Reddington woke to an odd, repetitive beeping sound.

He wished it would stop, his head was heavy and positively throbbing. Each resounding beep felt like an ice pick to his brain.

It occurred to Red that he very well might be dead.

Though, he couldn't say he truly felt like an opium pipe…and he certainly wasn't high.

He lay there, quietly attempting to piece together the execution and what followed.

The warden had come to fetch him with four guards in tow. They walked him down a long hallway and into the execution chamber. Two guards strapped him into the bed...'Then what?'

Red's brow creased in concentration. He could hear the warden reading a canned speech about his sentence, asking him if he had any last words.

He remembered two nurses setting up his IV's, a third wearing a surgical mask, came and taped his fist around a thick cylinder of gauze.

Raymond recalled the third woman quite fondly.

Normally, he would go out of his way to be charming and flirt with such a woman. She had looked like a fox in her scrubs, had cradled his hand so gently in her own.

And her eyes...

He had been caught off-guard by the color of her eyes.

With an internal groan, Raymond recalled besottedly mentioning his wife's eyes had been of the same hue.

A pang of disappointment hit his stomach at the thought.

Red had been secretly looking forward to the possibility of seeing his wife again, of finally finding out the truth of what happened all those years ago.

Yet he had never truly believed in the great fluffy-clouded, cherub-filled utopia in the sky. Even if there was one, he doubted his criminal record would permit him entry.

He nearly chuckled, though, as he considered his wife's rap sheet. Had anyone known of her existence, she would have been just as notorious as he. The woman had been a co-conspirator in most of his shenanigans since 1998, of which she readily reminded him whenever his back became bowed beneath the weight of his empire.

Raymond's lips twitched at the lovely memory.

'Honestly, Raymond, we're both going to hell. The hand basket is a two-seater.'

'In the likely event we part this world at different times? What then, my dear?'

'I'll wait for you, darling.'

He could still hear the smile in her voice, could feel the brush of her lips on his as she uttered that promise.

It seemed he would once again have to bide his time.

Red vaguely registered a soft rustling noise to his left. Perhaps it was Dembe?

Dembe.

Raymond couldn't remember much else from the execution, but he could clearly recall Dembe and Lizzie's faces staring from within the viewing room. The look in Lizzie's eyes had been torture. Dembe, at least, maintained his usual placid demeanor.

It would have been even more miserable if they had both been staring with that same helpless gaze. He wondered if they knew where he was, what happened to him.

Lizzie had told him she loved him that night, when she thought he was going to die.

Raymond did not usually take stock in dying declarations, they were often pretty lies told in the emotion of the moment. That being said, Lizzie's was not a declaration Red had ever thought he'd hear from her, not after bringing her so much pain and frustration.

His appearance in her life had been unavoidable, she was and continued to be in grave danger and he desperately needed answers. Red had told himself there was no other way.

He deeply regretted that when they'd finally met it had been under such dire circumstances… It wasn't supposed to have been that way.

Raymond was supposed to have come along once the dust had settled and the rubble cleared from his battle with the Cabal and those associated with the issue of Katarina Rostova. He was supposed to arrive on the wings of answers to every question Elizabeth had ever asked about herself.

Instead, he arrived hot on the heels of desperation and revenge, with the war he'd instigated having hardly begun.

Yet Lizzie had said she loved him.

Despite Red's misgivings about her being the one to turn him in, he couldn't deny he had taken some solace in the idea that, after all this time, after all this suffering, they had reached some kind of truce.

The small ruffling noise issued again from the left side of the bed, drawing him from his thoughts.

Behind his eyelids, Red could sense the pink and gold rays of sunshine radiating from somewhere in front of him. It was early morning, he deduced, still not opening his eyes.

He had died once or twice before, and this scenario did not conform to his previous glimpses into the beyond.

Raymond twitched his fingers and toes, testing to see if he could still feel anything. He was surprised to find his limbs were all intact and functional. The twitching, however, seemed to cause a bit of a commotion.

He heard a voice on his left gasp, then the scraping of a chair, light footsteps, and a door closing. The breeze that drifted to him from the open door carried the scent of wet earth and something vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

Raymond's mind conjured an echo of an equally familiar voice calling for Dembe.

"He can't hear you," he reminded out of sheer habit. The gravel in his voice made the sentence gruff and barely intelligible even to his own ears.

"Where the hell am I?"

