Advantage
Emile Renior is aware and pleased that his prey is confounded by his actions. It's one of his greatest strengths. He has a modus operandi but it's so precise, so unique, frankly it's so clever, that even trained government agents can't follow it. By the time Emile is ready for the final confrontation he takes pride in his targets' fried nerves. Right now Jenny Shepard is more like a puddle of gasoline seeping towards a hot flame than a human being. Emile Renior has burrowed into her, the way she burrowed into his Jeanne through Tony DiNozzo. No matter what Jen is doing, brushing her teeth, talking to the president, or even running away to a bed and breakfast in the country, she's thinking of Emile. She will continue to think about Emile until it's over. He's well aware he has the advantage.
Yes, Emile has been watching. After roughing up the boy, Emile had other tortuous plans in store for Jenny Shepard. He would have enjoyed them too but nothing he could do would hurt Jen as much as the way she has been torturing herself. He watched her swallowing guilt while she tended to the boy's injuries. He watched her sabotage her relationships with the two men she cared most about and then he watched her try to rationalize her decisions. He watched her try to comfort herself with expensive bourbon and cheap sex. She never even looked the man in the eye when she made love to him. He was essentially faceless, which Emile mused might be preferable to being one of the men she cared about. They just seemed to end up chewed up and spit out, exactly as his Jeanne was after the facade with Tony dissolved. Pulverizing hearts was Jenny Shepard's specialty. Emile would not pretend to be anything but pleased that Jenny Shepard's spirit was equally pulverized.
The thing Jenny Shepard seemed to want most was peace. Emile knew this from the beginning, it was what her torture to Jeanne was about. Now this idea of peace was still alluding her. Emile had to wonder if she was afraid of what actually finding it would mean. He hadn't seen any peace in her since the boy was staying with her. Brief flashes of it yes, like when she played pool with Agent Gibbs or more recently when she tended to the boy's injuries the day he was beaten. Emile saw her touch his cheek, kiss his bruises. He saw peace when Jenny Shepard was satisfied the boy was okay. Ironically, the boy himself probably hadn't seen it and whatever was there was lost again. Today her emerald eyes wear a racoon's mask of sleeplessness. Emile can see no peace there.
The relief Jenny might find at the little B&B would have been ephemeral anyway. As Emile watches his target he takes pleasure in knowing that he's finally going to break to Jenny Shepard once and for all. Clarke Banks is more a boyish man than a manly child. More importantly, he's exactly who Emile needs to break Jenny Shepard once and for all.
Clarke did not see it coming.
It had been nearly a week since he and Jenny last spoke. He did not want to miss her but he did. He missed her a lot. His emotions were paradoxical, whirling inside him like a geyser. He worried about her but he wanted to forget her. He was angry with her but he didn't altogether blame her. He was more frustrated than anything else. Frustrated with himself, with Jenny, with Abby, with the entire situation. He couldn't blame it all on Jenny either, no matter how he tried.
His day started out with a hangover. The previous evening he went to Chooch's, a yuppie bar filled with a mix of young staffers from the Hill and other DC professionals in their 20s and 30s. He made out with a girl for a while but left around the time her hands went to his shirt buttons. He badly needed to get laid but he couldn't help feeling too old for that kind of hookup. Somehow he made it to work on time and was relatively productive, though quiet enough for Abby to ask too many questions he wasn't in the mood to answer.
Clarke intended to go straight home from the Navy Yard. After the previous night, he decided hanging around in bars or trying to help himself through chemical or artificial means was not going to help. He planned to take the night off and regroup. Tomorrow he would begin again. He would be on a brand new path, one where he could heal and hopefully find happiness.
This new resolves might have all been bullshit but it was enough to raise Clarke's spirits as he started his commute home. An unseasonably warm December evening helped even more. He shed his gloves and got off the train a stop early, intending to walk a few extra blocks. He smiled at some Christmas lights on the corner, smiling again when he saw the sedan parked in it's usual spot across from his building. Procedure was to let his detail know he arrived home so he knocked on the car window. He had to do a double take at what he saw. The man in the driver's seat was slumped at against the wheel. His forehead head was supported by the brim of the steering wheel. Blood and brain matter seeped from the hole at the back of his head. His partner hadn't fared any better.
Clarke choked, he was going to be sick. There was only one person who could have done this, but how had managed? There were two men in the car, both who had guns! How did Renior win that fight? Moreover, someone had to have heard the shots being fired, where were the cops? These men were executed while protecting Clarke. He couldn't swallow it. He was momentarily frozen, not daring to enter his apartment. Renior would be waiting for him there. He had to call the police.
He was so distracted that he didn't hear approaching footsteps or the gun slipping from its holster. The gun collided with his skull, causing a loud crack as Clarke went down. He grabbed for the Frenchman's ankles, intending to fight. Emile responded with a hefty nose breaking kick to Clarke's face. Blood gushed from Clarke's crumpled nose slowing him down but not keeping him from getting up. He went to lunge at Emile was stopped by another blow by the butt of the gun. He went down again and didn't come back up.
Emile added another kick to the unconscious boy's gut. He followed that with another kick, wanting to ensure that when the kid came around he was in too much pain to fight well. He was younger than Emile and that spark of anger in him was unexpected and impressive. Emile wouldn't take the chance he would be overpowered.
