disclaimer: not mine
Amidst the soothing swirl of indistinct chattering and clinking of various utensils, the maitre d' approaches a table, then leans down to discreetly whisper something to one of the guests: Assistant Director of National Intelligence, Alan Fitch.
The message has a visible effect on him.
His eyes instantly start scanning the room - searching, not finding. He whispers something back to the maitre d'. The answer is a single nod followed by a subtle gesture toward the entrance. With a smiled apology, Fitch excuses himself from the table, then raises to his feet to head out.
The elegant downtown restaurant is buzzing, but when he turns the corner, Fitch finds the corridor leading to the restrooms completely and unnaturally deserted.
Apart from one man: Dembe.
The bodyguard pushes a door open and holds it for Fitch - a wordless but unmistakable invitation the older man appears reluctant to accept.
After some hesitation, however, he walks in and finds the FBI's 4th most wanted leaning casually against the countertop, dabbing his hands dry with a paper towel.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"There's no need to be so hostile, Alan. I came to offer my assistance."
"In the men's room?"
Red glances up. "We've conducted business under much less sanitary circumstances," he remarks, then tosses the wet, crumpled ball of paper into the trash. "Besides, the matter is rather time sensitive and I doubt your distinguished guests out there would have approved of my company."
Fitch remains silent. "Oh, how's Bill, by the way?" Red asks with a burst of enthusiasm. "He still snores through those morning briefs? I assume he does otherwise you wouldn't be in such an embarrassing jam."
"What are you talking about?"
"A little bird told me you've lost an operative to one highly ambitious warlord who controls a splinter group of the former Mahdi Army." Fitch neither confirms nor denies. "You won't get to her in time. I, however, can return her to you by the end of the week."
"I suspect it's not the spirit of patriotism that's moved you to offer a helping hand."
Red pushes himself away from the countertop and steps closer. "I want you to call off the witch hunt against Elizabeth Keen."
Fitch searches his face, then his demeanor swiftly changes. "I can't," he says. "And I wouldn't, even if I could."
"If this is another misguided attempt at warning-"
"We are past warnings now, Ray," Fitch interrupts. "Your task force have been bad to business. You've made a lot of very important people very uncomfortable."
"If your friends keep pushing this, they will be a lot more than just uncomfortable, and that's a promise, Alan."
"They are only aiming at where you're pointing."
"We had a deal."
"That little insurance policy doesn't extend to her. As things stand, it barely even covers you, so don't test us."
Red is silent for a long moment, then once again his demeanor shifts abruptly.
"Cher Ami."
Confused, Fitch raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"The famous homing pigeon. In 1918 she saved the 77th Infantry Division from the Germans and also from the allies who opened fire on them by an unfortunate mistake. She was shot through her breast, even lost an eye, but she delivered her message, saved almost 200 lives, and made it back to her loft. Remarkable, isn't it?"
"Yes. Indeed. But I fail to see the relevance."
"I know what your little messenger was carrying across the Diyala province when she was shot down, Alan. And it's only a matter of time before those militiamen realize it, too. So if you want her to return to the loft, I suggest you accept my help."
"It's not my decision."
"You have influence."
"If you care about Elizabeth, you let this investigation run its course. No one will be harmed, you have my word. But if you insist on interfering..." Fitch trails off and when Red shows no sign of changing his mind, he lets out a sigh. "You may have your way this time, but you will turn them all into targets."
"They are already being targeted," Red remarks. "My offer expires in 24 hours." He grabs his fedora off the counter. "Please give my best to Margaret," he says, donning the hat, then walks past Fitch, leaving the Assistant Director staring at the reflection of Red's retreating form in the frameless wall-to-wall mirror.
The mathematics of the following day are simple but all the more painful to endure.
22 of the 24 hours have passed.
5 new possible safe houses were considered and 1 was picked.
2 business deals were closed successfully. 1 ended with 3 dead bodies (now dissolved) and 1 cracked rib (still throbbing).
1 young woman was thought of. Frequently.
3 phone calls were contemplated.
1 was barely resisted.
0 was placed.