Recognizing he now had a finite window of time to assess his situation, Red opened his eyes.

The bright morning sun made it difficult to see at first. His hand came heavily up to shield his eyes as they adjusted to the abrupt change.

A bedroom emerged from the blinding light as he blearily took in his surroundings.

Dark beams ran the length and width of the ceiling, connecting to walls dressed in a clean white shiplap. The sun was glaring through three large floor-to-ceiling panels of center-pivot windows taking up the majority of the wall facing the bed. A few of the panes had been tilted outward to tempt a light breeze which gently rustled the curtains.

The huge bed he lay in was soft and warm. Red saw he was covered by crisp white sheets and a sage green cotton blanket, the muted taupe comforter was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

He noticed the newly vacated wooden chair beside the bed held a tattered copy of 'The Age of Innocence.' He couldn't help but smile at the sight. Edith Wharton was not usually Dembe's author of choice.

The infernal beeping noise continued from a nearby nightstand, on which a heart monitor sat.

He was definitely alive then. If Raymond were dead, there would be no need for its incessant noise. He briefly considered removing the cords from his body, but the sound of another door closing on the floor below gave him pause.

Multiple pairs of heavy footsteps climbed the iron staircase spiraling up to the master suite. Dembe emerged from the opening on Red's right, followed by two medical personnel dressed in scrubs.

"Dembe," he rasped, reaching a hand out to the younger man who immediately took it and gave it a squeeze, leaning to pull him into a bear hug.

Dembe beamed down at his comrade, "It is good to see you well, Raymond."

Red slowly shifted so he was sitting up, "I can't deny I'm baffled as to how I got here." He cleared his throat and took another interested glance at his surroundings. "This is the kind of place she would have come up with."

Dembe carefully avoided the man's gaze, instead taking the seat on his left, setting the abandoned book on the nearby nightstand, turning toward the lead physician and doling out an expectant stare.

"Mr. Reddington, Welcome Back!"

Raymond recognized the man as the head of his code 77 team, causing his head to tilt in curiosity. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but…What happened? My memory is incredibly fuzzy, and frankly, I feel like I've been run over by the entire Naval marching band."

The doctor let out a small chuckle and deferred to Dembe.

"We put a nurse on the inside, Raymond."

Red's brows immediately shot to his hairline, his lips pursing in a tight line, "Why didn't you tell me?"

He didn't begrudge the man what needed to be done, but Raymond wasn't used to being kept out of the loop.

Dembe's face fell apologetically, "I'm sorry, Raymond. We couldn't risk anyone finding out what we were up to. Swapping out a nurse on a high-profile execution such as yours took a great deal of stealth. If someone had breathed even a word of our plan, we would have lost you."

"What did this nurse do?" Raymond's hand moved surreptitiously toward his sternum which was a tad sore.

The secondary physician immediately began his examination, checking Reddington's blood pressure, heart rate, and overall condition.

The lead surgeon responded to his question, "She swapped the lethal injections to one which only temporarily stopped your heart. Once the drug was administered, your team created a diversion, she administered the counteracting injections. Your heart was completely stopped just under 60 seconds. Once we got you on the gurney and ready for extraction, we had a medic supply you with oxygen before starting the autopulse, which provided you with continuous CPR. That's why you'll find there's a bit of tenderness in your chest."

Red nodded curtly, his hand dropping from the place in question where he had admittedly been fidgeting. "How long was I out?"

"We kept you on the autopulse until we reached the highway, approximately ten minutes from the breach. Within another two minutes, your heart was successfully restarted. It has been just over two days since the execution."

Raymond's eyes narrowed. Unfortunately for them, he was well aware of how little time it took to regain consciousness after having one's heart restarted. "Why, pray tell, was I unconscious for two days?"

The second physician piped in, "We needed to ensure you took enough time for your heart to fully recover, so we gave you a…small…um, sedative." The younger man trailed off, blanching when Red gave him a stout, appraising look. They had been warned he would not appreciate that bit of news.

"The- ahem- the good news is your heartbeat is strong, all your vitals look great. You're cleared for most activity, just no sprinting or heavy lifting."

Red gave the man a reprieve from his icy stare, nearly snorting with laughter. "You have my word I won't be jogging circles around this place. Though, I'm sure I'll get to take lots of long, aimless walks to celebrate my new lease on life?"

