When the Past Returns (Day 2)
Follows this.
Tuesday Morning
When Liz wakes, the sun is peeking through the safe house curtains. She is groggy and her head hurts like she'd had too much to drink the night before. But all she'd had was a too sweet soda that she’d grabbed from the fridge herself. Being out of the field for years hasn’t dulled her; she still knows better than to let someone else get her drinks.
It doesn’t change her paranoia though. The blankets are messed up, like she tossed and turned through the night, but she can't remember being restless. There is a dent in the second pillow and she chews her lip, wondering if she was just so tired she can't remember moving around like she'd shared the bed with someone. It’s happened before, when her insomnia finally catches up to her and physically, she drops, but there is still a part of her body that keeps moving. Still, a nagging part of her mind reminds her that the last time she felt like this was the morning after that party in Paris, when she'd finally slipped free of Salvo's gang, and fled to the safe house. It feels too much like the morning after in Serbia, when she woke in a world she hadn’t fallen asleep in.
The fear wraps around her heart and she closes her eyes, arguing with her inner voices. She's just tired and stressed, she justifies, even while flashes of Paris and Serbia taunt her. The dark basement in Serbia where her mind warred with her body, where she felt hands on her while she was taunted by voices that still enter her dreams. She's just tired, the internal argument continues. This is a different safe house. Here’s she’s surrounded by people who are supposed to protect her.
Supposed to. One of the agents in the mix is possibly feeding information back to the people she had tried to take down.
Unable to sit still any longer, Liz reaches into her bag for a baggy UNM sweatshirt. Pulling it over her thin tank top, Liz puts her hair into a ponytail and pads on silent feet into the living area. She still isn’t hungry, but she needs to take her meds and the coffee smells good.
The room is empty, save for Mary who is sitting at the table in the dining area. "We're still waiting," is how Mary greets her. Liz just nods and stares at the wall, calculating how long it will take to walk to the kitchen, pour her coffee, and disappear into the bedroom again. "We have a secure line set up," Mary says. "You can make a couple of calls. Don't leave any information but the people who you know will be looking for you will cause more trouble if they don't hear from you. Call the director of NCIS first. Use her private line. We know she is not in her office right now and you can leave a message."
Liz sighs and nods, going to the phone Mary points to. She dials the memorized number and is half expecting to hear her lover's breathless answer. But it goes to voicemail and Cynthia's clear and crisp voice lets her know that Director Shepard Gibbs is not available. Liz walks as far away as she can to speak. "Hey it's me. Please don't worry. I promise I'm fine." She takes a shaky breath, hoping she really sounds it. "I'll call you soon. Take care of yourself. I know you haven't been feeling well and this can't help much ... but I promise I'm okay. Put me on the bottom of your worry list." She pauses and whispers out the last words. "I love you, okay. So please just take care of yourself. And don't worry, that spot you and J like ... it'll be ready to go when you get here." Shaking, she hangs up the phone and then calls the business line at the stables. "Hey," she says to the answering machine, "Hey, it's me. Just something came up with the family. I'll be back in a couple of days. Kara should be able to handle the lessons." She hangs up before she can say anything else. That's it. Jenny will fill Adam in. She's sure her sister knows all the messy details. Yet again, Heather is cleaning up after her. When she puts the phone back on the table, she realizes Mary is watching her. “What?”
Mary shakes her head. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
“This? I know.” But she isn’t sure. If she’d just turned Adam away at the door. If she’d let them relocate her after Vance showed up. If she hadn’t fallen for Jenny and then encouraged her to go back to work. The ifs actually could kill her this time.
“This has been cooking for a long time. I’m amazed it took them this long to start making threats.” Mary shrugs into her coffee and leans back. Liz matches her gaze, channeling the woman she used to be. If she’s learned anything about surviving in witsec it’s that personality doesn’t change. Not unless you want it to. But she’s tired and scared and suddenly terrified that not even her home is safe. Nowhere will be safe. They’ll plug one leak and another is going to spring. Why the hell did she even bother to ever do this?
Opting to take the conversation bait, Liz walks into the kitchen to get her coffee. She pours it, decides against anything sweet, and sits at the table, happier to warm her hands than anything else. Staring into the dark liquid, she sighs. “I was used to just living, you know.” When Mary doesn’t answer, Liz raises her head and can’t help but chuckle at the look on the inspector’s face. Whining is for her journal, not for conversation. Too bad she doesn’t have her journal. Writing would keep her occupied. “Is this going to change my monthly trip back east?”
