A/N: Unfortunately I wasn't able to get anymore cover arts made for part 4, but I still want to try working on at least one more this weekend. Fingers crossed. I know it's not that important, I just really love making them, lol. Can't believe we're on chapter 30 now, zomg. Not much of a trigger warning needed on this one, although there are some descriptions of injuries from sexual violence. Thanks for reading.


Chapter 30.

Labyrinth

. . .

Amanda pushed through her fear and really let herself take Olivia in—the utter havoc and devastation that had been done to her in the past sixty hours—for the first time since she stepped into the unit. She had seen dead bodies that were more vital-looking than the one on the mattress. The golden skin, three days ago still gilded by last summer's sun, had soured to the color of an underripe banana. Some of it was bruises, of which there were many, in various shapes, sizes, and shades. The thighs were the worst, so darkened with fingerprints they looked like a crime scene dusted by CSU.

No. The actual worst was higher up, caked beneath layers of blood and semen, raw and gashed like a Glasgow smile. Try as she might to shield her privates, knees together and legs tented to the sides, Olivia couldn't hide the deeply inflamed, deeply traumatized flesh of her most intimate parts. She was as stained and used as the mattress beneath her.

Each injury cataloged itself in Amanda's brain, captured like a snapshot she could take out and observe later on: the red daisy-chain of bite marks around both breasts, the nipples puffy and chapped; the strata of bruises on the face, as colorful as a Sahara sunset, a gouge in the left cheek crusted black with blood; lips dry and shriveled like winter leaves; purple contusions the size of softballs to the iliac crests, a matching one at the rib cage; an alphabet soup—p, b, q, d, a—of indentations to the trunk, all lowercase, some more distinct than others, depending on the momentum of Parker's belt buckle.

She didn't know how else to process such a brutal scene, other than through the eyes of a cop. If she looked through the eyes of Amanda Rollins-Benson, wife and mother, the horror would swallow her whole. But even for a cop who had seen her share of torture, neglect, and abuse, the sight before her was unfathomable. It had been easier to reconcile the woman she'd watched on the computer screen to Olivia than this miserable creature.

"Jesus," Amanda whispered. In her head she pictured making the sign of the cross. Wasn't that what you did at a crucifixion? "Oh Jesus."

Then Olivia moaned softly, a sound she sometimes made while turning over in her sleep, while she was safe and warm, wrapped in Amanda's arms—and the spell was broken. The invisible glass barrier between them shattered, and Amanda forced herself into action, going to Olivia's side and kneeling next to her. She was afraid to touch her wife, the injuries were so extensive, but she found a mostly unblemished spot near Olivia's elbow, and she cupped it gently. Her other hand rested lightly on the side where the ribs weren't black and blue.

She intended to coax Olivia's arm down enough to see her eyes and gauge her level of consciousness. But the moment Amanda touched cold, bare skin, Olivia cried out and shrank from the contact, instinctively trying to curl up in a ball. The best she could do with her wrists bound above her was draw up both knees and twist her body sideways, left arm overextended so far past its limit, Amanda feared the rotator cuff might give out again. Olivia had hated that sling so.

"Liv baby, it's me. It's Amanda. Shh-shh. Hey, darlin', I'm not gonna hurt you." Amanda's palms hovered just above Olivia's skin, as close as they could get without touching. She felt as if her hands were tied too, preventing her from offering adequate solace and care. Even the slightest brush of skin made Olivia retreat more into herself, tugging at her restraints to get away, to physically retreat as well. Amanda winced in pain, feeling every jerk and jolt like they were in her own body. "Liv, can you look at me? Shh, I won't hurt you."

Olivia produced little more than incoherent mumbling that Amanda strained to hear. She caught bits of actual words (no, don't, plea—), but nothing to indicate her wife had any clue who she was. In fact, Olivia was terrified of her, and that wrenched at Amanda's heart more painfully than if it had been torn from her chest. "Come on, darlin', let me get this off of you. Please? You're safe now, it's over, shh. They can't hurt you anymore, I won't let them."

More promises Amanda couldn't keep, but she had to say something to soothe the captain, who kept pulling the belt tighter around her wrists with each attempt to dodge Amanda's hands. Her nail beds were faintly blue and her fingers moved restlessly, seeking a solid, true thing to hold onto, like she was gripping a rockface over a sheer drop. Her skin was chafed and bruised beneath the leather strap, ringed in red lines and more dark fingerprint smudges.

She whimpered when Amanda managed to unknot the belt from her crossed wrists, her arms sliding limply down to her chest, lax as a pair of discarded scarves. She didn't seem to notice they were free, and rather than try to sit up or cover herself, she put every ounce of strength she had into raising both arms again and protecting her head and face. Amanda knew all about the phenomenon—how it had been tested on dogs, who were given electric shocks inside cages and eventually became so traumatized they wouldn't try to escape, even when the cage doors were left open. The freeze response, developed by a body whose fight or flight instincts had been suppressed during an attack (or several), preventing it from reacting to any further assault when or if it came.

