Unknown Location, Iraq – July 2005
Elizabeth is in pain. A lot of it. Her shoulder isn't healing correctly… this time. Maybe it's too many breaks. Maybe the collarbone is just a bad injury. Either way, the joint is inflamed. She can barely move her arm. The cut from his boot on her abdomen is infected. It's started oozing pus. She's hot, she's freezing. She's nauseated, and her stomach aches. But her fever is down. She doesn't know if that's good or bad. She's at a precipice. It's now or never. It's time to kill him, even if her physical condition is less than ideal.
She sharpens the blade. It's a long, tedious process, considering all she has to do it with is a leather strap he uses to tie her down. But she needs it sharp. Scalpel sharp would be ideal, but impossible. So she'll reach for as close to razor-sharp as she can get. She has never slit a man's throat before. But she knows the logistics. She's seen the CIA videos.
She practices on her bed sheet, dragging the knife across it. Back and forth. She'll need to do it swiftly, decisively. She can't afford to hesitate. It has to be a clean cut, deep enough to sever the arteries. There will be blood. Lots of it. It won't be a fast death. Usually, it takes three to five minutes, depending on the depth of the wound. But it's the only way she can do this and not have him fight back.
If she stabs him, he'll overpower her. It would be much too risky. Her hand could slip, and she could cut herself. She's too weak to have to stab into his body over and over. It could take a dozen or more times. But slitting his throat, that's an easy, sure-fire way. One stroke, and he's down.
She sets up her exit plan. It needs to be executed flawlessly. Her clothes, hijab, and picture need to be in easy reach. She knows she will have adrenaline coursing through her weakening body. She won't be able to think. She has to do all the thinking now while her brain is intact.
The knife is sharp enough. She puts it under her mattress. Her escape is going to have to be a surprise. That's her only advantage. And the only thing she can rely on is her element of surprise. She closes her eyes, breathes, and waits.
And then she hears the door click.
She waits for the right opportunity. She lets him climb on top of her. Her good hand grasps the knife. She doesn't need both. He's rough and brutal. He doesn't care if it hurts. And he's never gentle. This time is no different. She waits for the perfect moment. She waits until he's just far enough gone that his reaction time will be slow. His eyes close. He's almost there.
And then she does it. Her arm flies up. And it's not pretty. She feels it catch the cartilage in his windpipe. Blood pours, and he makes a gurgling sound. He gags on the blood and tries to speak to her. And she watches the light fade from his eyes. She gets a sick satisfaction from it.
Her body shakes. She has to move quickly. He's not dead yet, and she's unsure how long he has. His body is twitching. But she has to push him off.
"Ugh!" She yells and manages to find the strength to push him off. Her shoulder feels as though it's tearing apart, and her abdomen is on fire, but she doesn't care. She's free. She's getting out.
She scrambles for her things, throwing them on as quickly as possible. She's covered in his blood. His blood is everywhere, including all over her. But she can't waste time with a shower. She needs to get out of this house. Find her bearings. Figure out her location. She doesn't have a plan. All she knows is she's leaving. She has her photo of her kids. She wraps her head quickly with her makeshift hijab and exits her prison.
On her way out of the house, she grabs a gun, and the light through the window shines gold on a hook on the wall. Her wedding band. It's sitting there. She hasn't seen it since he took it from her. She grabs it and slips it on. And then she runs.
It's too bright outside, and she can't see (she's been in that windowless room for too long), but the streets are familiar. She's in Sabaa Al Bour. She's been so close to Baghdad this whole time. She was so close, and no one ever came for her. Her feet carry her down the streets. Her shoulder is searing. Her abdomen is on fire. Her face is swollen, and the adrenaline is wearing off. And she stumbles.
Tears spring to her eyes when she sees the humvee. She drops her weapon and raises her arms the best she can.
"I'm American... Elizabeth McCord... I'm a prisoner of war." She says as loudly as she can, and her voice is scratchy, hoarse, and unfamiliar. She's not sure she'll ever get used to it.
Her hands tremble. And then she sees him. Mike...
"Holy fuck," are the words that leave his mouth. Elizabeth's adrenaline crashes. Her knees buckle. And she hits the ground hard.
Mike calls for the medic and then approaches her. Being lifted off the ground is the last thing she feels before losing consciousness. And Henry is the last word on her lips.
…X…X…X…
She's in and out of consciousness for the next few days. She's aware enough to know she was transported from Baghdad to Kuwait to Germany. She was in sepsis when she arrived at the LRMC, and they weren't sure they could save her. She's on two strong IV antibiotics and had emergency surgery to clear the infection. And another to correct the healing angle of her collarbone and reattach the ligaments in her shoulder. They have her on fluids and painkillers, and she's not tracking. She's waiting on Henry. She can't wait to see him.
Pittsburgh, PA – July 2005
Henry is making room in his closet. And his dresser. Although, he supposes they are no longer just his. The clothes that Jessica brought over are hanging up in his closet. Her shoes are now tucked neatly under his in the hallway. Her few items, her perfume and jewelry, are on his dresser. Her stuff is now in the en suite bathroom. He had missed living with a woman. And Jessica is a welcome change.