Another is being awaited still. The burner cell lies flat on a sturdy table - still, mute, black, and occasionally glanced at.
Dembe steps into the living room of their latest hideout that is stuck in the primary stages of renovation. He finds Red sitting amidst memories, dust, and sheets, gazing out the double French doors that open to an overgrown back yard with an empty pool. There's a book in his lap and his thumb is absently caressing a momentarily forgotten page.
He seems more at peace here than at most places. When he saw the house, he no longer wanted to look at the rest. Perfect, he said. He was smiling at something Dembe did not quite understand.
Last night he fell asleep cradling an ice pack and inhaling lungfulls of pain.
He woke shivering and more tired than before.
"Raymond."
The name elicits no response, so it gets repeated. Its owner turns his head, shifting his leaden gaze toward the source of the familiar, deep voice.
"Is everything ready?"
There's a short pause before the answer: a simple, solemn nod.
Red closes the book and rises to his feet with a winced grunt.
"I don't think this is a good idea."
"It's just a bruised rib, Dembe. I'll live," he says, grabbing the phone.
"I'm not talking about that."
Red stares at him for a long moment, then hands him the burner and shakes off the comment. "Contact Mr. Kaplan. We only have a short window."
The phone suddenly goes off and Dembe gives it back.
Red flips it open and Fitch's voice comes pouring though the device:
It's done.
Red's shoulders slump and he lets out a small sigh of relief.
But they are gonna need a confession from the husband.
"I'll take care of it."
Now we need that package delivered.
"You know I keep my promises, Alan."
There's a short pause followed by a soft click of a line being disconnected.
A syringe is inserted into an IV line. Its transparent contents empty mutely into the narrow tube.
The procedure comes with the gravelly warning of a trusted ally: "This won't be pretty."
Red nods his understanding to Mr. Kaplan, then his attention switches back to their still unconscious test subject. The heart rate monitor's steady beeping quickens as he comes to, and it quickens even more when he is greeted:
"Hello, Tom."
Weak, nauseous, and scared, Tom reflexively starts feeling around under his pillow.
"Looking for this?" Red asks, holding up the nurse call button at the foot of the bed. Seeing it, the searching hand freezes into a fist clutching the bedsheet. Stuck in a hazy limbo between flight and fight, Tom's eyes dart around the room. There's a guard lying nearby on the floor. No blood. That's all that registers before the stern command: "Look at me." His gaze snaps back to Red.
"Mr. Kaplan has given you a little wake up cocktail. We have some very important decisions to make tonight, and I want you focused and clear-headed." Red steps closer and briefly studies the label on the IV bag. "Ritalin is highly effective on anesthetized rats, so you should regain full alertness in about..." he trails off to check his watch,"... a minute or so. Then we'll talk."
"I have nothing to say to you," Tom rasps, holding the older man's steady gaze. "Where is Lizzie?" he asks. It's a testing jab and he, too, is clearly looking for a reaction. It manifests immediately.
Rage.
It's radiating off Red in waves. "I'm told there might be some side effects," he remarks, taking in Tom's pale complexion.
"I will talk," Tom says, "but only to her." He is mocking and threatening.
"Hypertension. Some nausea, perhaps?" Red asks, eyes narrowed with mock-concern.
"Not from the drug," Tom says, defiantly swallowing back the bitterness clawing its way up in his throat.
Red lets out a chuckle but his icy mirth quickly dissolves as he tilts his head to fix Tom with an unsettling look.
"She must have a lot of questions," Tom muses in a broken tone. "Just dying to... to know."
"What do you know, Tom?"
"I know you're not gonna kill me. I knew that after Zamani."
There's no response.
"You don't wanna risk it, right? Taking more. Not after what happened to poor old Sam."
Mr. Kaplan shoots a concerned look at her employer. She watches his fingers curl into fists.
"Does she know about Sam?" Silence. "Or us? Berlin?" A smirk. "Oh but that's one hell of a story. You might collect a bullet for it, too."
A smile is the only reaction this elicits.
Then Tom suddenly lurches forward and grabs the edge of the bed. Amidst heaving and coughing, he empties the contents of his stomach on the floor. His wake-up cocktail is kicking in.
