting on a tox screen," he announced.

"Farid said his doctor suspected a genetic condition," Brennan shared adroitly. "Maybe we are overlooking something." I narrowed my eyes at a little device lying on the exam table in place of Masruk's bones. "What is that?" Brennan asked, noticing it as well.

Zach promptly answered his boss. "We used the trace elements we recovered to try and build the bomb. It might give you another link."

"Isn't the FBI working on that?" Brennan stated suspiciously, her eyes darting between her colleagues.

"Yes, this is just for fun," Hodgins said with a smile.

"To see who's better?" I guessed.

"Maybe." Pause. "A little." Another pause. "Yeah."

Brennan shrugged slightly. "Good luck."

Zach looked up from his table, softly holding up the repaired cranium. "Ta-da," he announced, holding it up to Brennan, who took it and turned it in her hand.

"Nice job," she praised. "No wonder you had such trouble with reconstruction. Look at the spread of the trabecular pattern in the bone."

"Microscopic fissures, like cracks," Zach explained to Hodgins, who hadn't even asked.

"I knew that," Hodgins replied with a scoff.

Zach smiled faintly. "I don't think so." I snickered.

"Can we focus?" Brennan requested sharply. "The spread is too rapid for any organic bone disease or genetic condition. It's definitely a toxin. Is there any surviving marrow to test?"

Zach nodded, keeping his head down longer than necessary in means of respectful apology to make up for annoying Brennan. "Uh, I'll try to find some," he promised.

"Let's do it." Brennan said determinedly.

"The marrow's degraded." Hodgins spoke in frustration, raking his hands through his hair. The result wasn't as good as it was when some people do the same. He looked like he wore a drowned rat on his head – but it would be rude to say so, so I didn't. Hodgins had been nothing but nice to me, when I'd given more than a sufficient number of opportunities for a cheap shot or insult. "I can give you basics, but that's it."

"According to these tests, the liver function was impaired." I reported, having looked at the results of the scans over Hodgins' shoulder.

"That's congruent with our theory. His body was trying to get rid of whatever was poisoning him," Brennan agreed.

Angela joined with a victorious, sly smile in place. She slid her purse down her shoulder and leaned on the rails, not picking up on the gravity of the conversation – either that, or she simply didn't care. "There is trouble in paradise," she sang, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

"I beg your pardon?" Brennan asked, frowning at her friend.

Angela took this as invitation to attempt to start gossip hour. She leaned forward, engaging herself further. "Tessa does not feel secure in that relationship. I think she's threatened by you."

"You talked to her," Brennan stated in surprise.

Angela didn't seem to realize that she was the only one interested. Her smile widened, taking Brennan's not stopping her as a sign to continue. "She didn't say much, but even though she has a phenomenal figure, she was chowing down on a fat-free muffin and she was reading a book about unsolved FBI cases."

"Definitely feeling insecure." I let the phrase slip before I caught myself. I slapped my hand over my mouth, scowling. Why wasn't I watching myself around these people? I was sure my expression was horrified. "Why did I just say that? I don't even care!"

Angela's smile grew, if that was even possible. Hodgins turned to Brennan, a look of complete shock evident. "She's spying for you?"

"No!" Brennan's cheeks colored slightly. "No!"

Zach looked curiously from between Angela and Brennan before studiously informing his mentor of his thoughts, not seeing the problem with this conversation or his input. "Even if you have nothing in common, it's difficult to sublimate intense sexual attraction, and we hear it's been a while."

"Okay, stop!" Brennan nearly shouted, holding her hands up for emphasis.

"Please!" I added.

Angela shook her head in disappointment. "He is there for the taking, honey," she urged again.

Booth strolled through the doors then and came up to the edge of the platform, hands shoved in his pockets. "Okay, I couldn't get his medical records." Angela whistled lowly, Hodgins was trying not to laugh, Zach was looking uncertainly between all of us, Brennan was intentionally not meeting his gaze, and I was pretty sure my cheeks were pink as I averted my eyes to the floor. "What?"

