Post-S3: Washington DC
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Audrey yawned, stifling the sound as she settled at her desk. Last night had been another one of those nights—hours spent on the phone with Jack, the conversations stretching late, the memories he shared lingering in her mind well past midnight. Though they didn't talk every day now, each call was something she cherished, a chance for both of them to share thoughts and memories they might have kept from anyone else. There was something freeing about these late calls with Jack, something she hadn't found anywhere else yet—a quiet space to be open, where judgment never came into it.
Jack had been on the road for over a week and a half now, and though they texted regularly, the phone calls were what she cherished most. She'd somehow drawn out stories he rarely shared with anyone, stories about the past he usually kept tightly guarded. Over the course of the past one and a half weeks, he had told her about rekindling his relationship with Teri, the years 1988 to 1993, about Special Forces missions, and about leaving the military behind, going back to university. These missions he described were beyond her own world, and she found herself captivated, even when the details unsettled her. Jack had a way of speaking, leaving out some details, that made her want to know more, and every new memory he shared left her with a clearer image of the life he'd led.
After their calls, the following days, Audrey would sometimes pull up his file, not out of distrust but out of a growing curiosity. She'd compare the official reports to his version. He never lied; his stories were always truthful, but in his own telling, the details took on a different life. The files spoke only of dates, operations, field specifics. Jack's words gave her something different. She found herself filling in the gaps as she scrolled, imagining the calls to Kim he'd mentioned, the long phases of recovery. She'd picture him in the mornings after the drinking sessions, remembering his honesty about the strangers' beds he'd woken up in on the roughest days. Ramstein. These were parts of him she hadn't expected to know. Yet, strangely, she didn't judge him for it—how could she? These things, she felt, were just the necessary fallout of surviving a life like his. And she knew she'd only heard about his early years so far. What he had gone through since then was still a mystery, though she sensed those years had marked him just as deeply.
A week ago, Jack had asked her cautiously, if she could look someone up for him in the DoD database—a man named Jim Ricker. When she'd read the word to him, from Rickers file: "deceased", she knew it had struck him harder than he was letting on. He had been a friend. She'd heard the pause in his voice as he absorbed it. And then he had given her another name from his list of former comrades, Carl Benton—or "Charles," as he'd called him in the earlier stories. Carl had survived. "Retired", the file said, and it even said that he was now working as a social worker in the third-world country of Sengala, working in a small school he'd started himself. Jack's silence when she told him spoke volumes. She'd sensed a flicker of envy in his voice when he finally replied, quietly amazed that Carl had found such a peaceful purpose in life. In Africa, he had left behind the violence of their old life, while Jack, in some way, had never been able to.
Their search through Jack's list of former unit members continued, and each name they found felt like turning a page in a book written long ago. The hits they found brought mixed results. Most hadn't survived the years. Some lived far away. One of them, Al, was listed in Fresno. Jack took the detour without a second thought, and within a day, he had tracked him down.
Jack hadn't told her much about his time with Al, only that they'd kept up an unspoken tradition—meet, a handshake, a quiet mention of the name of town where they'd fought together, finding a bar, ordering stiff drinks, the silent ritual shared by the ones who'd survived. They didn't need to talk about the past, she guessed, or maybe they couldn't. After all, they had been there. And they remembered ever bit of it.
She hadn't heard from him for two days after he reached Fresno, and when he finally called, she could hear the hangover in his voice, the nostalgia that hung between the words he didn't say. He said these had been his first drinks ever since rehab. And the bottle of whiskey had hit him a lot harder than expected.
The next name she found for him was familiar: Tony Almeida. She'd met him briefly, last year during the mission briefing just before Jack's mission to Mexico. He had been the head of CTU then, but now Audrey saw a different version of him on her screen—a mugshot, an official record of Tony's fall from grace. Jack had given her the details, telling her how Tony had ended up in a prison facility near San Francisco after risking his life and career to save his wife. The story lingered with her as she thought about him, about how it must have felt to make such a desperate choice.