“Probably. We know it’s a doctor’s appointment and they need to monitor whatever meds you’re on, but if it’s more dangerous for you to be in the area, we aren’t letting you go.”
Liz just nods and looks back at the coffee. It’s probably for the best. Seeing Jenny would put them both in danger. Silence settles on the house again and she gets up, wanting to be hidden before the rest of the team emerges from wherever they are hiding. She wants to make her bed, sit on it, and try to feel safe in a place where she’s supposed to be protected. The door closes behind her and she leans against the wood, staring at the bed. All of it just feels way too familiar.
Tuesday Afternoon
Lights flash. She turns her head, side to side, trying to make out the whispered Russian. Some words are clear. Spy. Agent. Whore. She wants to move but can’t - her body is tied or bound. She is cold. All she can smell is mildew.
Hands land on her shoulder and her mind screams but she is sure her mouth does not cooperate. Warmth in her ear. A voice, accented, whispering how she is found out, how they have always known, how she was offered up as sacrifice by her own government so they could get the intel they needed. Pretty girls shouldn’t be so smart, he hisses in her ear. His hands are on her, mocking her.
Liz opens her eyes, realizing that in her sleep she pulled the pillow over her head. The nightmare does not taunt her; it is far too familiar for that right now. Memory of the imprisonment in Serbia, the fading in and out of consciousness, the voice she hates to recognize.
Kort. Four letters that to her are more offensive than any slur thrown in her direction. CIA pony-boy, runner, rogue, panderer to gun runners and dealer of death to whoever he felt deserves it in the moment. His smarmy accent, the smell of expensive alcohol but cheap cigars, the grime under his always manicured nails. Kort. The CIA tie-in to Benoit and in the end, the messenger of her salvation.
Even though she had not been the one to put the bullet in Benoit’s brain, the FBI had wanted to nail her. The CIA would have been glad to have her out of their hair. But, instead, Kort played it smart. The man who had held her in that basement in Serbia, the man who had been Vance’s runner between NCIS and Mossad, now held her loyalty in his hand. She wondered what redacted part of her file revealed that relationship; the twisted, convoluted blackmailing he’d done without ever having to once make a threat. No, the threat was there. The CIA could revoke her get-out-of-jail free pass at any time. She’d used Federal resources to hunt down a personal enemy, had tried to kill a confidential informant for the CIA, had acted as an accomplice to his murder, and had put the lives of civilians in danger while doing it. He had her; he had her actions in DC and her actions in Europe. He had her. And witness protection had been her only way out.
She stretches, realizing she slept the morning away. There are voices in the living area but she is hesitant to get up and join, even though she is desperate for a shower. Her room is the master suite, she does not need to even leave the room to get to the shower, but to shower means getting out of bed. If only she had her phone, her laptop, any connection to the outside world, it might get her moving. But there is not even TV in the safe house.
Forcing herself up, she wonders if anyone is missing her. Jenny would be. Adam might be worried. But recently she’s come to realize how good her cloak of invisibility really is. Maybe she’s better at this than she ever gave herself credit for and if they have to move her, the people in her life would move on. John could take over the stables and Kara would probably help. Matthew would keep volunteering. Jenny had Jethro and Daniel and the baby and her job. It is already weeks since she last talked to Adam. Her teenagers would, sadly, chalk her disappearing up to yet another adult screwing them over. She’d start over in Vancouver or Boise or St. Louis. This time she’d be a brunette and work in a boutique and hit on all the women who came through the door, all the while waiting for the inevitable moment when yet again, her cover was blown because yet again, some asshole wanted to get even.
But today, in a house in Santa Fe, one of those assholes was lurking. Who had been paid off? Which one? The bulky one who grumbled when she kicked his ass last night? The young, blonde one who didn’t say much? The older one who seemed to know Mary very well? The one who guarded the phone and door like a hungry dog over a bone? All were doing their jobs but any could be the one who had sold her out.
There is no lock on her bedroom door. Liz contemplates putting the chair under the knob, but tries to push her paranoia aside. These people are here to protect her. She fishes clean underwear, a tight tank top, and a pair of jeans out of the bag. Her baggy UNM sweatshirt is the best security blanket at the moment so she takes that with her as well. Outside it’s too hot for sweatshirts but inside she is shivering.
