**Summary:**After the finale I'm pleased to announce I'm no longer on hiatus! Terribly sorry for the wait! I was holding off to see how the series ended, but now that it has I feel comfortable with the trajectory I've chosen for this story, which will deviate from canon in certain areas. (I'm sure you can gather which!) Chapters should resume at a steadier clip now that things are finished, and as previously stated, this story will continue regardless of the show's ending :) Thank you all for your patience and continued readership, I appreciate you all!
**Notes:**Suggested Listening: "Addicted to Love" by Florence & The Machine
Prose Mentioned: "The Queen" by Pablo Neruda "Jane Eyre" by Charlotte Brönte
Safe House Inspiration:
The Mayfair Flat: 2023/05/21/the-mayfair-flat-london-uk/
Rome Safe House: 2021/01/12/vecchio-safe-house-rome-italy/
Black Site #88 "The Abbey": 2021/01/30/black-site-88-the-abbey-london-uk/
Raymond and Rosalie's Pied-a-Terre: 2021/01/12/rnr-place-des-vosges-paris-france
Rome, Italy - March 20th, 2001
Light streaked the dark asphalt leading down the quiet street, bouncing off puddles left over by the evening's showers.
The weather hadn't yet started to turn. The air following the storm wasn't thick and muggy, but crisp and cool.
Rosalie winced when gravel crunched beneath her boots like cannon fire in the dark alley behind the safe house. She'd spent the past two hours surveilling the front of the building to no avail, and was now preparing to scale one of the stone pines bordering the back of the home in the hopes of getting a look into the second floor.
A furtive glance around the quiet street confirmed she was still alone. With a jump, she managed to catch hold of a lower bow and swung her feet to pull the rest of herself upward.
After a few minutes climb, Rosalie sat perched on a thick branch overlooking the unit in question, where she remained for the better part of an hour.
The space had remained dark throughout her watch, and her spirits fell with every minute that ticked by. She slumped forward with a huff, resting her elbows on the branch and propping her chin in her palms.
"Ugh!" she hissed, wrenching backward upon realizing her hands were covered in tacky bits of sap.
"What was that?"
Rosalie froze.
Flattening herself to the innermost part of the tree, she peered below to see a pair of security guards had begun their evening rounds. They'd halted beneath her tree, heads swiveling in search of the sudden noise.
She sat like a stone gargoyle on the bow, not hazarding so much as a breath while they scoured the ground below.
"Forget it," said one of the guards after a few minutes had passed and Rosalie's empty lungs had begun to spasm, "Probably some birds getting in a tiff. The site is empty, no need to go digging up the flower beds for a bit of noise. Keep an eye out, we'll make another loop just to be sure."
The other guard gave a nod, muttering irritably to himself as he continued on his rounds.
Rosalie waited until they were both well on their way before taking a heaving breath and scrabbling down the tree as quickly and quietly as she could. Having confirmation that nobody was within, there was no point in her loitering around with the potential of being caught.
Vecchio Safe House - Rome, Italy
"Out with Mr. Reddington again, I see?"
Rosalie turned to see Otto's boyish face peeking around the corner of the kitchen. She grimaced, "On yet another goose chase for the Coursair, more like."
"What, alone?"
She nodded.
"Rosalie-"
"I don't want to hear it, Otto. I can't involve Ted and Horace in my search, and you're supposed to be my pilot only. There's no danger in seeking him out on my own."
He raised a thick, bushy brow. "Only the danger of the Bastion getting his hands on you, you mean."
"What are you still doing up?" Rosalie changed subject, "I didn't think Horace or Teddy would be out tonight."
"They've been asleep for a while," Otto confirmed, "I was picking up a package from your property manager." He gestured toward the coffee table, where a slender crystal vase held a singular burgundy rose and a bottle of wine.
"Raymond?"
"Naturally. I assumed he was having it sent as a night cap."
She grinned. "Well then…have a good night, Otto."
He inclined his head, recognizing he was dismissed, and made for the second floor.
Rosalie poured herself a glass of the wine before settling into the loveseat with the rest of her present. The rose was fragrant, its botanical scent drifting to mix with the Malbec Red had chosen.
A yellowed piece of paper was pinned to the bloom, its edges frayed as though it had been torn from its binding. She unfolded it to find a familiar poem printed in stark black ink.
The Queen -
I have named you queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are purer than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.
But you are the queen.
When you go through the streets
No one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass,
The nonexistent carpet.
And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.
Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to me.
Her smile widened with each line, amused at first, then growing more and more pleased. It was no great love declaration, full of flowery language and assurances that she was the fairest of them all, but instead it was honest. It told her everything she needed to know, and spared not her vanity on the matter.
Raymond had read her well.
Despite insisting her interference with Madeline Pratt stemmed only from her desire to keep Red safe, Rosalie could not deny a small part of her had rankled at Pratt's blatant flirtations. She was only human, after all.
Her companion had understood, and sought to reassure her in his own eloquent way.
The Queen was a subtle promise; the most compelling beauty could appear at Raymond's side, and his eyes would still be for her alone.
She smiled and noted in the bottom margin, a gentle yet still more direct reminder.
'I have loved none but you.'
-R
Rosalie took out the burner and dialed, unsurprised to hear him pick up after the first ring.
"You've been studying Neruda, I see."
That low, familiar chuckle echoed on the other end of the line. "I thought I ought to get better acquainted with his works, seeing as you're so fond of him."
"Well, you've thoroughly wormed your way into my heart with this one."
"Did I? And is that soft heart of yours soothed?"
His tone was hopeful, making her grin even more widely. "Thoroughly, my love. Are you free? I believe we're on chapter four of the Brönte."
"I am, but first I'd like to hear about your trip to see 'Shard and Calixte."
Rosalie's mouth fell open. "Now how did you know about that?"
"My dear, who do you think told them about that egregiously expensive Patek Philippe you've been mooning over for months?"
A glance was spared for her new timepiece, its mother of pearl face and and dark calfskin band standing out starkly against her pale skin. The halo of baguette diamonds around its edge winked and sparkled up at her like the night sky.
"The three of you spoil me." she insisted, not the least bit upset by that reality.
"What was the gift for?" Red asked, "Richard wouldn't tell me until they had a chance to present it to you."
Rosalie told him all that had happened in Baton Rouge, as well as her following meeting with Earl King in Corpus Christi.
"You'll make a fabulous godmother, little dove."
"I hope so." she sighed happily, "I can't wait to hear if it's a boy or a girl."
"What do you think they're hoping for?"
"Calixte won't care as long as they're healthy. 'Shard likes being owned body and soul, so I would bet my network he's holding out hope for another little girl whose finger he can wrap himself around."
Red laughed, "Do you ever-?" he paused, thinking better of the question.
"What?"
"Do you ever think about kids?"
The question gave Rosalie pause. Whenever she thought about being a mother, she felt a small pang of regret, but it was always fleeting.
"I sometimes mourn what might've been," she admitted, "However, I made my peace with that loss long ago. I chose this life, and this life makes that option rather impossible."
"Do you ever think about choosing differently?"
His curiosity was not without merit. Though they'd been honest with each other about their respective pasts, almost brutally honest at times, the concept of children had been a topic they'd studiously avoided, except…
"One day I want to wait with baited breath to hear another heart beating alongside your own."
The memory tore through Rosalie with a blinding pain. The night he'd ended things between them had been the night he'd confessed the hopes he held for their life together. She wasn't certain where those hopes stood currently or what sacrifices it would take to find their way back to them. They hadn't spoken of it since.
Now, it seemed they could skirt the discussion no longer.
Rosalie took a deep breath and replied. "I never wanted the house and the picket fence, Ray. Did I imagine my life differently than it is now? Certainly. I thought I'd have a condo in some big city, a dog, a few girlfriends to get drinks with after work. Maybe a kid, but only after I fell in love with someone I couldn't live without…and who signed an ironclad pre-nup that ensured I would never be relegated to being barefoot and pregnant in the suburbs."
He chuckled, but was still disquieted. "A wedding, then?"
"If I had remained a civilian, perhaps."
"So you're still averse to the idea."
Raymond's voice had taken on that tone it always did when he was choosing his words carefully.
"I don't really see the necessity of it in our world." she admitted, adding, "Marriage isn't a guarantee of anything, and more often than not I think of it more as a mark of possession than a symbol of love."
He mulled over her response for several seconds before tentatively asking; "Do you think, if you hadn't encountered Francis, your outlook might be different?"
"My view on marriage was indifferent at best before Francis. After him…" Rosalie paused, surprised to note her stomach no longer pitched at the sound of his name, nor her chest burn with that indignant rage she had once grown so accustomed to. Still, the remnants of her high school sweetheart's duplicity, the memory of how he'd tried to manipulate her into matrimony for personal gain stained her view of it. "After him, I saw marriage as something to avoid at all costs. Something that could only be attained at the cost of everything that I am."
"And now?"
She could hear the hopefulness in the question, and it rather surprised her.
"Now I'm not wholly against it, but it would take someone with exceptional patience to coax me into a white dress."
"Would it take stepping away from your criminal life, like the Lilets?" he asked, nonchalant, as though the question were of no more consequence than the weather.
"No." Rosalie replied, "A wedding wouldn't…but a child would."
Silence fell between them for a long moment, and she feared she had wounded him with her words.
She meant them, though, and was reasonably confident nothing would alter her conviction. They couldn't bring a baby into such a life. Not like this; not while they were on the run every day being hunted by enemies.
"A child would," he murmured, and to her unending surprise, he sounded pleased. "I agree we couldn't bring an innocent child into this life, but perhaps another."
An odd squirming sensation could be felt in her gut at the word 'we'. Rosalie took an entirely too large sip of wine, coughing a little as it burned its way down her throat.
"So…what about you?" she diverted, looking for any excuse out of the unexpected interrogation.
"What about me?"
He was grinning, the smug bastard.
"You're a man in his prime…You haven't thought about stepping away to sire a few offspring?"
A soft hum preceded his answer.
"Before us, I never even thought about having kids."
Rosalie's insides were on fire, and it had little to do with the wine. "…Not once?"
"Growing up, my father-" he sighed, "For a long time I was afraid, if I had children, I'd be to them as he was to me."
"He was cruel."
Raymond had shared enough stories of his father for Rosalie to recognize the troubled history that must lay between them. It hurt her heart to know he hadn't had the same loving upbringing she'd taken for granted.
"He…didn't understand. We had very different ideas of what I ought to be."
"That doesn't excuse him-"
"I know."
A not altogether uncomfortable silence fell between them.
"I was afraid I would be like him," Red admitted after some time, "So, I decided long ago that having a family wasn't for me. Then I became a criminal, and any avenue for that path disappeared from reach."
"But in another life…?"
Rosalie's emotions were giving her whiplash. Despite their agreement that their current occupations made having children an impossibility, something in her needed to know, to be certain that was something he would want with her, given the chance.
"It would take an exceptional woman, and a Lilet-style exodus from the criminal underground…but yes."
A rush of relief coursed through her at these words. "Right." she said, "Good…that's good…where- Um, where were we?"
"Chapter four."
He was smiling again. Rosalie didn't need to see it to know it was that indulgent smile he gave her when she was particularly flustered.
"Oh hush, you."
"Page 88, paragraph six:" Red ignored her chiding, "'Even for me, life had its gleams of sunshine…'"
Upstairs, Otto stepped out of the shower with a contented sigh. The towel around his hips rustled softly as he moved back across the hall.
Rosalie could be heard murmuring under her breath downstairs, but the rest of the home was blissfully quiet.
The room at the end of the hall was ajar. He peered inside the crack, expecting to hear Ted's snores rattling from within. To his surprise, not only was the guest room alight, but its occupant was hunched over a mountain of paperwork.
"I thought you'd passed off the King properties to Horace?" he teased, poking his head inside, "Shouldn't he be the one up at all hours of the night?"
Ted sent the chair toppling as he jumped out of his skin.
"Christ, Otto!" he hissed, rather uncharacteristically, "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
Otto raised a lone brow, "Sorry. I assumed you'd heard me walking down the hall, didn't mean to startle-"
"It's fine." said Ted, righting his chair and packing up his notes. "I was so focused on these notes for Hayashida; I didn't realize how late it was. You should get some sleep as well."
When Otto didn't move, he added a terse, "Goodnight." then closed the door in his face.
The brusque dismissal left Otto rooted in the hall, his hackles raised. He willed his feet to move after a few moments' staring at the blank door, wandering distractedly back down the hall, past Caroline's silent room and into his own.
Kore - London, UK - March 23rd, 2001
Kore was packed to the gills.
Not only was the dance floor a wall of bodies, but the bar, too. It had taken a hefty tip for Red to garner them a small booth in the shadows, and even then, his eyes kept darting around the room with increasing vigilance.
Dembe stood sentinel at the edge of the booth, his head too swiveling back and forth as his eyes scanned the area for threats.
Emma considered the pair's diligence with a questioning brow. They were far more antsy than she was used to seeing them. She shifted about in her seat, smoothing habitually over the tulle of her skirt.
The dress Emma wore was more voluminous than she was used to, but it hid her growing bump admirably. 'Gotta love Genevieve,' she thought, with much amusement. She would miss these random luxury additions to her wardrobe when she went on maternity leave, but was determined to enjoy them while they lasted.
Emma had been eager to join Reddington on his return mission to Kore, considering it would probably be her last venture into the field before her son was born.
Her son. She smiled secretively at the thought.
Nobody but herself and Colin knew they'd found out the sex, and they planned on keeping it their own little secret.
Looking back at her CI, Emma noted he was still on tenterhooks, paying little attention to her other than to point out the occasional person of interest passing through the club.
"Who are we waiting-?"
"Gerald!"
The question was answered for her when a familiar wisp of a man with a topknot and a large pint of beer came shimmying through to the edge of the crowd. He fell stock still at hearing his name called, a deep glower puckering his brow when he found the source of the summons. Emma recognized him as the very source she and Reddington had encountered at the fugitive's ball back in December.
"No. No." Gerald's face turned at once to a deep, ugly puce, "Not you."
"Gerald." Red chided, then waved a beckoning hand for the man to join them
Gerald hazarded a few steps closer, but no more. "I'm not speaking to you." he snarled, nearly spilling his beer.
"Come now Gerry, you can't be all that disappointed to see me. How's your wife?"
"Living her best life in Majorca, no thanks to you." he replied, this time managing to splash a bit of ale on Dembe's shoe.
"Me?" Red placed a hand to his chest as though the accusation mortally wounded him. "You were the one who left her at the altar in Monaco. I told you those vow renewal ceremonies are nothing but trouble-"
"It was you and that uranium scheme in Poland." said Gerald, hissing like an angry cat, "You and what's his name…the Dominican with the hair."
"Fernando." Dembe supplied, politely adding salt to the wound when another splash of beer landed at his feet.
Reddington rolled his eyes and produced a cloth napkin with a flourish.
"Fernando." Gerald seethed, "If I hadn't gotten looped into your nonsense, he wouldn't have had the opportunity to waltz off with my wife! If you think you'll be getting any more help from me, you're barking up the wrong-"
"Sit your ass down, Gerald."
Dembe's large hand came to rest on Gerald's shoulder, quickly and silently shoving him into the closest seat.
Red smiled, then his face dropped back into a stony mask. "I'm afraid the pleasantries and reminiscing are over, old friend. I'm in need of information."
"You can go to hell."
"Eventually," he shrugged, "But right now I need to hear everything you know about a certain assassin's guild called the Dead Man's Hand."
"I don't know a damn thing-"
"Gerald."
Reddington's tone had turned deadly, making a torrent of goosebumps prickle down Emma's back.
He continued, "You and I both know if there's any noteworthy drama to be had in the underground, it falls under your purview. It seems I've stepped on a few toes and earned another bounty on my head. I need to know what I'm up against, and if you can set aside your two-timing ex-wife for five seconds, I can make it worth your while."
A small silver key was placed in the center of the table.
"There's a safety deposit box at the Bank of London containing a quarter of a million in unmarked bills. Answer my questions to my satisfaction, and it's all yours."
Gerald glowered at the key for several long seconds, weighing his options.
It was obvious to Emma that the man would rather chew off one of his own limbs than lend any aid. Reddington seemed to be thinking the same thing.
"I heard your new mistress likes long walks on the Palombaggia. You'll be hard pressed to get her or her bikinis on a white sandy beach with your yacht stuck in the Port of Ajaccio. Perhaps my little offering will convince the Corsicans to let the S.S. Janice sail the high seas once more."
Emma was thinking Reddington might have more luck in garnering some good will if he'd just stop smirking, when Gerald snatched out his hand and pocketed the key.
"You ever play poker?" he asked, itching his nose.
Red nodded.
"So you know a Dead Man's Hand is aces and eights, all black."
"They're a foursome."
Gerald took a sip of his beer. "Two men, two women. Aces and Eights."
"What's their modus operandi?" Red asked, "I put my ear to the underground for weeks and couldn't get a clear answer."
The other man shrugged, "Their objective is the same as any other assassin's group: to make money. They're gaining traction because they're good at what they do. Each plays an integral role in the process, ensuring their target has nowhere to run or hide."
"Explain."