It was biology; it even showed up on CT scans, different portions of the brain lit up or greyed out, depending on a PTSD patient's response to danger. It could be observed in soldiers, survivors of genocide, CSA victims, and abused housewives alike. There was no question it was a legitimate and common behavior, that the person experiencing it had no control over a brain and nervous system rewired by trauma. But it still pissed Amanda off. Her response was fight, and it always would be.

She would be Olivia's goddamn fight response, if that's what it took.

"Hey, baby, I need you to sit up for me, okay? Can you do that? Come on, I got you. Good girl." The last part had been a slip of the tongue—being called a good girl was a trigger for Olivia, whose many abusers had taunted her with some variation of the pet name during their assaults—but Amanda didn't think her wife even noticed. She was too busy shying from Amanda's touch and refusing to look at her, no matter how gently Amanda coaxed her upright and tried to lower her arms from around her head. "Look at you, being a stubborn old thing. Now I know why Jesse's such a grump butt in the morning. Just like her mommy."

The mention of their daughter caught Olivia's attention, just as Amanda hoped it would, and her elbows parted slightly, a single brown eye peeking through. It stared for a long time, drifting in and out of focus, until finally a barely audible voice whisper-croaked, "Manda." Not a question, not a cry of delight or relief. Only a simple acknowledgment, as if Amanda had strolled into her office and sat down across from her at the captain's desk.

Days ago, that would have seemed like the most ordinary part of Amanda's daily routine, but now it brought tears to her eyes and a flood of emotion so overwhelming that she released it with a broken little laugh. "Yeah, baby, I'm here. I've got you." She eased Olivia's elbow aside, treating her as carefully as she had their newborn daughter just three and a half months earlier, and bit her lip to hold back a gasp. The facial injuries weren't as extensive as the bodily ones, but seeing Olivia's beautiful, expressive features, which exuded her warmth and kindness more than any other part of her—especially those big brown eyes—looking so hollow and haunted was a shock to the system.

"What time is it?" Olivia asked urgently, like she had just remembered she was late for an important meeting. She couldn't sit up by herself, her head leaden on Amanda's shoulder, and yet she was concerned about promptness. "F'rgot my watch."

"I dunno, probably around four-somethin'," Amanda said, distracted by her own concerns of how to safely get Olivia on her feet, out of the shipping container, and into a car on the other side of the lot. The captain already looked as though she would come apart at the seams if handled too roughly. Amanda had an E.T. doll that she'd carried around by its outstretched phone-home finger through much of the eighties, its fuzzy brown body weighted and swinging like a pendulum behind her, and the homely little guy was still constructed better than the woman in her arms. "Don't worry about your watch, it's safe at home. Let's get you there too, huh?"

"Where are we?" Olivia winced with each blink, as if the light was a razor blade, slicing at her eyes. Brow furrowed in confusion, she searched for something familiar in their surroundings, but found nothing. "Is this— are we in Sealview? I don't wanna be here, Amanda. No, no! Oh God, we have to go."

The mention of Sealview was so eerie it made the hair on Amanda's arms stand up. Had Olivia made the connection between the prison and her abduction while she was trapped here in hell, suffering the tortures of the damned (meanwhile, it took Amanda, the NYPD, and the FBI days to figure it out), or had the visit from Matthew Parker simply triggered flashbacks of another hell she escaped long ago? Why wasn't important, though, when Olivia was so distressed by the memory.

"Shh-shh, it's not Sealview. It's not Sealview, sweetheart. That was a long time ago, and you don't ever have to go back there." Amanda stroked the hack-job Gus Sandberg had made of Olivia's full, beautiful mane. Dirty and matted, it hung lank around her head, all its luster gone. She would have to cut it at least a little above the shoulder to even it out, and though that wasn't anywhere near the worst tragedy to come out of this situation, it made Amanda's heart ache. Somehow, Olivia's hair was a major source of comfort to her, and now it had been ripped away, like so many others.

"But we do need to get you out of here," she added, swallowing the lump in her throat. As long as she had Olivia back, the hair wasn't important. She pressed her lips to Olivia's hairline, wanting to breathe her in, and finding no trace of the bittersweet scent she associated with her wife. Wine and blackberries and rich dark chocolate. A smell like decadence, but which now stank of the carnal: blood, sweat, tears, sex. Amanda held her breath. "I don't know where Gus is, and I want you someplace safe before he comes back."

Perking up at the name, Olivia became even more agitated and didn't seem to know if she should take Amanda's hands or push them away. She tried to do both, then drew them under her chin and let out a weak sob. Dehydration had dried up all her tears, but she cried as if they rained down in sheets. She cried as if her heart were shattering into a million pieces.

"What is it, darlin'?" Amanda tossed another worried glance at the doors, expecting to see the Sandman appear at any moment. She didn't want to have to contend with him with Olivia present. It was one thing to be the target herself, but she couldn't protect Olivia without making her one too. "What's wrong, can you tell me?"