It's been a week. It's a slow adjustment. Jason warms up the quickest. At four, he only knows that he likes having Jessica around. She cooks his favorite foods, and she's always available to play. And Henry knows, though he won't admit it, that he doesn't remember Elizabeth. He may remember the concept of having a mother, but not her. Jessica is quickly becoming his idea of a mother. Henry doesn't know whether or not he should stop it.
Allison and Stevie don't warm up so easily. Allison is, however, wooed easily by the thought of the babies. She wants to help with them. He remembers Stevie being the same way when Jason was on the way. He guesses that six-year-old girls love being big sisters. Of babies anyway. Jason does seem to get on Allison's nerves at least twice daily.
Stevie is not as easy to win over. But Stevie is trying. Henry's sure that her resistance results from wanting to hold onto Elizabeth's memory. And it's not like Henry can blame her. He understands how overwhelming this is for her because he knows how overwhelming it is for him. He has no idea what the right thing to do is.
He has no idea how to handle that Jessica is now in their lives and that he is falling for her.
When Jessica walks in, Henry sits on the bed and stares at the wall.
"Hey," She smiles. "What are you doing?"
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
"How much everything has changed. It's not easy."
Jessica sits down next to him and puts her hand on his. He holds her hand in return. There is a silent comfort she brings. It startles him. It's one of the small things that make a relationship. He has been without someone who loves and comforts him for a year and a half. He didn't realize how much he had missed that until this moment.
"We're going to make this work," She says. He looks at her, and he is certain of one thing that she means that she will try.
"Yes, we will." He says, and a partnership is born.
She leans in and kisses him. The kiss is different than the ones they've previously shared. This is the first time it's felt like more. Like a promise of things to come. Because there is so much life to live, there is a whole future in front of them, and he knows they can figure out how to get through this.
Henry pulls her in closer. His hands run up and down her back, and his tongue slips into her mouth. He wills the fire in his gut to burn away the anxiety. It is easier than he had expected it would be. He's surprised how easily he can fall into the rhythm of a passionate kiss. He can feel her smile. He pulls back and looks at her. She smiles and blushes.
"That was nice," She says.
"Yes, it was." He laughs. It was nice. He can't remember the last time he lost himself in a kiss. The world is spinning again. Life feels worth living again. He hasn't felt this hopeful since Elizabeth died. But now is not the time to dwell on that. Now is the time to look forward to a future with this woman.
Langley, VA – July 2005
Conrad is scrambling. She was never supposed to make it out of there alive. He has to cover his tracks. He has to hide his guilt. Elizabeth McCord needs to stay dead. He contemplates killing her himself. It doesn't sound like it'd take much. She's sick, really sick. Maybe the infection will do the job for him. But she's fighting. The woman is strong-willed.
He's weighed all of his current options. He's thought about all of the variables. He's considered all possible outcomes. Conrad is a pragmatist. He's also a coward. He would like it if nature took its course. He would like it if the infection killed her, and he could easily take possession of the body and dispose of it. That way, his hands stay clean. But she's already survived this long. She's hanging on. It's only a matter of time before she's found, and he's forced to clean up the mess.
He needs to send someone to Landstuhl. Someone close to her. Someone who won't be questioned. George Peters. Elizabeth would never question his presence. He would be able to keep her calm, keep her in line. He would be able to monitor her. The biggest challenge will be keeping Peters off his scent. The man is smart. Too smart. And he's loyal to Elizabeth, not to him.
He can't have her die there. No. That would look bad. He's already been caught lying. If her body is discovered at a military hospital, that would look even worse. The paperwork would be on the computer. He's going to have to input something. An agent assumed KIA, proved KIA has just resurfaced. There is no way he's letting this get out. There is no way he's going to have anyone looking too closely.
He needs her to live, and she can disappear once she's back stateside. How that's to happen, he hasn't yet decided.
"Get me Agent George Peters." He says into his intercom.
He has work to do.
"Yes sir," the voice answers him.
The sooner he can get the ball rolling, the better.
He takes another sip of his brandy.
He needs to find out exactly what happened over there. Elizabeth hadn't been able to tell Hirst where she came from. She was too disoriented, too confused. It was probably best that she didn't remember. He needed to have all the facts to pull this off. He needs to know where Rodriguez is. He needs to know if his secrets are still safe.
Conrad has made a few mistakes. He'll readily admit that. But he's always covered his tracks. He's never gotten caught.
There's a knock at the door, and he takes a deep breath.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
Conrad looks at George Peters and smiles.
"Come in. Sit down." He gestures for George to sit in the seat in front of him.
"I've got an assignment for you," Conrad says, writing on a Post-it note.
George's eyes are drawn to the writing on the paper, LRMC—room 508D.
"I need you to get on a plane and go there. You'll know why when you get there."
"Sir?"
"Trust me, George, I wouldn't send you unless it was important."
"Alright, sir," George gets up. His stomach is in knots. Something feels off, wrong.
"Don't mention this to anyone," Conrad says seriously.
"Of course not, sir," George answers as he walks out the door.
What is so important that he has to go to a hospital in Germany? His mind goes to Bess. Could she be there? No. She wouldn't be in Germany. Would she? He swallows. It's going to be a long flight.