"The ace of spades is a technology expert from the depths of the Chinese deep state. Anything a target can touch, he can track. Intelligence networks, financial records, communications corridors within the underground…unless the person they're after uses an untraceable proxy for everything, there's no hiding from him. The ace of clubs is more along the lines of a blunt force object; he's a brutalizer with a penchant for violence, and the closest thing the group has to hired muscle. He's only brought in at the end, when they've cornered their target."
"What about the women?"
"The eight of spades is basically their inside eyes. Charming, ferociously intelligent. Word is she was brought in after a round dozen felony charges of corporate espionage. She worms her way into a target's life, keeping just enough distance not to draw suspicion, but close enough to know their every move."
"And the eight of clubs?"
"A brunhilde of a woman. She's a securities specialist, and a master lockpicker."
Reddington shifted uneasily in his seat, his forehead creasing in an ever-deepening frown. "What could an assassin's guild need with a glorified church key?" he asked, after some time.
"That glorified church key broke into the Iron Mountain Vault last week…singlehandedly."
Emma was surprised to see Red's brows shoot to his hairline.
"Did she abscond with much?"
"A handful of state secrets." said Gerald with a shrug, "Rumor has it she was looking for something in a subterranean vault that'd been moved, but she still made off with a few million."
"Any guesses on what she was looking to loot?"
"Narry a clue…"
Emma watched Red's thumb trace habitually up and down the side of his glass as their conversation droned on. She'd never seen him restless like this. Every exchange she'd watched had always been the epitome of nonchalance. He seldom ever moved, let alone fidgeted.
Could it be that the unflappable Concierge of Crime was actually worried?
She continued to watch him intently, reading into every gesture, every facial tick, every shift of his posture. It was as though there were an electric current running through his muscles, twitching and jolting his system as Gerald whinged through every bit of intel he could provide.
When he had finally answered every question to Red's satisfaction, he was allowed to leave the table. Gerald made a beeline across the dance floor, as far from their group as humanly possible within the confines of the bar, and Reddington waited until he was well out of earshot before speaking again.
"You caught all that?"
Dembe nodded in their periphery, the club lights glinting off his bald pate.
Red threw a crisp hundred dollar bill onto the table and stood to escort Emma out.
"Have Christopher bring the car around." he intoned as they passed, "Agent Knightley can relay our intel to the DC6 while you and I make a visit to the German."
Emma began to protest when Dembe fell into step behind them and saved her the trouble. "Christopher is occupied with a request from his proprietor, I'm afraid. The secondary transport is already waiting at the front with the valet."
"I can come with you." said Emma at once, turning to Red with a look of eager expectation. He sighed.
"You want to meet a banker?"
"You had me look at all those German nationals," she reminded, "Don't you want to know if he was one of them?"
Two sets of eyebrows lifted in her direction.
"I already know he isn't" said Red, smirking when Emma's face drooped into a fresh scowl.
"How?"
She noticed Dembe was smirking as well when they boarded the establishment's greenery-filled elevator.
"A friend in Baton Rouge had dealings with the German we're looking for. When I traced this German through a series of financial transactions leading back to a drug cartel in Northwest Colombia, I reached out to confirm it wasn't him. The man we're looking for is about 15 years Reinhardt's junior."
They exited the club and stepped into the quiet comfort of Reddington's Mercedes. Emma relaxed into the plush seats with a dejected sigh. So much for her last night in the field…
"Call Albert," said Red, once they were on the move. "Have him and the rest of the DC6 meet us at the Cromwell."
"We're going after the Dead Man's Hand for you?"
"No. You've all got enough on your hands with Øllegaard and the Brothers."
Emma huffed and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. We've been chasing your girlfriend for weeks and have nothing to show for it other than a host of embarrassing foibles Bazalgette had to explain to the top brass."
"Well, you wouldn't have to explain your foibles if the four of you weren't so gullible."
"How were we supposed to know she booby-trapped the last safe house? D'you know it took three hours to get Skip out of that china hutch? She basically turned the bloody thing into a coffin."
"Did Agent Boateng really fall down a laundry chute last week?" Dembe asked.
Emma glowered at him through the rear view mirror, having finally learned to discern his unique brand of humor from the typical stoicism. "…Yes."
Reddington sniggered to himself, the image of the prim agent soaring down a laundry chute apparently delightfully absurd.
"The hatch moved!" she fired up at once, coming to Sika's defense, "Somebody else went down it before her."
"-or she was bamboozled by the same sort of contraption that hoodwinked Agent Sutherland." Red corrected pulling out a burner and handing it to her with a smug smile.
Emma snatched it from him and dialed, pointedly ignoring the renewed chuckles her sour mood instigated.
The Cromwell - Under the Thames, London, UK
They reached the Cromwell a half-hour later, its interior dome illuminated by a scant few desk lamps. Bazalgette rested on the edge of Agent Boateng's desk, talking softly with the rest of his team, all of whom looked to be half asleep.
Red placed a hand on Dembe's arm before they entered and leaned into his ear. "Odds are we already know the ace of spades. While I'm dealing with the Feds, reach out to Wujing, see what we can leverage. If former Chinese intelligence is on our tail, he'll be able to give us a name. The real concern is the eight of spades…have Kate look into the women we've hired over the past nine months. She may already be in the shadows of my syndicate."
Dembe gave a curt nod and slipped silently into the shadows of the dome room, completely unnoticed to all but Agent Knightley, whose eyes followed his retreat with intense curiosity.
Bazalgette noted their new arrivals and stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Why the late call, Reddington?"
"There's a wrinkle on my end of things that needs tending to." Red replied, joining their little circle. "I'm going to have to step away for a while."
Emma's head snapped back around. "Wait, what?"
"We're in the middle of a hunt for that innkeeper holding the Sionnachs." reminded Sika, bristling at once. "How the ruddy hell are we supposed to catch either of them with you AWOL?"
"I've given you everything you need to pin down the Brothers," Raymond replied, "My involvement won't change the outcome. Besides, I won't be completely off grid, I just can't be seen with you or near a federal facility."
Albert stepped forward, the only cool head in the room. "Red, what's going on?"
The agents turned to him in tandem, demanding some kind of explanation. Red's tongue prodded habitually at the inside of his cheek.
"There's a fresh bounty on my head, and the people in play would have no qualms about destroying a group of Feds to get to me. They're not your typical hit men, and I need to be immensely careful until the matter's been dealt with."
"Dealt with?" said Ezra, "What, on your own?"
Red turned on his heel, his expression curious.
"Believe it or not, I've been handling my empire on my own for quite some time now, Agent Yadin."
"Why can't we help?" asked Skip, "Surely a few more boots on the ground couldn't hurt?"
"If the denizens of the underground were to find out I've been any kind of informant, my life would be forfeit. Not only that, I'd become utterly useless to your government because the criminal enterprise that makes me such a valuable informant would be decimated in a matter of days ." Raymond heaved a sigh and gestured to the room at large, "You all honestly believe the crown would acknowledge an immunity agreement I could no longer uphold? Not a chance. I need to clean my house, and quietly, before these new bounty hunters manage to unearth what's really going on between myself and MI6."
The agents turned to Albert for support. Bazalgette scratched at his beard, saying nothing.
"Albert."
He looked up to see the others staring at him, faces etched with concern. Red tilted his head, the action oddly reassuring.
"Keep your team on Øllegaard's tail, and the Brothers will follow. You don't want them in the line of fire on this one." His eyes darted meaningfully to Sika, who blushed in spite of herself. "I'm stepping back to keep you and your team safe. Agent Knightley can fill you in on the monkey on my back. Trust me when I say this threat is not one to be taken lightly; the further you are from my vicinity, the safer you'll all be."
The Mayfair Flat - London, UK
"He's out?"
Rosalie was sifting through a stack of documents relating to three new acquisitions for the U.K. branch of her network, cursing Basír, the German, and the mystery associate for the umpteenth time for burning so many of her safe houses.
"Yes ma'am, with Dembe and that blonde cop."
Christopher, the head of transport for Rosalie's London properties, was seated across from her looking as though he were fighting off a flop sweat.
"She's not a cop, she's a federal agent."
The correction nearly made the man vibrate off his chair.
"Shouldn't- uh…" he blanched when Rosalie looked up at him. "Shouldn't we be concerned, ma'am, that Reddington is fraternizing with federal agents?"
Rosalie tittered. "Fraternizing? Christopher, if they're within twenty feet of Raymond Reddington and not slapping him in a pair of cuffs, it's because they're dirty. Knowing Red's operation personally, it's of no surprise to me that he has a band of MI6 agents in his pocket. He has a team of Mossad agents feeding him intel out of Israel as well. How else could he upkeep that behemoth of an empire he helms? No dear, I'm not the least bit worried."
Christopher let out a long slow breath, as if he'd just faced down some terrifying beast. "Right. Very well then…I suppose that's good."
Rosalie looked up from her paperwork. "Chris, you do know you are allowed to bring it up when you think clients are misbehaving, yes? You may have been wrong on this one, but I don't want you second guessing yourself with future clientele."
"Y-yes, ma'am."
A smile cracked Rosalie's cool facade. She would never understand what exactly made Christopher so skittish around her, but it never failed to amuse.
"That's all for now Chris, go get some sleep. Let me know when our guests get back to the Abbey safely."
Black Site #88 "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom
Red was bone weary by the time they'd made it back to the safe house.
"Go, grab some shut eye; you look dead on your feet." He waved Dembe toward the secondary suite, "Reinhardt can wait until morning. Once Kate gets back to us, we can plan the next move."
Dembe didn't have to be told twice. He made a grunt of acknowledgement and headed up the opposite staircase.
His footsteps faded into the distance as Raymond reached the landing of his own suite, groaning as he peeled off his jacket and waistcoat. He'd planned to shower, but exhaustion pulled him under moments after he flopped onto the mattress.
D.C. Ballet - Washington, D.C. - March 22nd, 2001
A woman stood sentinel at a pair of gilded doors, lithe and tall, her pale eyes seeing too much as Raymond Reddington and his guard ascended the steps leading from the grand foyer.
"Is it ready?" The former asked, sweeping off his hat and bestowing a polite kiss to each of her cheeks.
The woman nodded. "Yes, Mr. Reddington. As always."
"Thank you Maria, for your timeliness and discretion." Red pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and gave it to her. "How's Christine?"
"Putting in her time in the chorus." said Maria, spindly fingers not bothering to confirm the check that lay within.
"She has the makings of a prima ballerina." flattered Red, "If there is anything I can do to help smooth that path-"
"You've done plenty." he was assured, "Please, my dancers are waiting. As is your usual seat."
Raymond entered the empty house and walked the long aisle to his preferred seat. It was the perfect distance from the stage and pit, the point at which all sights and sounds were at their best. The lights went down as the orchestra swelled into a feverish rendition of Swan Lake.
The ballerinas came out en point, snowy white tutus bouncing with their lithe and delicate movements.
A small child frolicking among them, a little girl with dark brown hair and startling blue eyes. She leapt and landed in a wide arabesque, another young girl joining her. This one was almost a head taller, her hair the same shade of brown but tinted with auburn, her eyes a soft hazel.
"No!"
Red bolted from his seat, realizing the nightmare unfolding entirely too late. More ballerinas flooded the stage, spinning and twisting in violent pirouettes. Some had blood-stained bandages trailing from their faces and limbs like grotesque ribbons. Others bounded forth into the audience, their skin charred and bleeding, the delicate tulle of their tutus smoldering with black ash.
The set was suddenly ablaze, the fire catching onto the stage curtains and the front row.
Raymond sprinted for the back of the house, the gilded doors shut and locked. His fists pounded against the wooden face, pleading for someone to come and let him out.
The tip-tap of ballet slippers was getting closer. His stomach turned with the smell of burning flesh and hair.
"It's not real." He grunted, still slamming himself futilely against the sealed door, "It's not real…"
Fiery hands clawed at his back, burning through his suit in a single swipe. Their touch seared open his skin, melting away muscle and bone to singe the nerve endings beneath as his mouth opened in a harrowing scream-
Light footfalls could be heard running up the stone steps to the Abbey's opposite suite.
Dembe emerged in the bedroom doorway a second later, just as Red hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud.
The man's legs were tangled in the top blanket, his upper half sprawled on the bedroom floor. Something red trickled from his left temple.
"Raymond!"
Dembe rushed to help. Red waved away his concern and rose shakily to his feet.
"Fine, 'm fine."
"I heard you yell."
"Bad dream."
"I know."
Pale jade met deep umber, a look of understanding passing between.
Raymond and Dembe were no strangers to each others' screams. Over the years, any monsters they'd had in their respective closets had inevitably been brought to the surface. Whether by choice or circumstance, there were no shameful secrets between them now.
Once his employer was settled on the bench near the foot of the bed, Dembe exited the room and returned with a first aid kit from the home's medical bay.
Raymond was silent, staring wearily at the stone floor beneath his feet.
"May I ask you something?" the former asked, pulling out a pair of gloves and a butterfly closure.
"Hm?" grunted Red, wincing when an alcohol wipe was swiped over the skin that had split over his left eye.
"You always have nightmares after the ballet. Why do you insist on going every year?"
"I dunno." he sighed, "Penance, perhaps, or something near it. I find myself losing sight of my purpose these days…it's a good reminder."
"How good can it be when it leaves you like this?"
"It's just a scrape, Dembe."
"You know what I mean."
Raymond fell silent, unable to deny the point when another violent tremor rippled through him. He was a mess at present.
"He missed that recital."
Regret was etched in every syllable.
"It was her first recital. She'd been taking lessons all winter…"
Dembe listened patiently, taking his time in packing away the first aid kit.
"I'd gone SOCH," Raymond continued, nodding his thanks for the bandage. "Ended up in Cyprus chasing a lead that inevitably brought me to a campsite full of resistance fighters. They wanted to hang me as a spy, but as they were arguing about how to make the noose, Stratos arrived."
"He was running guns to the resistance." Dembe finished for him, "He convinced them killing you would do nothing but draw the ire of whichever side you were working."
"He knew, of course, that I wasn't working either side. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Stratos was the man you were looking for. I would hardly call that the wrong place or the wrong time."
Raymond gave a shrug and made for the closet. "He didn't need to know that. We spent the next two nights in Lanarca drinking and swapping stories, doing business…" He tugged at the buttons of his shirt until he was freed.
"Reddington was still in a military hospital."
Dembe reached into Red's discarded suit coat and pulled out the carefully folded program. The russet lettering for Elise Le Blanc's School of Ballet still stood out against the faded yellow paper. The outline of a swan sat above the date March 22, 1987. "It was not your fault, you must know that."
"No Dembe, that-" he snatched the paper from unresisting fingers and folded it back into its neat square, smoothing the time-worn creases with a meticulousness bordering on obsessive. "That particular transgression was most definitely my fault."
Watching his friend's furtive movements made Dembe's insides squirm, like he was witnessing some secret shame.
They stood in uneasy quiet for several seconds. When Red looked up it was to find Dembe's eyes politely on the floor.
"I'm sorry I woke you. If you want to-"
The tell-tale ring of a burner issued from Dembe's pocket. He quickly fished out the item and stepped into the hall.
Raymond turned back to the closet, having decided sleep was obviously out of the question, he figured he might as well change the rest of his clothes. Dembe's low murmurs drifted comfortably down the corridor, bringing a small sense of normalcy to the proceedings for which Red was grateful.
"Are you up for a drive?"
Dembe had appeared in the doorway once more, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.
"What's wrong?"
"Reinhardt. The Shutterbug says he left his house in a rush."
Red slipped back into his suit coat with a sigh. "At this time of night? He might be making a run for it. Any ideas where he's scurried off to?"
"It looks like he's en route to his office in Knightsbridge."
"Go, get some sleep," said Red, "I'll look into it."
Dembe shook his head. "I am awake. You should not go alone."
Raymond didn't bother arguing, and after a quick change of clothes, Dembe was pulling the secondary transport out onto the quiet London streets.
Ennismore Gardens - London, UK - 3 A.M.
"Cut the lights, Dembe. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."
The lane outside Reinhardt's office was reminiscent of a graveyard. The distant streetlamps barely gave off enough light to illuminate their bases. The homes were still, dark, and silent. The only sign of life was a low, flickering light in the first floor window of number 7, the faint glow blacked out every few seconds by a passing shadow.
Dembe put the car into neutral, coasting into a parking spot and hissing when he scraped the curb.
"Easy…"
He and Raymond exited the vehicle in tandem, making for the stone steps as soft and quick as shadows. The latter drew his firearm, keeping an eye on the dark road while the former picked the lock.
The steady pacing of heavy feet could be heard in the space beyond, their progress halting when the dead bolt flipped with a loud click.
Red turned on his heel and rammed through the door, not giving his target the chance to make an escape.
The pitch-black hallway was split in two by the faint flickering glow emanating from the office's open door. All was still.
He rounded the corner to find Reinhardt rooted to the spot behind his desk, sheaves of paper littering the work surface and floor, a few boxes upended at his feet.
"A little late for paperwork, don't you think, Ferdinand?"
Reinhardt gave a shuddering huff of relief, then rushed to draw the curtains, "You can't be here!"
"Off somewhere?" said Red, conversationally. His gun was still trained on Ferdinand's chest as he circled about the room. "That, or you've been robbed. Which is it?"
"My office is not secure." Reinhardt hissed, stuffing more documents into their respective boxes. "Someone's been following me for three days!"
"It's my people who've been following you; now, I need to know-."