Olivia only shook her head at first, unable to speak. When she did find the shredded remnants of her voice, paper-thin and dry as bone, it required several tries before she formed anything coherent through her harsh, rasping breaths. "Tilly," she heaved at last, the name catching in her throat. She exhaled another feeble sob, inhaled with a stutter. "They took Tilly. They took our baby girl." No sound accompanied the last few words, the notes too high for her ravaged throat to produce, but the meaning was clear. And so was the devastation.

She collapsed into Amanda's arms then, burrowing under her chin and into the warmth of her sweatshirt. Had she the strength she would have rattled them both with her heart-wrenching cries, but she barely had the lung capacity of their infant daughter at the moment. Dry and convulsive, the weeping was muffled against Amanda's chest and soon gave way to pitiful coughs and gasps for air. It was hard to tell if the tremors that ran down her back were from the crying or the cold. Most of what she mumbled was indecipherable, except for their middle daughter's name, repeated over and over, like something irrevocably lost.

Tilly.

"Aw, baby, no." Amanda buried kisses in Olivia's hair, at the top of her head. Even that was cold, and it stank badly, the normally clean and silky strands matted together with sweat and God only knew what else. She didn't care, as long as it was part of her wife. Her wife, who was still alive and whose bloody, blackened feet she would have crawled to and kissed if it meant having her back. "Tilly's at home with the girls and Noah. Daphne's watching them, and they've got police protection. All our babies are safe, y'hear?"

The words took a moment to sink in, and when they did, Olivia tipped her head back to peer up at Amanda with uncertainty. It wavered on her shoulders, as if she had no more control of her neck muscles than baby Samantha, either. Amanda cupped a hand at the back, as much out of habit as concern that her head would suddenly drop backward. "But he said— he had pictures. Tilly and . . . and Parker. The red hat. He s-said they were going to— to hurt her. They're going to hurt her like they hurt—" Olivia started to crumble again, her face scrunching up to make tears, though none fell. Nor could she add the me to the end of her sentence.

Gus and his men had taken her words, her tears, and her identity.

Amanda shook her head and cupped Olivia gently by the cheeks, holding her wandering gaze. "Baby, no. It's not true. Whatever they told you is a lie. I saw Tilly just a little bit ago, and she's fine. Nobody's gonna touch her, I promise. She's still our sweet, innocent little lovebug. And you know what she wants right now, more than anything in the world? To see her mommy. She's been asking for you. All the kids have."

There would be time later on to apprise Olivia of the kidnapping attempt and to suggest they keep an eye out for any signs that Matilda was traumatized by what, if anything, she retained from the experience. Or maybe Amanda would just keep all that to herself, she thought, studying Olivia's sallow features, twisted into a pained expression. Still so uncertain and confused. Olivia had a long recovery ahead, and Amanda wasn't going to add any more to her already unbearable load by admitting Tilly had been in danger. She probably already had the images burned into her brain anyway—of the horrors she'd believed their three-year-old was suffering. The men hurting her like they had hurt Olivia. Like they had hurt other little girls not much older than Tilly.

"She's okay? She's not here? I thought . . . " Olivia gazed around the shipping container—torture chamber, more like—her eyes straying from one corner to the other, not really seeing anything they landed on. Studies showed that people could adapt to even the most deplorable conditions within a matter of days, in an effort to stay alive and keep their captors happy. Olivia had been doing exactly that her entire life; it wasn't any wonder she didn't seem to notice the hellhole she was in. "I thought they were raping her. I wanted to die. I tried with the belt, but they stopped me and—"

The rest was unintelligible as she lowered her head, muttering and crying, unaware that she had just confessed to attempting suicide. Amanda, however, felt like the floor had suddenly been yanked out from under her, leaving her momentarily suspended in midair before the big drop. She didn't blame Olivia for wanting to die after three days of this living hell, with all those men repeatedly violating her, and no sign of hope on the horizon, just the belief that her little girl had succumbed to the same fate. That would make anyone want to die, including Amanda.

But it frightened her that Olivia had tried to break her promise never to kill herself. Once a first attempt was made, it was only a matter of time before another came. Amanda wanted to say something to undo it, to go back and free Olivia from ever shouldering that burden, or at least to acknowledge that she had heard. She made a mental note to talk it over with Olivia later, when they were out of danger and the captain was more lucid. For now she tried to hook the split sides of Olivia's t-shirt around her shoulders and sit her fully upright. "That didn't happen, baby. Tilly's not here, it's okay for us to leave. Can you help me stand you up? I don't wanna hurt you."

Olivia looked down at her lap as if she didn't remember how to shift onto her knees, let alone get to her feet. She gazed back to Amanda, stripped as bare emotionally as she was physically. She was almost unrecognizable then, though not from the cuts or bruises. It took Amanda a moment to put her finger on what was different, and when she did, it made her fight back tears. All of Olivia's defenses were down. Every piece of armor gone, including what she must have worn even with Amanda—for how would Amanda notice its absence if it hadn't always been there?