"Nothing," Brennan quickly lied.

"Trying to track down the doctor?" He guessed.

No. Nowhere near. All we're doing is listening as Angela gets herself involved in your sex life… You know what, yeah. We were looking for the doctor. It sounds much better. Yeah, let's go with that.

"We don't need him," Brennan said instead. "It's definitely a toxin, but we can't determine what kind."

"Too bad the liver is cooked, that could tell us everything," Zach sighed.

Booth shook his head, annoyed. "You know, I need subtitles, walking in here."

"The liver is like a filter. It would contain evidence of any toxins, but we don't have the liver or any of the flesh left," I translated for the agent, who nodded at me in appreciation.

"See? Why can't any of you people talk like her and actually pretend to be normal?" Booth complained.

"We do have the beetles," Hodgins stated mildly upon the realization. "They ate Hamid's flesh, and whatever organs remained. We all know we are what we eat."

I grimaced. "Please don't class us in the same category as flesh-eating, scavenging beetles."

"So you can ID the poison from the beetles?" Booth asked hopefully.

In Hodgins' and Zach's lab, by the terrarium, Zach clutched a jar of the beetles close to his chest protectively. I half wanted to laugh, half cry at his emotional display. It was funny because it was beetles and… well, it was Zach. But then it was saddening because Zach saw them as pets and it was sort of reminiscent of Marley and Me. "You can't kill them," Zach protested weakly. "They have names."

Brennan reached into the jar and pulled out a handful, cupping her other hand under in case some wriggled their way free. She wore thick latex gloves in case they tried to bite her. Ew. "We have to, Zach. Some," Brennan said in a best attempt at a soothing voice.

Hodgins raised his eyebrows at Zach and I knew that he was going to say something to purposefully bother the young intern. "In Thailand, they are sautéed in peanut oil. Yum."

Zach made a face of sadness and he put the cap back on the jar, holding the beetles even closer to himself if that was possible. I winced sympathetically and patted Zach on the shoulder. I wasn't one for physical contact with people I didn't particularly know, but the guy looked like Hodgins had just run over his puppy with a monster truck. "It's alright, Zach," I said helpfully. "On the bright side, they won't have to put up with living in a jar anymore," I reasoned.

Zach gave me a look that suggested he thought I was being stupid. "How can that be a bright side if they're also dead? They wouldn't be able to take leisure in larger living quarters." He stated sadly.

I bit my lip and looked to Hodgins, who shrugged.

I eagerly ran ahead of Hodgins and Zach, who had shared the results of the tests with me. I skidded to a stop by the metal stairs to the platform, where Angela and Brennan were quietly conversing. Booth was coming around from the entrance to the building, speeding up when he saw my excited expression.

Booth came up by me and nudged my shoulder. I shied away and looked at him in question, not completely rejecting the cry for attention. "Yeah?"

"Are you doing okay?" He asked authoritatively, but his concern was both evident and earnest. I could understand why he wanted to know; I was sort of his ward for the time being, until Martin Davis' murder was solved. If I was traumatized, the cost of a psychotherapist would probably be charged to his tab. Aside from that was the ingrained instinct behind all humans' DNA to protect the youths of the civilization. And aside from that, I don't think I knew anyone a week ago who could have been able to see and experience all of what I had and take it all in such stride. Then again, while slim, there was also the possibility that he was asking out of concern for me.

"Yeah, fine," I said sincerely, trying to both answer quickly and skip over the emotional part of the day and not sound sarcastic. "I'm fine."

"We've got it!" Hodgins declared triumphantly as he and Zach caught up. "They were poisoned by dioxin, a very pure form."

I anxiously picked up when the entomologist paused, jumping at the opportunity to blow off some excitement. Regaining my cheer from before Booth had had a hushed 'you holding up' sentiment, I rocked back on the balls of my feet, beaming up at the artist and anthropologist. "It would stay in the system for years; cause cancer, diabetes, heart attack, and the facial system bone degeneration we saw!"