Jack stayed in San Francisco longer than he'd planned. He'd taken a decent hotel near the prison, trying to hold on to his routine, and called Audrey often. She could tell his thoughts were heavy. He'd anticipated Tony's sadness and had braced himself for the frustration Tony threw his way when he first saw him. After nearly two months of silence, Tony's bitterness was harsh, even though Jack offered to vouch for him in court. But Tony had dismissed him outright, his words laced with disbelief as he'd told Jack to his face that a junkie's word wouldn't help his case.
Jack had even reached out to Tony's wife, hoping she might tell him the key on how to reach him. But her voice had been resigned when she told him to let it go, that Tony's fall had already changed him and that nothing Jack could say would help him now. Despite the setbacks, Jack's determination hadn't wavered, and Audrey could feel it in every call they shared. He wanted to help his friend, even if it meant calling in favors. From who, he hadn't said.
As Audrey looked up another name for Jack, Rick D'Angelo, the file said he had been killed in action four years ago. She sensed how difficult it was becoming for him. The growing list of those who hadn't survived weighed heavily on him. But then she looked up another name, Thomas John Reid, and heard a faint relief in Jack's voice, as she told him he was alive. The file listed TJ as retired since 1997, only reactivated twice, now residing in Baker City, Oregon. Jack's decision to visit was immediate, unspoken.
She was surprised, though, when he told her he'd take the nearly 500-mile detour. For Jack, it didn't seem to matter how far it was or how inconvenient. Somehow, she understood his need to seek out these old friends, to get some closure regarding things that he had so far only suppressed but never come to terms with.
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Audrey had barely processed the interruption when two men approached her desk, their expressions serious. She looked up from her work, noting their badges with a flicker of apprehension: one was Branson, Secret Service, and the other's name was Colonel Miller from Military Intelligence. They held themselves with a crisp authority, their demeanor leaving little room for questions.
"Ms. Raines," Branson said, his voice steady but insistent, "we need you to come with us."
She felt a prickle of suspicion. "What's this about?"
"We'll tell you in a moment, Ms. Raines," Branson replied, his tone politely firm. "Please come with us. The Secretary of Defense is already waiting."
Her father? That detail sent a rush of nerves through her, but she maintained a calm expression, keeping her movements deliberate as she stood and locked her computer screen. Her mind raced, dissecting possible reasons for this unexpected summons. Had they seen the names she'd been looking up in the DoD database? She knew there were gray areas in terms of protocol, especially with the unofficial calls to Jack and the classified databases she'd used to trace his old comrades. Perhaps they'd found the records? Had her help in his search had raised red flags? She felt caught.
She felt her pulse quicken as she followed Branson and Colonel Miller down the long, quiet hallway, and a faint dread crept in. What else had they noticed? The secure phone she'd sent to Jack, which had quietly vanished from their office? That she'd been making private calls on government lines? She steadied her breathing, straightening her posture as they reached a meeting room.
Inside, her father was seated at the large, polished table, his expression composed but unreadable. The sight of him there, waiting, added weight to the situation. Branson motioned for her to take a seat beside her father, and Audrey moved forward, feeling a wave of unease as she sat down, her gaze darting between her father and the two men.
"Hi," she said silently, glancing at him, searching his face for any sign of what this was about.
Secretary Heller met her gaze, his face as unreadable as ever, but there was a flicker of something—concern, maybe. He gestured for Branson and Colonel Miller to begin.
Audrey kept her expression steady, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.
It had nothing to do with Jack. That was the good news.
But the rest was far worse. The men around the table explained that the CIA had intercepted credible intelligence: someone was targeting the life of her father, the Secretary of Defense. This wasn't just the usual low-level hum of threats—this time, it was enough for the CIA to involve the Secret Service, urging them to strengthen her father's security detail. The danger was real, though maddeningly vague; it could happen tomorrow or months from now, but it was undeniable. Someone was out for Heller's head.