"Your man with the camera isn't the only one following me!" he bellowed, gesticulating wildly with two fists crammed tight with crumpled bits of paper.
Red's head turned with such speed it made his neck crick. "There are others?"
"At least one, maybe two. Whomever they are, I don't wish to find out. I need to lay low and wait for things to blow over, and if I'm seen with you, I'm a dead man."
"Do you think it could be Basír's people?" he pressed.
"I do not know." said Reinhardt, still feverishly pacing the room and upending the contents of various drawers. "I need these files here…and these…these can't be left behind-"
"Ferdinand!"
The sharpness of his name in Red's low growl managed to break through the harried chaos in Reinhardt's mind.
"Need I remind you of the monumental debt you still owe?"
Ferdinand blanched, his throat clearing around a massive lump. "N-no. No, of course not." He set down the files he'd been sorting and timidly met Red's gaze. "Mr. Reddington, I wish to help. However, I must advise you I haven't heard anything from Basír or his German counterpart in months."
"When was the last time he reached out?"
"February."
"What day, exactly?"
"Fifth, sixth?" said Reinhardt, "One of the two. He was just vouching for a new client-"
"Why didn't you say anything?" Red barked, "You've held onto this since February?"
Reinhardt began to splutter, "Because such things are common place! You know this, old clients vouch for new clients all the time-"
"I charged you with providing any and all intel that came to you about Basír."
"I didn't think it was relevant!"
Red groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's all relevant, dammit. Who was the client?"
"I don't know, but I can look into it. Not now, mind. Please, you can't be seen here Reddington, I mean it."
"The new client, he was Eastern European, correct? Possibly Russian?"
"What?" Reinhardt had resumed tossing his things into boxes, but paused once more at the mention. "No, he was French."
"French?" repeated Red, struggling for a grip on some kind of reality. "You're- You're certain?"
"Yes."
"Do you recall what he looked like?"
"I don't recall just now…brown hair, green eyes, I think?"
"I need more than that-"
Reinhardt slammed down the stack of folders in his hands, finally at his wits' end. "I will send you everything I have and all that I remember if you would just. Get. Out!"
Raymond was unceremoniously shoved out of the office, knocking back into Dembe in the process before the door was slammed in his face
"Do you want me to-?"
"No." he replied, righting his jacket and making for the door. "Keep the Shutterbug on his tail; if he doesn't come back with the information we need in 24 hours, we'll find his new hidey-hole and drag him back out."
They were back in the transport and a quarter of the way back to the Abbey when Raymond requested the burner.
It took two rings for Rosalie to answer, and when she did he was surprised to hear her wide awake.
"Hmm…I wasn't expecting a call."
"Well join the club. Apparently nobody wants to talk to me today."
"You poor thing."
"Thank you for your sympathy." he grumbled.
Her tone softened at once. "Not in the mood for teasing, are we?"
"It's been a long day." Red sighed and slouched further into the back seat, "-and night."
"It sure has…you started in D.C, tried to nab me in Nova Scotia, and were back to London in time to terrorize Gerald."
"God," he rubbed at his temples, "He was so unhelpful."
Rosalie tittered to herself, muttering something to Teddy before closing the door to what sounded like her own transport. "What are you doing up so late? I thought you'd already turned in by now."
"Bad dream." Red replied, "Couldn't get back to sleep, so Dembe and I made a little visit to Reinhardt."
"Basír's banker? What does he have to do with this?"
"I believed the Dead Man's Hand had been hired by the third associate, so I thought Basír's banker might've been hired to transfer the funds."
"Was he?"
"No, but he knows something…I've put a detail on him while he looks into transcripts from a client Basír recommended."
"You said you believed the Dead Man's hand had been hired by the third associate, do we have reason to believe that assumption is wrong?"
Raymond heaved another sigh. His mouth caught on the words, not wanting to voice them aloud, to bring one more point of concern to her already burdened mind.
"The evidence we found in that burnt safe house made it look that way, but Reinhardt said the man Basír vouched for was a Frenchman with brown hair and green eyes."
"Well, he's just described about a million Frenchmen." said Rosalie, the disquiet already beginning to show in her voice.
"You know who that sounds like-"
"Well, it's not." she snapped, and Red thought he could perfectly picture the way she compulsively smoothed her skirts.
"Little dove…"
Rosalie's voice softened once more. "You sound exhausted." she said, telling him in her own way that the topic was no longer up for debate.
Raymond smiled once more. "Tell me something sweet then, won't you? I'm not particular on the subject matter, I just…want to hear your voice a little while longer."
"Hmm…"
That soft hum managed to soothe him all on its own.
"I found a night cap for us to try, once I'm home."
"Oh?"
"In Dublin. The Brigantine? It's this gorgeous kind of sea cave hidden beneath a little lake in one of the parks…"
Red leaned back into the headrest and listened to her go on about her find, taking deep, steadying breaths as her warm voice washed over him all the way back to the Abbey.
"-oh, and the bar! The top was covered in all these bunches of dried sea lavender. They were all hanging uniform from the rafters, so it kind of looked like the ceiling was an upside down meadow…"
He and Dembe were departing the capsule elevator twenty minutes later, each waving a wordless goodnight as they adjourned to their separate rooms.
The former trudged laboriously up the steps leading to his suite, his mind half occupied with thoughts of a hot shower, the other half clinging to Rosalie's voice and dreading another restless night's sleep.
"You've gone quiet, love."
"I'm contemplating whether it's even worth trying to fall back asleep."
The sound of running water echoed suddenly from the ensuite.
Red spun on his heel, a hand at the small of his back until he saw a head of soft blonde curls poke out from the doorway.
Rosalie's dark eyes softened on him, no doubt taking stock of the dark bags under his own and the slumped set of his shoulders. "I was just finishing up;" she said in surround-sound, "Why don't you take a nice hot shower, then you and I can count some sheep?"
God, did that sound divine.
Rosalie took his silence as agreement. Snapping the burner closed, she reached out, her hand slipped gently into his own before she led him inside. She was wrapped in one of her silk robes, her damp curls held up in a simple clip. The room was warm and humid. A tea cup sat perched on the vanity releasing curls of fragrant steam.
Raymond made no protests as he was disrobed, each layer placed neatly on the sink until he stood only in his boxers.
His companion paused, giving him a patient look as her fingertips teased the edge of his waistband.
"May I?"
A chuckle met this. "You've stripped me thus far, you really think I'd be opposed just as we're getting to the good part?"
Rosalie tittered and shook her head, grasping the soft material and guiding it down his stocky legs.
He stepped out of the garment and slipped the robe from her shoulders in one smooth motion. The prospect of being bared to one another again had his heart slamming inside his chest so loud he was sure she would hear it.
Soft curves molded perfectly to his broader frame as Rosalie wormed her way into his arms, beaming up at him, perfectly at ease.
"Long time, no see." she quipped, arching a playful brow. Her eyes gave him a lingering once-over before darting back to his face, coaxing forth another laugh.
"Still like what you see, hmm?"
"It's a view I've sorely missed, but this-" she gestured between them, "-is not about that."
"No?"
Rosalie shook her head, looking up at him with those gentle eyes that made his chest ache on nights like this. "I think you needed the chase to stop for tonight."
Raymond didn't need to ask how she knew, it was enough that he wasn't alone. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger.
"Thank you."
His lips found hers, parting the plump curve of that cupid's bow and kissing her deeply.
Rosalie's arms circled his neck, using the leverage to bring herself up to meet him. They stood locked in that embrace for several long moments, only breaking when the need for air became impossible to ignore. "Shower." she instructed between deep, steadying breaths, "I'll be waiting."
Red was pleased to have put that dazed, heated note back in her voice. With such an incentive, he was hard-pressed not to leap into the shower stall.
The hot water felt divine after waking up in a cold sweat. It felt as though he were truly sloughing off the horrid mood which had been plaguing him the past few days. As he scrubbed, Rosalie settled herself in front of the vanity.
Small bottles of gentle serums and fragrant rose water stood in neat little lines on the marble countertop. She took each one in sequence, and smoothed its contents into her dewy skin. He stood transfixed as slender fingers massaged her cheeks, trailed the length of her neck and swirled once over her décolletage before plucking another bottle from the row and repeating the process.
She hadn't bothered returning her robe to its rightful place; just as she had when they were together, she continued on with her skincare in the buff.
The intimacy of such an act was not lost on Red. Rather than being overcome by the desire which burned through him at having his lover cavorting about the suite as naked as a dream, he found himself basking in the comfort she so obviously felt in his presence. This was the normalcy he sorely missed when they were parted; the simple familiarity of a shared nightly routine.
Raymond watched with lazy contentment until the last of the suds were cleansed from his body.
A pair of glinting grey eyes caught him staring. Their owner smiled fondly at him through the mirror.
He returned the gesture, turning off the tap in favor of further appreciating the view. "I used to love watching my mother do that when I was a young boy." he murmured wistfully, eyes never leaving her reflection. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, "I thought she was practicing some kind of alchemy at first."
Rosalie laughed at the thought, a four year-old version of himself no doubt scampering through her mind.
"I soon realized that was not the case," he continued, sliding open the door and draping himself in a large, fluffy towel. "Still, that didn't stop me from sitting at her side and watching in fascination every night."
Red's gaze continued to follow her movements, entranced by the almost rhythmic pattern to her routine. "I remember it being so relaxing to watch each dip and swirl of her fingertips as she soothed her skin with rosehip oil and violet water." He nodded thoughtfully toward the array of products, recognizing a few of them.
Rosalie beamed affectionately at him, listening to the memory with genuine interest. "Do you feel the same comfort watching me?"
It was such a sweet, lovely question. He could feel the hopeful words clinging to his skin, unlike the water droplets which had already begun to evaporate.
"And then some." he admitted, stooping to trail the top of his nose along her cheek.
Her skin held the most minute aroma of springtime. A mixture of wildflowers, rain, and soft, warm woman. It was positively intoxicating.
"I'm really glad you're here." he whispered, lips brushing her temple.
Rosalie reached up to cup his cheek, turning her head and bestowing a gentle kiss to the other. "So am I."
They made their way into the bedroom, Raymond dropping his towel to the floor and sliding right into the cool sheets.
His companion pulled a cashmere nightdress from the bench at the foot of the bed and slipped it over her head.
"You're going to hide such beauty from me?" he teased, watching the deep blue knit settle over her curves.
"It's cold in here," said she, "And I told you already, I'm not here for shenanigans."
Raymond tilted his head, "What are you here for?"
Her eyes went soft again. "I'm here to keep the monsters away."
"Well," he rested back against the pillows with a blissful sigh, "C'mere then, my little dreamcatcher."
A grin preceded Rosalie tossing their copy of Jane Eyre onto the bed and crawling up after it.
Raymond smiled indulgently as she crept her way toward him, kissing him soundly before wriggling beneath the blankets. He waited until she was comfortably settled in before turning and wrapping himself around her.
Rosalie laughed as he nestled into his favored spot, almost completely on top of her, his arms wrapped around her middle and his head pillowed atop her breasts.
"There," she crooned, carding her fingertips through his short hair and thumbing open their book.
"Chapter six." he reminded, stifling an enormous yawn into her sternum.
Rosalie reseted her cheek atop his head and began where they'd left off:
' "No; I cannot believe that: I hold another creed: which no one ever taught me, and which I seldom mention; but in which I delight, and to which I cling: for it extends hope to all: it makes Eternity a rest — a mighty home, not a terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed, I can so clearly distinguish between the criminal and his crime; I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the last: with this creed revenge never worries my heart, degradation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice never crushes me too low: I live in calm, looking to the end." '
Red could already feel himself surrendering to sleep. He couldn't deny he was absolutely exhausted, and the bed was so warm with her in it, his eyes were fighting to stay open as soon as they finished the chapter.
A few paragraphs into the next, he lost the battle. His lids fell shut and he breathed a soft sigh as her voice drifted off, bearing him away to a deep, peaceful sleep.
Rosalie noted when he fell still, his body relaxing his full weight on top of her. She smiled to herself and continued to read, ensuring he was completely under before closing the book and turning off the little light.
Moonlight poured through the stained glass windows, casting them in a mosaic of eerie greens and cold blues. Rosalie settled deeper into the blankets and the weight of Raymond's warm body engulfing her chased away the chill, making her eyelids heavy.
"When I come home, we're moving up to the master suite." she told him, and kissed the top of his head. A soft snore was all the reply she received before she too was drifting off into oblivion.
The Next Day...
The Abbey was unusually quiet for a Saturday afternoon.
The building's occupants hadn't made a peep since the wee hours of the morning, and it seemed they were content to doze the day away.
In the secondary suite, the establishment's owner rolled to her side, stiff from laying so long in one position. Her companion followed, curling himself around her and dragging her back into the hollow of his body, his nose buried at the nape of her neck.
They each gave a drowsy huff and settled back into a deep sleep, undeterred by the light now blazing through the southern rose.
The lone guard in the home moved through the Abbey's apse, still in his pajamas and grumpily making his way toward the kitchen. The burner in his pocket jangled loudly, and he let out a low string of half-hearted curses as he brought the device to his ear.
"Yes?"
"We need to meet with Reddington."
The familiar voice of Agent Sutherland echoed through the connection, souring the man's mood further.
He took one glance around the kitchen to find Raymond was not there, but a familiar trench coat sat draped over one of the dining area's tall chairs. The sight made a small smile curl at his lips.
"He is occupied." he replied, not the least bit inclined to be accommodating. "You will have to come by later."
"We can wait in the foyer." Skip insisted, "We already called Christopher."
"I highly suggest you reschedule."
"Just let him know we're on our way, Dembe."
"Please?"
The addendum of civility was added by Agent Yadin.
Dembe heaved a sigh, his eyes lifting to the heavens. "Raymond will not like this."
"We'll deal with it when we get there." said Skip, a little too jovially. "Gotta go, we're getting in the van."
The call ended with a beep, and Dembe spared one longing glance for the pastry boxes on the marble island before turning around and making for the secondary guest suite.
Rosalie blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the guest room. She looked up to find Dembe standing over her, his hands in the pockets of his loungewear and his expression rueful.
"The Feds are en route to speak to Raymond."
The disgruntled tone in his voice made Rosalie smirk.
"I'll let him know." she whispered, giving a mighty stretch. "There should've been a delivery from Molly's this morning, if you're hungry."
Dembe nodded and made to exit. "They're roughly thirty minutes out." he advised, pulling the door shut behind him.
"Mhm…" Rosalie acknowledge, waiting until she could be certain her friend was out of earshot before turning to her bed partner.
Raymond was sprawled on his back, arms up over his head and dead to the world…If she were to wake him just to deal with a few Feds in the foyer, he would be an absolute terror when they arrived.
No, that certainly wouldn't do…
Rosalie found herself feeling a mite mischievous, and she recalled with delight there was at least one way to wake him that was guaranteed to put him in a good mood.
A devious plan began to take shape in her mind.
She sat up and shifted toward the foot of the bed. Coaxing the blankets downward, she did her best not to wake her companion. He sighed as the soft fabric slid down his front at a snail's pace, finally ghosting over his pelvis.
The outline of the thickening appendage between his legs made Rosalie blush, even as her fingers drifted to trace the length through the flat sheet.
Raymond, on the other hand, was locked in a delectably lucid dream.
Sharing a bed with his lover once again had made his mind teem with delicious fantasies. They were wild and debauched, warm and sensual, and every flavor in between. He relaxed into the scenario, Rosalie emerging from his mind's eye to tease and stroke him playfully.
The real Rosalie pulled back the sheet to reveal his cock to her heated gaze. She trailed a lone digit along his hip and down its length, circling teasingly over his testicles. The action made goosebumps prickle along his legs. Wrapping a soft hand around him elicited a throaty grunt.
Ever so carefully, she nestled herself between his thighs. Poised perfectly in front of him, Rosalie grinned and placed row upon row of soft kisses along the sensitive flesh.
The affectionate gesture crept into the man's dream, the vision shifting from a late night rendezvous aboard the surprisingly empty jet to an alluring scene of himself trying to focus on an accounts ledger in the Abbey's study. The infuriating book was thick and brimming with soul-sucking tedium. He had just let out another sigh of frustration when a pair of small, warm hands crept up his thighs. Red froze as they slid further and further, finally tugging at the buckle of his belt. He felt the item being pulled from its loops, and a set of dainty fingers appeared to drop the item on the floor beside him.
He recognized Rosalie's neatly manicured nails, smirking as she returned to the divesting of his slacks. It was risky, and the likelihood of them being interrupted or outright caught was astronomically high, but he couldn't stifle a joyful sigh as those little hands found their mark, caressing and working his thickening length with eager precision. His head tilted back as he felt a pair of warm, wet lips kiss his already aching head.
Rosalie trailed more gentle kisses along the man's shaft. As she placed a wet open-mouthed kiss to the very tip, her tongue darted out to swipe a milky droplet from the sensitive slit. The gasp that issued from her lover went straight to her core as she ran her tongue all along the underside of his stiff cock.
Still locked in a dream state, Raymond was thoroughly enjoying her efforts. She had pulled his member from its confines and peppered the aching rod with featherlight kisses, making his hips jerk. He let loose a bottomless growl and gripped the desk with white knuckles as her hot little tongue ran up his length. The talented appendage swirled and flicked daintily, with just enough pressure to make his teeth clench.