"Give me the saturation levels," Brennan ordered, her attention raptly turning away from the social conversation she'd been having. "Angela can use it in simulation to give us approximate date of ingestion."

"How much would it take to poison them?" Booth asked, pulling his hands out of his pockets and holding his arms up in a half shrug, listening for an answer intently.

"Just a little slipped into their food." Something dawned on Brennan and she inclined her head in realization. "Like at that lunch they had with Sahar's lover."

Angela looked down to Booth, looking after Brennan suggestively. "Impressed?"

Five minutes later, in Angela's dimly-lit office, the hologram projector was on and working, waiting patiently to simulate a scenario while Angela entered all of the information it needed first. "Dioxin levels were 5600 parts per trillion," Brennan said, pausing to give Angela time to enter that. "Speed of bone degeneration is an 88 percent increase over base line osteoporosis. Date of death was-"

Angela interrupted softly. "I remember that one, thanks."

Brennan looked to her friend and recognized the sad mood. She hesitated before nodding. "Run the scenario."

"I'll never get used to this," Booth said as the plain reconstruction began to glow as it transformed into the now-familiar image of Hamid Masruk.

"Yeah?" Angela smirked coyly. "Chicks with toys?"

Booth looked at the holograph as it morphed, taking into account the poison, and Hamid's face changed to account for the scars and misconfiguration. "Poor bastard," Booth whispered.

Brennan temporarily lifted her sharp look from the generator. "Match it to his INS photograph. See how accurate you are." Next to the model, a two dimensional picture, recent picture of Hamid flashed as the points between the two objects were matched. All of the points of identification lit up green. They matched perfectly, ratifying our scenario. "Good work, Angela. Probable date of exposure, about four months ago. I'd say the first week in June."

Booth exhaled deeply. "Holly, Bones, let's go pay a visit to Mr. Ladjavardi."

And that's how, roughly ninety minutes later, I was quickly speed-walking with Brennan and Booth down the sidewalk, approached Ladjavardi rapidly. "I thought you were told to stay away from him?" I asked quietly, looking up at Booth inquisitively.

"Yeah, and as an FBI agent, I cannot disobey my superior." Booth grinned slyly down at me. "You, however… you're not an FBI agent."

I nodded, a smirk creeping onto my face. I pushed myself into a light jog, rushing past Brennan and leaving Booth behind and coming up by Ladjavardi's side. He was Arabian, of course, with cropped brown hair and casual clothing fit for a day in the park. "Hey!" I called, friendlily waving to him. I overdid it on the 'friendly' fort, mostly because I was trying so hard to get his attention. "Hi! How you doin'?" Yeah, definitely got his attention.

Ladjavardi paused and stopped, looking to me with narrowed, hostile eyes, but caught sight of Booth as he did so. "What the hell are you doing here? You had orders!"

"Who's that?" I asked, looking to the FBI agent, who shrugged at me as if agreeing that we didn't know each other. "I don't know him. Do you know him? You should be nicer to your friends."

Ladjavardi sneered, looking from Booth to myself. "Nice," he growled at the agent. "You couldn't interrogate me yourself, so now you're asking your daughter to do it for you?"

I glared, my friendly façade going in an instant. I didn't have family, and that was a blatant reminder. "He is not my father," I spat, right as Booth denied that I was his daughter.

"Right," Ladjavardi scoffed.

"I just have some quick questions for you," I pushed, maneuvering myself in front of him so he couldn't get away. I stood at my full height and rolled my shoulders. Although I was a girl, I grew up in a not-so-nice manner, and I had a tomboy personality to begin with. The labor and fighting I do, coupled with my lifestyle, make me stronger than most people my age, and my shoulders broader than most girls' from continuous strain. That and my height made me appear pretty intimidating when I wanted.

Ladjavardi took one look at me, Booth, and then at Brennan, and we all had him with only one way out, and unless he could scale a tree in less than five seconds, he wasn't getting away. He sighed, realizing this, and quickly gave us an excuse. "Look, I'm not involved in this. Sahar won't even talk to me anymore."

