Washington, DC – October 2014

Russell Jackson, his frustration boiling over, downs four ibuprofen tablets with the last of his strong coffee as Andrew Munsey drones on with excuses.

"McCord hasn't shown up. My last update from my team says they're hopeful it's soon," Andrew's voice carries a note of hope, the anticipation in the room reaching a fever pitch, every second feeling like an eternity.

"The entire counterintelligence arm of the federal government is at your disposal, and you can't find one woman?" Russell growls. He's too tired to yell with his usual vigor, and too much of this confuses him.

He doesn't like not having a full story. It's his job to be the most omniscient person in this town, but yet something about this twists in his former prosecutor's gut. He has the files sprawled out on his desk. He only worked in the Suffolk County Massachusetts District Attorney's office for four and a half years before leaving to work for the GOP. Still, he picked up quite a bit of intuition, and he knows enough about tradecraft nowadays not to trust anything but his gut. The files he's read over and over for hours in between phone calls and meetings paint him a picture of a sociopathic treacherous murderer and drug addict who deserves nothing less than to be on the kill list. But there is one picture mixed into the file that bothers him. A blonde woman with a bright smile holding a blue bundle to her chest while she watches two little girls awe over the infant in her arms.

"I can't find a needle in a haystack. I have an army of agents and officers searching every corner of the state for Bess," Andrew counters, his voice tinged with defensive anger.

Russell's eyes shift back to the photo, "You worked with McCord on the Middle East desk, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"How do you describe her?"

"What do you mean?"

Russell's fingers run along the edge of the photo, "What is she like?"

Andrew shifts his weight in the chair as he evaluates the quality of the tradecraft on the Chief of Staff's desk. "She's smart, brilliant," he says, which is both vague and true.

"That's it?" Russell asks as his eyes find another photo—Elizabeth McCord, Juliet Humphrey, Andrew Munsey, George Peters, Isabelle Barnes, and Conrad Dalton smiling at a camera, all a little tipsy and flushed from the open bar at Andrew Munsey's bachelor party. I mean, you were friends with her, right?"

"Colleagues," Munsey corrects.

"You invited all of your colleagues to your bachelor party?" Russell pushes like a dog with a bone, though he doesn't yet know what the bone is.

"Okay, fair enough. We were friends," Munsey concedes carefully as his eyes flick back and forth between Russell's face and the photos.

Russell nods, "And how would you describe her as a person?"

"She's," Andrew sighs as he considers the question. It surprised me, too. I see you looking at the photo of her with her kids. She looks so loving and innocent, right? But she's not. She's tough and ruthless. She's got a mean streak a mile wide. She would do just about anything to protect her secrets."

"So you think she's guilty?" Russell asks. He knows his job is to protect the President at all times, and he needs to know for a fact without any reasonable doubt that this woman is a traitor to her country.

"I do."

"You think she's guilty," Russell repeats the answer in disbelief. He's not sure why, but something about that feels off to him. He doesn't have time to contemplate his next question before Adele knocks on the door.

"I know you said no interruptions, but something big is happening on the Hill—major networks are breaking in for Congressman Hirst of Alabama. There's no chatter of what it's about," Adele says as she turns on the TV in Russell's office for him to watch.

"Thank you," Russell nods at her as he wracks his brain for what could be happening—nothing is supposed to get by him.

…X…X…X…

Elizabeth's hands are shaking. She clenches them into fists and buries them into her coat pockets. She stares out the illegally tinted windows of the armored car Vesuvian has her in, her mind racing with the weight of the upcoming press conference where she's expected to make a life-altering statement.

Isabelle is meticulously reading her statement back to her. She and Henry have painstakingly utilized every second of the two hours, making seventeen passes to ensure the statement is as strong as possible.

"What if I freeze up?" she asks Daisy, hoping for professional advice, but Henry answers her.

"Look at me, just talk to me," Henry says, finally, no longer second-guessing his decision to come with her instead of staying at the safe house with his father and the kids. "Don't look at the reporters; don't look at the camera; don't even look down at the podium; look at me."

Elizabeth nods, still not looking at him. Her eyes stay pointed out at the gray-tinted trees the car drives past. She tries to breathe steadily, but her mind is a whirlwind of too many thoughts and questions, each one a potential pitfall in her upcoming plans. She feels her eyes begin to sting with the familiar tears of frustration, showing emotional vulnerability in this situation.