Rosalie grinned up at her squirming counterpart, keeping her touches soft enough to tantalize yet not enough to reach the pinnacle he was searching for, wanting to see just how long she could get away with her devious activities before he woke.
Red's eyes closed as his body hummed with pleasure. The slow, deliberate strokes of Rosalie's hot tongue continued to torment him without end. His hips rocked forward into each lick, seeking more pressure. Each time he did so, the little tyrant would pull back so only the very tip of that wet muscle was flicking against his member. He learned quickly that she was in control of the tempo here. The thought made him shiver as he happily submitted to her teasing.
Rosalie's fingertips moved deftly over his flesh, creating a burning path wherever she touched. The digits skirted over his shaft, inflicting a ghost of a tickling sensation. In an effort to coax him toward a more conscious state, she rolled her tongue rolled up one side of his cock before swirling determinedly over his bulging head, flicking back and forth over to collect the pre-cum which beaded steadily there as she rhythmically drew on him with her lips.
The action pulled a series of heavy, sharp gasps from Raymond.
What that wicked tongue could do should not be allowed. Those little licks, combined with those lips sucking at his throbbing crown made him desperate for relief.
Truthfully, it was one of the most vivid wet dreams Red had ever experienced. Now, however, he wanted to wake up and partake in the real thing. He wanted to turn over in bed and have his wicked way with his lover until she couldn't take any more of his ravenous attentions…and he wanted it now.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of the dream, his body rigid and primed for release.
Raymond was enthralled to find the pleasurable sensations didn't stop as he slowly came to. Blinking rapidly, he looked down and fell into the heated gaze of the absolute minx who was having her way with him.
"Oh you devilish little-"
His chastising was interrupted by Rosalie wrapping her lips around the tip of his cock and taking him deep into her hot, wet mouth.
Red let loose a low groan, the entirety of his length giving a desperate throb when his head met the back of her throat. "Dear god, just like-" he fisted the sheets to keep himself from fucking her mouth with abandon, "Just like…"
It had been too long since he'd known her touch, and it was clear he was at a loss for words. A small hand reached to cup his balls, gently rolling them, adding to his pleasure.
Rosalie released him and smiled that mischievous smile he swore she reserved just for occasions such as this. "Cat got your tongue, handsome?"
Raymond shook his head, "I don't know which deity's favor I earned, but I am a lucky, lucky man…"
He lost himself in the way she touched him. Always so gentle, yet all-consuming. He'd completely forgotten how she made his insides burn, made him ache like this. He hissed when a particularly exquisite ripple of her tongue hit the underside of his head just so, "Such a lovely face," he mused, cupping her cheek. "Just watching my thick cock part those beautiful lips feels like a sin."
Her flush-stained cheeks and the soft mew which met his words told him she liked his fevered praise, the jagged whispers stoking the fire inside her as well.
"Let me see." he crooned, brushing aside a couple curls that had fallen over her eyes. "Let me watch that sweet little mouth take me to the hilt."
Rosalie held his gaze and did exactly as he asked, taking him deep, her throat swallowing against his sensitive head.
He shuddered, fingertips curling into the nape of her neck as he gently guided her movements, trying desperately to keep control of the carnal lust which burned through him when he watched his fat crown drag along the plumpness of her bottom lip, leaving behind one shimmering droplet of arousal for her tongue to dart out and taste.
Rosalie kept at her pastime, diligently stroking and sucking in all his favorite ways. It was perfect, too perfect. He was finding the edge of his stamina unfathomably fast.
"I'm out of practice, little dove…you should stop, if you don't want me to come on that talented tongue of yours."
He was loathe to cease her pleasurable pursuits, but he also wasn't about to be a complete cad and fail to give her fair warning; he was already teetering on that exquisite precipice, unsure of how much longer he could hold off.
Rosalie drew on his shaft, pulling back so only the tip remained inside. The little minx had the nerve to smile as she released him with a soft pop, only to take him in hand and stroke him with that steady twisting motion that made his toes curl.
Her eyes made it abundantly clear, she and that scorching mouth of hers weren't going anywhere until she had well and truly ruined him for any other woman. The look made his cock give another eager throb.
"...oh…fuck…" The words clung in his throat every atom of himself fixated on that steady climb to euphoria.
She swirled her tongue back over his aching head, focusing exactly where he needed her. Raymond couldn't tear his eyes from the erotic sight of his shaft disappearing and reappearing again from the rosy lips surrounding it. As she rippled her tongue over his frenulum, he felt the beginnings of an earth-shattering orgasm tickling his spine.
"Please…"
His hips lifted in a silent plea, begging his lover to take him over the edge.
Rosalie mewed, the suction combined with the vibration in her throat drawing out long, husky moans from Raymond as he was taken closer to the edge he craved.
"Right there…"
Her burning tongue readily complied, massaging him at every pass, urging him to give in.
His hips arched when he couldn't hold back any longer. An animalistic growl reverberated through him, echoing loudly in the Abbey's tall ceilings, but neither could bring themselves to care.
Stars exploded behind Red's eyes as his body gave in to the onslaught. Relief coursed through him with breathtaking speed, filling her throat and coating her tongue. He rode out the explosive orgasm, rocking feverishly into her waiting mouth until the last pulses of his release ebbed away.
Rosalie continued to suck and lick and nibble at him, coaxing every last drop of pleasure from his bones.
Red shook deliciously, his cock unbearably sensitive, the delicate little strokes of her lips and tongue too much for his sated body to take. With a low growl, he reached to thread his fingers through her curls and pull her from between his legs.
She sucked hard as she was pulled from her pastime, earning another snarl of desperate pleasure. Finally, she released him, stopping to place one final kiss to his crown. Rosalie moved to straddle him, a giggle escaping her before Red claimed her mouth in a passionate kiss.
Fuck, he could taste himself on her tongue.
It was a heady mix. Not unpleasant; more than anything it aroused and titillated. The mouth he was plundering had so deftly and thoroughly pleased him, he was a shivering wreck at the moment.
When they parted, Red took a steadying breath before looking into the eyes of his lover.
Rosalie was terribly pleased with herself. Her sweet little face held a Cheshire cat grin, marveling at the knowledge she could still bring him to such heights.
"I think that's what Dembe meant by this not being the best time..." said Ezra, unable to look up from the floor. Skip was doing his damndest not to laugh.
They had emerged from the Abbey's elevator to what was undeniably the sound of Reddington getting off, and apparently their presence was of no concern to the occupant or occupants of the room above, as they quite simply carried on with their endeavors.
"That's what you get for not taking the hint."
Mr. Kaplan came sauntering out of one of the lower guest suites, cramming a pair of headphones over her ears and starting the attached tape player.
"We've all happened upon them at some point." she barked, a little too loudly, "Consider it an initiation. Next time you decide to show up uninvited, perhaps you''ll think twice."
The two agents were just about to scramble back toward the elevator when a long, drawn-out moan obviously signaled the end of whatever afternoon delight was going on overhead.
"I'm never going to get that noise out of my head." Ezra hissed under his breath.
Skip at last let loose a loud snort of amusement, the sound cut in two by the arrival of the elevator.
"Thanks a lot for waiting!" Emma snarled, "That thing takes bloody ages to get back down."
The most undignified cackle spouted from Agent Sutherland. "Oh trust me Ems, we did you a favor."
"What? What do you-?"
"Agents."
Dembe's soft voice called them toward the kitchen, saving Skip from having to explain himself.
Raymond and Rosalie were taking their time basking in the afterglow.
The former was contentedly tracing the bright shards of color which speckled his partner's thighs. His imaginings of what she might look like beneath the stained glass glow paled in comparison to the real thing. Between the warm daylight which haloed her body and the euphoric high he was currently coasting, he couldn't fathom a more beautiful sight.
"Your contingent of Feds have come to ruin our fun." she sighed, smirking to herself when Red tutted and continued to nibble at her waist.
"Mmm…" his mouth mapped the soft curve of her hips with relish, "I didn't hear that; I'm very busy at the moment."
"We can't ignore them," she laughed and turned away from his instigating, "They're downstairs already."
A squeak met Red's thighs bracketing her own, keeping her from wandering off. The hem of her nightdress was rucked up in the process, exposing quite a bit of her to the cool air.
"-and?" he purred against the small of her back, garnering a titter and another futile wriggle.
"-and they probably just heard you come?"
Rosalie squealed when he nipped sharply at the spot where the back of her thigh met the curve of her ass. The noise made Red break out into a torrent of deep, throaty chuckles.
"Well, that's all your fault…" he reasoned, soothing the spot with his thumb. "I think it's only fair we make it even."
"Whatever do we need to be even for?" she asked, snapping her legs shut when an inquisitive hand tried to sneak between them.
"I think I'm owed a little mischief after you absconded with my virtue this morning." His lips mapped the length of her spine, encouraging a fresh shock of goosebumps.
"Your virtue, huh?"
When he rested his chin on her shoulder, Rosalie grinned back at him from behind a few tousled curls. Raymond reached out and brushed them back into place with an indulgent smile. An impish brow arched in his direction.
"What happened to my virtue the other night in the broom cupboard, Mr. Reddington? I was a sweet, innocent maiden before you pulled me into that dark closet."
Red caught her chin between two fingers, lifting that sweet little face so he could admire the mirth he knew was dancing in those dark eyes. When he spoke, he couldn't shake the husky, graveled note that came with it.
"Innocent…the claw marks on the back of my neck are calling you a liar, little dove."
"Oh?" she countered, blushing in spite of herself, "Well, the teeth marks on my ass are calling you a hound, scoundrel."
"I should make you pay for such cheek." said Red, nuzzling her nose with his own. "But knowing you…you'd probably like that."
A soft, breathy sigh confirmed his hypothesis. He stooped to kiss his companion chastely on the lips before reluctantly letting her up from their rather compromising position.
"Tease…" Rosalie groused. Lifting his watch from the night stand, she held it up to the light, then let out a shriek. "It's already one-thirty?!"
Bedlam ensued as she scrambled to extricate herself from the bedding, batting at Red's hands when he attempted to waylay her flight.
"I was supposed to meet with one of my suppliers an hour ago!"
Raymond flopped back into the pillows, laughing heartily to himself. "You didn't think to set an alarm?" he called, drowned out by the clatter of her cosmetic bag being upended into the sink.
"When have we ever slept this late?" she rebutted, muttering a string of oaths under her breath.
He grinned at the ensuite, perfectly amused by the normalcy to be found in the fallout of an unexpected lie-in. The echoes of his lover's morning routine were punctuated by the dulcet tones of low cussing, the sound rapidly becoming one of Red's most favorite soundtrack.
"What do you mean you overheard something, was it important?"
The three MI6 agents were seated in the Abbey's kitchen, picking at an assortment of pastries in crisp white boxes.
"Um…"
"Just a bit of Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo-"
"Please stop." Ezra pleaded, scrubbing his face with his hands.
"What does that mean? Foxtrot, Uni-"
"You know," said Skip, with waggled brows. "A congressional meeting."
"Oh dear god…"
"What?" Emma frowned, "He's in a meeting with a senator?"
Skip turned to Ezra, his face aglow with undisguised glee. "She doesn't know the euphemisms Ezra, I'm gonna have to get explicit."
The man in question rubbed at his temples, desperately trying to rid himself of what he'd overheard. "Please don't."
"I hate you both so much right now." snapped Emma, aggressively adding another spoonful of sugar to her tea.
A sly grin split Skip's face. "I never did believe the phrase, 'Blonde's have more fun', you know?"
"Steady on, what does me being blonde have to do with any of it?"
"Well, you obviously know how it works," he pointed at her belly, "I-"
"Skip!" Ezra reached behind Emma and smacked the other man's shoulder in reproof.
"What?"
"She is a lady!"
His tone wreaked of delicate indignation, and Emma found herself a little annoyed at what the statement implied.
"For God's sake, will someone just tell me what's going on!"
"You do not want to know." Dembe's soft voice murmured low, a small twitch of amusement showing at the corner of his mouth as he emerged from the pantry with a fresh kettle.
"You really do." said Skip, sharing a mischievous grin with Reddington's guard before turning to wiggle his brows at Emma once more.
"Oh for god's sake…" she snarled, "Skip, just tell me!"
With the air of one cradling an atom bomb, Agent Sutherland folded his hands in his lap, smiled, and said: "We walked in to overhear Reddington getting his absolute brains shagged out."
The silence in the kitchen was positively deafening. None of the occupants looked at each other, save for Skip and Dembe, who were doing their very best not to laugh.
Emma and Ezra looked as though they might catch fire any second, the crimson colors of the Delecroix painting behind them no match for the red which now bloomed on their faces.
"Oh- oh my…" said the former, immediately wishing she had not pressed the subject. To think if she had been in the elevator she would've heard…"Er- Well, that's really none of our-"
They turned to see a tall familiar blonde saunter into the kitchen, Reddington coasting in beside her with a serene smile and a hand at the small of her back.
"You?" Emma hissed, recognizing their quarry at once, "You're under arrest!"
Rosalie Øllegaard let out a tinkling laugh and poured herself a cup of tea. "Settle down Agent Knightley, before you pop out a kid."
An angry blush made Emma's face burn hot.
Øllegaard plucked a scone from the stack, broke it in two, and offered the other half to her counterpart, who promptly took a sizable bite. "I'm just here for a little something sweet." she tittered, thumbing a crumb from his chin.
Knightley thought she might throw up. When Reddington placed a kiss to that thumb and winked, she cleared her throat at a considerable volume.
Reddington's companion turned on her with a blithe look. "Is your coterie of flat-foots always this dour, love?"
Dembe could be heard chortling around a mouthful of pastry.
His grin widened when the woman turned to him and muttered sotto voce, "Les flicailles n'ont aucun sens de l'humour…."
An indelicate snort convinced Emma whatever Øllegaard said had been at their expense. She turned to Red with a consternated scowl. "What's the point in us trying to catch her when she's here with you?!"
The mademoiselle gasped and brought a hand to her chest.
"You put the fuzz on my tail?" she turned to Reddington with a rather convincing pout, "Giving me up to the Feds…I never thought you'd sink so low, Raymond Reddington."
Red grinned. "You said you were done running; I'm content to use whatever means are within my possession to pin you down."
Øllegaard's expression shifted into a sly, delighted smile. "Clever boy. Though…I doubt you need the door kickers, you were rather adept at pinning me down earlier."
"From the sound of it, Red was the only one benefiting from that." Skip murmured under his breath, sharing a mischievous look with Ezra as he took a massive bite out of a red currant scone. "Maybe the old boy doesn't have the touch after all."
"Or perhaps…" said Øllegaard, checking her lipstick in the mirror of her compact, "My mother taught me not to talk with my mouth full, unlike some people?"
She closed the compact with a snap, a lone brow arched in Skip's direction.
"Okay!" sighed Red, shaking his head as Emma and Ezra's jaws dropped in a horrified 'o'. "Let me walk you out before you tell my doorkickers anything else they aren't old enough to hear."
Øllegaard flashed him a mischievous smirk, but was saved from further reprimand when a trio of hulking men rounded the corner of the nearest painting barrier.
"Don't worry, we already told Master Cutright you were running behind schedule." The foremost guard's face split into a wide, knowing grin when he looked between the two fugitives. "He'll be ready to meet you within the hour, Rosalie."
"Thanks Ted." she nudged one of the smaller boxes of pastries toward him., "Care for a little refreshment before we get on our way?"
The threesome eagerly partook in the offering, plucking out a pastry each and pouring themselves coffee and tea.
"You look familiar." Emma blurted with a tilt of her head. Her gaze fixated on the pale one in the middle, who gave her an appreciative once-over, his lips curling into a charming smile.
"Out with it;" she barked, "Where have I seen you lot before?"
He ran a broad hand through his dark waves. "Oh I definitely would've remembered meeting you, Miss-?"
"Mrs. Knightley." Ezra corrected, "She's married, you twat."
Emma slid her chair out a touch so her growing bump was visible. "-and pregnant."
"You undoubtedly recognize my men from that party you gate crashed in December." Øllegaard interjected absentmindedly, "-and most importantly, Otto dear, she's a Fed."
Otto took two large steps back, as though carrying a badge was the same as carrying flesh-eating bacteria. His compatriots all sniggered at his expense, their amusement met with a rueful shake of his head.
"Ah…my apologies." He quickly popped a lid on his coffee cup, "I'll uh…I'll be in the transport before I can shove my foot further into my mouth."
Øllegaard waved that they should all be on their way and blew a kiss to the agents before tucking her arm into Red's and strolling out into the Abbey.
"Mouth full?" Skip muttered distractedly, still picking at his scone.
Emma and Ezra turned on him with identical looks of disgusted incredulity.
"Ohh..." he nodded when the other boot dropped, "No wonder the old bloke is so relaxed. Good for him."
Raymond and Rosalie dawdled in the apse, allowing the latter's men to outpace them and take the first elevator down into the sub-level.
"You seem unsettled." said Red, once they were alone again. "Once the boys arrived, you became rather restless. Is everything alright? Horace isn't back to being his insufferable self, is he?"
"No, no," she assured, "I've just been thinking…There's something I can't seem to get off my mind."
"Tell me. Perhaps I might be able to shed some light."
Rosalie stopped them at the threshold of the elevator, her arm still in his. She let the capsule doors close without them, then heaved a heavy sigh. "That night, when you called Basír's burner? Teddy was the only one awake in the house."