The water is too hot but she doesn’t care. The water slices over her, leaving her skin red and raw, but it erases the feeling of hands all over her. It was a decade ago, but she can still feel how they pinned her down, mocked her. She can still feel the floating sense of being drugged and willing when she wasn’t. But the water can’t wash away how she was told to take it for the team, and they were thankful for the intelligence she collected. What a good soldier. How often had she said that to her own agents?
Soap stings her eyes. She lets it, waiting for the water to wash the pain away. She stands under the shower until the water runs cold and even then waits until she can’t take the cold to shut off the faucet and step into the bathroom. Wrapping the towel around her hair she stands, letting the air dry the water on her body. She can feel the hard water tightening on her skin, the faint salt residue left behind, and wonders if she thought enough to put lotion in her go bag.
Glad she thought to bring her clothes with her, Liz pulls them over her damp body, knowing the tank top clings but the sweatshirt covers everything and hangs to her mid thighs. The towel comes loose from her hair and she leaves it to dry, worrying about the tangles later. Showered at least she is more in control of her mind. This is nothing to lose her mind over. She’s in a safe house because they need to keep her out of danger. She’ll be home in a couple of days and laughing with Jenny about it in no time. They haven’t relocated her. That means everything.
But inside her bedroom, she stops. Standing there is the blonde Marshal, his arms crossed over his chest, and beside him is the four letter word who has been haunting her dreams for weeks. Agent instinct kicks in and she backs up. She is clear and sober and Huntington’s aside she can still defend herself or at least make enough noise in defending herself to attract attention. The problem is that they don’t have to move. She’s trapped. The Marshal - what was his name? - stands at the door. Kort at the window she’d thought was nailed shut. They can stay right where they are. Her options are to scream and hope that someone comes fast enough or to talk her way out of it. While debating, she keeps backing up toward the bathroom.
“Move all you want, Kitty,” Kort snorted, his thick voice mocking her. “Kitty. It’s been so long since anyone called you that. Not so special now without your bodyguards and your driver are you?”
“What the fuck do you want, Kort?” Defensive plan achieved, she stood in the doorway to the bathroom. At worst, she could duck inside and lock the door. At best, she could talk her way out of this. They hadn’t hurt her. Ample opportunity had been given while she stood naked in the shower, and they’d just waited. It also wouldn’t do them any favors for her to emerge from this bruised and bloodied. The Marshal, while dirty, still didn’t want to face life in the prison general population. For a moment, she actually had the upper hand.
He chuckles, that low, terrifying chuckle that still sent shivers up her spine. She flashes back to the car in Paris, when she’d married her trust to him, knowing he was sending her on a wild goose chaise to Russia and yet needing to know any kind of truth about her father and Benoit. She’d died not knowing if he really was alive or dead, despite the images of his cold body that haunted her memories.
“What do I want, Kitty?” He smirks and moves to sit on her unmade bed, right in the spot she’d vacated to shower. His hand rests on her pillow and Liz forces herself to hold her ground. If they don’t get her home tonight, she’ll sleep on the damned couch before she slides between those sheets again. “What do I want? Well, other than to gloat?”
“It’s Liz,” she corrects quietly.
“Yes, yes. Elizabeth Jackson. No middle name. Esteemed adjunct professor of Russian and French at the local community college. Rescuer of abused horses and children. Occasional lover of your ranch hand, Matthew Torres. Engaged on and off again to Agent Adam Bower. And of course, the secret mistress of the current director of NCIS. You bank with Wells Fargo, drive a blue Ford F-150, and are applying for a grant through the Huntsman Foundation to receive money for your work with sick children. You write tirelessly in your journal, send love letters to Washington, and are dying of Huntington’s. Currently, you are making your way through the rather boring tome about President Lyndon Banes Johnson and are on the second book. Your dog, Cassie, is also your service animal.” He pauses and strokes his hand along her pillow. “You are hopelessly devoted to the Director, despite being last in her priority list and your friendship with Agent Bower is on the skids. Tell me, Liz, am I missing anything?” He smirks and leans back. “Want to join me here? For old times sake?”
“Fuck you.”
“Such laungage for a lady,” he clicked his tongue. “But if you insist …”
“I scream and there are four US Marshals beating down this door. You know that, it’s why you haven’t done anything.”
“Yet.” He looked at his nails and continued, bored. “How do you know we want to do anything, Kitty? Maybe we just want to catch up.”
“What do you want?” She had enough to keep the case open. It hadn’t just been about Vance. This was her vindication. This was her chance.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” his voice was soft and still bored. “The CIA is far too entrenched in Afghanistan and the group you are trying … well … were trying … so hard to take down still has power in the region. You didn’t kill everyone in that diner, Sweetheart. It was a nice try though.”