Henry watches her, nearly shocked at how vulnerable she's allowing herself to be. He knows how well Elizabeth is at closing herself off and even completely turning her emotions off. She's always been a master of the poker face, especially when it comes to her outward public face. This is a complete shift, a total vulnerability. She's exhausted. He can read that in her body—an exhaustion she won't be able to sleep away. He swallows as her shoulders sag and her brow furrows while her frown deepens.

"What if we... I... do all of this and—"

"You're not going to lose," Henry says firmly—too firmly for her comfort.

She startles, nearly enough to call it a jump, and finally looks at him, her eyes wide, "Henry—"

"No," he breathes, "you don't get to lose. You have uprooted my life and my children's lives. At this point, you don't get to lose. We've put planning into this, and I am not going to watch it fall apart because you've gotten cold feet."

His words are harsh, and his tone is harsher. The tears that were kept at bay before begin to fall, and she quickly wipes them away in a furry. He can tell he has struck a nerve. He hadn't meant to. He remembers that there was a time when she would've responded to his words and tone, telling him not to speak to her that way. And she would've been right. He bows his head in regret. There's so much pressure on him and her to get this done for their kids. It's too important for any of them, including Elizabeth, to fuck it up now. He's lost Jessica. All five of his kids will come out of this with trauma that will require expensive professional help. He feels the pressure and the weight pressing down on him, and he realizes he can't imagine how weighed down Elizabeth feels.

"Elizabeth," he sighs, "I'm sorry, that was..."

"It's fine," she whispers. "You're right. I have no choice. It has to get done. I don't get to freak out or walk away now. There's no choice."

He listens to the quiet quality of her voice, which bares so much of her soul to him. He's not sure if she means to or if he still knows every part of her. Her words are absolute to him—there is no choice. His mind shifts to the men who have robbed her of her life, control, and autonomy: Dalton and Rodriguez. Those men put them here, and it's on her to fix it.

He looks down and swallows his tears, his guilt, and his pride. This isn't just about him and Jess. This isn't just isn't about the kids. This is about Elizabeth, too. Elizabeth deserves justice.

"You do have a choice," he concedes quietly, "We can figure something else out,"

She shakes her head, "No, we can't. This is the best option, I know that. I'm just..."

"Scared," he says knowingly, acknowledging the fear that looms over them both.

"Yeah," she agrees.

They stare at one another, both knowing the stakes, both understanding the importance of their choices. Both are willing to take a leap of faith. Both are afraid to fall.

Elizabeth is the first to break their eye contact, looking back out the window, the trees have become a blur behind her tears and the speed of the car. They sit in silence, both holding back their tears.

"Thank you, Henry," she whispers with the safety of their broken eye contact, "for everything... I know I'm supposed to be keeping it together for the kids and you... I'm sorry for—"

"No," He says softly, "I'm sorry. No one should be expecting you to keep it together. You were thrown into this as much as the kids and I were. You're allowed to have feelings. And you're allowed to be scared and nervous... But you've already survived so much, and you can survive this. This is easily compared to all the things you've already done. All you have to do now is let the truth speak for itself. And you can do that."

He can feel her eyes on him, and when he turns his head and meets her eyes, the emotion and intensity are overwhelming. She's always had such depth to her eyes—they shine like the sun on the warm Gulf when she's happy, and they're grey like a storm rolling in when she's upset. Her eyes are his ocean, and they're currently in the midst of a hurricane.

"I've got your back," he tells her, "Okay? You got this. I'll be there. Iz will be there. You got people, okay?"

"Okay," she nods.

"We're here," Isabelle says, and Elizabeth looks out the window and sees the crowd, the cameras, and the flashing lights. Mike Hirst is in full congressman mode as he speaks passionately and clearly about one of his constituents, a friend, who bravely came forward needing his help—needing America's help.

She swallows and wipes at her tears once more before looking around the SUV. Isabelle nods and smiles. Daisy carefully brushes a piece of lint from her blazer.

"You got this, Babe. Give them hell," Henry whispers.

"Yeah," Elizabeth breathes, "I can do that."

The doors open, and she's hit with a wall of sound and lights. The air is filled with the scent of fall—reporters with lattes and hot chocolates, nearby trees with their leaves turning, and the hint of winter's impending chill.

A slight breeze whips her hair against her tear-stained cheeks. She takes a breath, catches Mike's eyes, and begins her assent of the Capitol stairs.