Raymond's features softened, "Ted's a light sleeper, Rosalie. Always has been. You mentioned he'd heard the commotion."
"…What if he lied?" she asked, a worried frown pinching her brow.
He considered the idea for a moment, then replied. "He doesn't match the description for any of our pursuers, little dove. You have Otto keeping an eye on both your guard; if they were up to something, one of them surely would've slipped up by now. It's more likely one of them is being careless."
"So you think an outsider has been dabbling in my network instead? Leveraging their carelessness?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted, "I'm looking into it as we speak. Kate and Baz paid a visit to Hermes the other day; it sounds like the break in your burners had to have come from his syndicate personally."
The sudden swell of indignation had Rosalie seething. "How do they know that? What did he do?"
Raymond prodded the elevator call button and gently ushered her inside. "Hermes monopolized his supply chain at some point; there's no space for someone else to stick their hand in it."
"Why would Hermes do that? He and I have had a good relationship thus far; why would he allow tainted products into my network?"
"Kate said he seemed genuinely confused about the matter. He was alone when they visited, but I distinctly remember he had a young protégé named Berat. If I were a betting man, I would say that Berat has been dealing on the side or there's blackmail afoot. Either way, I'll get to Ankara as soon as I'm able."
Rosalie gave a nod and patted his arm in thanks. Raymond was pleased to see a small sigh of relief escape her as they exited the capsule.
Her guard were already in their transport, poised at the edge of the Abbey's hidden exit.
"Dinner tonight?" he murmured, opening the door for her. "Our usual place?"
Rosalie beamed and lowered herself into the back seat. "Sounds grand, love. Have fun with the Feds."
"Mhm." He stooped to kiss her once, then closed the door, waiting until the tail lights disappeared into the tunnel below before reluctantly heading back upstairs to handle their unexpected guests.
"What was she doing here?" snipped Emma, once Red had returned to the safe house's kitchen.
He made a bit of a meal of fixing himself a cup of tea, steeling his patience for what was undoubtedly going to be an unpleasant discussion.
"I wholeheartedly believe you neither need nor want my further elucidation on that matter." he replied, "Anyway, I could ask the very same of you three; what are you doing here?"
Ezra made to speak, but Emma wasn't budging.
"Why do you need us to chase her? If the two of you are- are…involved, why should the DC6 have to get dragged into it?"
"Because that was our agreement. You have to give to get, Agent Knightley. After several months in my sphere, you ought to know that by now."
Agent Sutherland tilted his head to one side and frowned at him. "What doe she get from us chasing her?"
Red smirked. Once again, Skip was the only one asking the important questions. "That's none of your concern. I'm the one doing the chasing, MI6 is merely a hatchet in my tool belt."
"If we're just a means to an end," said Emma, "Why won't you be honest with us about why you're helping her?"
"Because it's none of your business." he bit back, growing tired of the incessant badgering. "Furthermore, I told you I needed to go dark, yet here you all are playing the jailers and drawing attention to yourselves."
The three agents turned and looked at one another, suddenly sheepish.
"Well?" said Red, his tone a bit more brusque than was necessary. "What the hell do you want? What couldn't wait?"
"We…" Skip hesitated, but the others nodded vigorously.
"We want to help."
"Help with what?"
"You."
Ezra Yadin had finally chimed in, fingers twisting at a corner of pastry paper until it was in shreds. "…The Dead Man's Hand. We wish to help."
For once, Raymond was at a loss for words. He simply stood there, staring at them over the kitchen island for a full minute before he could find a response.
"Why?"
The three agents glanced at each other again. Emma heaved a sigh.
"You're our CI, Red. It doesn't feel right to leave you out to dry when the wolves come prowling."
A blush burned across her cheeks, hot enough to tickle her nose as Red's intense gaze seared her skin. He waited until she met his eye once more.
"That would make you, your husband, and your unborn child targets."
"I wouldn't be involved." Emma replied, "At least, not physically. We talked it over, the three of us."
Ezra joined in as well. "Emma's going to provide intel from MI6 databases and satellites. I've been teaching her how to run ghost queries from the Cromwell. Skip has a knack for culling intel and connections from the underground; we thought he could continue posing as your night guard."
Raymond listened intently, his face a mask of stoicism as they laid out their plan. "What bout you?" he asked after a moment, "What role do you expect to play, Agent Yadin?"
Ezra's lips pursed in a tight line. "I've asked for a temporary leave of absence to have some work done on an old shoulder injury. That'll free me up for your use."
"What use do you think an international fugitive might have for you?"
His tone had soured considerably, along with his mood. As far as he was concerned, the three fools sitting opposite him had no idea what they were getting into. Nearly a year under his tutelage and they were still running headlong into things without a glimmer of forethought.
"You know my background." said Ezra, unfooled. "You know my expertise from the military."
Red's eyes narrowed further. "This isn't some government-sanctioned op, Agent Yadin; you're willing to offer yourself up as a potential murderer?"
"I don't see it that way-"
"The world will see it that way."
The harsh rebuttal gave the agents pause.
"If you're seen or caught in my employ, you will be branded felons for the rest of your lives." he endeavored to make them see reason, "There would be no going back."
Ezra straightened his back, his jaw set. "We're willing to take the risk. All of us."
"Respectfully, you have no idea what risk you're actually taking on."
"It might not be legal-" Skip began, but Raymond shook his head.
"The three of you are in far over your head. As the only one in this room who intimately knows what it is to lose one's entire existence to a life on the run, I'm telling you, it's not worth it."
"We think it's worth it." Emma whispered, bringing their bickering to a sudden, staggering halt. She met Red's gaze with unflinching certainty. "Skip is right, it may not be legal, but it is the right thing to do. Please Red, just…think on it? We want to help."
Rosalie's Warehouse - Tilbury, U.K.
Raymond rounded the corner to see Rosalie in her element.
Her sleeves were rolled up, a carpenter's pencil tucked in her ear, voluminous curls tied up and out of the way with a silk scarf. A handful of blueprints littered the drafting table she was stooped over, while the remaining workspaces were covered with neat little piles of sawdust, screws, hinges, and knobs. Rough sketches were pinned to the doors of a large green shipping container poised in the center of the loading bay.
"Magnificent," she could be heard saying, "-and you're certain a floating floor would be ideal?"
"Yes ma'am."
A small boulder of a man with a robust goatee and a thinning hairline hopped down from the flatbed. "We'll fill the gaps below the subfloor with a dense, non-porous insulate usually reserved for yachts. That'll take out the hollow sound and keep moisture out. Once your client's safely out of South America, we can go back in and replace with hardwoods, should you prefer."
"How would hey hold up to the salt?" she asked, absentmindedly pulling another sheet from the sketchbook and blocking out the lines of another layout.
"Not well." The man admitted, "Though, unlike the floating floor, the wood can be refinished."
"Hmm…"
Rosalie tapped the end of the pencil on her bottom lip, squinting between her sketch and the container.
"Reach out to Waller, see if he can't budge a little on his timeline once we get to Cape Town. If we can do the oak with the marine insulate below and it doesn't interfere with the hydraulics-"
She stopped, catching Red shifting his weight in her periphery.
"Oh! Gods, what time is it? I'm not late, am I?"
Raymond grinned as she hunted around for her purse, pulling her watch from the safety of its confines and checking the hour.
"I'm early." he assured, holding up a bag of carry-out containers. "Ted mentioned you were in the thick of it, so I thought I'd bring Bernard's to you."
Rosalie's associate smiled between them. "I'll take that as my leave to go;" he chuckled, "I'll reach out to Waller at once and let Mr. Beaumont know what's what, shall I Mademoiselle?"
She beamed back at him. "Yes. Thank you, Cutright. I'll be in touch. Once you and your men are ready, my jet will be available for you."
Cutright bowed low and exited with but one cheerful nod to Raymond.
A renewed grin curled at Red's lips as Rosalie sauntered over, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly.
"You're a godsend," she huffed, "I haven't eaten a thing since that scone this afternoon."
"Well," he set the containers on a nearby bench and produced a corkscrew and a bottle of wine from his jacket. "What better way to break one's fast than with a gorgeous wellington and an equally delectable '87 Barolo?"
Rosalie laughed and ushered him toward one of the stools. "I'm afraid the wine will have to wait, there's not a glass in this place."
Red plucked a couple paper ones from the worktop and brushed them off. "A Barolo's a Barolo, even in a dixie cup." he insisted, removing the cork at once and giving them each a generous pour.
They settled at the cleanest of drafting tables with their fare, talking and laughing as each caught the other up on their day.
"So, who's Cutright in your organization?' Raymond asked some time later, setting his napkin aside.
"Mmm…" Rosalie moaned around the last bite of wellington, covering her mouth and swatting Red's shoulder when he laughed. "Cutright's a structural engineer, if you must know. We've been discussing the weight load of the containers and what we can get away with from a layout perspective."
Raymond peered over her shoulder to where the shipping container stood, still littered with various chalk marks, sketches, and photographs. Another sat several yards behind it, the space surrounding littered with the same constructural debris.
"I thought Adete dropped the containers at your warehouse in Cape Town? What're they doing here?"
Rosalie stood and waved for him to come along.
"These I borrowed from Corsica," she explained, hoisting herself up onto the flatbed and into the first container's interior. "We're using them as staging areas for Cutright to test whether the metal exterior will remain sound after all our modifications."
Raymond joined her, taking in the bones of the structure with intense curiosity.
"Look, look, look!" she took his hand and guided him to a wall of freshly-installed cabinets. "Waller's my woodworker; he just finished the prototype for the cabinetry. His dovetailing is exquisite every single time, and he'll be doing it with marine lumber, no less."
"You're doing built-ins?"
"They want me to change the layout so we can use pre-made. It would be much faster, but if I'm going to put in this much effort, I want the thing to hold up to frequent client use."
Slender fingers prodded the flat, brushed-nickel handle on the nearest cabinet, which unlocked the interior mechanism with a soft click. Rosalie pulled, revealing a long, narrow drawer that'd yet to be finished. "I was thinking a few placemats and cloth napkins here, a dry bar on the counter above, then mount a small television and pair of speakers above that. It'll flow through to some shelves and another bank of lower cabinets on the right. There'll be a pull-out couch here, and a Murphy bed on the left hand wall for longer stays..."
She led him to the back of the container, where three walls stood, one veering off to the opposite corner to create a secluded wet bath.
"The kitchenette will be here in the back. There's space for an induction plate, a functioning sink, built-in refrigerator…I figured make an eat-in island at the center rather than a table. One won't be able to host a dinner party, but for two, maybefour people? It'll have everything they could possibly need for a week or two on the run."
Red peered into the opening cut for the small sink. "You'll have running water?" he marveled, "How?"
"The same way it'll have power." she grinned, "There'll be an adjoining container that'll always be coded to sit beneath this one. It'll hold a handful of tanks for both fresh and black water. There's also a recycling system for the gray water to be re-used for the commode, a few back-up generators for safety, and some military-grade batteries I commandeered so the entire thing can be solar."
"How will they connect?"
Rosalie grimaced. "We're uh…still working out the kinks on that one. Regardless, if it's not fully ready when it's time to move Earl, he'll only be traveling a few hundred miles. He can do without a fully functioning wet bath until then."
Raymond smiled and topped off their dixie cups with the last of the wine. "Speaking of Mr. King, how is the old boy?"
A roll of the eyes met his question. "He's enjoying a luxury getaway in Bolivia on my dime, what's there to complain about? I'm just glad he hasn't been on my ass about getting him out."
"I believe Earl's just glad to be alive." said he, "If my people on the ground are to be believed, he was on death's doorstep when I finally secured his release from military custody. That being said, he won't be this docile for long. How far out are you from springing him?"
"A week." said Rosalie, "Two max."
Red's brows hit his hairline. "You're going to recreate all of this," he waved his cup in the direction of the cabinetry, "In a week?"
Her eyes narrowed playfully. "Is that doubt I hear, Mr. Reddington? Surely you aren't questioning my abilities after all this time."
A ghost of a smile plucked at the corner of his mouth. "Wouldn't dream of it, little dove. I'm merely recalling the folly of would-be constructors everywhere. If you're able to get this project done in the time frame you have planned, I believe you'll be the very first to do so. However, when you prove me wrong, as you invariably always do, I will gladly eat crow."
She leaned into him with a titter and pressed her lips gently to his. "Well, when I take my victory lap, I'll be sure to pick up something sweet to cleanse your pallet of the bitter taste of defeat."
They both laughed, exiting the container in favor of more comfortable accommodations among the couch selections she'd been perusing.
"What of the Feds?" said Rosalie, allowing herself to be pulled into Raymond's lap when he settled into the corner of a dark, chocolate-brown sectional. "You mentioned they suggested something odd, but didn't elaborate."
Red heaved a sigh, "Three of the four Feds want to help with the Dead Man's Hand."
Rosalie frowned. "How do they expect to help? It's not as though they know the underground: what players to reach out to, how to cull intel from adjacent criminals…they don't even know about Reinhardt, do they?"
"No," said Red, "They don't know about Reinhardt. Though, you'd be surprised to hear one of them is actually eerily adept at navigating the criminal social scene."
"That bean pole of a man you brought with you to Marcello's spring bash?"
"One and the same."
"I admit, I was rather impressed by him. But what of the others? What could they possibly do?"
"Agent Knightley has been taking lessons from her peers on quietly querying intel from inside MI6. She's offering to be our big brother inside the bureau. Agent Yadin, on the other hand, was one of the best snipers in the British Army. He held the record for longest confirmed sniper kill in combat until very recently. Killed a man from a little over one and a quarter miles away."
"While that's very impressive, what on earth does he think you would want with a sniper?"
"He's offering to become my shadow." Raymond explained, "To follow my movements and be the eyes at my back."
This gave Rosalie pause. "Well…that is certainly tempting."
He considered her for a long moment. "You think so?"
"I think the Dead Man's Hand are a formidable obstacle indeed. I, for one, would feel more comfortable knowing there is someone outside both our syndicates watching over you. Someone we can trust."
Raymond smoothed a broad hand along her hip, brow still furrowed deep in thought. After some time, he asked, "How could that possibly be worth the damage such an alliance could cause?"
"You admire them." she noted, threading her fingers through the fine hairs at his temple.
"They're foolish, reckless, and often nettling, but yes." he said, "I do admire them. They don't truly know what they're suggesting, and if any portion of this goes wrong their normal lives will be completely unsalvageable."
"Oh, I don't know about that." said Rosalie, "They've been at your side for months now. They might be missing the finer nuances of criminal life, but the core of our world can't possibly elude them. Besides, the assistance they're offering isn't overtly illegal, save for Agent Yadin."
"Until he kills someone."
"He doesn't have to kill anyone, merely maim, or seriously injure."
Red couldn't help but chuckle. "You and your technicalities." he sighed, relaxing back into the cushions.
A smirk illuminated her features. "Technically, they're only in danger if they're seen by someone in British Intelligence, and even if they are, it can be explained away to the higher-ups."
"If Alby is willing to play ball after I kept him in the dark."
"Oh please, we have enough dirt to bury Albert Bazalgette three times over. You think he'd risk his own life just to throw his own team under the bus? Not likely."
"Wrapped up in your charms, I often forget how cutthroat you are." he smiled slyly, "You think I should take them up on their offer, then?"
"I think it can't possibly hurt," she replied. "Now-" she reached for her bag and fished out the small green hardcover they'd been making their way through. "-I believe we're on chapter eight…or as I like to call it, the tale of the criminal's credo."
"The what?" he chuckled, tracing his thumb along the back of her knee.
Rosalie pointed to the page in question. "This quote, right here…It's rather fortuitous, you know, considering your dubious new associates."
'If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends…'
Melbourne, Australia - March 29th, 2001
It was nearly dawn.
Rosalie's feet ached from standing, and the harness she wore was an annoyance, but for all her nightly endeavors, she was no closer to that which she sought.
The lights in the condo next door hadn't flickered even once. All was still and dark, and her eyelids were starting to droop.
She would wait another half-hour, she told herself, taking a cautionary step back from the rooftop's edge which had been her perch these past three nights. If the Bastion's suspected safe house did not show signs of life by then, she would give it up for loss and head back to her own hideaway.
The soft rush of cars drifted from the busier streets in the distance, the early-risers already beginning their morning commutes. Rosalie stretched and shifted about with the intent of bringing a little life back to her limbs.
Loathe though she was to admit it, she had to hand it to Ilarion, he was proving rather adept at eluding her. Even the weak points she knew all innkeepers were prone to were air tight in his syndicate. It was incredibly annoying.
"He must slip eventually," she grumbled under her breath, "Everyone does. That, or there's something I'm missing-"
The sitting room across the way burst into life.
Rosalie scrambled to latch her harness to the line she'd dropped into the alley below.
Once confident she wouldn't plummet to her death, she belayed down the building's face so she was even with the condo's balcony. The light was still on, and a shadow now moved beyond the curtains. Planting her feet, Rosalie kicked off, swinging herself toward her target. She did so again, and again, until the toe of her boot caught on the bottom of the balcony's metal rail.
Her hand shot out to steady herself, allowing a moment to crane her neck and peer inside. Rosalie squinted, trying to locate the source of the odd shadow she could see moving back and forth on the opposite wall.