"This is gonna be more fun than I anticipated," Red remarks with a quick grin and pulls up a chair.
Sounds of laughter are drifting towards Liz as she follows Dembe down a corridor, and they hit her ears with piercing clarity as the door is pulled open. There is a merry company of three inside: Red and a couple around his age Liz doesn't recognize.
"So there she was, naked as a jaybird and..." Red's voice quickly fades as he sees her, and his guests turn to inspect what's halting the unmistakably entertaining story.
There's a brief conversation of glances. Red looks sharply at Dembe who stares at him unapologetically, then back to Liz.
She takes note of his bruises before anything else. Is this why Dembe told her she should come over?
And Red is standing now, still staring.
He clearly didn't expect her to make an appearance tonight.
"I got your message," she says. She doesn't know why it's the first thing that tumbles from her mouth. A simple hello would have been... well, better. Her voice is not as strong as she'd like. I got your message. It sounds increasingly idiotic as it keeps echoing in her skull. She was desperate to break the silence but now it's worse.
Thankfully someone comes to the rescue. "Well, who is your lovely friend, Raymond?" the woman asks. It sounds less like a sarcastic bite at Liz's current lack of social grace and more of an attempt to cushion her abrupt entrance.
"After 20 years are you finally taking us up on that double date offer?" the man chimes in with a soft chuckle, teasing.
Red's jovial mask quickly slides back in place as he moves to Liz's side. "I'm not taking you up on any offer, Philip. You are a terrible businessman."
"That's what I keep telling him," the woman agrees with a smile.
"This is Amy," Red says, introducing Liz. "A very dear associate of mine. Amy, this is Mary and Philip."
The couple nod.
"Nice to meet you," Mary says.
"So are you staying here, too, Amy?" Philip asks, clearly not done with the questions.
Liz holds his gaze for a moment. There's something about this stranger that feels oddly, vaguely familiar. "Actually," Liz says, throwing a look at Red, "I'm staying at a motel nearby."
"Oh how come?"
"I had some... issues at home."
"Pest," Red quickly interjects with a sharp smile and something acidic in his tone. It's not the wine.
"How terrible," Mary sympathizes. "We went through this last year with our beach house. It was an absolute nightmare."
"Yeah," Philip agrees. "Cost a fortune, too, and those fumes. God, that smell. Sometimes I think it will never really go away. Honestly, I'm not sure what's worse: the pest or the pesticide."
But Red is quick to interject: "Would you excuse us for a minute?"
Once the door closes and they remain alone in the corridor, she launches her first question: "Amy?"
"I'm afraid unexpected guests don't get to pick names."
"So did Mary and Philip come up with their own?"
The answer is a chuckle and a deflection: "I thought there was a 'no meet' restriction on our interactions."
"The review team cleared me."
His features soften and he offers her a small nod.
"You don't look very surprised," she says pointedly, studying his face. What did you do?
He doesn't respond and turns to continue walking.
She doesn't move, only her eyes follow him. He feels her gaze burning his back. "Tom confessed." The words are thrown after him like hooks on a fishing line. Red stops and she waits until he looks at her. "He told them he attacked me, that I was defending myself."
"He did," he confirms quietly. "You were."
Her gaze shifts to his right hand, to the fresh bruises and the neat row of stitches that form a dark arch near the base of his thumb. "Did you visit him?"
He looks at his hand, then back at her.
She clarifies the question: "Did you beat him?"
His jaw sets, his spine straightens with tension. He's clearly not used to being accountable to anyone about anything, but she keeps staring at him, expecting - demanding - an answer.
It comes reluctantly, then sharply: "No." He waits. She doesn't challenge him this time, so he adds: "I merely suggested he do the right thing."
"Or else," she adds quietly with a sad smile that slices him. Is that disappointment? Did some part of her expect Tom to do this on his own accord?
He studies her. She looks weary. Hollow. Jagged. "I should have removed him sooner," he hears himself say.
"I should have known sooner."
"You fell in love."