The lead physician chuckled, "Yes, Mr. Reddington, you will need to take a handful of walks each day for the next few weeks. It's necessary to ensure your cardiac system continues to recover from the restart. Should you need anything or have any issues, we will be in a cabin just down the road."

"Thank you, both of you." Reddington shook hands with both physicians before they excused themselves to head back downstairs and out of the cabin.

Red turned immediately to his companion, "Dembe, where on God's green earth are we?"

"An island off of Georgetown, Maine." Dembe's voice was calm and placating, seeing Red's mind immediately firing into action.

"We've been here two days already, that's too long to be in one spot, especially with the FBI and the CIA and all the other acronyms undoubtedly trying to hunt me down."

Dembe shook his head, placing a firm hand on Red's shoulder when he tried to rise from the bed. "This island is roughly 20 miles from the nearest town and only accessible by boat or seaplane. Nobody knows we are here. It is quite safe."

"Nobody knows? Not even the taskforce?"

Dembe shook his head once more.

Reddington relaxed visibly, grateful that, for now, they seemed to be sheltered. "Who does this place belong to?" He asked, though he was certain he already knew the answer.

"The whole island is run as part of the Citadel's blacksite network."

Raymond sat up a little straighter, taking another furtive glance around the room. "So this was one of her sites…I take it, then, the taskforce found the new Citadel?"

Dembe shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "No, the Citadel found me."

Raymond's eyes crinkled at this, "I set Harold and the whole brigade on the Citadel's trail and you quietly swoop in and do business with him?" He tutted his scorn through an impish grin, "That sounds an awful lot like something I would do."

Dembe looked down at the bed with a wry smile, "It was our only option, Raymond."

"I don't doubt it, and I certainly don't hold it against you. It seems I owe you my life yet again, my friend."

"You owe me nothing, brother." Dembe lifted his gaze, his soulful dark eyes boring into Red, "I would do it a thousand times over to keep you from such a fate."

A heavy silence hung about the room, regularly interrupted by the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

"Can't we shut that damn thing off?" Raymond grumbled, "I'm definitely alive, I doubt it's necessary anymore."

Dembe stood with a dry chuckle and flipped the power switch, effectively silencing the machine.

Red let out a contented sigh at the blissful sound of silence and turned back to his guard and friend. "So, what did the Citadel want in exchange for putting us up in one of their deepest hidey-holes?"

Dembe's mouth tightened minutely, "A meeting with you."

Raymond scoffed aloud, "That can't be all."

His counterpart shrugged, "It was the only stipulation the Citadel had." The younger man could tell Raymond was not appeased by this, finding the whole arrangement a tad fishy. "Everything will be explained in a few short hours," he placated, "We are safe here. Please trust me on this, Raymond."

Red stared intently at Dembe, reading his features. Dembe would tell him if there was any immediate danger. He would recognize it right away and he certainly would have checked the Citadel's motives before hopping in bed together. He could trust Dembe.

Raymond would always trust Dembe.

A smile broke across Reddington's face. "Alright, I'll let it go for now," he added, "Are we going to celebrate my miraculous recovery?"

Dembe perked up at this, "What did you have in mind?"

A soft 'hmm' escaped Reddington's throat as he considered what he wanted. "What I wouldn't give for some beluga caviar and that Russian Plov you two made back in Chicago all those years ago. Oh! And that one honey cake, medovik. Nearly dying once again has me absolutely famished. The last thing I ate was a horrific rendition of cabbage soup and dressed herring and I would gladly sell off various body parts to get that taste out of my mouth."

Dembe nodded with an indulgent smile, "I'll see what I can do about the plov. Breakfast is waiting for you downstairs, it will soothe your craving for caviar at the very least."

Red's expression brightened with boyish delight, wasting no time in rising from the bed. "Son of a bitch," he growled seconds later, the tightness in his back and legs from laying flat for two days making itself known. He moved to remove the IV still attached to his arm when Dembe's voice cut pointedly across him.

"Finish the IV."

A petulant glare was Raymond's only response.

Dembe waved him toward the ensuite, completely unfazed by his the daggers being shot his way. "Go, I'll have breakfast waiting once you're finished. You are supposed to take it easy today."

Eventually, Reddington gave in, snatching the half-full IV bag from its stand and carrying it with him. A low, unintelligible grumble could be heard while he padded stiffly toward the bath, intent on freshening up.