It was like seeing Olivia for the first time, in her truest, most artless form. She seemed strangely unsullied, vulnerable as a child. "I'm cold," she said in a voice so small she might actually have been a child. Everything within Amanda longed to reach down, scoop her up into strong arms, into warmth and safety, and carry her far, far away from here. Everything about that voice made it sound possible. "They took my clothes. I can't go out like this. I need . . . "

The illusion of Olivia as an innocent, untouched and ageless, was broken when she crossed both arms over her chest, attempting to conceal her mistreated breasts. "I'm so cold," she repeated, doubling up at the middle, rolling herself into a protective ball. If possible, it looked like she had gotten smaller in the past few days, and Amanda wondered if it was her imagination—the enormity of the situation dwarfing her larger-than-life captain—or if she'd actually been diminished somehow. So cold.

Amanda glanced down at her own clothes, the NYPD sweatshirt she took from Olivia's locker and the track pants she had been wearing since Saturday. Her sleeves and the heavy polyester of her pant legs were foxed by rust-colored bloodstains, courtesy of the late Matthew Parker, but they were the only acceptable clothing around. She would not dress her wife in the clothes of her dead rapist, now soaked in his blood, and she wouldn't search this shithole for rags, even if they were to be worn only briefly. She wasn't going to bring any more of this place than necessary with her and Olivia once they left it.

Without a second thought, she tugged the sweatshirt up and over her head and carefully inched it down over Olivia's. "Here y'go, baby," she whispered absently, threading Olivia's boneless arms through the holes. "That'sa girl. Almost gotcha. There, now. Like it's made for ya, huh?"

Instantly Olivia melted into the body heat trapped inside the soft fabric, her discomfort at having it grazed along her tender skin forgotten. She looked more like herself with it on, at least outwardly. The vacant expression and compliance to each nudge from Amanda were troubling. Fighting to dress her wouldn't have been ideal, but moving her around like a storefront mannequin was worse. She just wasn't there.

Getting the track pants off and then slipping them onto Olivia's mottled, rubbery legs proved much more difficult. She yipped in pain when Amanda worked the waistband around her buttocks and onto her hips, and her body reacted as if she were under attack again, crumpling in on itself like a pill bug. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," became Amanda's murmured refrain, her hands wincing back from the body she so adored and had vowed more than once never to harm.

Down to her bra and panties, she shut off her brain
(I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry)
and began the next task on autopilot. He was heavier than he looked, though the dead usually were. Luckily, Amanda had above average strength for her size and build, and she was already running on pure adrenaline. She got Angelov's legs out from underneath him, letting them drop from the wheelbarrow position, and assessed the damage to his clothes. She refused to look at his face.

The shirt was a hopeless cause, a cumulus cloud of blood adorning the chest, and within it two telltale holes left of center. However, just below, a flannel shirt was knotted around the waist by its sleeves. Amanda hastily untied them and yanked until the shirt, relatively clean at a quick glance, gave way. She buttoned it around her, trying not to think about where it had been or how it smelled like him. The hem fell past the tops of her thighs, the cuffs clearing her fingertips by at least two inches. She rolled up the latter and started on the pants, which meant first getting off the boots.

"Come on, motherfucker," she muttered as she yanked at the heels of both shoes, then took turns jerking until they popped loose one at a time. "Fuck you, piece of shit." The legs flopped back to the ground like dead catfish on a boat deck, and she kicked them out straight with her socked feet. A dark smile crossed her lips at the dime-sized hole and the black stain in the crotch of the joggers. Neither would even be noticeable if she left the shirt untucked.

It was easier than she expected to shuck off the pants and slip them up her own legs. Then again, she didn't have severe trauma to her genital region like Olivia did. Like Angelov died with. Amanda sneered at his corpse, nude from the waist down, his dick shredded like an exploding cigar in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. His thighs were painted in deep crimson blood, she noted with satisfaction. "Enjoy your new Prince Albert," she said, tugging the drawstring of the pants tight around her waist. "Sick fuck."

She tied the string into a haphazard bow and turned to find Olivia watching intently, eyes painfully large in her gaunt face. They followed Amanda's every move, seeming to really see her now. She stepped sideways, blocking Olivia's view of the body as well as she could, though the steady gaze remained locked on her, purposefully not straying lower. In spite of everything, the captain was at least partially aware of her surroundings and what had just transpired.

"Is he dead?" she asked evenly, no tinge of hope or trepidation to suggest how she felt about the answer either way. Just that straightforward question, as if Angelov was a coyote Amanda had clipped with a shotgun and followed into the woods. Olivia was waiting for confirmation in blood, a dripping pelt extended by a gore-soaked fist. If Amanda had held out Angelov's scalp as proof, she doubted it would get a reaction at all.

"Yeah, baby, he's dead. Can't hurt you anymore." Amanda knelt beside her wife, momentarily cupping a hand to her jaw, thumb stroking the purple cheekbone above. She nodded, holding Olivia's gaze until she nodded along, agreeing with the promise of safety, of comfort and rescue. Even if she didn't fully comprehend yet, it was something for her to hang onto. A life preserver tossed into the ocean. "How's 'bout we get some shoes on—"

Amanda's voice caught when she took a good look at Olivia's bare feet. The soles were cracked and seeping, with dark slender splinters embedded beneath the skin on the ball and heel of both feet. Inflamed and covered in nicks and cuts, it looked like she had walked through a briar patch—or scuffed her feet, repeatedly and vigorously, across the unfinished wood floor some jackass had installed inside the container. A half-assed attempt at sprucing the place up, she thought bitterly.