Emile found Clarke's iPhone on the ground, a few inches away. He found Jenny's number in the contacts and sent her a photo of the boy in his current state, crumpled on the ground, unconscious in a puddle of his own blood. The message with it was only three words. It's Time, Jenny.
Now he would wait.
Yes, Emile has been watching. After roughing up the boy, Emile had other tortuous plans in store for Jenny Shepard. He would have enjoyed them too but nothing he could do would hurt Jen as much as the way she has been torturing herself. He watched her swallowing guilt while she tended to the boy's injuries. He watched her sabotage her relationships with the two men she cared most about and then he watched her try to rationalize her decisions. He watched her try to comfort herself with expensive bourbon and cheap sex. She never even looked the man in the eye when she made love to him. He was essentially faceless, which Emile mused might be preferable to being one of the men she cared about. They just seemed to end up chewed up and spit out, exactly as his Jeanne was after the facade with Tony dissolved. Pulverizing hearts was Jenny Shepard's specialty. Emile would not pretend to be anything but pleased that Jenny Shepard's spirit was equally pulverized.
The thing Jenny Shepard seemed to want most was peace. Emile knew this from the beginning, it was what her torture to Jeanne was about. Now this idea of peace was still alluding her. Emile had to wonder if she was afraid of what actually finding it would mean. He hadn't seen any peace in her since the boy was staying with her. Brief flashes of it yes, like when she played pool with Agent Gibbs or more recently when she tended to the boy's injuries the day he was beaten. Emile saw her touch his cheek, kiss his bruises. He saw peace when Jenny Shepard was satisfied the boy was okay. Ironically, the boy himself probably hadn't seen it and whatever was there was lost again. Today her emerald eyes wear a racoon's mask of sleeplessness. Emile can see no peace there.
The relief Jenny might find at the little B&B would have been ephemeral anyway. As Emile watches his target he takes pleasure in knowing that he's finally going to break to Jenny Shepard once and for all. Clarke Banks is more a boyish man than a manly child. More importantly, he's exactly who Emile needs to break Jenny Shepard once and for all.
Clarke did not see it coming.
It had been nearly a week since he and Jenny last spoke. He did not want to miss her but he did. He missed her a lot. His emotions were paradoxical, whirling inside him like a geyser. He worried about her but he wanted to forget her. He was angry with her but he didn't altogether blame her. He was more frustrated than anything else. Frustrated with himself, with Jenny, with Abby, with the entire situation. He couldn't blame it all on Jenny either, no matter how he tried.
His day started out with a hangover. The previous evening he went to Chooch's, a yuppie bar filled with a mix of young staffers from the Hill and other DC professionals in their 20s and 30s. He made out with a girl for a while but left around the time her hands went to his shirt buttons. He badly needed to get laid but he couldn't help feeling too old for that kind of hookup. Somehow he made it to work on time and was relatively productive, though quiet enough for Abby to ask too many questions he wasn't in the mood to answer.
Clarke intended to go straight home from the Navy Yard. After the previous night, he decided hanging around in bars or trying to help himself through chemical or artificial means was not going to help. He planned to take the night off and regroup. Tomorrow he would begin again. He would be on a brand new path, one where he could heal and hopefully find happiness.
This new resolves might have all been bullshit but it was enough to raise Clarke's spirits as he started his commute home. An unseasonably warm December evening helped even more. He shed his gloves and got off the train a stop early, intending to walk a few extra blocks. He smiled at some Christmas lights on the corner, smiling again when he saw the sedan parked in it's usual spot across from his building. Procedure was to let his detail know he arrived home so he knocked on the car window. He had to do a double take at what he saw. The man in the driver's seat was slumped at against the wheel. His forehead head was supported by the brim of the steering wheel. Blood and brain matter seeped from the hole at the back of his head. His partner hadn't fared any better.
Clarke choked, he was going to be sick. There was only one person who could have done this, but how had managed? There were two men in the car, both who had guns! How did Renior win that fight? Moreover, someone had to have heard the shots being fired, where were the cops? These men were executed while protecting Clarke. He couldn't swallow it. He was momentarily frozen, not daring to enter his apartment. Renior would be waiting for him there. He had to call the police.
He was so distracted that he didn't hear approaching footsteps or the gun slipping from its holster. The gun collided with his skull, causing a loud crack as Clarke went down. He grabbed for the Frenchman's ankles, intending to fight. Emile responded with a hefty nose breaking kick to Clarke's face. Blood gushed from Clarke's crumpled nose slowing him down but not keeping him from getting up. He went to lunge at Emile was stopped by another blow by the butt of the gun. He went down again and didn't come back up.
Emile added another kick to the unconscious boy's gut. He followed that with another kick, wanting to ensure that when the kid came around he was in too much pain to fight well. He was younger than Emile and that spark of anger in him was unexpected and impressive. Emile wouldn't take the chance he would be overpowered.
Emile found Clarke's iPhone on the ground, a few inches away. He found Jenny's number in the contacts and sent her a photo of the boy in his current state, crumpled on the ground, unconscious in a puddle of his own blood. The message with it was only three words. It's Time, Jenny.
Now he would wait.