Baghdad, Iraq – November 2003

"Hey, Killer." Elizabeth has to refrain from rolling her eyes. She is not a fan of the nickname she has acquired in the last three weeks. She finds it vile and so unlike her true self that it forces her to realize how vastly different Elizabeth and Bess are. It was bad enough when Mike Hirst gave her the moniker. But it didn't end there. Some of the local Iraqi translators have even started to use it. And that's when she decided correcting them wasn't worth her time.

"Yeah?" Elizabeth doesn't look up at Mike from her computer screen. She's looking at the satellite imagery of the latest attack courtesy of Safeer Al-Jamil. He has a knack for killing children; for killing devout Muslims. That's the part that has confused her most on her hunt for the Butcher of Baghdad. He seems to kill indiscriminately. Most terrorists have a reason. Most tend to avoid devout Muslims and mosques. Safeer Al-Jamil doesn't seem to care. He'll go wherever he can get the biggest thrill. It's what makes him so dangerous. He's not a terrorist. He's simply a killer using the current chaos of the war to commit his crimes.

"We're gonna take a field trip to see it in person," Mike says, pointing at her screen. Elizabeth swallows. She feels torn. She had promised Henry she would stay on base and not take unnecessary risks. But at the moment, this doesn't feel unnecessary. She has spent the past two years hunting this man. It doesn't feel like a random event. It feels like fate. It feels like this is something she is supposed to do. She needs to see the destruction in person. Hopefully, she will be able to see a pattern in it. Maybe she can identify a weakness or a blind spot. Something that she can use to find a way to bring Safeer down once and for all.

"All right." Elizabeth rises from her seat. She grabs her blue scarf and wraps it around her head, covering her face as much as possible. She doesn't want to leave any traceable evidence behind if they happened to be photographed. Mike does the same with a hiking buff, pulling it over his face.

They head out of the safe house and into the sunlight. Elizabeth finds the heat and sand irritating, as usual. She wonders if she'll ever get used to it. But then again, she wants to avoid getting used to it. She wants to leave. She wants to return home. She wants to wear her pajamas and watch some sitcoms while she stuffs herself full of mocha fudge ice cream. But she is here. And she has a job to do. She and Mike grab two NCOs to take with them as backup and head out.

Elizabeth sees the body bags lined up as the Growler pulls up to the building that used to house a school. Elizabeth notices that none of the body bags hold a body over four feet tall. It flips her stomach, knowing she is standing three feet away from seventy murdered children. Her mind flashes back to seeing her parents in their caskets for the first time. The cold shock and terror. The inability to comprehend it. The numbness.

It's made worse when she sees a young private cradling a toddler. A dead toddler. The soldier, who can't be more than nineteen, has a stark white face. His eyes are red and watery. He shows that little boy so much tenderness in his death, softly laying him into the open body bag and folding his arms reverently. The soldier makes the sign of the cross over himself, but then she hears him whisper to the child, "Verily we belong to Allah, and truly to Him shall we return."

She can't help but picture Henry. Henry would do the same thing. Henry would honor his god first and then the god of the dead. Henry cradling a dead Jason. She has to swallow the bile that rises to her throat—followed by her coughing away some tears. She doesn't even notice Mike standing next to her until he speaks. "You all right, killer?"

Elizabeth swallows again. She isn't okay. But Bess has to be, so she nods. They walk past the line of filled body bags together. Elizabeth keeps her eyes focused on the scene before her. It's hard to concentrate when she only wants to throw up. When she only wants to scream into the void. She wants to scream at the god who would allow this to be done in his name. There are about fifty soldiers around her. Two helicopters are circling overhead. Elizabeth looks down as she steps over a leg—a tiny little leg and into the building.

"Have we confirmed the explosive type?" Elizabeth asks the sergeant standing next to her. He's looking at the scene before him, trying to make sense of it, just like her, trying to find a pattern in the chaos.

"Not quite. It was an improvised high-order explosive device. Likely composed of C4 or TNT based on how easily those two things can be obtained around here. We have a small lead on the source but nothing more." Elizabeth nods. That is Safeer's exact MO.

When she turns back to the scene, her eyes land on a fellow mother. The woman furiously shakes her head as she is led to one of the body bags. To the boy's body bag. As the bag is opened, the mother lets out a sound that Elizabeth has only ever heard once before in her life. It was the same sound her grandmother had made at the hospital when she saw her mother's body. It's an awful wailing sob that consists of what Elizabeth is sure is the purest form of pain one could go through.

Elizabeth takes a deep breath. She can't let herself get overwhelmed by the emotions she feels. She's here to work, not to cry. The mother's screams break her heart. She longs to hold her children like the mother holds her son. Only her children are alive. She wants so badly to hold them and feel their warmth. To hear them laughing. To remind herself that they are alive. That they are okay. But she has to remember that the reason she's here is so that she can prevent more mothers from feeling the grief she is watching that woman experience. Elizabeth forces herself to think of her children, to remind herself what is truly important. She will catch Safeer Al-Jamil. And he will pay for what he's done.