"Yeah, I wonder why?" Brennan said, displaying a show of sarcasm.

Ladjavardi withdrew his cell phone from his trouser pocket. "I'm calling Santana."

Although I didn't know who that was, I understood the threat and came to the conclusion that it must be someone in the FBI. "I don't think so," I disagreed, taking a step closer.

Ladjavardi's eyes narrowed at me once more. "I'm warning you-"

"I wouldn't threaten her if I were you," Brennan advised, her expression being replaced with one of mild interest.

"I just want to know where you were in the first week of June to see if you poisoned the Masruk brothers," I said insistently.

"Subtle," Booth muttered.

Ladjavardi looked around us all scornfully. "I'm leaving. That's it." He shoved his phone away and reached out. He roughly grasped my shoulder, pushing my away. Without thinking about it, at the almost painful grip, I swung my arm up and set a vice grip on his upper arm. I twisted around, bending over, and ducked my head. Ladjavardi was pulled over and I slashed the air with my arm, sending him flying over me. He landed on the pavement, groaning, on his back.

Booth flinched. "We told you. She doesn't like to be touched."

"I didn't poison anybody," Ladjavardi moaned, his hand moving up to massage his shoulder (which had been given a damn good pull).

"Then tell me where you were!" I demanded fiercely. "I'm not opposed to flipping you again!"

"In Utah for training with Homeland Security!" Ladjavardi coughed, shuddering slightly as he tried to regain enough wind to struggle to his feet. "I didn't get back to DC until April 12th. Check with the department!"

I nodded, satisfied, and forced my expression to calm. I'm first in line to admit I'm dangerous and can be frightening. I have anger management issues and trauma (from being abused, obviously) and I never did get a psychologist after I was in the WTC on 9/11, but I have gotten capable of putting a cap on my anger for an amount of time over the years. I didn't want anyone to think I was unstable – my psychological damage only reflected my behavior in the respect that I had one hell of a temper. "Alright, thanks," I said with mock cheerfulness.

I sighed, exaggerating my exasperation to Zach so that I knew for sure he would catch on. "I just can't believe that Ladjavardi wouldn't answer a simple question until I flipped him! I mean, his alibi checked out, so what was he so opposed to?"

Hodgins rushed to the two of us. Really, Zach was just flipping through a comic while we waited for Hodgins' test results and while I complained to him. He was being really nice about it. He was likely ignoring me, but he wasn't telling me to shut up, so I'd take it. "The insulation they used is gypsum based with plaster and lead, mixed with asbestos!" He beamed at the both of us. "Know what else? It's a fire proof tile used excessively in the Woodley Park neighborhood when it was founded in 1910."

I shot up in my chair, the wheels sending it skittering backwards. My hair flew up, the twists I'd made with my fingers falling out. "Woodley Park?" I repeated, hands balling into fists. That's… that's where Farid Masruk lives…

He converted to Christianity but stayed so close to his Muslim brother and sister-in-law. He sure was quick getting over Hamid Masruk's death, and he was certainly willing enough to point fingers at Ladjavardi. Farid went to college… I didn't think to check at the time, but it was possible he'd taken chemistry courses… of course, bomb-making instructions were easily found online, in this day and age. And the timeline fits. He poisoned himself so he wouldn't be suspect if the poison lead was traced.

"Yeah," Hodgins said, nodding slowly at my abrupt change in demeanor. My eyes widened before I snapped into action, like a rubber band pulled taut and released suddenly. I snatched up my wallet (it has my debit card, ID, and some bills) from Brennan's desktop and ran out the door.

"Where are you going?" Hodgins shouted behind me, confused.

"To be the hero!" I muttered to myself, even as I ran down the hall. My height was working to my advantage; my long strides and agile speed were making it easy to bolt down the corridor and to the large double-door exit.

I took the steps leading into the Jeffersonian Institution two and three at a time, sprinting down frantically to the taxi stop, where a couple of yellow cabs were waiting patiently for someone to escort. I held onto the railing so I wouldn't fall on my face (that would be lame) and continued to run when I hit the bottom, leaping over the back of a bench in my hurry to cross the lawn and get to the cab service.

