Guantanamo Bay
Cuba

Prison, or any confined institutional environment, was just about the worst place possible to make an enemy. The regular schedule meant your enemies knew where to find you every hour of the day. The crowded living conditions meant they could choose the time and place that was best for an attack. If your goal was to survive, the best you could do was to stay moving, stay aware and stay paranoid.

All of that became infinitely worse if you found yourself incarcerated in a clandestine detention centre run by the military, located outside the country where no US or other international laws applied. You didn't usually end up in a black site because you were charged with a crime, or due to pesky things such as due process or court orders. You ended up there because you were deemed an enemy of the state, thereby forfeiting the rights you had as a citizen of that state.

Once you ended up in such a facility, you didn't have a sentence to complete, a court system to make appeals for your case or look forward to a parole hearing to present a reformed version of yourself for reductions of your sentence.

No.

A completely lawless, dark place such as that offered you no such hope. All you had was the cloying uncertainty about when someone would take you out to use you in a situation that was guaranteed to be even more terrible for you than your current one. Sometimes you looked forward to it: a change of scenery, a breath of fresh air, a temporary illusion of freedom and hopefully a quick, painless death before they threw you back in the hole. Sometimes you just wanted to be left alone: the misery you knew and all that.

If not, there was always the cold, creeping dread that never left you because you were constantly on the lookout for that attack you sensed, waiting in the wings to pounce at you when you least expected it.

At first, the constant state of alertness would drive you, would keep your senses sharp, and your body prepared for fight or flight at the drop of a hat. Knowing that you were at your peak, physically and mentally, ready to take on the challenge, was a great feeling, if you were into enjoying the low-key adrenaline you were always riding just beneath the surface of your bored facade.

Unfortunately, human nature being what it was, that was not a state that stayed with you for long in those conditions. The apathy and resignation were the invisible enemies you never quite got to see coming, and when they got a hold of you, it was usually too late to combat it.

Because, then, the biggest enemy you had to fight was within yourself, and those inner demons almost always won that fight.

Rivulets of sweat dropped from Michael's face and naked upper torso to the ground, turning into dark spots on the grey concrete. His palms were flat on the hard, cold floor, as were the tips of his sock-clad toes while he pushed the rest of his body up and down in a steady rhythm, determined to finish the set of fifty push-ups he had set for himself.

By the time his count reached thirty-five, his arms and legs started to tremble, straining to keep his weight upright.

Two weeks ago, he had been able to do a hundred easily, and that had been just a part of a long, complicated routine Michael had set to keep himself occupied with all the long hours he had at his disposal.

Two weeks back. That was when the most recent incident that involved him, two other inmates, misunderstandings, riled-up emotions, lots of swinging fists and a poorly crafted blade happened. It was the thirteenth such incident since his admission to the detention camp fourteen months, three weeks and five days ago.

Anyway, at the conclusion of it, Michael had ended up in the infirmary - his fifth time during the course of those incidents, for the record - with one serious injury, numerous not-so-bad ones and yet another extended stay at Isolation Wing after his release.

The morgue had acquired the other two in body bags - as it had been the case three times previously during those said incidents.

Isolation helped Michael recover in relative peace since he only ever saw the military guards who wordlessly delivered his meals, or took him out for an hour's yard time when he was well enough to walk by himself. That didn't mean he was completely in the clear, however. He never knew when those said guards decided that he broke some inane rule by taking two extra steps to the left in the hallway, or held eye contact with one of them for more than three seconds. The punishments those kinds of infractions attracted were always swift, involved a lot of pain and one never saw them coming. But, on the plus side, they never broke any bones or made him bleed enough to warrant additional infirmary visits.

All things considered, it was a far better deal during such a recovery period, than having to be constantly on the lookout for an attack that could come from one of the two-hundred and fifty other inmates.

Michael had been forced to skip a few days of any sort of physical activity and take it easy while his body recovered from the abuse and his skin stitched itself back together. The bruises and the centipede-like slash he now had on his back weren't serious injuries. That dubious honour went to the one he had on his skull where it had basically cracked open against one of the stainless-steel counters in the rec room. Or it could have been a steel door, Michael wasn't quite sure. That had happened as soon as Michael had broken the neck of the guy who had slashed at him with the shiv from behind. The other guy, the beefy one who had only brought his fists and the ugly misshapen grin to the fight, had gotten one good punch in at the same time Michael had buried his friend's shiv in his throat. That punch had sent him flying to make contact with a hard surface he had never had the chance to see, and his head had taken the brunt of the landing.