The ensuite was tucked neatly behind the back wall of the master bedroom. The space was clean and inviting, bearing the same wide plank floors as the bedroom, stained in a deep honey color. The same white shiplap covered the walls, stretching the length of the long, narrow room. The light pouring in from small windows up by the ceiling made the room nearly glow with refracted sunbeams.

Red turned left, making a straight line for the loo. After relieving himself, the man shuffled to the narrow porcelain sink and washed his hands. He glanced surreptitiously up into the tall mirror in front of him before splashing a bit of water in his face.

He looked like hell.

Though, Raymond supposed yet another dance with the reaper would do that to any man.

He spared a sidelong look for the pristine glass shower to his right as he dried his face. A long, piping hot shower sounded heavenly. His fingers scratched through the new growth covering his cheeks and chin, the stubble making him instantaneously yearn for a hot towel and a nice, close shave.

His stomach chose that moment to give an almighty growl.

Both would have to wait.

Raymond stepped out of the bath to a most decadent surprise. A small table and two chairs had been brought up, the former bearing a tray loaded down with delicious fare. He grabbed the robe which had been left draped across the bed for him and wrapped it about himself before settling into one of the chairs.

The man sighed his approval of the spread with an undisguised grin.

There were thick slices of toasted sourdough with various little pots of marmalade and a small plate of crispy thick cut bacon. An oblong bowl sat in the middle, bursting with a variety of sliced fruits from honey babe peaches and forelle pears, to balled dragonfruit and wild blackberries.

A low rumbling hum of satisfaction tumbled in Raymond's throat as his eyes fell upon the chef d'œuvre, two delicate egg cups each holding a little brown egg topped with a swirl of vodka cream and a healthy dollop of caviar each.

"God bless the Jean-Georges egg," came Red's emphatic declaration as Dembe ascended the stairs with a pot of tea and the newspaper.

The pair shared a quiet breakfast beside the wall of windows, with Red ravenously devouring his eggs and Dembe amusedly stealing his blackberries.

Raymond always enjoyed the meal after a brawl with mortal peril. Everything tasted new, as though he'd never eaten an egg in his life and was just discovering how delicious they could be.

When he'd finally had his fill and sat back sipping a nice warm cup of lemon darjeeling, Dembe handed him the paper.

'Chaos and Intrigue in Terre Haute.'

Reddington laughed aloud at the headline, readily unfurling the article to read what the world thought had become of him.

"I will be back this afternoon," Dembe interrupted, "I've got a few loose ends to tie up with your disappearance."

Red lowered the paper, his expression curious. "Loose ends?"

The other man nodded, standing to take his leave with an impish grin. "We laid a number of false trails using decoys. I want to make sure the FBI, the CIA, and all the other acronyms are nice and busy chasing those instead of you."

Raymond laughed again, shaking his head and diving back into the paper.

Dembe's deep voice could be heard from the spiral staircase as he left. "Chuck and Morgan are outside should you need anything. I'll be back around four."

'Chaos and Intrigue in Terre Haute.'

Federal investigators have been reeling these past forty-eight hours as the notorious criminal mastermind, Raymond Reddington, mysteriously disappeared from the execution chamber at Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary just moments after his heart stopped beating.

Reddington's backstory is quite well-known. An illustrious naval officer, Reddington graduated first in his class at the U.S. Naval Academy and was soon being groomed for Admiral when he disappeared in December, 1990, leaving behind his wife and young daughter.

Four years later, an arsenal of NOFORN documents turned up in a variety of unsavory places…all leading back to Raymond Reddington.

Since then, Reddington has been on the brokering end of some of the most heinous criminal activity the world has ever seen. From London, to Maghreb, Hong Kong to Buenos Aires, there isn't a corner of the globe which doesn't bear the mark of Raymond Reddington's criminal empire.

His reign as 'The Concierge of Crime' was due to end at 12:01 Tuesday morning, as sentenced by the honorable Judge Roberta Wilkins. However, at approximately 12:03 am, an explosion rocked the southernmost wall of Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary, blasting a 20x12 hole in the brick and concrete structure.

Witnesses reported a tactical team decked out in black riot gear extracted Reddington from the execution chamber with military precision just seconds after the explosion.

The FBI seems to believe there was an accomplice with Reddington on the inside. Their search is ongoing, but local authorities revealed their main suspect is a middle-aged blonde female who was seen leaving the scene with Reddington in tow...