Audrey's first thought was for her father, fear seizing her. Her fingers gripped the edge of the chair as she tried to imagine what a direct threat like this could look like, how much it would disrupt his life. She as instantly worried about losing him. She glanced around at the men seated at the table, her eyes resting on her father, his gaze both firm and anxious. She couldn't understand why they had involved her, and finally, she found herself asking aloud why she'd been brought into this meeting.
Colonel Miller spoke up, his tone measured and deliberate as he explained. Her name, too, had come up. The CIA had discovered that whoever was planning this attack didn't only have Heller's name on his list, but also hers. Maybe they were willing to use her as leverage. She was a target as well, most likely because of her relationship with her father. The CIA didn't say more.
Audrey felt the blood drain from her face. She sat, spellbound, frozen by the sudden understanding that she, too, was in danger. She tried to keep her composure, but her mind was racing, flooded by the reality of it all.
Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, reassuring her that she would be protected, that he wouldn't allow anything to happen to her. He promised that her Secret Service detail would be increased immediately and that he would personally ensure she was safe, no matter the cost. But there was a worried tension in his face that she hadn't seen before, a starkness that only amplified her fear. It was the typical fear of a father, for his daughter.
Branson took over, his tone one of practiced calm as he began to outline exactly how her life would be changing—starting today.
She would be placed under constant surveillance, 24/7, with at least one Secret Service agent accompanying her at all times. She would no longer be able to drive herself anywhere, alone. Her gaze snapped to his, a trace of defiance sparking as she asked, "Are you serious? How am I supposed to get groceries or—"
But Branson met her eyes with steady resolve, clearly accustomed to delivering news like this, news that shattered someone's normal life. He explained that she would no longer be able to run those everyday errands alone. Groceries? A Secret Service agent would be with her, no more than ten yards away. Going out to her favorite bar for a drink? Only if she was willing to accept the shadow of an agent right there with her, every step of the way.
She felt her world tumbling. Audrey already lived in a gated community, but now, that layer of security would be reinforced. The Secret Service would patrol her neighborhood, monitoring everything more closely than ever. The security guard stationed at the entrance would have report directly to them, responsible for alerting the Service of any of her movements, informing them about anyone who entered or left the neighborhood. If she stepped out, even for a breath of fresh air, they would know.
And she would need to carry a hidden tracking device in her purse at all times, one that would let them pinpoint her location instantly, should they need to. It would be mandatory to keep it with her, as well as a panic button, a last-resort measure to signal for help if she found herself in immediate danger.
As Branson's words sunk in, Audrey sat paralyzed by the enormity of it. Today would be the last day she drove herself home. When she left the building, she would have a Secret Service agent in her car, and another vehicle would be following close behind. Tomorrow, she would be picked up at home, escorted to work and back. Of course she could still drive her car – if she was being followed by the Secret Service vehicle – but he suggested it would be much more convenient if she just let the Secret Service do the driving from now on.
The simplicity of her life, her freedom of movement—these things were disappearing before her eyes.
Branson slid a card across the table, saying she could contact him with any questions about the arrangements. He acknowledged the abruptness of the change, his tone almost gentle as he admitted there was nothing he could do to soften the impact of this shift in her life. All he could do was ensure that she remained safe from the individuals the CIA had intercepted, those who saw her as fair game, because of her father.
When Branson and Miller finally left, Audrey remained in her chair, her mind reeling, still as stone. Her father's voice was gentle beside her, attempting to soothe her, explaining again that he would arrange everything keep her safe. She knew he meant every word, but his reassurances floated past her, barely registering. She felt as though her entire life had been upended in a single afternoon, the walls of her freedom closing in, and all she could do was sit there, stunned and silent, watching it happen.
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The way home felt unsettling, even claustrophobic, with Agent Garrett sitting beside her in her own car. Audrey couldn't shake the feeling that she'd be seeing a lot of him from now on. Another agent followed in a separate car, their face still unknown to her, an invisible shadow. Garrett broke the silence with a few words about procedures, his voice polite, almost routine, as he outlined how things would look from now on: a daily check-in twenty minutes before leaving anywhere, ensuring that Secret Service could arrange for a car to be ready no matter where she needed to go.