The resulting injury and the concussion, which had involved terrible headaches, constant nausea, blurry vision and a lot of fuzzy memories, had been bad enough for the doctor to keep him in the medical bay for three days under observation.

All in all, it had taken eleven days for Michael to actually get off the cot and start making his way back to the old fitness regimen in earnest. Even though he knew that it was going to take more time and patience for him to get back to where he was, it still irritated him when he had to struggle to even reach the half mark.

At least, he hadn't broken any other bones this time, which would have taken a lot longer to heal. Small mercies, he supposed. While he could easily ignore the headache that still lingered around the area behind his left ear, it would have sucked to do pushups with fractured ribs or broken shin bones.

On the positive side, the countless bruises that covered his entire torso and thighs were all shades of yellow and brown now, at their final stages of fading. The pain of stretch and burn on those abused muscles was starting to actually feel invigorating, instead of crippling.

On his fortieth push-up, the stitches on the long, diagonal cut that stretched from his kidney, over the ridge of the spine to the other side started to pull painfully, complaining against the strain.

He hoped the wetness he felt running down his back was only sweat, not blood. He wasn't really worried, since the cut was shallow, and the shiv hadn't been sharp enough to deal any actual damage to his back muscles or reach deep enough to glance off his spine. But, since it had cut open a slash of fifteen inches across his back, and bled like a bitch, it had required thirty-something stitches, along with a tetanus shot.

He loathed to stop when he was so close to the goal of fifty. So he gritted his teeth and kept going, feeling as if he was pushing up a full-grown elephant instead of his own thin, lean body. It took him twice as long, but he got it done. He fell sideways and rolled onto his back, his body having given up before Michael could inflict any more torture on it. He was forced to stare at the drab ceiling while all his limbs and muscles shook and trembled in exhaustion.

Fourteen months, three weeks and five days…and counting. His mind took over as it always did when he had pushed himself past his limits to the point where he was practically paralysed by over-exertion.

It started with the memory of the day of his arrival at the camp:

He spent three days in detention after the post-arrest interview that day before the company finally made arrangements for his transfer. An old Globemaster carried him, Riley, and another agent named Strong, along with a group of military guard transfers to Cuba. After three hours of bone-rattling black flight, the plane landed at the private airfield called Dela Garcia, which was located next to the Guantanamo Bay detention camp.

Strong and Riley were waiting for Michael when he was escorted back out after yet another thorough processing.

"You give new meaning to the word 'despised.'" Strong said. "In addition to your impressive list of felonies, you brought down one of the most respected CIA officers Langley ever produced. The CIA, the NSA, the NCTC, everybody, every intelligence organisation is calling for your head on a pike, which means you get to look forward to spending the rest of your life in this fantastic dark hole."

"Every single one of them is going to have their chance, once we're done with you," Riley added with a sneer. "In short, my friend, you're screwed. Hope you'll enjoy your new hell."

Those had been their parting words.

The agency had done its best to make good on that promise too. Michael had occasional visitors, sometimes after information about his old acquaintances or operations. Some even came with plans to get him involved in various off-the-books deals, to use him as bait to lure out the parties who still nursed grudges against him for their downfalls.

Serving out an indefinite prison sentence had its own set of perks. None of them had anything they could offer for Michael to even consider providing his services or assistance. Even locked up as he was with nothing but a bleak, possibly a very short future to look forward to, he still had an odd sense of freedom that came from knowing that it was only him, and that they had nothing left to threaten or coerce him with.

Most of those agents went back home empty-handed and frustrated. A few of them had a chat or two with the other inmates or guards on their way out, just out of spite. That was how those incidents happened.

His mind wanted to wander off in another direction then, the line of thought that always ended up hurting something fierce: His family and his friends and the woman he loved. Imagining them and how their lives moved on without him always left him feeling hollow and miserable, drowning him in a black hole that took him hours to surface to the six-by-eight concrete box he called home.

Michael stopped himself from falling down that rabbit hole by turning around with effort, determined to put himself through a few sets of sit-ups. His body finally seemed to be answering commands again.

That plan didn't quite work however, because that was when a guard appeared outside his cell to announce that he had a visitor.

Michael was escorted to one of the private rooms, which told him that there was yet another agent waiting to be disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm and support. Once his cuffs were secured to the table to the guard's satisfaction, the door opened to let his visitor in.