Without warning, a person appeared in the window, green eyes wide, pale face frozen in a silent scream. A maid had popped up from beneath the sink, a spray bottle in one hand, and a terry cloth in the other. Shaken to her core at the sight of an intruder, she simply shuddered in place before a catastrophically loud shriek rent the air.
Rosalie, jarred by the woman's sudden appearance and subsequent screech, completely lost hold of the balcony and was sent careening back toward the building from whence she came. At the mercy of momentum she slammed into the stone face shoulder first. A loud yelp echoed in the alley, and she knew any remaining cover she'd had was about to be blown.
"Shit!"
The establishment's maid was running frantic through the apartment, thankfully too afraid to come out onto the balcony and get a good look. Figuring there was nothing for it, Rosalie squeezed the rappel device attached to her harness and sent herself rocketing down into the dark alley below.
She squeezed the brake just enough so she wouldn't hurt herself when her feet landed on pavement, then promptly disconnected from the rope. A quick glance out into the quiet street ensured the coast was clear, then she was sprinting for the shelter of another quiet side street, leaving the rope and the terrorized maid behind.
Rosalie's Jet - Indian Ocean
"You look tired."
It was a couple hours later, and Rosalie was fixing herself yet another steaming cup of coffee aboard the jet. She looked up to find Horace's concerned gaze focused on the bags beneath her eyes.
"I'm fine," she insisted, the assurance falling flat when it was followed by a massive yawn.
Horace smirked when she held up a finger, waylaying any protest.
"Just a few more days. Once this container is complete and on its way to port, I'll have all the time in the world to catch up on sleep. Now, hand me the sugar, won't you?"
"I'll do no such thing," he teased, swapping out her coffee cup for one filled with lavender tea. "We've got a round dozen or so hours before we touch down in Cape Town, why don't you take a leaf out of Ted's book and grab a nap?"
They both sniggered and spared a look for Teddy's large figure, which lay sprawled across the loveseat, snoring softly.
Now that she thought about it, a nap did sound tempting.
"Fine," she sighed, sticking her tongue out and gathering her belongings before making for the rear of the plane.
Horace's chortling could still be heard as Rosalie rounded the corner into the rear cabin, nearly bumping into Caroline as she did so.
"I took the liberty of plugging in the heating pad," she waved the small box she held in her hand. "I overheard you mention you had some shoulder pain while boarding, I thought it might help. There's a cold pack in there too, should you need it."
Rosalie gave a grateful grimace. "Thanks Caroline, how are things?"
"Oh just peachy," Caroline assured, "I'm off to take Horace's money in a game of Backgammon while you and Ted get some rest."
The two laughed, shifting past each other until Rosalie was safely sequestered behind closed doors.
She promptly closed the cabin shades, then flopped onto the bed, wrapping herself in the fluffy duvet and applying the cold compress to her shoulder.
The burner in her pocket gave a silent pulse.
Rosalie huffed and fished the item from its confines. "You've got fifteen minutes before I'm snoring in your ear."
A low chuckle echoed through the line. "Another late night, I take it?"
"You're not the only one chasing geese." she sighed, a hearty sip of tea soothing her ire somewhat.
"The Corsair's a slippery fellow, I'll give him that."
"You've no idea. Three nights on a Melbourne rooftop and all I've got to show for it is a bum shoulder and a petrified maid."
Raymond paused. "You encountered one of the Bastion employees?"
"Scared the hell out of her hovering in the window like a cat burglar. Thankfully, I don't think she got a good look at me."
"Still," he murmured, the disquiet evident in his voice, "Take care, won't you? It'll do no good to poke the bear before you're ready."
"I know."
"Get that shoulder looked at;" he added, "Don't wait until you can't lift your arm above your head."
Rosalie snuggled deeper into the duvet. "Mhm."
"And stop pulling all-nighters."
"Yeah, yeah."
"And-"
"Bah!" she grumbled, "What are you, my ball and chain?"
Red gave a hearty laugh. "Damn right I am."
"I'll meet with a physician when we land. Happy?"
"Marginally."
She heaved a sigh. "Despot."
"It's scoundrel to you." he teased, "Now, are you in bed?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"Little dove."
Rosalie's cheeks plumped with amusement. His voice had taken on that tone it always did when he'd had an unpleasant day, and she took great enjoyment in needling him further. "Yes, scoundrel?"
"Are you in bed, my dear?"
"…Perhaps."
He sighed. "You're in quite the mood today."
"I could say the same about you." she countered.
"I want an answer, Rosalie."
His tone had soured further, but Rosalie was confident she could coax another smile out of him yet.
'I don't think, sir, you have any right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and experience.' she quoted, smirking when he tutted for her cheek.
"We've already read that chapter." he chided, still thoroughly moody. "We're on chapter fifteen."
"Oh? Where did we leave off, then?"
"Paragraph six, page one-hundred and ninety-four: 'I knew, you would do me good, in some way, at some time; I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you: their expression and smile did not-'
Rosalie could finally hear the grin re-enter his voice.
'-did not strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing.' he finished, a fresh chuckle issuing from deep in his chest.
"Ah, there he is." she tittered, "Carry on, my love."
"I'm going to start calling you Jane, my little tyrant."
"Yeah, mhm, just keep reading."
A renewed laugh, and they were turning the page.
Black Site #88 a.k.a 'The Abbey' - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom - March 30th, 2001
"You understand, by doing this, I take no responsibility for your well-being?"
It was late when Red had Skip, Ezra, and Emma brought to the Abbey. The threesome were grinning gleefully at him in a way which did not inspire confidence as his copious warnings fell on deaf ears. When it was obvious their minds were made up, he heaved a sigh and waved for them to join him in the dining room.
Kate Kaplan stood waiting at the threshold of the space, lips pursed in a tight line and a stack of papers tucked under her arm. When the agents rounded the corner, she pulled out a sheaf each and thrust it into their bemused hands.
"Trust agreement?" Skip leafed through the stack with a frown.
"This one's got my name on," said Ezra, thoroughly confused
Emma turned to Raymond, who was bringing up the rear. "Red, what is all this?"
He breezed past them and took his seat at the head of the table, gesturing for them to sit.
"It is my understanding that you are entering this venture of your own volition. I've done everything in my power to communicate the risk you are taking with your careers and personal lives by doing so. That being said, I will not have the three of you putting your entire lives on the line without being fairly compensated."
The agents bristled.
"We can't do that." said Ezra, who looked to his comrades for agreement. He set his contract on the table and slid it back towards Kaplan.
Skip joined him, though his fingertips lingered on a corner of the page before drawing bac.k
Emma still had her copy in hand, her brow pinched with worry. "Helping a CI is one thing Red, but accepting payment…"
The agents glanced at one another again. Knightly placed her contract on the table with the others.
"We want to help." Ezra reiterated, "But, you must know this is unprecedented. You can't expect us to sign a document saying we're in your employ. What if someone gets ahold of it?"
Raymond's head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed in open annoyance. "Do you honestly believe I'm the kind of man to just leave incriminating evidence out on the coffee table, Agent Yadin?"
Skip's hand inched toward his contract. The other two shot him a nasty look.
"What?" he groused, "You truly wish to tell me the two of you aren't the least bit compelled?"
"We can't be in his employ," insisted Knightly, "That would make us accessories!"
"You're the ones offering yourselves up as associates." Kaplan reminded in her typical brusque manner, "Whether you receive compensation or not, the three of you are accessories, the moment you step into our world." She slid the contracts firmly across the table and dropped a pen atop each.
The agents stared at the papers in silence.
"Let me make this clear:" said Red, "You will not be assisting me with the Dead Man's Hand without a contract. I have a reputation to uphold, and the three of you need to think not only of your own futures but that of your families. Should you die in my employ or be caught, you must have some recourse available to you. These trusts provide said recourse for each of you. Anything you purchase with funds from the trust will be owned by the trust, of which you yourselves will be the sole custodians. Should anything happen to you in the duration of your employ with me, the whole of said trust will be bestowed on a family member of your choice. My people are experienced in completing the necessary legal requirements for the trust to pass easily and legally to your designated survivor as a life insurance policy."
"If they're this skittish about paperwork, how are they going to handle the underground?" interjected Kaplan
"You haven't seen us in the field at all." Skip bit back, snatching up the contract so tightly its edges crinkled.
Kaplan arched a disparaging brow in his direction. "I've seen enough to know the three of you don't fully understand what you're getting yourselves into."
"Kate."
She and Red shared a tumultuous scowl, the latter inclining his head, willing her to play nicely. The former let out a scoff, but nodded all the same.
"On your head be it, dearie."
The agents took up their pens, a beat of hesitation falling between the three, waiting to see who would be the first to break.
"I will not think less of you should you choose to back down." Raymond reminded, "Mr. Kaplan is right in this regard, aiding and abetting an international fugitive is no small thing. Should you need time-"
Skip scrawled his name with a flourish, not bothering to wait for Red to finish his sentence. When he was done, he slid the contract back across the table, eyes alight with a challenge. "I don't need time." he said, holding Kate's gaze with conviction. "Where do we start?"
Another beat struck, and the duet of Ezra and Knightly's pens scratching filled the air before they too slid their contracts across the table.
Raymond cleared his throat. "Well then. Let's start with the Dead Man's Hand, and what we know about them. Mr. Kaplan, would you please ring Christopher for a bit of after-hours fare? I believe it's going to be a rather long night."
Rosalie's Warehouse - Cape Town, South Africa - April 2nd, 2001
"You've got four days, Cutright. These containers have to make an Atlantic crossing in four days. Are you telling me we're going to miss that deadline?"
Rosalie was standing in the middle of the warehouse, a fresh pair of shipping containers perched in front of her. Wires and pipes crawled up the metal sides, the former's ends dangling from the ceiling like the forgotten strings of a marionette.
"All I'm saying is we'll be cutting it fine, mademoiselle. The shipment of marine lumber was late getting to port, and the suppliers for the off-grid components accidentally sent a duplicate order; we had to figure out where to unload it all-"
"What is that?"
Rosalie strode through the warehouse, eyes set on the faint blinking she could see in the distance.
"What the hell is that?" she reiterated, coming level with the entrance of the container. A small green light flickered in the top right corner, the glow almost entirely hidden by the door's hinge.
"I'm…er…not sure, mademoiselle. That's the first I'm seeing this. The lights on the work floor have been on the entirety of these past twenty-four hours, my men wouldn't have seen it."
A screwdriver was commandeered from a nearby table, and the small slot hidden in the closure pried open. An electronic device a bit smaller than the average brick slid into Rosalie's hand, its verdant light continuing to flash in a steady pattern against her palm. A slender antenna protruded from its end.
"Where did this container come from?" she hissed, "Corsica or Reddington?"
"This one's from the Reddington syndicate." said Cutright, dropping his voice as well. "The staging containers sent from London are in the secondary holding bay."
"Teddy!"
Cutright nearly leapt out of his skin, and Ted jogged around the corner a second later, his brows raised in question. Rosalie held up the device she'd found.
"Have Tito and the boys brought in. I want all four of these containers scoured for bugs."
"Where did this come from?" he asked, taking it from her and turning it over in hand.
"It was tucked in an unassuming nook on one of the Reddington containers."
The two shared a knowing look.
"Master Cutright, would you give us a moment?" Ted turned to the man in question and gave a polite incline of his head. Cutright nodded and left the room at once.
"I will have Tito and his team brought in at once," Ted continued when they were alone, "However, I admit I do not believe there is a need for it."
Rosalie scowled at the device. "It looks to be a tracker. We have no idea who could have planted it, but I believe it's obvious whoever did so knew it was going to end up in my possession."
Teddy gave a small snort of amusement.
She turned on him with a look of haughty incredulity. "You find this kind of breach funny, do you?"
"Certainly." he chuckled, "Especially since the fugitive who sent you the bugged container is the same one who's been trying to pin you down for nigh on four months."
"What are you getting at?"
"Rosalie, Baz himself escorted the containers to this warehouse. We have the surveillance to prove it."
"So?" she snapped, "You think he had a hand in this? Honestly Ted I'd expect this from Horace, but not you-"
Teddy grinned and held up his hands. "I believe it's safe to say Red had Baz see to it personally. The bloke's getting rather creative in his pursuits, I'll give him that."
Rosalie's mouth fell open, her leeriness at once replaced with understanding. "No...you really think-?" she snatched the item back, realizing it was exactly the sort of thing Raymond would do.
"That treacherous, beastly old sneak!"
"Yeah." Ted cheerfully considered the device as he rocked on the balls of his feet. "Red's planning to catch you en route to Bolivia. Shall we send the scoundrel on another goose chase, my queen?"
"No." she replied, eyes suddenly alight with a fond mischief. "I've got an even better idea." Grabbing Ted's shoulder, she steered him into a secluded corner of the warehouse.
"Where's our nearest construction site?" she asked, hurriedly.
"From here? Madagascar, probably. Angola would be a close second. What do you have in mind?"
Rosalie grinned. "Have Horace and Otto fetch the team from the Madagascar property and bring them here. Tell them I'll pay double for the inconvenience. I'm going to need all the hands I can get. Bring Cutright back, and Waller too, it's going to be a late night."
Hillside Safe House #38 - Varna, Bulgaria - April 4th, 2001
"He is not to them what he is to me," I thought: "he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine- I am sure he is- I feel akin to him- I understand the language of his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him."
A loud bang interrupted Rosalie's recitation. Raymond lifted the burner from his chest with a laugh.
"What on earth was that?"
She could be heard cussing under her breath as she moved throughout her warehouse.
"Wait, not that one!"
A hurried exchange reached his ears, somewhat muffled by whatever body part she'd pressed the phone to.
"Yes, the paint. What? No, no, not the gloss, the satin finish. Who the hell even bought that? Get it off the floor before someone accidentally uses it. Are those the textiles I ordered? Good. Ted, where are we on Briggite?"
"She's coming to pick up the linens now, they'll be pressed and laundered within the hour."
"Very well. See that Waller's new apprentice doesn't bollox up the stain on the cabinetry, will you? We don't have time to redo it. I told him black walnut. If he pulls out anything that says maple, kick him off the floor. I already told him it made the wood grain look cheap, but you know how he is."
"Aye, aye!"
Brisk footsteps carried across a concrete floor before disappearing behind a heavy-sounding door. Rosalie huffed a weary sigh.
A knowing smile had just graced Red's lips when she muttered:
"Not a word out of you."
The warning made a laugh bubble in his chest, catching in his throat and coming out as an indelicate snort.
"Ray." she chided with a groan, "I know you told me so, but I don't want to hear it."
"How far out are you?" he asked, endeavoring to keep his tone neutral.
"Thirty-six hours."
"And what's your estimated time of completion?"
"Thirty-six hours. We need enough time to transport the containers, though. If we can't make a little headway, we'll be just in time to see the Friday afternoon boat leave without us."
"Hmm…" Raymond rose from the sofa and made his way toward the kitchen in search of sustenance. "I might have a few extra hands I can spare."
A small smile entered Rosalie's voice. "I've already pooled my resources; the place is swarming with craftsmen. Even if I took you up on your offer, I fear adding more cooks to the kitchen would merely lengthen the process."
He found himself in agreement there. "Well, even if you do miss the Friday boat, a twelve-hour setback won't cause too much damage."
"Tell that to Earl." she grumbled.
"Ah. Finally getting impatient, is he?"
"Moreso his father. Apparently he's eager for his sons to cease whatever squabble they've got going on at the Alto Plano. Earl being stuck there seems to be antagonizing the matter."
Red shrugged as he pulled a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. "Well, a few more days won't kill them. It's not like the other King heir can find him, after all."
Dembe rounded the corner, both arms laden with takeout. Raymond relieved him of a few boxes and wandered into the dining room. "Where are you on the Corsair?"
"Absolutely nowhere." she sighed, "Which reminds me, once these containers are ready to go, I'm going to be off grid for a while. With the search for the Corsair going so poorly, I think you ought to go ahead and reach out to the Moniker. I know you said he's perfectly safe, but if we can't get to the Corsair soon, Airam may very well be our only option."
"I'll have Dembe fetch him and bring him to the fold. Now, back to this business in Thornfield…"
"Ah, and what do you think of our star-crossed lovers?"
"They're incessantly getting in their own way." he scoffed, flicking through the pages they'd just read. "Honestly, why social class and their subsequent rules ever held any weight is beyond me."
Rosalie tittered. "Says the man who thought The Age of Innocence was an authority on moral fortitude?"
"You wound me." he pouted at once, "I've since changed my convictions."
"Well, you must wait until we reach the end of this one before you make any snap judgments on this one. Dear sullen Edward and his plane, sweet Jane are a spectacular pairing. You'll see why I chose them when we arrive at the end."
Rosalies tone had taken on that note it always did when she was not to be trifled with, and Red found himself with a compulsive, gleeful itch to trifle as much as he could get away with before she would inevitably hang up on him.
"Well, thus far, the most compelling character is the little French girl." he sighed, grinning when his companion spluttered and squawked with indignation.
"I beg your pardon? Have you completely forgotten about Helen?"
"Helen who?"
"Helen Burns! Jane's best and dearest friend!"
Raymond felt his Adam's apple bob sporadically as he tried to keep his voice even. "She was a doormat."
"She was a darling girl, and I will not hear a word against her!" barked Rosalie, firing up at once.