Her face twitches with a quick, bitter smile. "Is that supposed to be a comfort?"
She collects no answer, just a plea. "Don't lose yourself to this, Lizzie."
"'This'?"
"This... illusion," he says. "Him," he corrects himself with a flicker of a snarl. "Let go before..." he trails off, hesitating, "... before it turns you into something you won't recognize," he finishes, voice strained with emotion.
His injured words land with impact. She looks scared for a moment but masks it quickly."If you want me to let go, answer my questions."
He really should ask her to leave.
He doesn't. "Is that why you're here?"
"Isn't that why you're here?" she pushes back, the dimmed light in her eyes flaring up again. How dare he sound disappointed? "Isn't that why you let this illusion fester, too? For information?"
She moves. Steps closer.
He stays. It's a familiar choreography by now. Distinctly theirs. Always dancing on the edge of the same conversation that's never allowed to be properly verbalized.
He casts down his eyes, hangs his head.
Shame.
So much shame.
It's like extra gravity.
She is witnessing an invisible collapse.
But then his gaze rises again, filled with sharp focus tucked under a shiny ache, pleading silently for her to try to understand.
Please understand.
And something is finally allowed to click into place.
A piece she was holding all along. One of many.
A spark that ignites the heady mixture of past, present, and future slowly accumulating between them.
She sucks in air, breathes him, and he smells of fire. But she doesn't say anything. Not this time. Not just yet. He could clam up or worse: disappear again.
There's silent recognition, a loaded air, and a long moment of conflicted hesitation.
His hand comes up, slow and careful. Her vision blurs and she can feel the heat of his palm. But he doesn't touch. He doesn't dare and the warmth retreats.
Coward.
So she grabs for it, sudden and firm and demanding. Fingers curl around fingers, skinned knuckles knock and rub against each other in some fumbling, desperate search for something tangible even it's just a handful of small injuries. She hates and craves every second of this and her fear from moments ago suddenly resurfaces.
"I enjoyed it," she says after a long pause. Tears muffle and shame blurs the words.
Maybe he understands. Please understand.
His eyes narrow and his head tilts with concern. "Enjoyed what?"
Her grasp tightens and the confession halts as she swallows back something bitter that's been making her sick to her stomach for the past few days. But in the next moment it lurches back up: "Hurting him." It's followed by a tortured twitch of a smile. "I might have provoked the whole thing. I could have pushed him to pull that gun, I don't know. I'm not sure. I've thought it over and over so many times, I can't remember anymore. I snapped and I wanted to... I wanted to hurt him and it... for a short while it felt good. I felt so goddamned good but now..." Now he gets it. She sees it in his eyes and gives an involuntary, helpless tug on his hand. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
"Nothing," he replies quickly and firmly, but he can't quite keep his voice from cracking.
"But-"
He moves closer, his voice dropping to a soothing semi-whisper. "You are grieving."
"Who grieves like this?"
He carefully clasps her other hand in his. "He hurt and mistreated you in every way imaginable. He is not the victim here."
"Yeah, 'cause that's me, right?" She gives a small, frayed laugh that shatters somewhere in her throat - the most heartbreaking sound he's ever heard.
He looks down at their hands and she follows his gaze. "You are a fighter, Lizzie," he says, glancing back up with all the reassurance he can muster.
She swallows, then looks down. There's another long pause. "Well," a sniffle, "you seem to have done quite a bit of fighting yourself," she remarks with a somewhat lighter tone to try and shift the conversation.
He accommodates her instantly. "Negotiations got a little... animated."
"I'd say more than a little." He smiles and would laugh if it didn't hurt so much. Instead, he snorts with a small wince, his breath hitching. "Do you have a broken rib, too?"
He raises an eyebrow. "It's your breathing," she explains. "Kinda... shallow and shaky."
He keeps looking at her, his right thumb rubbing her left wrist.
Her gaze flickers to his lips and he stills at once.
Something else has crept into her voice and a feeling he thought he was no longer capable of fully experiencing is hatching inside him: nervousness. Is she teasing? Is she switching back to "self-soothing" - as she called it - after another gutting, soul-baring moment? "Just bruised, not broken."