"Hi," Jason Bly, the Central Security Service agent he had encountered a few times, walked in with a grin he somehow managed to present as genuine. "Love the new look and the face fuzz you've got going there."

Michael was not fond of his beard. It made his face itch horribly. But, when you were in prison, personal grooming options were sadly limited.

"Bly," he said with a smile of his own. "Long time no see."

"I know, I'm a terrible friend," said the agent and proceeded to pull three books out of his briefcase. "Here, I brought you books. Heard you started learning Spanish. Figured these will help."

Michael leaned forward to take a look. Sure enough, all three of them were self-help, language guidance books for beginners. It was actually a thoughtful gift from the agent, which immediately put him on his guard.

"That's very nice of you, thanks." He said levelly, not touching any of it even though Bly had placed them where he could reach.

Bly noticed his wariness, and let out a sigh. "Huh, guess the small talk and catching up is over then," he said, reaching inside his briefcase again to pull out more folders. "Recognize these?"

Michael did because those were his.

"How did you get them?" He asked, frowning.

"Damndest thing," Bly said, leaning back on his chair, radiating casual confidence. "The delivery was routed through so many countries and continents, I was impressed that it only took six months to get to me. Do you know who I thought of when I tried to trace it back to the sender? I'll give you a hint. He loves his bling and thinks his spiky hair is his most attractive feature. I think it's his talent at hiding things that just don't want to be found. Ring any bells?"

Barry Burkowsky, the money launderer. Sending him the copies of information they had compiled on the 'Organization' and everything they had unearthed in connection to it afterwards, had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Michael had sent them off with a note for him to keep them safe and forgotten about it.

He had no idea what had possessed Barry to unload everything at the feet of the CSS agent, however.

"You know, Bly, I got hit in the head a little while ago," he drawled, deciding to play his cards close to the chest for the time being. Barry had helped him enough times Michael considered him a friend. There was no need to throw him under the bus until he figured out what Bly was after. "All it does these days is ring like a bell, and hurt like a motherfucker. My memories are all over the place."

"Pity," Bly said, sounding unconcerned at his evasive answer. Then he pulled out another file, one with a CSS seal on its cover, before closing the case. Then his expression turned serious. "Because these actually led me to something not very funny…"

Michael stayed quiet, staring at the file the agent kept in his hand instead of opening it and sliding it across the desk closer to Michael as he had done with his previous offerings. He could tell by the way Bly had straightened in his chair the agent was up to something. He didn't say anything at all because he didn't want to get his hopes up over nothing.

"Tom Card," Bly said after a lengthy silence. "I opened up an investigation into his activities a couple of months back - the activities I believe may have led to his unfortunate death."

That declaration was enough to send Michael's pulse racing, although he managed not to react outwardly. "Based on the information in my files?"

"Your findings caught my interest, especially all those inconsistencies you managed to put together after taking down the 'Organisation.'" Bly revealed. "I did some digging and found things that caught even more of my interest, which was enough for me to take it to my boss and get a green light to pursue my line of inquiries…"

"The last few people who had anything to do with the Organisation and Card ended up dead," Michael reminded him, thinking about Max, Anson, Nate, Gray…and then Card himself.

"I know, now he's dead too, thanks to you," Bly said cheerfully. "I feel quite safe continuing this investigation, especially since the CIA seems more than happy to seal all his records and call it a day. They put up one hell of a fight when I requested a copy of your interview."

Michael didn't doubt it for a second. An investigation had the potential to unravel close to twenty-five years worth of operations Card had been involved in under contract. That was the kind of disaster the Company did its best to put to rest and move on, especially when all they had to go on were the suspicions of a burned spy.

CSS, the branch of the National Security Agency which performed covert intelligence support for the United States Military, however, had no such reservations.

"Well, you're here," Michael pointed out. "I'm guessing you succeeded in getting what you wanted."

"Of course, I did. You know how persistent I am when I want to be."

Michael did know. Jason Bly had been a real pain in the ass until a plan borne out of a lot of creative thinking on Michael's part and Barry's special talents, had gotten the man to back off.

"What do you want from me, Bly?" He asked, deciding to play along. It wasn't as if he had any other pressing matters waiting for him back at the jail cell. He had all the time in the world. "If you have seen the notes on my interview, you know I don't have any proof. I told them everything I knew."

"I need you to tell me about Tom Card," Bly said plainly. "You were his star student. He trained you and mentored you to become a top-shelf operative. You know him. I want you to tell me about his personality, the way he thought and operated – what made him tick. I know you, Westen. Let's not forget that. I know you despise needless killing. For you to have killed that man the way you did, you must have seen something in him that day. I need to understand everything I can about Tom Card so that I can backtrack the threads I have pulled out of your records and see where they lead me."