Ted's voice could be heard calling beyond the door, something about missing drawer pulls and a delivery of lamps.
"Bah!" she grumbled further, rising from her seat to a chorus of fresh amusement from Red's end of the line. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to, you tyrant."
A fresh howl of laughter erupted from Red's chest, drowning out the rest of her tirade as she stepped back out onto the warehouse floor.
Black Site #88 a.k.a 'The Abbey' - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom - April 5, 2001
Dembe rounded the corner of Courbet's 'Le Sommeil', a fresh pot of tea in hand and a wide grin on his lips.
"There's been an update from the tracker." he announced in a sing-song voice, "Baz confirmed it left the Port of Cape Town late last night."
"She's a day early?" said Red, closing his newspaper at once. A high-pitched ding announced the arrival of their guests. He leaned in with a conspiratorial grin, "Did he get a freighter number?"
Dembe set a cuppa on the coffee table, a small missive tucked between cup and saucer.
Raymond snatched it up at once, a delighted laugh erupting from deep in his chest.
"Oh good man, Baz. We've gotta get him laid or send him to a white sandy beach somewhere. Is he angling for a raise? Whatever he wants he can have it."
Their planning for Baz's boon was crudely interrupted by a gaggle of bodies pouring out of the Abbey's underground elevator.
"Out!" snarled a grating voice, "Out of my way! I must see Reddington at once!"
The fugitives rose in tandem, weapons drawn, and whipped in the direction of the would-be intruder.
The Shutterbug stood before them on two knobby legs, covered head to toe in soot, his blackened hands clinging to a small, fireproof box.
"Wotcher!" bellowed Skip, glaring at the back of the man's head and gently escorting an increasingly pregnant-looking Agent Knightley from the elevator.
"What happened?" asked Red, stowing his weapon and gesturing for the agents to take a seat.
Ezra looped around the couch, he too was glowering at the intruder. "Bugger nearly bowled us all over jumping into the-"
"Not you." Raymond barked, closing the distance between himself and the Shutterbug. "Peter, what happened? I thought you were following Reinhardt?"
"I was." said Peter, gesturing feebly to the half-charred camera at his hip. "He went back to his office. I don't know why- I don't know how-"
"What. Happened?"
Peter looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes. "He's gone. Someone must have been waiting for him to return. The whole place went up in flames seconds after he stepped inside!"
Dembe rushed to a side cabinet adjacent to the sitting room, pressing a series of hidden buttons.
A slender television emerged from an opening in the cabinet's top, its screen already alight with the local news, decrying a four-alarm fire in Knightsbridge which local firefighters had been battling since early that morning. Only one casualty had been confirmed.
Red began to pace, his tongue prodding irritably at the inside of his cheek. "Did you see anyone?" he snarled, the sudden outburst making Peter flinch.
"No." he said, "Nobody in or out. I ran in once the initial explosion subsided, but his body was already sprawled in the hallway. There wasn't much left of him, but my guess is he'd been trying to get you this."
He held up the dirty box, wiping off some of the soot to reveal a piece of tape with Reddington's name on it.
"His hand, or what was left of it, was grasping the handle."
Dembe took the box from him and rushed to the Abbey's study with his lockpicking kit already in hand.
Peter and Red were on his heels, the latter waving the Feds away as they tried to follow.
He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat as they passed into study and laid it flat on the desktop, protecting the antique leather blotter from the blackened residue.
Setting the box in the center of the square, Dembe pulled a few tools from his kit and set to work.
The air in the alcove felt seven layers thick, its weight sliced in two by the occasional click of metal on metal. The lid popped in a matter of seconds, and three sets of hands surged forward to rip it open.
The contents within were scarce. Three slips of paper and a small flash drive were all that could be seen.
Raymond took it all, prodding and pressing at the interior in search of a false bottom. Nothing gave way. His attention turned back to the box's contents. Unfolding the slips of paper he found two transaction confirmations and a client intake form.
"We were right." Dembe murmured, his head poised over Red's shoulder. "Reinhardt processed the payment for the Dead Man's Hand."
"No."
Red's finger traced the page, passing by the engaged parties to rest instead upon the name of the intermediary Basír used to enlist the elusive assassins guild. "The Conscriptor." he tapped an underlined name, "He's the man we need to find."
"I've never heard of this Conscriptor." Dembe took the sheet, a deep-set scowl marring his face. "What does he do?"
"He's an enlister of sorts. You wouldn't have occasion to meet." Red unfolded the next sheet. "I've avoided the man at all cost these ten years…Now, I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to step in the line of fire. Ah!"
He waved the next sheet in front of Dembe's face. "A payment to the Jailbreaker. Rodney said Basír had reached out to transfer his extraction retainer to someone else. We thought it was for the their associate, but…look."
The bottom of the page noted four potential locations for the extraction to take place. Each made a cold, terrible weight settle in Red's stomach.
Porto-Vecchio
Ajaccio
Bastia
Marseille
"Those are Corsican strongholds." tutted Dembe, "It cannot be a coincidence."
"No." Raymond turned over the sheet of paper, having seen the shadow of Reinhardt's pen beyond.
The former craned his neck. "What is that?"
"Reinhardt jotted down what few descriptors he could remember…"
170-180 cm tall, moderate build, brown hair, green eyes, short goatee. Haughty. 'C' Tattoo on middle finger. Answered to 'Caïd'.
Raymond shook his head. "Something's rotten in Le Milieu, and until we know who's in play, we can't show our hand."
Dembe grimaced at the description. "Who among the Corsicans would have the gall to masquerade as Le Caïd?"
A scrutinizing look was leveled his way as Raymond's patience wore thin. "Dembe, you know precisely who this looks like."
"Cedric has never exhibited any desire to rule the Corsicans."
"Yet." Red snarled, "We have definitive evidence that one of the associates is a Corsican, and they match Cedric's description to a T."
He turned to the Shutterbug, who flinched slightly at being back at the center of attention.
"I have a new target for you, Peter. Cedric Durant. He's Florian Armel's dedicated consigliere."
"I'm on it." Peter stammered, then held up the charred remains of his DSLR. "Just gotta replace the cam."
Raymond nodded. "Expense whatever you need, I want you in Ajaccio by tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes sir, Mr. Reddington."
"You'll need to be extremely careful." he was advised, "Durant is clever and lethal. So are his men. They'll always be expecting something, so don't do anything expected. Mr. Kaplan will provide a dossier."
Peter gave a jerky nod and bolted from the room.
"Raymond."
Dembe was slouched against the desk, his face set in a disapproving frown.
Red threw up his hands. "I know your stance on Cedric," he sighed, "But, I can't keep ignoring my instincts on this. The description is him. There's no other Corsican with intimate knowledge of Rosalie's operations. None have the access he has, or the potential. If Peter finds him a saint, I'll be the first to apologize. but until we know exactly which Corsican is stepping out of bounds, Cedric Durant is the prime suspect."
He stormed back into the hall, nearly bowling over the three agents feigning innocence a few feet from the study's threshold. He sighed and jerked his thumb toward the dining room.
They followed sedately, Dembe bringing up the rear.
"Alright," Red groused, "I've got an update on the Dead Man's Hand, but first tell me where the team is on Øllegaard. Where's our girl?"
"Our intelligence has her in the Port of Dakar." Ezra pulled up an interactive map, showing the freighter's progress from South Africa to Senegal.
"We cross-checked with the freighter number you left on the coffee table." said Emma, "The ship never got further than thirty miles from the coast."
"Good girl," Red murmured under his breath.
The map showed the ship's route followed closely to the continent's shoreline, not venturing more than twenty miles from land at any point.
"It was a test." Dembe too was staring at the screen, his tone approving. "A controlled experiment before the Atlantic crossing. Smart."
Skip pulled out a handful of satellite photos showing a slight figure flanked by two bodyguards standing beside a crimson shipping container. "She boarded the shipping container again this afternoon."
The photos transitioned from Rosalie bidding farewell to Ted and Horace, to her carefully crossing a plank bridge to enter the container, then the doors closing behind her.
"Freighters take a little less than a week to make that crossing." said Red, "As long as they don't bank left and make for Cape Horn, we should be intercepting her in Peru around the thirteenth."
Undisclosed Location - April 5th, 2001
'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you – especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land some broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, – you'd forget me.'
"Mmm…keep reading."
It was late, and the soft rocking of the ship had Rosalie in serious danger of falling asleep.
In truth, she was looking forward to a little over a week of relative peace and quiet away from her guard and the demands of her network. The fortunate speed with which
Raymond chuckled aloud. "Don't you have some construction work to be tending to?"
"We're right on schedule to miss the boat tomorrow," she fibbed with ease, "My being there and hounding them won't make the team move any faster."
This seemed to amuse him greatly.
"I suppose it's too early for you to be the one eating crow?"
"I wouldn't count your chickens just yet, Mr. Reddington. I have another twelve hours to prove you wrong." Rosalie worked very hard to keep the grin from her voice as the ship pitched once more. She knew that he knew exactly where she was, but keeping such knowledge from him was paramount to her dastardly plan.
"Hmmm..." he sighed, "If I'm to read another chapter, I think we ought to revisit our terms."
"Agh, I knew it was going to be the Brönte that pushed you over the edge."
Red laughed. "C'mon, what do I get when I catch you?"
"If you catch me," she corrected, "-and don't you want it to be a surprise?"
"I'd rather an incentive."
Rosalie hesitated. "Are you tired of the chase, my love?"
"Not in the slightest." he assured, "I do, however, miss you dearly."
"I miss you too."
The ship's bow dipped down, the rumble of waves rippling through the metal hull.
"What was that?"
"Thunder." she lied.
"Really?...It's not the rainy season in South Africa."
His tone was sly, but Rosalie played it off. "Just a passing storm heading for the mountains."
"Ah."
Raymond was normally so verbose, it nearly made Rosalie snort with laughter at how hard he was working to keep his mouth shut and hide that he knew her location.
"So humor me," she helpfully changed the subject, "What comes next? What's your plan for when you pin me down?"
He chuckled, taking the opportunity at once. "Other than whisking you off to some secluded hideaway where I can have my way with you?...I can think of a few things."
Undisclosed Location - April 9th, 2001
Away from the boys, she could simply sit and think. Aside from the occasional call checking in on the progress of the King properties, she was left to ponder the full width and breadth of what they were facing.
Intelligence had run dry in the past month. Both she and Raymond were confident their quarry was on the move, but now missteps had been made to flag their location or what they were up to.
The small dining table was littered with all the intel they'd gathered on the German, Basír, and the third associate. Now there was a supposed associate in France. Entirely too coincidental, Rosalie knew. There was a traitor in her father's house, of that much they could be certain.
'Not Cedric.' her mind insisted at once, 'Never Cedric.'
No, Cedric would never do such a thing. However, she could not deny he and Florian were the only Corsicans with access to her comings and goings.
"Someone close to them." she murmured, jotting down the names of their security, drivers, and valets. She'd known these men for years. Most of them had been there since before she was taken in by the Armels. Could she sincerely believe it of any of them?
Florian's guidance during her early years repeated the familiar mantra: Trust no one, mon trésor, not even Le Milieu.
Rosalie had reached the impasse. There were no other leads to pursue. The men close to Cedric and Florian, The Corsair, and The Moniker, they were all that was left.
Her copy of Jane Eyre sat out, open to the page they'd finished the night before. The topmost line leapt out, calling to her.
'I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.'
Raymond may call her little dove, but Rosalie thought to herself the moniker had little to do with her personality. Chat de l'enfer was what Florian had always called her, and infinitely more accurate. Their options were limited, certainly, but she was not yet cornered. There was still a way forward, should she be brave enough to take it.
Gone was the time where Rosalie could cling to the best of people. There was a snake in their midst, and she could no longer afford to dole out excuses for those she believed incapable of such treachery.
Sorting the intel again, she focused on the early days when Howard Bukowski had brought the German and his comrades to their attention. They were missing something. She was missing something.
A wine glass nearly toppled in her vigor, and Rosalie snatched it just in time to spill a drop on their book.
"Dammit..."
She blotted the crimson droplet with a napkin, frowning when it smudged a little at the bottom of the page.
'I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion.'
Raymond's question the other night, about what happened next, had gone quietly unanswered. In truth, Rosalie hadn't had an answer for him at the time.
What she wanted, or rather, needed...was simply him.
Rosalie realized a little too late that it no longer mattered, what that future looked like. As long as it was the two of them, she was content to let life unfold at its own will and in its own time. She wanted their life together, come what may, and once this mess with King was finished, she would return to his arms and never leave again.
The list of suspects shone up at her, guiding the way.
Trust no one. Her gut whispered.
"No one, but Raymond." she amended, and signed the slip of paper with a flourish.
None but you.
-R
Black Site #88 a.k.a 'The Abbey' - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom - April 13th, 2001
The deal in Jaipur had gone swimmingly. A new illicit transport route was to be opened up between the city and the quiet port of Surat, where Raymond had just leased a bank of warehouses for shipping and storing contraband. It had been a while since he'd had uninterrupted time to tend to his empire, and this major success would allow him to coast for a while longer while they continued to seek out the German. Dembe was to leave the following morning to bring the Moniker, and once they had him in hand, they would have another avenue of pursuit. Cap it all with the knowledge that Rosalie was en route to Bolivia, blissfully unaware a certain fugitive was tracking her every move, and Raymond was positively insufferably pleased.
"We've got a ping on the tracker."
Dembe stood in the doorway with a folder in hand and Emma Knightley at his shoulder.
Raymond halted with a trio of hangers in hand, a smug smile for the pair of them. "Where?"
"Off the western coast of South America." said Emma, "The tracker just passed into the Pacific."
"She went through Panama…" he slipped the hangers into the garment bag and zipped it shut. "Interesting."
Dembe stepped into the room with a stack of shipping charts and fanned them out on the bedspread, pulling the vessel ledgers which had been slated to go through the port of Panama that morning. He scanned the remaining pages for one whose port of origin lay in Senegal as Knightley continued to relay what intel they had.
"We can see the shipping container on the satellite footage," she was saying, "It's right on top, in the center-most stack."
"What color is the freighter?' said Dembe, pausing with a ledger in each hand.
"Erm…" she rifled through the folder she'd brought and pulled out a large photograph, "Green."
Dembe took the photo, passing it and the paper in his left hand to Raymond, who scanned the intel with a grin. The freighter was due to unload the following morning in Peru.
He rolled up the intel, turned back to Dembe and tapped his shoulders as though he were knighting him. "That tracker was a stroke of genius, my friend. Have Edward ready the jet for a long-haul flight."
"What about Iceland?" Dembe asked covertly.
"Airam will have to wait." said Red, "With any luck, she can join us for the flight."
He turned back to Agent Knightley, that same insufferable grin on his face. "Would the DC6 like to join us on the the flight to Cochabamba, or get their ducks in a row for the siege on the Brothers Sionnach?"
Undisclosed Location - South America - April 14, 2001
'I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you. You are my sympathy–my better self–my good angel–I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wrap my existence about you–and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.'
"We cannot start another chapter, Ray."
Rosalie's go bag was ready at the entrance to the shipping container. She was seated atop the writer's desk, feet dangling lazily in the air.
"Why not? We're very near the end. You can't possibly have anything else to do in that sardine can of yours."
"There's eleven chapters yet...and how did you know I'm in the container?"
"King mentioned he was being moved in two days," Red replied with ease, "I merely assumed that meant you were en route."
"Hmmm..." she pretended to grumble, "I'll have to talk to him about running his mouth. At least he doesn't know which port we're taking."
"There's only so many, little dove."
His tone was unbearably smug. She told him as much.
"I told you I'd be hot on your heels."
The container's movement came to a sudden stop. Rosalie smiled. "I have to go now, I'm afraid."
"See you soon, then."
"Not too soon, I expect..." she hopped off the desk and slung her bag onto her shoulder.
Red hid his amusement admirably. "Sooner than you think, I bet."
Rosalie grinned when the latch on the container flipped. She slipped a pair of sunglasses over her eyes, a smirk toying at her lips as the metal doors swung open. Hot, humid air rushed into the container's cool depths, followed by golden, glorious sunlight.
Port of Arica Shipyard - Arica, Chile
Raymond snapped the burner shut with a grin and flung the container's doors wide.
He froze as the contents therein came pouring out. Bright spheres of red, yellow, green, and blue tumbled out, light as feathers, and soared into the sky.
A loud, full belly laugh issued from behind him. Dembe was utterly beside himself, cackling with glee as dozens upon dozens of colorful balloons tumbled in the air around them.
"No..." Red groaned, chuckling to himself when one of the dirigibles bounced off his forehead. "Dembe, Skip! Get in here and help we with this."
Dembe and Skip scrambled up onto the flatbed where the container was perched, both laughing uproariously as they helped remove the mass of balloons.
It took ten minutes and a seemingly endless chorus of squeaking rubber and laughing voices, but the space was at last empty. Raymond was left standing in the center of what, to the untrained eye, looked like a smartly appointed studio apartment.
The layout was slightly different than the one he'd seen in Rosalie's warehouse in Tillbury. This one had recessed ceilings and a sizable writer's desk at the front. The kitchenette had been moved up and into the center of the container, the living space extending beyond it.
Raymond stared open-mouthed as he walked through.