Expecting a hiss of pain or another heart-rending whimper, Amanda fitted her socks and shoes onto Olivia's feet with great care. But if the added pressure caused any discomfort, Olivia didn't let it show. She stared right through the chunky white sneakers she'd previously gotten so much enjoyment out of making fun of—"Seriously, how many stormtroopers did they have to kill to make those things?"—and she didn't say a word regarding what Amanda would wear on her own feet. Amanda had no idea, either, and after a brief appraisal of Angelov's much too large boots, she shrugged off the need for shoes altogether.

She'd spent the majority of her formative years traipsing around Loganville with no shoes, or flip-flops that were as good as, her feet caked in rust-colored clay. The soles got tough after a while, and half the time you didn't even notice what you were stepping on. One time she had sliced open the arch of her left foot on a broken Coke bottle and didn't realize it until she got home, saw her bloody footprints on the porch, and became convinced a murderer had followed her inside.

Hoofing it barefoot across a concrete lot she could handle just fine. And if not, she would stop off in the warehouse and borrow Kat's shoes.

Or she wouldn't.

"A'right, darlin', I'm gonna need you to help me out a little here," she said, squatting down to loop Olivia's arm around her shoulder. Short of carrying Olivia bodily from the room, acting as a crutch was the best option for getting her off the floor. That is, if her legs could sustain her, and Amanda had serious doubts about that. She barely had control of her neck muscles, let alone the more violently strained ones in her battered and twisted limbs. But they would make it work. They had to. "Can you boost us up with me? I'll get us going, and you can lean on me."

"I think so." Olivia sounded so vacant and uncertain it didn't seem very promising. She tried to prepare herself, though, bless her heart, bracing a hand on the floor and shoving up at the count of three. For a second, it felt as if they might actually succeed at standing, their trajectory wobbly but unhindered. But when it was time to straighten their knees, Olivia's buckled beneath her, and they both dropped back down to the floor. "Ouch. I'm sorry. I can't—"

"No, no, it's okay. This is good." Amanda heard the phony optimism in her voice, but didn't try to correct it. For Olivia's sake she had to stay positive and not sink into the pit of despair that yawned open before them. There would be plenty of time for that later. "It'll be easier to stand up from here anyway. C'mon, Cap'n, one leg at a time and a big heave-ho, then we'll be outta this hellhole. You can do it."

She was so focused on willing Olivia's legs from a kneeling position into a standing one, she didn't notice the other presence in the room until it spoke:

"Looks to me like y'all could use some help. You're weaving around in here like a couple old drunks."

And then, as Amanda's hand snaked around for the Glock tucked into the back of her waistband, the presence stepped forward into the light, palms spread. "Easy, it's me. Shoot me, and you can forget about these puppies lending a hand. I know they're kinda stubby, but they get the job done."

"Jesus Christ! Dana, what the hell?" Amanda huffed, shoving the gun back into place. Flooded with the relief of not having to use it, she momentarily felt as loose and limp as Olivia. Maybe she wasn't a stone cold killer after all, if that was how much she didn't want to shoot someone else. Or maybe she was just glad to see a familiar face in the midst of all this chaos. Someone to help shoulder the burden, literally. "You scared the shit outta me. How the hell'd you know where to find us?"

"You think I let anybody drive off in my baby without a tracking app?" Dana brandished her cell phone with the same import as flashing a badge. In her other hand she held her service weapon, at the ready for whatever she would find inside the shipping container. Noticing the gun was still pointed at Amanda, she lowered it and the cell phone, though the phone was all she put away. "Once I got here, I just followed the blood trail."

Amanda shot the agent a silencing glare, warning her not to get into specifics in front of Olivia. The captain's awareness waxed and waned, and currently it was waning, but Amanda wasn't going to take any chances that her wife would find out what she had done inside the warehouse, especially to that boy Xander. The truth would come out eventually, but for right now, Olivia only need know she was rescued. "Where's your backup? Figured you'd have half the Bureau raining down on this place once you found it."

"I didn't tell anyone where I was going," Dana said, holstering her gun without securing it as she stepped up to get Olivia on her feet. "You'd be surprised how easy it is to slip out while everyone's scrambling to find a missing detective, officer, and perp. It's pure chaos, and with an abducted captain on top of that . . . " She lifted Olivia's free arm tentatively, fingers linked near the armpit, and whispered over her nodding head. "How's she doing?"

"See for yourself," Amanda said, grunting as they hefted Olivia to her feet, each holding an arm to keep her from teetering one way or the other. Olivia looked up in a daze to find herself standing, something she hadn't done on her own in at least thirty-plus hours. She blinked drowsily at Amanda, as if she couldn't quite make her out, then over at Dana, whom she stared at for several long beats.

Almost too softly to hear, Olivia declared, "You," and tipped her head back the way she did when she tried to read fine print without her glasses. "You killed someone." Whether or not she disapproved was hard to say, but she made no attempt to shake Dana off or distance herself from the woman she had felt so betrayed by after that murder confession.