A taxi driver put away a book (The Curious Incident of the Boy and the Dog in the Nighttime) and started the ignition. "Destination?" He asked, not questioning my frantic dash.

"Woodley Park neighborhood," I panted. "The apartment complex on LeAnna street."

The driver seemed to take an agonizingly long time to get out into the main flow of traffic. When we were halfway there, I was antsy and my legs kept tapping – it was out of my control. Although barely seven minutes had passed, according to the built-in digital clock of the automobile, I felt as though it had taken an hour.

"Hey, could you speed up?" I finally asked impatiently.

"I'm going the speed limit, miss," the taxi driver replied patiently.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, I can see that. This is really important, so if you could please go more than forty-five?"

The taxi driver shot me a look through the rearview mirror. "What kind of emergency?"

"That's FBI-worthy, first-class, this-only-happens-in-movies emergency. Maybe even a 9/11 emergency."

The taxi driver sighed, but I noticed that the buildings passed quicker than they had before. "I'm still stopping at red lights," he maintained.

"Yeah, yeah."

So, three minutes later, I opened the door before the car was even parked and threw a ten dollar bill into the passenger's seat. I shoved my wallet back into my pocket as I ran, squinting my eyes against the air slapping my face. I hit a rush of cooler air as I hit the doors of Farid Masruk's apartment building, the vents caressing me with sweet, sweet bliss from the hot April weather. I didn't take more than about a second to enjoy the ventilation system, instead leaping up the stairs.

When I identified Farid's apartment by the doorstep 'welcome' mat, I knocked on the door. When I got no reply, I banged on it with my fists and kicked with one of my shoes, keeping my precarious balance on my other foot. "FARID MASRUK!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs.

Several other doors in the hall opened. "What in the blazes do you think you're doing?" A middle-aged man demanded of me, crankily staggering down the hallway. He had on an ill-fitting pair of pajama trunks and a robe on over it. Someone's a late riser. "If you don't knock it off, I'll call the police!"

I turned my back to the door, gasping for breath and looking down the aisle of curious, worried, and irate people. Most of them got wide eyes when they recognized me from the newspaper, including the man challenging me. "Holly Kirkland!" I yelled, in case they didn't recognize my photograph. "I'm with the FBI! You know what?" I challenged, addressing the man. "You can call the police. Please do. Connect them with the FBI and tell them that their café SUV terrorist is Farid Masruk, Apt. 79, LeAnna street, Woodley Park."

I turned back to the door and then realized that after that outburst, no way in bloody hell would Farid open the door now. I stalked backwards a few paces, then ran forward, hitting the door with my shoulder. "Ah-!" I hissed in surprise. It hurt a lot more than I was expecting, but I heard the lock break and I shrugged it off, kicking the door open.

I intruded into the man's home, going straight past the living room I'd been in with Booth and Brennan. Farid was smart, I'd give him that, and he wasn't that stupid. I went straight to the bedroom instead. Scattered out on the desk was chemical components and equipment.

I approached the desk, reading labels but only picking up a roll of electrical tape. The end of the tape roll was peeling upwards, indicating that it'd been cut not long ago. Several bottles were lacking their tops, and I held my hand over one before raising my hand to my nose and inhaling. The strong acetic smell of potent chemicals made my stomach lurch. Unable to justify not panicking, I came to the conclusion that my initial thought was right.

A bomb had been made only hours, if not moments, before.

Guess what was missing? A bomb. And it's creator.

I looked around the room. Where would he go to impose his second attack? My eyes caught a piece of paper slipping out from the Bible beside his bed. It was bright yellow and laminated, not the kind of bookmark you'd use in a religious text. I stormed over to the offending paper and pulled it out of its place in between the book's pages. It was a brochure, advertising for the upcoming Peace Conference at the Hamilton Cultural Center downtown. The date and time were circled in red ink. I knew the date was today, and when I'd gotten out of the taxi three or so minutes ago, the time had been 5:09. The starting time of the convention was at 5:30. My breath caught. That's where he'd go. Of all the times, now's the time I wish the most that I had a cell phone.