It was gorgeous. The walls were a satiny, candy apple red, one of which held a massive nautical map of the same color. It overlooked the leather sectional they'd canoodled on at the warehouse, which he noted had entirely taken the place of the Murphy bed.
The cabinets were stained in a rich, dark walnut that made the whole space feel warm. Their edges were soft and rounded, a difficult feat even for the best of carpenters. An impressive stereo system was setup on the right hand side, a healthy selection of records and books already perched on the shelves above. The wine fridge below was stocked; as was the liquor cabinet. Paintings and sketches dotted the walls. Traveler's trinkets and ornate pottery rested in illuminated cases.
It felt welcoming. Safe.
Like a home.
"Good lord..." Red's feet carried him into the kitchenette. Titanium glassware sparkled down at him, reflecting light from the generous chandelier above. Everything was open, yet held safely in place by polished nickel rails. The fridge and freezer were well-stocked. A rather futuristic beverage machine had been built into the cabinet's face for the occupants' convenience.
"Is that a dishwasher?"
Dembe had followed him inside, eyes wide and undeniably impressed.
"My god, it is..." said Red, pulling the silver drawer out to see there was indeed a small dishwasher within. "She must've found a way to connect the utilities container after all. What does the back look like?"
They hurriedly circled the kitchenette to find the bedroom and adjoining bath. The sideboard of a queen bed rested against the back of the kitchenette wall, its ample white linens looking as if they'd been pressed that very morning. Built-in shelving allowed for a pair of lamps and various storage at either end.
Sconces provided a serene source of indirect light and flanked the small ensuite which occupied the back end of the container. A singular narrow vanity stood in its center, the commode and an open shower taking up its opposite sides. The tile was a bright, creamy white, and the floor covered in a warm, slatted teak that gave the air of a spa. A faux-window shone light into the room, glimmering off a few glass jars bearing eucalyptus leaves and shimmering bath products.
Skip stood at the entry to the kitchen and gave a low whistle. "You know, when you said she was sneaking into Bolivia via shipping container, I'd thought we'd find a raggedy blonde sitting atop a tin can, but this? This is absolutely cracking."
The burner jangled once more, and Raymond waved the pair away as he answered it.
"Alright," he sighed, "I'll admit, you got me good on this one."
Rosalie tittered delightedly, her warm voice working to smooth away any disappointment he'd had at being outpaced once again.
"Happy Birthday, Mr. Holman."
Red froze. "Birthday?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out Steve Holman's passport. Sure enough, that day's date sat at the top of the document. "Is…" he hesitated to even ask, "Is this for me?"
"It's a thank-you." Rosalie explained, "For humoring me with this little charade. I'm sure there are plenty other matters you could be tending to, and instead you're chasing me all over kingdom come. I've been thinking about how to shown my appreciation...When I found that tracker you put on the container, I realized you'd given me the perfect opportunity to express my gratitude and give you the slip once more."
"I don't now what to say...
"Park it somewhere you often have trouble," she suggested, a shrug in her voice, "That way, you'll never be without an exit strategy. Especially when I'm not there."
"Rosalie-" Raymond peered around the container, passport still in hand, still completely awestruck. "This would be a game-changer for your network. I don't require any thanks, don't you think you should keep it?"
Rosalie laughed. "I'm keeping the one I built to get Earl. This one's all yours, love."
This managed to snap Red out of his stupor. "You built two of these things in a week?"
"That'll be the last time you second-guess my team, won't it, Mr. Reddington?"
"You'll be lucky if I don't poach them right out from under you...You did this in a week?"
"Technically, it was ten days." she confessed, "And I will be counting my contractors to ensure none of them go missing. I had the containers in Tillbury shipped to Cape Town, and we used the prototype to complete Earl's container; yours has bit more creature comforts than the one he's currently occupying. Did you see they make dishwashers the size of drawers now? Who'd have thought…"
"Speaking of the old boy, where is Earl? That lying powderpuff told me you weren't getting him until two days from now."
Another laugh reached his ears.
"So he thought. I couldn't risk you finding out I'd uncovered your dastardly plans. I had my men smuggle him out of the safe house at dawn and confiscate his electronics to keep you at bay."
"You little tyrant. How'd you sneak out of the container in Dakar, then?" he pressed with delight, now eager to know all the ways the clever little minx had out-maneuvered him.
"The container has a hatch in the back that, when connected to its counterpart, leads to the facilities container. This is where the grey water, solar batteries, fresh water, and propane are all stored. Your man was so focused on ensuring the main container was loaded with me in it, he didn't even see me slip out of the one below it."
"Dammit," he sighed, "That was lucky."
"Well, I hope this little addition to your operations makes up for it?"
Raymond could hear the trepidation in her voice.
"Little dove," he whispered, "This is far from a consolation prize. Do you know how often I could've used something like this in the last year alone?"
Rosalie breathed a sigh of relief. "You really like it, then?"
"I love it. It's incredible." Red made his way toward the front of the container, taking in the nuances of the space once more. Sika Boateng stood outside between Dembe and Skip, glowering up into the container and muttering under her breath.
"The Feds aren't going to be happy..."
"Ah well," said Rosalie, flippantly. "They'll get me soon enough."
"You aren't the one who has to fly back with them."
Rosalie's tone turned sly. "You could just sneak off?"
"How?"
He could practically hear those hands land squarely on her hips, a glower reaching all the way to her eyes.
"My sweet, handsome idiot...Did I not just give you the most luxurious, magnificent escape pod for your own personal use?"
Red gave a snort of amusement, then shot Dembe a mischievous wink. The younger man returned a look of distinct wariness.
"Alright then, you glorious little tyrant, how do I close these doors before they can stop me?"
Port of Matarani - Matarani, Peru - April 14, 2001
The ship had been out to sea for only a few hours when it stopped to port. The freighter spent an hour loading and unloading, and had just pulled back out into open water when a knock sounded on the container's metal door. Red froze beside the record player. His gun was in hand within seconds, and he prodded the controls above the desk to see who was intruding. Perhaps a ship worker had noticed something amiss or-
A head of blonde hair peered back at him, holding a bottle of wine up to the camera as incentive.
"How in the world...?"
He tapped the keypad once more. The doors swung open to reveal Rosalie, once again grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"How's my favorite sardine doing?" she teased, setting the wine on the nearest surface and slipping into his arms.
"Enjoying a well-deserved cruise in the Cadillac of tin cans." he replied, touching her cheek.
"Feeling a new-found appreciation for your favorite caviar, are we?"
This brought a full-on belly laugh to his throat. "You've been quite the mischievous miscreant today. Whatever am I going to do with you?"
Rosalie beamed cheekily up at him. "I can think of a few things..."
"I'm sure you can." Red closed the doors, shutting out the last shocks of dusk. "We've got a fair few hours before we're expected in Panama...Where would you like to start?"
Her face turned suddenly turned both shy and serious.
"What is it, little dove?"
She sucked in a slow breath. "I'd like to answer your question, about what happens next...If you're up for it? I thought now, away from prying eyes and ears, would be an opportune time to talk about us."
A thrill tore through Red's chest.
"Us." he repeated with delight, "I like the sound of that."
Raymond and Rosalie's Pied-a-Terre - Place des Voges, Paris, France - April 16, 2001
Rosalie stepped into the old elevator with a contented sigh.
It had taken much back and forth between herself and her guard to cajole them into letting her leave the townhouse unattended. In the end, she fibbed and implied she was meeting Raymond elsewhere. Though Horace had quietly seethed at this, Ted had readily acquiesced, and she'd been on her way with them never the wiser.
She'd taken the long way to the Place des Voges, checking every few blocks to ensure she wasn't being followed. It took an extra half-hour, but Rosalie slipped into the depths of Le Pavillon de la Reine unnoticed and was currently riding the antique elevator to the top floor in a matter of seconds.
Her arrival was announced with a soft ding, and she beamed at seeing the familiar red door with its shining brass knob.
The key slipped into the lock with ease, turning over and opening the entry to the dark apartment within. Rosalie flipped the nearby switch, setting the foyer and long hall alight with a warm glow.
Everything was as she remembered, soft and warm and inviting.
Rosalie locked the door behind her and wandered deeper into their home. Her coat was tossed on an armchair when she reached the bedroom, flopping down amongst the plush blankets with a happy sigh.
Her burner jingled from her jeans pocket. She fished it out and flipped it open.
"You're not in Mauritania."
A renewed smile plucked at her lips. "I'm not?" she did her best to affect a guileless air, "Well, wherever could I be?"
Raymond's playful voice carried smoothly over the line.
"My property manager informed me you crossed the threshold of the Place des Voges mere moments ago."
"I hope you and your little band of doorkickers aren't already over the Sahara."
"You may very well be surprised to hear I didn't take the bait this time, despite the eagerness of my doorkickers."
"Oh really?" she sat up, rather surprised, "What gave me away?"
"The locale." he murmured, "You hate Mauritania."
Rosalie flopped back onto the bed. "Hate is a rather strong word…"
"The last time we were in Nouakchott you said you nearly cut the gas line on our way out."
"…I'm still considering it."
"If you destroy that perfect little oasis among the sands," Red warned, "I'll be quite cross."
"You hate sand." she challenged.
"I do, but I've some rather fond memories of you and I in that plunge pool I'd like to revisit some day soon."
She tittered at this. "I'll leave the pool intact, then." A quick glance at the clock reminded her of a more pressing matter, "Do we have any rope in the apartment?"
"In the coat closet." he replied, perfectly unfazed. "There should be a box of questionable items near the back on the top shelf."
Rosalie went downstairs and dug around for the box in question, knocking the lid sideways the moment her fingers found it.
"Tying up another one of your lovers?" Raymond asked, conversationally. She scoffed.
"Setting a trap for a scoundrel, more like."
"Oh?"
"Mhm…I'll have my wicked way with him, yet."
"Lucky man."
"D'you think I can coax him back across the channel with a promise of pastries?"
"I think you could lure him home with the aforementioned threat of bondage."
This gave Rosalie pause. "Is this the part where I find out you like being tied up?" she asked, slyly.
"I'm a man of adventurous tastes."
"*Raymond Reddington…*Duly noted."
Raymond laughed and wisely changed the subject. "Still no dice on the Coursair, I take it?"
"None." she sighed, a little dejected. "My people tracked him to an apartment in Paris, but I'm not holding out hope it'll amount to anything."
"Hopeful enough for a rope." He noted, in an effort to cheer her up.
"I need some way to get into the apartment, and I can't very well go through the front door. The building has a fire escape on the south side that'll bring me to one of the windows."
"Wait for cover of darkness," she was advised gently, "Wear those rubber-soled boots you left in the foyer last month, not those riding ones you have in the closet."
Rosalie smiled softly to herself.
"Any other words of wisdom, my love?"
He paused, then added, "Take your time, if you manage to find him. You might find a scoundrel in your bed if you negotiate long enough."
They both laughed.
Ankara, Türkiye - April 15th, 2001
Red pocketed his burner at the threshold of the quiet bazaar, glancing at his watch to find it was half-past eleven.
Dembe was already resting against the stack of crates beside the entry, eyes drooping with fatigue. It had been a long flight after an especially long day, and they were far from being done.
"They're late; what do you say we go grab a Turkish coffee in the meantime?"
His companion nodded, and they rounded the corner to a small trio of food carts still open despite the late hour. They purchased a few pieces of baklava and two paper cups filled with steaming coffee from a cart bearing a stove and a single copper pot with a long brass handle.
"How you can drink that unfiltered brew is beyond me!"
Red paid for their fare with a roll of his eyes, adding another twenty as penance for the ear-splitting interruption.
"Brimley." he said, turning around and taking a sip of the piping hot liquid.
It was wonderfully smooth. Dembe cradled his cup in both hands, savoring the warmth and aroma as well as the taste.
Raymond broke up the baklava, insisting the younger man eat a little before they went on their way. The drink and sweets fortified them, and a moment later, he waved for Brimley and Baz to follow them into the quiet of the bazaar.
"Mister Kaplan said Rosie's got a supplier dealing out the back?" the former bellowed, waddling along with inhaler in hand.
Red held a finger over his lips as they rounded the corner, willing the man to be quiet.
Baz shook his head amusedly, dragging Brimley's cart of chaos along behind him.
"The breach to Rosalie's comms service is unprecedented." he explained, keeping his voice low, "Both she and Red have used Hermes in the past; this creates a big problem."
"Who's Herman again?" barked Ted, earning a loud shush.
"Hermes," corrected Dembe, "He is one of the longest standing communications peddlers in the underground."
"-and the oldest." Raymond added, turning back to Brimley when they were a few feet from the tapestries marking the entrance to Hermes' shop. "In other words, take it easy, we can't afford to kill him."
Brimley gave a curt salute, and waited to be called inside.
Red turned on his heel, head tilted at the entrance before grasping the tapestries and flinging them wide.
"Hermes!"
The portly man behind the workbench turned as white as a sheet when the towering fugitive came sweeping into the shop without warning.
Raymond kicked the seat of the nearest chair, sending it skidding along the stone tile to come to a stop mere inches from where Hermes sat. He crossed the room in a few short strides, righted the chair, and sat, one leg crossed over the other.
"Call your associate; I require a word."
Second Arrondissement, Paris, France
Rosalie was traversing the streets of Paris thirty minutes later, making her way toward the Haussmanien urban blocks of the second arrondissement.
Her intel led her to a wedge-shaped building in the Bourse area, its brick and limestone sides completely overrun with climbing ivy speckled with spring's first white blooms.
A small cherry blossom tree stood at the point of the apartment building, its falling petals creating a fragrant carpet for her to quietly tread as Rosalie counted the windows to the correct unit. She could have cheered at finding the little wrought-iron balcony ablaze with light.
In the alleyway behind the building, a fire escape hung suspended just out of reach. Rosalie looked around its base, finding a loose brick beside the nearby dumpster which she picked up and cinched the rope around twice.
She lobbed the projectile into the air, and it went soaring through the ladder's bottom rung, the length of rope streaking behind it.
Rosalie held tight to the end of the cord and ducked. Once the brick stopped careening wildly through the air, she caught it and tugged to bring the ladder rocketing down.
Grabbing onto the lone spots not covered in rust, she made her way up to the landing and onto the first set of stairs.
There was a stitch in her side by the time Rosalie reached the seventh floor, but she kept her breaths soft and slow so as not to be overheard. The lights in the unit were still shining brightly, and the sounds of a spinning record floated out of the far window, which had been left ajar.
Rosalie flattened herself to the ivy, taking a cautious inventory of the nearby rooftops, all of which were deserted. She crouched low, bent her head to the open window, and listened.
No voices could be heard within, no sounds of movement, no low voice humming.
A huff of annoyance left her lips. It was quite possible she'd narrowly missed him. All the same, it'd be a shame to have gone thus far without at least checking.
When her knees began to ache and still no noise had been heard, Rosalie's fingers curled under the edge of the pane and slowly lifted.
The ancient window begrudged every movement, and needed a great deal of careful coaxing to rise without squeaking.
Rosalie's heart pounded hard in her chest when the opening looked wide enough for her to squeeze through. Flattening herself to the sill, she poked her head inside.
A large camel-backed sofa in rich purple velvet was butted against the bank of windows where she lurked. The apartment was a Victorian number, rather heavy-handed in its colors and overly-sumptuous. Burnished brass glowed among mahogany furniture and intricate textiles in a variety of colors.
The room itself was empty. Even in the deep recesses of the apartment, there were no movements or noises to be heard. What little hope Rosalie had held out that the Corsair was still within dwindled rapidly.
Thinking there was nothing for it, she grasped the edge of the sofa and hoisted herself inside.
Black Site #88 "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom
Kate Kaplan stood in the pantry of the Abbey's kitchen, preparing a small pot of decaf coffee to go along with the madeleines the property manager had delivered from the nearby patisserie.
With Raymond and Dembe in Ankara, she had been granted the entire safe house to herself, a feat of which she had been taking every advantage since they left that morning.
The coffee maker had just finished its cycle when her pocket vibrated.
"Naturally." she grumbled, fishing inside the terry robe and pulling out her burner.
"You've got three minutes before my coffee cools, after that the three of you are on your own-"
"Hello?"
Kaplan froze. "Rosalie?"
"Kate! Thank god it's you."
The exclamation came in a cautious whisper.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, concern mounting when she glanced at the clock to find it was nearly midnight.
"No." said Rosalie, her voice catching on a stuttered breath, "Kate…I need your help. I need you to come to Paris, as quickly as you can."
A/N: Don't worry, you'll see the shipping container scenes in a later chapter ;)
Preview: Chapter 49 - The Moniker
"Well, well, well...So, my brother managed to find you after all."
The figure of Samuel Earl King loomed over her, as tall and imposing as his younger brother yet somehow with less tenacity. He looked weary, stretched too thin for far too long. Rosalie actually felt a pang of pity when she met his watery gaze.
"He did. I'm sorry you lost the wager."
Samuel arched a haughty brow in her direction. "There are no lines in acquisition, as my father likes to say. It was my fault for not thinking to snoop through our baby brother's belongings before Thomas could get to them."
"You were grieving," Rosalie reminded, a bit disconcerted, "Perhaps it's less a testament to your ambition, and more a rebuke to your brother's character that his first thought was to go and pilfer through Francis' things."
A smile met this. Small, stilted, even a little sad, but a genuine smile nonetheless.