"Ah, yes, the nurse…"

Raymond was very curious about their inside hand. She had to have been someone Dembe trusted implicitly, but then, wouldn't Red know her as well? There were precious few people that one of them knew and the other did not, it was simply the nature of their life on the run together.

There was no photo of the woman, which Red supposed was a good thing. It meant the authorities had little to go off of, and hopefully no clear shot of the woman's features.

Eventually, he would insist Dembe introduce him to the woman who saved his life. Help and loyalty in a time of utmost need against dire odds were traits to be rewarded. Raymond would not be curtailed from expressing his gratitude. Besides, an amoral nurse could be a highly beneficial addition to his arsenal of associates.

Red continued reading, having a good long laugh at the goose chase which seemed to have ensued upon his disappearance. The article went on to speculate about the woman seen leaving the scene and ended with a few ham-fisted allusions to the possibility that he was alive and in hiding somewhere.

Raymond finished the paper in buoyant spirits and folded it neatly on the abandoned tray. He could all but hear the ensuite calling to him.

Padding over to the bath, he took a right. At the far end of the room, Red reached into the shower's glass enclosure and started the water before discarding his sleepwear.

Making his way to the sink, he opened the cabinet behind the mirror in search of his necessities. His own tried and true possessions were within, from his favored shaving supplies right down to his toothbrush and his favored cologne. "Good man, Dembe," he muttered to himself, taking out the trove of items and setting them in a neat row along the sink's edge.

Once the shower was beginning to fog over with steam, Red stepped into its confines, letting out a contented hiss as the cleansing water cascaded down his frame. He turned the tap as hot as he could stand and stood beneath the spray for several long minutes, hoping to wash away as much of the past few days as possible.

Raymond had genuinely believed the luck he'd made for himself had finally run out.

The Concierge of Crime had long come to terms with dying, had grown to expect it in many ways. One couldn't do as well as he had in the shoes of a criminal by being afraid of death. The end would come for all eventually, regardless of occupation.

That being said, the night of his execution had felt like it was well and truly his last. Red had made his peace with that fate.

Yet, as always, the powers that be seemed content to let Raymond Reddington walk this earth a little while longer. The man let out a derisive laugh, certain his continued existence was solely for the amusement of some crude, forgotten deity.

Still, he ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Red wasn't sure what to make of this new Citadel character and the person's involvement in his escape. He was biased, certainly, having been…well, that was another story entirely.

A stand-in could never take the place of the original Citadel, who actually built the fabled network in which Raymond was now safely sequestered. He was wary of this arrangement and what would be expected of him in return, and rightfully so.

Red was not about to enter into a similar arrangement as what he'd had with the previous Citadel.

It took a great deal of time, effort, and trust to achieve that kind of partnership. He had no interest in pursuing such a precarious engagement again.

Red stretched the stiffness from his limbs, opening half-lidded eyes as he continued to contemplate his situation.

Turning toward the back wall, he noticed a set of shallow built-in shelves bearing an array of very familiar-looking bottles.

"Oh, tell me this is what I think it is."

He plucked one of the bottles from the shelf and popped its cap, taking a sniff at its contents. "My God, how long has it been?" He sighed luxuriously, wasting no time in squeezing a generous dollop into his palm. He hadn't smelled this particular scent in years, having long since run out of his last bottle. If the Citadel would be good for one thing, it would be finding out where the hell this array of soaps came from, as Raymond was certain he'd scoured the globe for the elusive scent to no avail.

Red lathered himself from head to toe with a serene smile, happy as a clam with his find and already planning to pilfer the little green bottles.

Soapy hands halted their movement when the man took a moment to properly look at the shower fixture.

It, too, looked awfully familiar.

He hadn't been in this safehouse before, he was certain. Of all the blacksites they had been to over the years, not a one was in New England.

Then why did the fixture look so familiar?

Kentucky, Norway, Nairobi, Tokyo…the list of Citadel safehouses he had stayed in spanned six continents and well over two dozen countries, but this-

Then it hit him.

Red realized the shower's hardware looked familiar because he was there when this property was originally purchased and developed.

They had been laying low in a black site in the wilds of Kentucky after that altercation with Fidel Castro.

...She stole the man's Cohibas.

Red couldn't help the low, roguish laugh rumbling in his chest as his mind readily supplied the pleasant memories.

He had been there while she fussed over this damn shower, the desalination well he knew was in the shed on the east side of the property, and the water-propelled generators nestled beside the dry dock he recalled sitting at the northern edge of the island.

