beg for the rest of my life

"Ms. Jensen, what do you know about the MacManus brothers?"

Elena feels her body tense up under the man's gaze as he thumbs through a file folder. This guy is an asshole, she knows that even after just meeting him. Hell, every guy from the FBI is an asshole. Well, with maybe one or two exceptions.

She takes a deep breath and calmly responds. "I know what's in their file and what they tell me in their therapy sessions."

Agent Walsh leans back, his Texas belly protruding out and over his ugly brown belt. He looks like the stereotypical no-nonsense detective from some cable drama, and he's about to get into a dick-measuring contest with whoever dares to challenge him. "How long have you been working with them?"

"Three months."

Walsh nods slightly, still rifling through the file folder. "What have you discussed?"

Elena can't help the small chuckle that escapes her mouth. "That's confidential, sir. "

He smiles, but it's a pissed-off kind of smile. "You can't be serious."

"I am. Unless they plan on hurting themselves or hurting others, everything they say stays in that room."

"So if they had a plan to hurt others, you would disclose that, correct?"

"Of course. But the MacManus brothers have not—"

"Did either of them tell you about their plan to escape Hoag Maximum Security Prison?"

Her blood rushes throughout her body as she clenches her jaw. "They escaped…" Is that a question? A statement? Maybe both. She's surprised, and yet not at the same time. And this is how she finds out. "No, neither one of them told me they were planning to escape."

Walsh narrows his eyes. "Cut the crap. You're their fucking therapist. Aren't they supposed to tell you their deep dark secrets?"

"If you were ever in therapy, you'd know that's not how this works, even for prisoners. They tell me what they want to tell me, what they feel comfortable telling me. I'm not there to gather evidence for your witch hunt."

He stands up, taking a deep breath as he removes his jacket. "So, you didn't know they were going to escape."

Elena presses her lips together. "No."

"How does that make you feel?" He laughs as he sees the confusion on her face. "You seem to be pretty close with them." He opens another file folder, pulls out a couple of photos, and places them in front of her. They're stills from the video surveillance. "Especially this one," he sneers as he taps the image from three days ago: Connor is being cuffed but looking at Elena as she stands beside the table with her arms folded. "How does it feel knowing that he didn't tell you?"

To his credit, Walsh thinks he's hit a nerve. Sure, she's surprised, but now she's more pissed off about this narrative the FBI is trying to fabricate by using her. That's not how this is supposed to go.

She straightens back in her chair, looking Walsh square in the eyes. "I can't make someone tell me everything. Just like you can't."

He suddenly throws his chair across the floor and clearly holds back every filthy nickname he wants to call her. "Get out."

Elena keeps her voice firm, asking, "I'm free to go?"

He doesn't look at her, and exhales his answer. "For now."

Even though she wants to run, she has to remain calm as she leaves. Her heart betrays her though, beating wildly as she walks down the hallway. Hopefully, Walsh can't hear her heartbeat.

She had already started packing before the FBI called her in, her gut telling her something wasn't right. But she honestly did not know that Connor and Murphy escaped. Now that she knows, she has to move quickly.

Elena's been through this before. She'll go through this again too, that's her job. That's why her entire life can fit into that black duffel bag. She doesn't really have anything sentimental, except for her gold sparrow earrings. They were a gift from a dear friend she trusted more than anyone, and she'd wear them as a reminder that she can do anything.

As she reaches up to touch her ears, making sure the earrings are still there, a thunderous crack sounds as her door breaks in. Elena snatches her Glock 9mm out of the duffel bag, raising it in front of her as she steps into the hallway leading from her bedroom to the living room. She points it at a masked person walking fast towards her, the black-dressed figure menacing. She tells them to stop, but in that split second, before she can pull the trigger, a second body grabs her from behind, the force throwing the gun from her hand across the floor.

She quickly realizes they are men, based on their large, broad bodies and husky-sounding breaths as they threaten her. The second guy holds her as she struggles to break free, then the first guy approaches with a knife. The metal is cold and sharp against her neck, and she stops writhing in her attacker's grasp. Her lungs desperately try to take deep breaths, but the force of the arms around her prevents her from inhaling correctly. Her heart beats fast, and her vision gets blurry from her waning supply of oxygen.

"You're going to tell us what you know," the first guy with the knife sneers.

Elena feels the adrenaline rally in her veins, her voice raspy as she asks, "Who are you?"

Both guys laugh, and just as she feels the blade lift off her neck ever so slightly, she kicks the first guy in the groin hard. She shoves her whole body into the guy that has a hold of her. The mirror shatters as she pushes him backward into the wall at the end of the hallway. He starts to slide against the wall, losing his grip on her enough that she can slip out of reach. Hastily, she grabs a piece of the broken mirror with her left hand and slices the guy's neck, right along his carotid artery, so he bleeds out.

Despite cutting her hand on the glass, Elena rushes over to grab her gun from the floor, but the first guy grabs her, forcing her to fall forward. He pulls on her, and she claws at the floor, hoping her fingers will stretch enough to reach her gun. The guy flips her on her back, trying to pin her down, until she slips her legs over him, pulls his arm, and twists his body to the floor.

She finally grabs her gun and throws an elbow in the guy's face as he approaches her. He falls and then pushes himself to stand. She kicks him hard in the back, pressing her foot against him as she drops her opposite knee to the floor.

"Who are you?!" she yells, her knuckles white as she grips the gun, the barrel pressed against his head. She feels him shift his body, knowing it will take a split second for him to knock her over, so she pulls the trigger. The air is silent except for her breathing. Her foot is still pressed against him, and her gun is still pointed at his lifeless body.

"Holy shit," the familiar Irish accent startles her. She looks up to see Connor and Murphy walk in with a gun in each hand lowered at their sides. Clad in their blue jeans, black t-shirts, and black peacoats, it's like she's finally seeing them as their true selves. The adrenaline starts to calm in her blood as her eyes connect with Connor's, and she sees a mess of shock and arousal take over his face while she's still pointing the gun at the dead body.

Murphy agrees, a smirk crawling up his face while he eyes the two dead men. "Girl can take care of herself, yeah?" he asks gleefully as he elbows his brother. Connor doesn't acknowledge him; he simply stares at Elena as he holsters his weapons.

A new dose of adrenaline pulses into Elena's brain as she stands up, quickly checks her gun's magazine, and slams it back into place. "You shouldn't be here," she says cooly.

Murphy's smile fast morphs into a scowl. "Well, yer fucking welcome for the backup, lass." Instantly, Connor swats the back of his brother's head, hard, and Murphy starts cursing him with every word imaginable.

She doesn't have the time nor the energy for a MacManus argument and moves to the kitchen sink to wash her hands. Watching the blood rinse down the drain, she takes a deep breath. "I'll explain later, but right now, we need to get the fuck out of here."

Elena wraps a tea towel around her injured hand, and Murphy narrows his eyes toward her. "Explain? Like ye know who these men are? Who they work for?"

"Maybe." She brushes between them to the bedroom, grabbing the packed black duffel bag from the closet and sliding her gun holster into the back of her jeans waistband. "I don't know."

"Maybe we need to ask who you work for?" Connor says flatly, his face looking at her like she's a stranger. Her stomach falls slightly from his cold stare, but she has to get them out before anything else happens.

"Ní anois," she replies quickly in Irish. Not now. She inhales sharply. "Muinín dom." Trust me.