“My only mistake was not taking you out when I had the chance.”
“Such murderous instincts. You would think your time with horses would have changed that.” He laughs lightly. “And if you think we orchestrated this silly little operation just to let you know that you will never be safe, your ego still hasn’t deflated.”
“So, Kort, indulge me.”
“Oh, I think I’m going to indulge myself shortly.” He smirks and Liz tries to swallow the lump in her throat. “See, Kitty, we called this little meeting because you are still useful to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We want you to keep the case with Vance open, so we are giving you a little present. Right now, the US Attorney is being given information that links Vance to the leaks in the US Marshals office. We want him looking over his shoulder. The more he worries, the less he is involved with us. See, for as calculating as he is, he is still not you. You were so willing, such a good soldier for the cause. We’d love to have you back. Well, we would have at one time. Now, you are just too slow for our tastes. Sad how your muscles have betrayed you.”
She ignores the dig about her Huntingtons. “I was taking out terrorists and gun runners, threats to the US Navy.”
“Such a great operation for the CIA. And your legs are still beautiful, by the way.” He stands and walks toward her and Liz backs into the bathroom, ready to scream. But he is just a hair faster and his hands are around her throat and she is pressed into the doorframe before the sound emerges. His whole body is pressed against hers and she squirms, while his hands press harder and harder against her windpipe. He is well trained and leaves her just enough air to stay conscious but her body stops struggling. She has no choice but to listen to his threats. A voice in the back of her mind tells her that his low life partner has joined him and she is completely trapped. “We’ve given you a gift, sweetheart. Precious Kitty. The case will stay open. The attorneys will focus on corruption in the military, which is the media’s favorite blood sport in an election year. Don’t worry, Vance will still get off. Hell, his name will probably never be mentioned, unless of course, some intrepid liberal reporter susses out some piece of paper with your scribbled handwriting. A note to your former control officer.”
Liz struggles to breathe. “What’s the catch?” She manages to gasp out.
“Your backup files. Yes, we know about them. All of them. We also know you never gave a backup to Adam or your precious director. The flashdrives with your testimony and your notes. Everything, including your investigation that ties our gun group to your father’s death, all of it is now in our possession.”
Too weak to do anything but fight to breathe, Liz’s brain takes in the words and tries to process them. Her backup, her evidence incase anything went wrong, her proof of Benoit’s involvement in her father’s death, the evidence taken at the Paris hospital after she was drugged, her different cases presented, all of it gone? She was now at the mercy of whatever the CIA wanted to do to her. She now had no recourse in case things went wrong. No backup. Nothing to start a second investigation. Nothing to prove that she belonged where she was. Nothing that proved who she used to be. It was the one thing she’d kept, well hidden, backed up on three separate flash drives and encrypted well enough to make McGee proud.
“Now listen, Kitty. We didn’t have to tell you anything, but we thought we’d be nice.”
Liz closes her eyes. She knows better. She was a good federal agent. This whole thing had been staged so they could get the files, all of them, the ones she’d tucked away, the only ones she knew of with all the redacted information. To go this far, they had to even have access to the safety deposit box. Everything. Yes, they’d given her a gift, they’d kept the case open, but taken all of her recourse. They’d reminded her that she was being watched. She is again at their mercy.
Air is scarce and the world starts to spin. She feels her body being lifted and she tries to fight, but all that is left is her brain fighting to keep her alive. She crashes onto the bed and feels her body being pressed back into the sheets. Like so many times before, she tries to fight, but her body betrays her and blissfully, she fades into nothingness.
To Be Continued ...
Tuesday Morning
When Liz wakes, the sun is peeking through the safe house curtains. She is groggy and her head hurts like she'd had too much to drink the night before. But all she'd had was a too sweet soda that she’d grabbed from the fridge herself. Being out of the field for years hasn’t dulled her; she still knows better than to let someone else get her drinks.
It doesn’t change her paranoia though. The blankets are messed up, like she tossed and turned through the night, but she can't remember being restless. There is a dent in the second pillow and she chews her lip, wondering if she was just so tired she can't remember moving around like she'd shared the bed with someone. It’s happened before, when her insomnia finally catches up to her and physically, she drops, but there is still a part of her body that keeps moving. Still, a nagging part of her mind reminds her that the last time she felt like this was the morning after that party in Paris, when she'd finally slipped free of Salvo's gang, and fled to the safe house. It feels too much like the morning after in Serbia, when she woke in a world she hadn’t fallen asleep in.