They fall into wordlessness again and she feels a sudden, strong urge to say something. Anything. "I should see the other guy, right?"
Conventional attempts to get rid of silences do not always work with the FBI's 4th most wanted. She is learning this the hard way tonight.
The "other guy" in question is probably dead, you idiot.
Killed. Disposed of. Buried in a grave no one will ever find.
Or left somewhere as a warning, an untraceable, decomposing message.
Her hands slip from his. "I um... almost forgot." She reaches into her pocket and produces a ball of fabric. "I found your tie."
Two things, however, are neglected to be mentioned:
First, she almost got into a fight when she recovered it from a member of the medical staff who assisted at his tagging operation. The nurse thought it would make a great souvenir since it belonged to a "real-life psycho." Second, she's been hiding it in her pocket ever since. It's not the best way to keep such a delicate article of clothing on her person that's probably worth more than all her earthly possessions combined, but it was the subtlest. And oddly reassuring.
"Thank you," Red says, gently unrolling it. It's creased all over but he seems grateful all the same.
"I also have a..." She throws a vague gesture towards the front door. "... a box of wine. Bought it to celebrate my reinstatement, and..." I was planning to drink it by myself, which probably sounds as depressing as it would feel.
She sees him wince at the mention of "box" but before she can say more on the matter, a sudden burst of muffled laughter escapes from the room they exited only a few minutes ago - a quick reminder that they aren't alone. Well, he isn't. Whatever need prompted her to bring up the wine is now losing steam quickly. "But I didn't know you had guests, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. This was a bad idea."
She is turning away, literally switching to flee mode now.
It's his turn to be brave.
"Lizzie." She turns back and he opens the door to his left for her. An offer. "If you give me 10 minutes, I'll get rid of them."
She glances inside the dimly lit room, then back at him. Conflicted, cautious, but curious as ever.
And he is waiting patiently for her to make a choice: this door or the front one. An entrance or an exit?
The thought of going back to the motel is an uneasy one, she won't even deny it anymore. She can't face those mirrors or the stranger in them staring back at her.
But the thought of staying here? It feels like courting another kind of disaster. Then she remembers the message he left - one sentence in particular that was partially responsible for landing her on his doorstep tonight: I'll be gone for a short while.
It worried her, the thought that he was about to make a run for it after their last conversation. She shouldn't have told him about the nightmare, about watching him burn, but a few days ago she didn't know it was more than just a disturbing stress dream. A few days ago she didn't have a hastily - illegally - copied report of the medical pre-screening conducted shortly after his unexpected surrender with long paragraphs detailing third degree burns and various other traumas.
The two of us have overcome so much.
He wasn't lying about that one. It's a small miracle he's still alive and functioning.
She drifts closer, her gaze searching his. "I know there are things you might never be able to talk about," she says firmly but quietly as if she was afraid he would vanish into thin air like an elusive ghost of a hazy past. "But there are things I need to know. Things I have the right to know." He lowers his head in what looks like a tense half-bow, his gaze like ice on fire, fixed on her - defensive, half- pleading, and so impossibly still again. "I don't wanna fight tonight," she continues. "I don't wanna be angry or badger you with questions. Not tonight," she repeats. "But eventually..."
It's not a threat. Just a fair warning.
He gives a small nod. One way or another, she is going to be his undoing. He offered her that tough and thankless job on the very first day and it seems she is ready to climb on board full-time. Who he once was will aid and desire the completion of her task. What he became, however, will probably never really stop undermining her efforts.
She knows now. He feels she knows - maybe even accepts - that.
And the stage is set for a rupturing head-on collision.
"Still, I'd prefer to hear it from you," she says, tilting her head, still hoping to do this the easy way with the least amount of damage.
There never was an easy way to do this. The damage will be significant, inevitable, and necessary.
But not tonight. A tiny smile tugs at his lips. Not tonight, Lizzie, remember? "10 minutes?" he repeats the offer, already pulling away and towards the room where his two other guests were left to enjoy the evening in Dembe's watchful company.
"10 minutes," she accepts.
tbc