When put like that, there was only one response Michael had for him. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, letting his mind travel back to the memories from all those years ago when his recruiter, Raines, had introduced him to Tom Card; the agent who had made a promise then and there to train him to become a legend in the intelligence community.

"Where do you want me to start?"

Undisclosed Location

Meanwhile…

Randall Burke finally saw the yacht through the binoculars about half an hour into the boat ride that took him towards international waters. It was anchored in the co-coordinates he had been sent earlier that day, serenely waiting for him as the message said it would. His transfer to the luxurious sailboat was quick and smooth, and the well-paid fisherman sailed back to the port happily while Burke greeted his leader in person for the first time in five months.

"James," he said, shaking the offered hand firmly.

"Randall, I need good news." The worry plain in James' eyes needed no words. Burke understood because he felt the same.

"I have news, finally," he said, folding himself on the seat James indicated. The sound of the spooling anchor reached him then, and he felt the powerful twin engines hum to life as the yacht got ready to sail. "It's not good."

"Lay it on me."

"She was captured by a group of Colombians. They double-crossed her on the deal she negotiated. They delivered her to Russian Intelligence two days ago."

James narrowed his eyes, his concern morphing into a slow, simmering anger. "What do we know about the delivery? Location, day, time… anything?"

Burke looked away, taking refuge from James' inevitable disappointment in the view of the vast, roiling ocean. "Nothing." He murmured. "I learned about this from Rafael Serrano."

It had taken a while to lure the paranoid terrorist bastard out in the open and snatch him, but once he had, it hadn't been that hard to get the man talking. Unfortunately, Burke had gained the information too late to do anything to save Sonya by then.

"All he knows is that Sonya was handed over to one Colonel Oksana Zhirkova of the GRU."

James closed his eyes and let out a long exhale. They both knew exactly what awaited Sonya in the hands of the very people she had betrayed when she had sworn her loyalty to James and everything that he and his network stood for.

The GRU was not known to forgive and forget treason.

"How did this happen? How did anyone find out about her?"

"Serrano's been insisting that he saw her and identified her," Burke replied, trying not to let his frustration seep into his tone, "Says that he knew she was a wanted criminal. I'm not so sure. I've been… encouraging him to answer truthfully. So far he hasn't contradicted himself."

"Keep working on him," James said. "We need to know how this happened. We can't have someone out there selling the files of our agents to the highest bidders. How did he arrange her handover?"

"He contracted the Columbians for the snatch and grab. Serrano doesn't have a good reputation with the Russians either, and thought it was safer to have a go-between. He kept well away from the exchange and knew nothing of the details. GRU paid an amount that was more than enough to make everyone involved very happily rich."

"Obviously they didn't take her back to the motherland," James said slowly, reflectively. "Not after what she had done. They'll need a place to hole up and get her talking."

Which meant off-the-books interrogations - torture. Burke didn't need James to describe to him what that entailed. He already knew.

"There're a few countries that fit the description," he replied, thinking back to the various lawless cesspits his own country and its intelligence services used in the exact same situations. "I've tapped into all my sources, but no one knows where they could have taken her. Not yet."

"Waiting until someone hears something is not going to help Sonya at all, Randall," James said, his voice heavy with frustration. "She's in the hands of the enemy, and the clock's already ticking. We can't stand back and hope for the best, not this time."

"I figured you'd say that–" Burke hedged.

James angled his head to the side, studying him. "You have something on your mind?"

"We're not going to find her by conventional means, not before she runs out of time. So, I've been giving it some thought," said Burke. "Since this Colonel Zhirkova has already shown a willingness to deal to get what she's after, I thought we should find something the GRU would want more than Sonya… arrange another sort of an exchange–"

James flashed him a dejected sort of smile. "Sonya was a double agent for more than half a decade. The information she brought to us during that time got a lot of GRU agents killed and a lot of their operations dismantled. What could possibly entice them more than her?"

Burke had asked himself the same question. And if he were honest, he hadn't expected to actually remember something from his own agency days that could give his desperate plan a potential.

"Not a 'what' but a 'who'."

That caught James' curiosity. "Go on."