Raymond remembered it like it was yesterday.

The low light of the moon, her ankles crossed on the headboard…

He could hear that mischievous little laugh as she instigated borderline anarchy from thousands of miles away without so much as lifting a finger.

A smile tugged relentlessly at Red's mouth as he washed the suds from his person, recalling with increasing fondness the Citadel who built this house and picked that fixture and made his life so damn comfortable for so many years.

He missed that Citadel. He missed her.

Raymond stood beneath the shower's cleansing spray once more, assuaging himself with recollections of a more pleasant sort.

Once he had been soaped and scrubbed and rinsed within an inch of his life, Red switched off the taps and stepped out of the enclosure feeling almost like a new man. He grabbed a large towel from the nearby rack and patted himself dry, pleased to find the fluffy cotton toasty warm. He let out a satisfied sigh before wrapping the item around his waist and making his way to the sink.

The large mirror was anti-fog, allowing him to move right along to his shave. He popped the tin on his shave cream, working up a rich lather and applying it liberally to his cheeks, chin, and the space below his jaw. With practiced ease, he flipped open his straight-edge razor and made the first stroke along his cheek.

As Red settled into the familiar routine, he fell into a more purposeful mood, mentally calculating his next moves. He needed to catalogue the most pressing issues and decide how to move forward after this latest debacle.

The conspiracy against the U.S. Government was still in play, but the chaos with Ziegler and his own disappearance would slow things down a bit for Diaz. According to the paper, the White House was doing everything in their power to assist the Germans in their investigation of Ziegler's death. This was no doubt due to some meddling by Harold Cooper, for which Red was grateful.

The thought of Harold brought up another unavoidable issue. It was only a matter of time before Raymond's continued existence reached the powers that be, and it wouldn't be long after that the taskforce would be forced to go on the hunt for him. This didn't bother Red in the slightest, though he did not relish making their lives too terribly unpleasant.

Red hadn't become one of the longest-running criminals in the world by pure chance. He had made his life and livelihood out of staying ten steps ahead of everyone else, and was not about to bend that for their sakes. Law enforcement the world over could search till they were at their wits' end, but Raymond Reddington would only turn up if and when he wanted to be found.

The cold truth of the matter was if he went back now, without leverage, Diaz and that harridan Anna McMahon would go right back to putting him down like a rabid dog.

Having escaped by the very skin of his teeth the first time, Raymond had no interest in putting himself in the hands of the U.S. Justice system ever again.

No, he would need to retreat into the shadows for a time, shore up his empire and think his way out. His considerable wealth and influence would allow him to bunker down for a brief stint and consider his options.

At the moment, there was no conceivable way for Red to continue his work with Lizzie and the others, and thus the basis of the whole operation was gone. In taking a step back, he ran the risk of Harold's team being shut down.

Red carefully turned the razor to begin making short, smooth strokes up his neck and toward his chin. The proximity to his pulse point brought back another far more pressing matter than the fate of the taskforce.

Raymond still did not know who turned him in.

He had been so sure it had been Lizzie, but in the end she had helped him in every way possible, in the end she had told him she loved him. That had to count for something, he told himself. That must mean she didn't do it, no matter how much his gut was telling him it was her.

Red would continue to wheel and deal in the criminal underground in the interim, hopefully uncovering information of significant enough value to barter once again for immunity, but before that could happen he had to unearth the traitor in his midst. Until then, no-one was safe.

Lizzie would be under guard as always, though she did not know it. Without a time of death, Raymond knew the protocols he'd put in place had not been triggered, so she was safe and blissfully unaware of the truth about who Red was.

She would be fine.

The taskforce would be fine.

Just as he had when Anslo Garrick stormed the Post Office, Raymond would become a ghost. He would clean house, unearth the bad blood, then he could put his efforts back into the blacklist.

Red realized losing access to the FBI's databases and manpower would set him back a long way in his plans. The fact remained that Raymond couldn't just disappear quietly into the sunset.

Not yet.

He wasn't finished with his blacklist. There were questions which remained unanswered and truths which still stood unattainable. What little remaining things the man held dear were still in jeopardy.

Red remained pensive as he strode back into the master bedroom, vaguely wondering where the rest of his personal effects were. His mouth pursed thoughtfully as he looked about the room, eyes falling on the headboard of the bed, which hid a small garment closet built behind it. Inside, he recognized his own garment bag and a pair of polished black boots. His battle-weary suitcase sat alongside the nightstand as well, its polished brass clasps glinting in the low light.