Amanda remembered well how sullen and distracted Olivia had been in the weeks that followed her interrogation of Dana Lewis. One thing that struck Amanda most at the time was the ambiguity—she couldn't tell if Olivia was more upset that her friend had killed someone, or that Dana had lied to her about it. Amanda hoped it was the latter. She couldn't bear for the sole imprint she left on Olivia's brain, even in the midst of horrendous trauma, to be: Killer.

Even if it were true.

"Yeah, about that . . . " Dana cleared her throat, glancing at Amanda as if seeking her approval to speak further. Thankfully, she understood that Olivia wasn't entirely coherent, and took the hint to keep her response brief. "Wrongfully accused. I'll explain later. Right now y'all need to skedaddle on outta here and get you to a hospital, honeybun. Sound good?" She spoke at a volume suitable for the elderly or the hearing impaired, instinctively hunched forward like she was addressing an old woman with a walker.

Any other time, Olivia would have told the FBI agent to stand the hell up and stop shouting at her like she was deaf. Amanda held her breath, waiting for it, but Olivia only nodded her agreement and slumped in Amanda's embrace, unable to maintain what little balance she'd had from being propped up on both sides.

Guiding Olivia's head onto her shoulder, Amanda kept a hand over the opposite ear and stage whispered across it to Dana. "Are you seriously just letting me go? What about him? And there's more in the warehouse. Kat, she . . . " Unexpected tears pricked her eyes, and she stopped short at the emotion in her voice. She'd be damned if she would lose it now, after everything she had made it through so far.

"I saw. You've been a busy girl." Dana craned her neck to survey Nicholas Angelov's body past Amanda's shoulder. She pulled a face at the state of his half-dressed corpse with its exposed, mangled genitals, then sighed like a weary mother about to tackle a mess left behind by an overactive toddler. "You let me worry about this and the other. Ask me, looks like these boys went and had themselves a shootout before we even got here. And I'll take care of that." She put a finger to her lips, silencing Amanda as she started to mention Kat again.

"Why?" Amanda asked, trusting her freedom to leave no more than Olivia had moments earlier. Lewis already put her career on the line by letting Amanda abscond with Matthew Parker, now she was risking a prison sentence—and a real one, not just an undercover tour—by offering to stage a crime scene and allow a suspect to flee. She knew the thin blue line went deep, but that seldom held true between feds and cops, especially when they barely knew each other.

Dana cast a sad look at Olivia, showing genuine concern in spite of her brusque exterior. She touched the captain's shoulder for a moment, as if in passing, as if strength could be imparted with a single meaningful squeeze. "Because somebody owes it to her. And I'll be goddamned if I let those sonsabitches get away with this. Did you do what had to be done, Detective?"

Did she? Amanda thought of Xander Bergström, whose intellectual level was probably close to that of her two eldest children, as he crawled on all fours, searching for his missing jaw like a lost marble or a set of keys. She thought of him putting his fingers inside of Olivia while the other men pawed and tore at her, his lack of concern for the crying, bleeding woman on the desk undeniable. Learned behavior or not, he was ruined. His father and brother had seen to that.

"Yes, ma'am," she said solemnly, with a firm military nod. This was warfare, after all. Maybe not on as grand a scale as some wars were fought, but the minute Sondra Vaughn came after Amanda's wife the battle had been waged. Amanda would use every last weapon she had, down to her own eye teeth, to end it—and anyone who was involved. She gave her hair a toss, snapping it over her shoulder, posture erect. "Clear head, clear eyes, clear heart."

Except for Kat, she meant every word.

"Good. Then that's all I need to know." Dana hiked her thumb toward the doorway, signaling for Amanda to get a move on. She swiped the same thumb under her nose and sniffed loudly. "Now get that poor girl outta this festering shit factory and into a hospital bed. I can't hold my guys or yours off forever, and I've got my work cut out for me with the, um, creative approach you took." She indicated Angelov's body with a slant of her shrewd dark eyes.

Without looking back at her latest (and final?) casualty, Amanda started for the door, supporting most of Olivia's weight despite the captain's best efforts to follow along. The poor thing just didn't have the strength or coordination to take more than a step or two unaided. They hadn't made it much farther than that when Amanda stopped and glanced over her shoulder at the woman who was saving her ass. "Dana, I . . . "

Thank you didn't quite cover it, considering the magnitude of Amanda's appreciation and what Dana was about to do for her. For Olivia. The FBI agent probably wouldn't accept something that sappy anyway. "Watch out for Gus," Amanda concluded, adding the name in the same hushed tone they used at home so the dogs wouldn't go nuts at words like walk or park. She wasn't sure Olivia even knew the Sandman's real name, but she didn't want to frighten her with it or with the knowledge that he was still alive somewhere. "Haven't seen him, but he probably won't stay away very long. His kid is here."

Was. His kid was here.

"Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself." Dana took her 9mm from its holster and displayed it as if that was all the answer Amanda needed. It looked like she might kiss the barrel, the way she held it up close to her face, admiring. "He never gets caught because he runs, not because he stays and fights. 'Sides, he's got everyone else doing his dirty work for him. Guys like that couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. And don't you dare say same difference."

The joke sailed over Amanda's head, but she was aware of Dana's irreverence, and she didn't like it. Gustav Sandberg shouldn't be taken lightly, no matter how confident Dana was feeling or how much firepower she had at her disposal. "Be careful," Amanda said gravely. After a second thought, she took her Glock from the front waistband of Angelov's joggers and extended it to the other woman. She gave it an extra thrust in Dana's direction after a hesitation to accept. "Take it. If you find him . . . I want it to be my gun you use. However you see fit."

"What about—"

"I got it covered." Amanda tossed her gun onto Dana's palm, upturned with uncertainty, then reached for Olivia's gun behind her back. Their weapons were identical, but she could swear the grip was somehow different on this one than on her own. She flexed her fingers around it a few times, adjusting to the feel. If she had to shoot someone with it, she could—that was really all that mattered. "Don't let him sandman you, hey, Lewis? It's time he fucking gets what he deserves."

"Trust me, babygirl, he ain't pouring no sand in these eyes. I've never been much for dreams, anyhow." Dana holstered her pistol again, shooing with the muzzle of Amanda's gun. "Now, hospital. Go."

Amanda went, hobbling out of the shipping container and across the lot with Olivia hanging onto her shoulders and stumbling along beside her. It was impossible to move quickly while being mindful of Olivia's injuries and treating her as gently as Amanda wanted to. Several times she had to stop and heft her captain higher into her arms, making Olivia wince and hiss with pain. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Amanda repeated in her head, too winded to say it out loud.

By the time they reached the corner of the warehouse, they were both panting heavily and on the verge of collapse. "I can't," Olivia gasped, falling against the concrete pillar like Jesus grappling with his cross. Father, please take this cup from me. "Yes, you can," Amanda said breathlessly, shouldering her weight again, urging her on despite the balking. As much as Amanda hated it, this was one time she couldn't let Olivia say no. "Look at me, darlin'. Yes, you can. You have to. Do it for me 'n our babies. They need their mommy. And I need you to do this for me."

She would have to add manipulation to her long list of sins for the day, but right then she didn't care. Whatever she had to say to get Olivia around the building and into the car, she would say it. And not only because the journey was so arduous—she was pretty sure she had just heard a car door somewhere in the distance. Sound carried strangely out here along the waterfront, especially while surrounded by a mountain range of metal containers, but if Gus or the cavalry had arrived, it was time to haul ass.

Without waiting for the go-ahead, Amanda took off again, launching herself like a horse from the starting gate, dragging Olivia along with her. She moved so quickly, neither of them had a chance to protest or stumble. They were too preoccupied hanging onto each other and trying to catch an occasional breath. If there was ground beneath Amanda's bare feet, she didn't feel it.

Before her brain could catch up with her rapid footsteps, she had Olivia in the passenger's seat of the Lincoln, buckling her into the seatbelt with the practiced hand of a mother with four small children.

The click still made Olivia's entire body jerk as if a blast of gunfire had gone off next to her ear. She hunkered down inside of herself, fearful of Amanda leaning over her, of the belt strapping her in, of the bright sunlight streaming through the windshield. The outside world had become almost as hostile and frightening to her as the one inside the box. Even Amanda was a threat. She longed to kneel beside Olivia, take her by the hands, kiss the backs, and reassure her she was safe.

But first Amanda had to get her to the hospital. She pressed her lips to Olivia's hairline for a moment, so fleeting they barely made contact, and whispered, "Hang on, baby. Hang on, okay? I'm shutting the door. Watch your fingers." There wasn't any need for the warning, with Olivia's hands lying limply in her lap, the fingers curled in like the legs of a dead insect. Amanda eased the door shut carefully anyway, bumping it fully closed with her hip to deaden the noise. She rounded to the driver's side after a cautious scan of the lot, keeping low in case she had to duck behind the car.

There were no other vehicles in sight, and she slid in behind the wheel of the town car with a giddy sense of escape, though they weren't quite home free just yet. She latched her door as soundlessly as possible, still cringing at the muffled thump and the purr of the engine. It wasn't a loud car, but right then she felt like she was revving a Mustang on a quiet neighborhood street. At least Olivia hadn't cowered away this time, if she could even manage it, as badly as she was shaking.

"Aw, baby. Hold on, hold on. I'll get you warmed up." Amanda found she couldn't remember the steps for warming someone with hypothermia—if it should be done gradually or all at once—but she turned the heater on full blast anyway. All that mattered was Olivia was cold and needed her body temperature raised, and Amanda had the solution. She adjusted the vents to blow on her wife, who was squinting at her surroundings with uncertainty and confusion.

"Manda," Olivia rasped, saying the name as though not quite convinced she had it right. But she did know who she was with, and that was encouraging. Back in the container, she barely seemed to recognize Amanda at all. Here she gazed out the window like it was the rest of the world she didn't recognize. Like those three days inside the box were familiar ground, life beyond it a foreign planet, when shouldn't it be the other way around?