As my eyes flashed back over the book, I realized that it wasn't actually the Bible. It had Arabic writing on the front, but it was definitely a religious text. I picked it up, held it with the spine facing the floor, and, knowing that if I was wrong and there was such a thing as God in any religion then I was going to hell, I tossed it up a few inches, pulled my arms away, and let it fall to the floor, where it fell open to a page with a thunk. The most commonly-viewed page in the book. The creases in the corners were Farid had fiddled with the paper as he read made this evident. Ta-da.

It's a little trick I learned a few years ago. It only works with thick, heavy-bound books, but it worked for this one. I kneeled, scanning over the page, finally finding what I had been subconsciously looking for. "Deceit in the service of Allah is holy," I whispered. "It's a butchered imitation of the Koran. The lying monster lied to us. He never converted."

I ran a hand through my hair, smoothing the bangs out of my face in the process. My heart hammered in my chest. More than anything at that point, I found myself wishing that I was with Booth, at the very least, because he could actually deal with this. He was certified to and trained to do things that reacted to this, and I was just a teenager from a bad home with a sorry past.

Reality check – Booth wasn't here. No one ever was when I needed someone, and now wasn't any different. Except, oh yeah, hundreds of people could die today. I crossed the room to the closet again, looking for absolutely anything that could be of further assistance.

It was tucked up on the overhead shelf of the closet, the muzzle just barely visible to me. I reached up, straining my arms and bracing myself against the wall to snatch it up, and carefully lowered it. I cocked the handgun and heard it click. It was loaded. Perfect.

I turned on the safety and hid it under my sweater, running back out of the apartment. I have a taxi to catch.

FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth entered the apartment building of Farid Masruk at approximately 5:18pm, seven minutes after his partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan, had gotten a call from Hodgins explaining that they had results. Booth had recognized the name of the neighborhood the bomb originated from and drew the conclusion that Farid was their guy. He'd made a (most likely illegal) U-turn on the spot and sped to the scene.

Bones was still on the phone with her colleague. "You know what, tell Hodgins to keep Holly at the lab," Booth told her as he came to the decision, recalling how Holly had jumped headfirst into saving the day not long prior.

Bones repeated the message but stopped halfway up the stairwell, looking up at Booth with an expression of nervousness and worry. "He says she already left," Bones relayed. "Hodgins told she and Zach the results of his test. Holly ran out of the Jeffersonian and caught a taxi before they could stop her. She must have made the connection."

"Then she would have gotten here before us," Booth realized, quickening his pace.

He couldn't believe that the door to Farid's apartment was wide open. He twisted the knob and encountered no resistance whatsoever. "The lock's broken," he concluded. "Someone forced entry."

Booth held his gun at the ready as he went through the rooms of the apartment. He came at last to the bedroom, and once he knew that was safe, he called his partner in after him. "Bones, you should come see this."

A sacred textbook was lying open on the floor, a bright yellow advert thrown down on the carpet next to it. Bottles of open chemicals, a vat of something melted, and wires, electrical tape, and scissors were resting haphazardly on the desktop. The closet was open and things were shoved back.

Bones knelt down to the floor and read from the book in a grave voice. "Deceit in the service of Allah is holy," she read.

Booth's brow furrowed. "That's not in the Bible. Was he still Muslim after all? Is that the Koran?"

"It's a twisted imitation," Bones explained curtly. "It justifies mass murder to its followers." She paced over to the desk, reading labels off of the bottles and peering into the small vat. "Hodgins, stay with me," she ordered into her phone. "I've got melted plastic, bottles of chlorine-"

Hodgins must have said something because Bones paused. Booth took the opportunity to look around, searching for anything incriminating and the gun that Farid Masruk was licensed. He didn't see the gun, but he did find a hole in the wall by the vent. "Insulation," he muttered. "Farid definitely killed his brother." Bones paused in her conversation, looking to him in alarm. "Hamid must have found him making the dioxin, that's when they were contaminated and why he was killed." Booth rifled for a drawer before coming up with something. "A mechanics manual to Hamid's SUV. The page on the odometer's dog-eared."