Raymond lifted both items and deposited them on the bedspread, opening each in turn. He caught the outline of a photograph tucked neatly in the suitcase's lid, one of several which had been accumulated over the years. Red habitually reached out and brushed his thumb over a corner of the photo, the action having long since become a compulsion. He had worn away part of the image with this action over the years, though it was nowhere near as tattered and worn as the one he usually carried in his waistcoat pocket.

The man made a mental note to have Dembe get that photo back from Terre Haute. The federal penitentiary could keep the rest of his confiscated belongings as far as he was concerned, but that one small item needed to be recovered.

Raymond pulled the necessities from his luggage, laying out socks, an undershirt and the like neatly on the bedspread. A freshly dry-cleaned dress shirt and a deep indigo Zegna tie lay beside a jet black waistcoat and a pair of neat charcoal slacks. He donned his customary attire piece by piece, feeling more and more like himself with each layer. The suit wrapped around him like battle armor, bolstering his resolve as he mentally compiled the list of next steps and sorted them by priority. Stepping over to the other side of the bed, where a large mirror stood, he set about tying his tie. When the knot met his approval, Red smoothed his hand down the length of silk and commenced fastening his waistcoat. Upon reaching the last button, his head turned to peer surreptitiously at the abandoned book on the nearby nightstand.

Its bright red cover was a little worn, the once-sharp corners were blunted from being occasionally crammed into a bag or suitcase. The swirling curvature of its stark black title had turned a dull gray. The tome had certainly seen better days, but Raymond couldn't help a small flicker of sentimentality as he lifted the hardcover and flipped it open.

It was just past noon...he had time for a quick read, time enough for this.

He rifled through the book absent-mindedly, falling upon a creased page a handful of chapters in and seeing a sentence circled in slightly smudged graphite.

'I felt there was no one as kind as you; no one who gave me reasons that I understood for doing what at first seemed so hard and—unnecessary.'

The book was like a time capsule, favourite passages meticulously noted, bearing all manner of dog-eared corners and the faded scribblings of a pencil from its previous owner.

A rueful smile graced his lips, "I nearly forgot," he murmured to himself, flipping to the very beginning of the text. He settled back on top the bedspread, his back resting against the headboard as he fell into the text.

An hour or so passed peacefully, interrupted periodically with a chuckle or two from the bedroom's sole occupant as he happened upon notes and markings every few pages. There were passages that amused him to no end and passages that made the man's soul burn with an abiding ache.

'The longing was with him day and night, an incessant undefinable craving...He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of the spot of earth she walked on, and the way the sky and sea enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty…'

Raymond soon felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The words on the page slowly began to blur into a black haze set against the yellowing page.

Dembe returned at sunset to move Raymond to a new cabin deeper in the woods. He found the man dozing in the master bedroom, his head resting against the bed's headboard at an uncomfortable-looking angle. A small smile twitched at the bodyguard's lips, seeing the book resting in Red's lap.

"Raymond."

The sleeping fugitive's head snapped forward as he blinked the room back into focus. "Hmm…?" His voice was gravelled and drowsy as he searched for the source of the disturbance.

"It is time."

"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Raymond asked minutes later, carefully making his way down the spiral staircase to the cabin's main floor. The lower level was similarly clad in white shiplap, a quaint little kitchen and spare bedroom and bath occupying the rear of the space. He observed the space with curiosity, turning about in a circle before seeing his heavy winter parka with its fur-lined hood hung waiting for him beside the cabin's door. A jet black fedora hung next to it, and Raymond placed the familiar accessory on his pate with a sigh of contentment.

"The main cabin is deeper in the woods and has more room." Dembe explained, "You will be able to move more freely there. It is important for you to get outside and move around while you recover."

Once they were both thoroughly bundled up against the harsh New England chill, he and Dembe stepped out of the cabin onto a narrow wooden plank walkway.

The world outside the cabin looked like something out of a Christmas television special. Tall gnarled pine and oak trees dotted the area around the cabin, their sprawling branches heavily laden with snow.

The white down covered every available surface, glistening orange in places where the setting sun was visible through the trees.

Red understood what Dembe meant as they boarded a large off-road vehicle and trundled up the dirt road into a much more dense forest area. The canopy of trees high above them would block anything on the ground from sight, providing a much more secure hideout than the slightly exposed cabin they were in.