"Yeah, baby?"

"Where are we?"

Amanda navigated the car through the parking lot at a slow crawl, not wanting to attract any attention to their departure. She would floor it once they were beyond the stacked units, where the flow of city traffic and the industrial clang of construction would drown out the Lincoln's gunning engine. Fortunately, Dana had a light bar on the dash, with a siren option. She did like to make an entrance. "It's a shipping yard in New Jersey, sweetheart," Amanda said. During normal conversation, she would have cracked a Jersey joke, but nothing about this was normal. "Hoboken."

"Oh. They brought me to Jersey?" Olivia sounded as perplexed as if she'd discovered Gus and his men had housed her in Japan.

"Yeah." Trying for a wan smile, Amanda fell short at a queasy twitch of the lips. She wondered if her wife was figuring out that she had been less than twenty minutes away from the precinct the whole time she was being tortured and assaulted; meanwhile, Amanda had sat around uselessly, letting it happen.

Less than twenty fucking minutes. Jesus.

"I wanna go home," Olivia said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to her. She was slouched low in her seat, gazing up with innocent, earnest eyes that were so like their baby daughter's, it shredded whatever remained intact of Amanda's heart. She was asking to be taken home the way small children asked for the deepest desires of their heart. "I don't wanna go to the hospital. I— I think I'm okay. Can we just go home now, please?"

It gutted Amanda to hear the pleading, to look into her wife's beautiful, bruised, imploring face, and to still have to say no. There was no way in hell Olivia was "okay," even if she meant in the physical sense. Her body was probably so numb she didn't realize how badly she was injured. "No, darlin'. I'm sorry, but I gotta get you somewhere to be looked at. You're in real rough shape. Might have some internal injuries. I know you hate hospitals, baby. So do I. But I need to be sure you're okay."

She left out the part where Olivia would need another rape kit. At least the fourth one Amanda was aware of her undergoing in the past several years. Harris, Lewis, Arliss—and now Gus, aka The Sandman. Even if all of the men turned up dead this time, it was still important to collect evidence of what they had done, so the assaults could never be denied. And part of Amanda feared that she'd missed other assaults by other men while the cameras were off. DNA testing could help rule that out or confirm it. Then she would know if there was anyone else she had to hunt down and execute.

Olivia wilted further against the seat, barely managing to hold her head up. She sighed like she wanted to say more or offer up protest, but she didn't have the strength for it. Amanda would have preferred she argue, tell her she didn't get final say on medical decisions, and demand to be taken back to their apartment immediately. Not that Amanda would have listened. But any sign of Olivia's strong-willed nature would be better than the spiritless, defeated reaction she gave. "Okay. Which hospital?"

"There's the Medical Center here in Hoboken," Amanda said, momentarily distracted as she finally coasted out of the lot and onto a gravel path. No one was following in the rearview, and up ahead, like a lamp burning in a lighthouse on a nighttime coast, was the main road. A place where they could put this unspeakable hell behind them.

"Rather go to Mount Sinai." Olivia's gaze remained fixed on the window, a sidelong drift of her eyes as they passed the construction site the only indication that she saw anything beyond the glass. She shrank even more inside herself as the high metal labyrinth loomed alongside her, and turned away completely when the men working there came into view. "In the City."

"University is closer," Amanda countered lightly, trying not to flat-out dismiss Olivia's preference. Of course she wanted to be treated closer to home, away from the Jersey pit she'd been terrorized in. It might even be wiser to leave the town where Sandberg's headquarters resided, in case he had affiliates at the local hospitals. But right now, the most important step was to get medical care for Olivia as soon as possible.

Anyone who even looked at her funny would first have to go through Amanda. "Let's try that one, yeah?"

Olivia shook her bowed head, peering at Amanda through the coarse, raggedy strands of her hair when sitting up straight proved too difficult. "Sinai's fifteen minutes. Please, Amanda. Wanna be in the City."

Leave it to her city girl to know the distance, Amanda thought sadly. That place was in the captain's blood in a way no spot on earth had ever been in Amanda's. Other than by Olivia's side. It might be good to let her make the decision of where they went. Reestablish some of the agency that had been stripped away from her, repeatedly, for three excruciating days. Fifteen minutes would be worth that small kindness.

"Okay, baby. Mount Sinai it is," Amanda murmured, reaching over to stroke Olivia's cheek, dying a little inside when she flinched at being touched. Logically she understood that Olivia wasn't afraid of her—that it was a natural reaction after enduring so much trauma—but it still cut to the bone. They had worked so hard on getting past Olivia's many trust issues these last four years, but being touched by Amanda had never been one of them. Until now. "But I'm using lights and sirens. I'm sorry, Liv. It'll get us there faster."

She flipped on the light bar and siren without giving Olivia time to anticipate the loud abrasive noise, which would undoubtedly be an assault to her senses. Amanda felt cruel just for putting it on. All she could say as she angled the car toward 495 and the Lincoln Tunnel, the only comfort she could give, was an apologetic, "Hang on, baby. Hang on."

. . .