Bones picked up the brochure. "It's circled," she said hurriedly. "5:30 today, Hamilton Cultural Center Peace Conference." She set the brochure on the desk. "Hodgins, what's the dispersal rate for – say – two liters of dioxin?"

Whatever the scientist said, it must have been bad. Bones pulled a face of horror.

Booth shook his head, not finding the weapon, either. "Bones, the guy's gun is missing," he said. He pointed to the floor. "He wouldn't have left that on the floor, that's sacrilegious." The insinuation behind his words was obvious.

Bones tilted her head as she came to the same conclusion. "You think Holly was here before us." It was a statement. "So Farid's got a bomb, and Holly might have a gun. She already found where he's targeting."

"You really think she'd go after him by herself?" Booth asked, his gut tightening. The thought of his young ward hunting down a mass murderer was unsettling, especially because, from what he knew of her, if she took the gun and Farid had the bomb (which was almost certainly the case), Holly might not refrain from shooting to kill.

Bones looked around the room helplessly. "From the character traits that she displays, I find it possible that she might downplay the importance of her self-worth and therefore her own safety if others' lives are at threat. She has appeared thus far to have an overly active sense of justice."

"You're telling me," Booth muttered. "Downplay her self-worth – she did that the morning I picked her up to go to the bomb site."

"Given that, the chances that she went after Farid are… not in our favor."

I entered the Hamilton Cultural Center later than I would have liked. The buses were slow and had to make stops, and the bus was closer than the taxi stop. I was doing my best to keep myself away from others. Lots of people were milling about, much of them recognizable from political broadcasts. This was the perfect target for a terrorist – that goes doubly for one who had connections to the Arab-American Friendship League. I kept my head down and made sure to keep the gun at my side from being too noticeable.

The crowd was thronging around me, and even though I was tall, it was difficult to distinguish anyone from anyone else. For all I know, I've bumped into the same balding man three times. Oops, make that four. Although usually I thought, saw, and heard with more clarity, the adrenaline, thrill, and horror was clouding my mind again – although luckily it wasn't as severe as it had been at Ken Thompson's manor, because if it was, I would've been screwed.

My heart pumped rapidly. I could feel my reflexes picking up as I half-walked, half-jogged through the masses, without even feeling the wear of the repeated motions. I scanned around me every twenty seconds, looking for a glimpse of the scarred face of Farid Masruk.

The minutes passed with my heart beating like a drum in my chest. I looked around for a clock; the giant one on the wall declared in a couple minutes past the start of the convention, which meant an ideal time for the terrorist to strike was right about now.

I finally saw him, catching the smallest hint of the scars on the side of his face. I spun around, heading for him and shoving my way through. He carried a heavy black backpack and I could just barely see what looked like a joystick clutched in his hand, his thumb hovering over the explosive's trigger.

I pushed forward, shoving back at anyone who touched me on my way, when someone screeched, "Farid!" Farid spun around in a one-eighty, his eyes widening. I spared a quick glance up at the balcony looking down from the second level and into the lobby. Brennan was leaning over the banister, her hands cupped around her mouth to magnify the volume of her shout, and Booth had his gun drawn and cocked.

Farid swallowed, his movements slow as he reached into the bag, preparing to set off the explosion. I dove forward, forgetting about the gun tucked up by my side. I didn't have the time to take off the safety, cock, aim, and fire before the dioxin was released, so I started to tackle the terrorist.

I grasped his shoulders, jerking backwards suddenly so that he couldn't hit the button. His left shoulder made a sickening crunching noise like I'd accidentally dislocated it – not that I was about to apologize to him for breaking him. I was careful through this not to touch the backpack – I didn't know how safeguarded it was, and I didn't want to try my luck with it. I wrapped his wrists around themselves as he started to cry out, all in about three seconds. "Farid Masruk, you are-"

BLAM.