They pulled up to a pair of snow-capped treehouse cabins 10-20 feet off the ground. A wood plank ramp lead from the gravel parking area up to the first cabin, a two-floor structure exactly like the one they had just been in.

Raymond marveled at the view as they disembarked and made their way up the snowy ramp.

A small plank bridge connected the main cabin and another single level cabin with a quaint patio attached. Another bridge lead to a smaller platform on which sat a cozy little wood-fired tub.

Red grinned at the home. In all, he thought it would be great fun to convalesce in such an abode.

When he hung his coat and hat in the kitchen of the main cabin, Raymond smelled the wonderfully familiar scent of Russian Plov on the air. He positively roared with laughter, wasting no time in making his way to the stove. "Oh, Dembe, bless you, my good man."

Dembe smiled nervously in response, depositing Red's personal effects in the nearby closet.

Red cocked his head to the side, catching the other man's peculiar response. "What is it, Dembe?"

The normally stoic man was distinctly fidgety, jamming his large hands in the pockets of his dark jeans and biting his bottom lip. It was an action Raymond hadn't seen him do in years.

"It is time for you and the Citadel to meet."

Raymond's mouth pursed has he considered him for a moment, "It can't wait?" he asked, glancing wistfully at the cast iron Dutch oven releasing mouth-watering curls of steam. "There's plov."

Dembe's face showed an inordinate amount of anxiety. "Trust me Raymond. You don't want to wait."

A trickle of doubt dropped into Red's stomach. Dembe was keeping something from him, something important.

"Why?"

"You do not want to wait." He repeated, in a cryptic tone belying the smallest of tremors. "There are questions I could not answer for you this morning. The Citadel has all the answers you seek."

Red scoffed with a dry chuckle, "Not all," he mumbled, his clever green eyes surveying his companion once more.

Dembe's eyes were imploring, his expression honest and sincere as he held Raymond's scrutinizing gaze.

"Okay. Let's meet this Citadel, then."

Popping the lid back onto the dish, Red followed Dembe out onto the deck. Night had almost completely fallen. The few remaining golden spindles of sunlight came dazzling through the treetops as he lead them across the first plank bridge to the smaller cabin.

Raymond could now see that the cabin held a comfortable sitting room which faced a wall of center-pivot windows. The wall sconces bathed the room in a warm light which fell upon the figure of a woman. She was seated in an armchair facing away from the door.

"That's the Citadel?" He asked, his throat inexplicably dry.

Dembe moved to stand guard next to the door. He took a deep, steadying breath and reached out to grasp Red's shoulder. "Trust me, brother."

Red glanced at the young man once more, eyes sharp with confusion and wariness. Without another thought, he turned the doorknob and stepped into the room.

Time seemed to halt when the air in the room washed over his skin. Raymond's heart thrummed in hopeful recognition. His entire body seemed to sense a shift in the atmosphere, a palpable change in the ions surrounding him.

The way her hair fell on her shoulders.

The way she occupied her chair.

The straight, delicate line of her shoulders.

Everything about the woman seemed familiar, as if Raymond had spent decades memorizing her.

His footsteps were slow and halting as he moved further into the room. He turned back to see Dembe solemnly observing the proceedings through the glass door.

Could he…

Could he see her too?

Raymond whipped his head around and halted just behind the chair she was in. He could see the rise and fall of every breath she took. She looked...but she couldn't be.

He couldn't stop his hand as it slowly reached forward, trembling visibly as it hovered over the woman's shoulder, hopeful, waiting. His fingertips hesitated, following the small expanse of bare flesh exposed by the neckline of her sweater.

Please.

God...Please.

The very tip of his middle finger ghosted along the soft warmth of her skin.

The action elicited a tremulous gasp from the woman in the chair.

Raymond snatched his hand back for a millisecond before the appendage surged forward of its own accord, the whole of his large palm pressing against the wondrous feeling.

The feminine frame shivered in his grasp. He could feel her pulse fluttering like a frightened rabbit beneath his fingertips.

He couldn't stand it, not one second more.

Raymond stepped forward, coming level with her side. His eyes widened, as he saw her face. His mouth parted, sharp bursting gasps of air leaving his lungs.

The woman lifted her head to meet his gaze.

Her eyes.

His mind went hurtling back twenty years.

An entire world, an entire life came roaring back to him when he saw her eyes.

"...Rosalie?"