He looked the part, Audrey thought—a clean-cut professional in a black suit, black tie, hair slicked back, earbud firmly in place, and probably armed under his jacket. A typical James Bond figure. His presence felt foreign, stiffly formal, but she sensed that he was used to giving directions without flinching, to taking over other people's schedules, habits, and lives with practiced ease.
When they arrived at her building, Garrett escorted her from the underground garage to the elevator and then all the way to her apartment door. He made it clear she wasn't to discuss anything sensitive on the phone until they'd swept her place for bugs, hinting that anyone could be listening. The warning echoed in her mind as he stepped back, and the door clicked shut behind her. She was alone.
But instead of relief, Audrey felt locked in, trapped by the walls of this apartment she'd never liked much in the first place. She paced aimlessly, feeling both exposed and stifled.
In a bid to reclaim some sense of normalcy, she glanced over her calendar. Some work trips with her father, heavily guarded as always. A dinner with her cousin Monica—she could already imagine Garrett and his counterpart lurking at the next table, turning a private evening into a surveillance exercise. And a soccer game she'd planned to watch with friends from Yale at her favorite bar; that one, she decided, would have to go. The idea of showing up with Secret Service agents in tow felt embarrassing and strange, a sharp reminder of how different her life had suddenly become. And they'd immediately tell this to Paul, and he'd be worried about her and that situation. That was the last thing she wanted. Paul's empathy.
She left the calendar behind and reached for the secure phone, her mind instinctively going to Jack. He'd understand this more than anyone. He'd been CIA himself; he knew the weight of these kinds of threats, what it meant to have your every move, every habit scrutinized. And though she wasn't supposed to discuss the intelligence they'd received with anyone on the outside (not having active clearance level 8), Jack would be the exception. He was the one person who could grasp what this really meant, who'd know how to gauge the true severity of a threat like this.
But as she held the phone in her hand, Garrett's caution lingered in her mind. The apartment hadn't been checked yet. Someone could have been here, might still be listening. Her gaze traveled around the room, catching on the shadows in corners, the vent in the ceiling, small, forgotten details that suddenly felt ominous. How many times had she sat here, night after night, talking to Jack about his past? She replayed the conversations in her mind—classified details from missions, yes, but missions long past. Then there was the personal stuff, the things she knew Jack had never told anyone else. She had talked classified stuff here, but she was sure this wasn't the kind of classified stuff anyone was interested in any more – things that had happened in the early 1990s.
Audrey just couldn't ignore the urge to call him. She dialed his number, then waited for him to call her back a few minutes later. When he did, she could hear the noise of the road in the background. He was still on his way to Baker City, and she could almost picture him there, having stopped the bike on the streetside, somewhere along the highway, to call her back.
She decided to keep the conversation brief, avoiding any mention of the threat or the Secret Service. She just needed to hear his voice, if only for a moment.
Jack sounded tired but steady, mentioning he wouldn't make it to Baker City tonight and that he was already looking for a place to stop in central Oregon. He'd continue tomorrow to find Reid.
As they hung up, a small worry gnawed at her. She knew how Jack's reunions with former comrades usually went: the same ritual each time, a quick acknowledgment of their pasts, a bar, and a few too many drinks. He'd disappear for two days, lost in memories and whiskey. She'd read the veterans' forums, knew about the binge-drinking habits that haunted so many soldiers left to wrestle with untreated PTSD. She feared that maybe he'd fall back into that routine with TJ too, spending the next few days drowning himself in old war stories and regrets.
She headed to bed, her mind still reeling from the day's events, feeling watched, targeted, unsafe. On the nightstand, she placed the panic button the Secret Service had handed her and, right next to it, the secure phone. She felt slightly foolish laying them side by side as though they were equal in importance. Jack was thousands of miles away, and she knew the first call she'd make if she ever had to press that panic button would be to Secret Service. But as her eyes lingered on the phone, she admitted to herself that she'd still want to call him, instead. ≠ would know what to do.
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