"I knew an operative back when I was still under contract with the CIA," Burke said, thinking back to the frankly unbelievable reports he had seen here and there. "His name's Michael Westen. He was active in the Eastern European theatre back in the 90s. He was there in Kiev in 1998, Dagestan the year before and then Chechnya the year after that. But that's just what's on record. During his time there, he had a reputation - the Russian special forces called him the 'Boogeyman.' They thought it was the name of a team of operatives, not just one man."

"He sounds like an interesting man," James interjected doubtfully, "but we need something that would interest Colonel Zhirkova in particular, since she's the one in charge of handling Sonya."

"I looked into her," Burke revealed. "She has a few black marks in her otherwise stellar record - the time she was handling operations in Ukraine around the same time frame Westen was there–"

"Those were interesting times, weren't they?" James said, smiling for the first time. He had his own knowledge about the times Burke was referring to since he had started the network around about the same time, and had taken advantage of the worldwide conflicts to do the things that actually mattered. "The oil deals went south, arms deals got sabotaged, Spetsnaz teams walked into ambushes."

"Westen made a lot of enemies, and I'd say that Oksana has his name on the top of her kill list."

"I know you didn't request this meeting with me today just because you had some thoughts. So, tell me, what else do we know about this Michael Westen character?"

"He had some unfortunate times, which is good for us," Burke went on, summarising the intel he had on Michael Westen. "He was burned almost six years back by some shadow organisation. The best I can tell, he spent all those years back in Miami, doing freelance work with a bunch of locals, friends and family. He even managed to take down the said shadow organisation to the every last one at the end of that period–"

"Impressive," James commented. "He sounds like a dangerous man."

"He is." Burke agreed. "But, the CIA never officially lifted the burn notice, and it is unclear if they hired his services after the fact. But, a little over a year ago, things went sideways. Westen ended up killing his mentor, Tom Card, in public and in cold blood. I found some old footage of him surrendering himself to a field team soon after. Then he vanished and wasn't heard from again."

"A trained operative with an eventful past like his wouldn't have gone off the reservation in that manner unless something terrible pushed him off the edge," James remarked thoughtfully. "So, either that was a very publicly staged scenario to erase him from the official records to transfer him to black ops…"

"Or he went insane and killed another agent, and is rotting in a jail somewhere for his crime," Burke completed James' thought with a grimace. "I know it's a long shot–"

"But that's all we have left," James said. "Either we do nothing or we take this long shot and see if it gets us anywhere near locating Sonya. Do we have a plan to draw Westen out?"

"We'll start with known family and friends. They probably know where he is and what he's up to." Burke said, relieved to hear that his leader was willing to go along with the wildest plan he had come up with to date. It spoke of the faith James had in him, which made him determined to give it his best shot. "If they prove to be uncooperative, we can make some trouble, shake a few trees, get the word out that we mean business…"

"What if he's in prison?"

Burke smiled. "I'll show my face around," he said cheerfully. "You know I'm popular with my old company. If they get the whiff that I'm looking around for Westen, they'll serve him up on a plate just to get to me."

"That's a dangerous game you are supposing, Randall," James cautioned. "If all goes to plan, we might end up with a CIA black operative or an insane man who's lost faith in everything."

"If he proves to be a black operative, we'll dispose of him once he has served his purposes," Burke said, confidently. "But if he's a man who's lost his purpose, well, I know someone who can give it back to him."

James nodded gravely at his remark. That was how Burke had found his way to the network. He had been at a crossroads, lost, with no idea where to turn to or whom he could trust. The CIA had taken everything he had to offer and had left him in the dust to rot. That was when James had found him, and showed him all the ways he could still use his skills and talents to do something good, things that made a difference. He hadn't once looked back after that.

"I know him," Burke said, picking up from where he trailed off. "He was damned good too. Who knows, we might end up with another soldier in our ranks once all this is said and done."

"We'll see," James said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Supposing that we get Westen in our hands, how do you propose we arrange negotiations?"

"We'll use Serrano's line," Burke said promptly. "He's already cleared his name with the Russians by giving them Sonya, I'll get him to reach out to the GRU directly this time. We'll pose as another interested party whose secrets were stolen by Sonya, and offer Westen in exchange for her."

"Exchange would be the best-case scenario, and if we can make it out with both of them, we'll call it a win-win," James said, leaning back against his seat. "Even if things go horribly wrong, and the Russians somehow manage to take them both, we'll still have an in, a trail we can follow."

"We'll plan for the worst and hope for the best."

"Never a better way to do things, my friend," James chuckled. "You have my blessing. Go ahead with the plan, and keep me updated.

"Will do, James."