The caterwauls of terrified people in the crowd made my ears ring as the sound of gunshot receded. I forgot to breathe for a moment as the body I'd been attacking slumped, all of the weight falling back on me. Able to take a guess, I screamed despite myself, dropping my hold on the former terrorist and backing up, raising my hands to cover my mouth in horror. Farid Masruk was dead, a bullet wound right through his heart. The blood soaked through his clothes and made a grotesque pool beneath him. Looking to my arms, they were faintly splattered with red droplets from the impact of the bullet. I shuddered, my eyes wide and horrified. What the hell had just gone down?

An agent in Homeland Security garb knelt down by the corpse, checking the bomb in the backpack. He looked up to Booth and Brennan and nodded almost imperceptibly.

My eyes locked with Booth's and I swallowed, lowering my hands and trying to control my breathing and slow down my racing heart. Booth didn't smile or wave or anything that could remotely be associated with happiness. Not like other people might have done. But he tilted his head slightly at me in question. I nodded, slowly at first, then picking up speed but stopping abruptly when I started to feel sick from the motion.

The press got to me again.

It was on our way out. SWAT teams took care of the corpse and the bomb squad took care of that. Homeland Security got everything calmed down, and when they got the all-clear, Booth and Brennan escorted me out into the pavilion outside the center. The paparazzi had a field day when they saw me again, and it was all I could do not to punch one of them into oblivion. Booth drove me out to his SUV by my shoulders so we made steady progress through the people crowding around.

I'd been fussed over by Angela upon arriving back at the Jeffersonian. Apparently the squints had totally freaked when they figured what my plans were. Although I appreciated the artists' concern, it was a relief to be able to escape to the Jeffersonian lawn. I sat on a bench not far from a fountain, staring into the crystal water as it splashed into the pond. I couldn't help but wonder exactly what had nearly happened to me. I'd have honestly killed Masruk if I'd had to. Booth ended up doing it for me, but that didn't change the fact that I'd have gone through with it if he hadn't.

How did something like this manage to happen to a seventeen-year-old? Sometimes I wish I knew who my real, biological parents were, because then, at least, I could have a sense of whether or not I was slumming a sort of familial reputation. Somehow, if my real parents were – I don't know, major league sports players, or social services agents, then maybe it would be worse, because they'd have been successful and I'm just barely scraping by. But if they were like me, financially challenged and without a college education, then would that really be any better? Like my life had been prophesied to be pathetic.

Now I'm being stupid. I don't like to think along lines like divination of prophesy. I don't believe in it. I don't even care about my biological parents – as a matter of fact, I like to pretend that they don't exist (however impossible that would have been). So it's easy to understand why I hate wondering about what they would think and who they are.

That was when Booth found me again.

He sat down on the bench next to me. "What're you thinking about?"

I looked away, darkly glaring at the ground. "Something stupid."

"It may not be stupid to anyone but yourself."

"Says who?" I challenged, scuffing the heel of my shoe on the cement.

"Well, our dictionaries apparently don't match up, because last I checked, 'stupid' could be defined as 'going after an unstable terrorist with a bomb.'"

"According to my dictionary, 'stupid' can be defined as 'not acting when hundreds of people are in serious danger.'" I retorted quickly.

Booth raised his hands, shaking his head. "Alright, okay. You win."

I sighed, glaring at the ground. I felt that I owed him the truth, to some extent, considering that he was taking time out of his time with his lawyer girlfriend to protect me. "I was just wondering what my biological father would be thinking," I said, scowling at the ground. I hate feeling vulnerable, and right now, I sure as hell feel that way.

Booth's expression softened. For a moment he seemed like he was debating on whether or not to give me a sideways hug, but he obviously remembered what had happened to Ladjavardi when he touched me and decided not to. Instead, he didn't meet my eyes, but he softly spoke, aware of the sensitivity of the notion. "I think he'd be proud."