Washington, DC – November 2003

Henry's heart hammers when the phone rings at 3:30 AM. He knows he would not be informed of something terrible happening to Elizabeth via phone. But he's still afraid. And then he realizes that it's an Iraqi caller ID. It's Elizabeth.

"Hey." The line is silent. For a moment, Henry wonders if the call has gone dead until he hears Elizabeth breathing on the other end of the line. "Baby?" He hears her swallow thickly. She's crying. He knows she's crying. She doesn't answer him, so he starts talking—anything to fill the silence. To not have to hear her silently crying. Anything to get the knot in his stomach to loosen.

"I'm here, babe. I love you so much." He hears her take a deep, shaky breath. It sounds like she's trying to find the right words.

"I just," She starts but stops herself. "I've had a very long day. I'm sorry. I know it's late there."

"It's okay, babe," He says. "Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want me to talk? You just let me know. I'm here for you, whatever you need."

"Tell me about the kids. Please. They're okay right?" Elizabeth is breathless by the end of her sentence. Henry wonders what could have happened to make her so upset. So anxious.

"Yeah, they're all okay. They miss you." He says. "But they're okay."

Elizabeth takes a shuddering breath. "I can't stop thinking about them. What I saw today..." Henry waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn't, he tries to get her to open up.

"What happened?"

"A bomb. A big one. I don't think I'm allowed to say more than that." She sounds exhausted and terrified. "There was a big loss of life."

Henry listens to her speak, his heart sinking lower with each word. He doesn't ask her to elaborate. He knows she can't. Some of it is most likely classified. And he also knows that she can't be this emotional in a warzone. The reality of this situation is that she is the only woman serving alongside hundreds of men on that base. Men who will find any reason to call her weak. He knows she has to be tough to survive.

"I'm sorry, babe. I'm sorry you have to see that stuff." Henry doesn't know what else to say. He hears her sniffle. He hates that there's nothing he can do for her. No comfort he can give her. He can't hold her. He can't kiss her. He can't cook for her. All he can do is sit uselessly on the other end of this phone as he listens to her, trying desperately not to fall apart.

"It was going to be a surprise, but I had the kids write you Christmas cards and get them in the mail so they reach you in time for Christmas. And, um, Stevie is writing her first-ever book report. It's on Charlotte's Web. And I'm telling you now. We will be spending a hell of a lot of money on Harvard for that kid. She's brilliant with words." Henry pauses for a second when he hears Elizabeth let out a small laugh. "Let's see, Noodle has learned how to write her name, which is very cute because she keeps making the 's' backward. Jason has recently added the word 'why' to his vocabulary. So that's been fun for me. He has broken the 'why?' chain record for Team McCord."

"So they're okay? They're really okay?" Elizabeth asks again. He can sense her relief.

"They are," Henry reassures her. "They miss you, but they're doing good."

"Thank you," Elizabeth says. "I just want to make sure they're okay. And you. How are you doin', babe?"

"I miss you too," Henry says. It's all he says. He doesn't bother her with his own sleepless nights spent flicking through Exodus. Or how he hasn't been able to stop crying since she called.

"I'm glad to hear that because I miss you so much." She says, and she does sound glad even though Henry can still hear the sadness in her voice. "I'm going to let you get some sleep. I love you, Henry. So much. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you too. Stay safe, baby. Talk to you soon." Henry says. He places the receiver back on its base, turns his light on, and flips his Bible open once again.

Langley, VA – November 2003

Conrad has spent a month trying to figure his way out of this. Trying and failing. He has been reduced to giving in to this man. And he has come to believe it would be best for him to give in. To give him Bess. His friend. Or at least the closest thing he has to one. Conrad isn't sure when he quit having feelings. He's not sure what event in his life turned him into this. But somewhere along the lines, he did become this, and now, he is facing a terrible choice. One that will destroy him if he does not make the right one. He can't go on trial for war crimes. That cannot; it will not be his legacy. So he has spent a month planning—a month of calculating the variables and a month preparing to disappear Elizabeth Adams McCord.

He looks over his faked files once again. A file containing proof that Bess is a traitor to the United States. A death certificate. An autopsy report. They are all excellent pieces of tradecraft.

He then looks over the files of the two agents he has chosen to help him. They have both been selected for a simple reason—their unquestioning loyalty to him.

It's a good plan. Foolproof even. He's ready to execute it.

"Lucy, please have Agent Humphrey and Agent Richardson come to my office ASAP."

"Right away, Director."

Conrad waits for ten minutes. And once the two agents are in front of him, he puts on his best-betrayed expression and looks Juliet Humphrey and Jessica Richardson in the eye. "Bess McCord is a traitor, and I need you both to help me take her out."