The fear wraps around her heart and she closes her eyes, arguing with her inner voices. She's just tired and stressed, she justifies, even while flashes of Paris and Serbia taunt her. The dark basement in Serbia where her mind warred with her body, where she felt hands on her while she was taunted by voices that still enter her dreams. She's just tired, the internal argument continues. This is a different safe house. Here’s she’s surrounded by people who are supposed to protect her.
Supposed to. One of the agents in the mix is possibly feeding information back to the people she had tried to take down.
Unable to sit still any longer, Liz reaches into her bag for a baggy UNM sweatshirt. Pulling it over her thin tank top, Liz puts her hair into a ponytail and pads on silent feet into the living area. She still isn’t hungry, but she needs to take her meds and the coffee smells good.
The room is empty, save for Mary who is sitting at the table in the dining area. "We're still waiting," is how Mary greets her. Liz just nods and stares at the wall, calculating how long it will take to walk to the kitchen, pour her coffee, and disappear into the bedroom again. "We have a secure line set up," Mary says. "You can make a couple of calls. Don't leave any information but the people who you know will be looking for you will cause more trouble if they don't hear from you. Call the director of NCIS first. Use her private line. We know she is not in her office right now and you can leave a message."
Liz sighs and nods, going to the phone Mary points to. She dials the memorized number and is half expecting to hear her lover's breathless answer. But it goes to voicemail and Cynthia's clear and crisp voice lets her know that Director Shepard Gibbs is not available. Liz walks as far away as she can to speak. "Hey it's me. Please don't worry. I promise I'm fine." She takes a shaky breath, hoping she really sounds it. "I'll call you soon. Take care of yourself. I know you haven't been feeling well and this can't help much ... but I promise I'm okay. Put me on the bottom of your worry list." She pauses and whispers out the last words. "I love you, okay. So please just take care of yourself. And don't worry, that spot you and J like ... it'll be ready to go when you get here." Shaking, she hangs up the phone and then calls the business line at the stables. "Hey," she says to the answering machine, "Hey, it's me. Just something came up with the family. I'll be back in a couple of days. Kara should be able to handle the lessons." She hangs up before she can say anything else. That's it. Jenny will fill Adam in. She's sure her sister knows all the messy details. Yet again, Heather is cleaning up after her. When she puts the phone back on the table, she realizes Mary is watching her. “What?”
Mary shakes her head. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
“This? I know.” But she isn’t sure. If she’d just turned Adam away at the door. If she’d let them relocate her after Vance showed up. If she hadn’t fallen for Jenny and then encouraged her to go back to work. The ifs actually could kill her this time.
“This has been cooking for a long time. I’m amazed it took them this long to start making threats.” Mary shrugs into her coffee and leans back. Liz matches her gaze, channeling the woman she used to be. If she’s learned anything about surviving in witsec it’s that personality doesn’t change. Not unless you want it to. But she’s tired and scared and suddenly terrified that not even her home is safe. Nowhere will be safe. They’ll plug one leak and another is going to spring. Why the hell did she even bother to ever do this?
Opting to take the conversation bait, Liz walks into the kitchen to get her coffee. She pours it, decides against anything sweet, and sits at the table, happier to warm her hands than anything else. Staring into the dark liquid, she sighs. “I was used to just living, you know.” When Mary doesn’t answer, Liz raises her head and can’t help but chuckle at the look on the inspector’s face. Whining is for her journal, not for conversation. Too bad she doesn’t have her journal. Writing would keep her occupied. “Is this going to change my monthly trip back east?”
“Probably. We know it’s a doctor’s appointment and they need to monitor whatever meds you’re on, but if it’s more dangerous for you to be in the area, we aren’t letting you go.”
Liz just nods and looks back at the coffee. It’s probably for the best. Seeing Jenny would put them both in danger. Silence settles on the house again and she gets up, wanting to be hidden before the rest of the team emerges from wherever they are hiding. She wants to make her bed, sit on it, and try to feel safe in a place where she’s supposed to be protected. The door closes behind her and she leans against the wood, staring at the bed. All of it just feels way too familiar.
Tuesday Afternoon
Lights flash. She turns her head, side to side, trying to make out the whispered Russian. Some words are clear. Spy. Agent. Whore. She wants to move but can’t - her body is tied or bound. She is cold. All she can smell is mildew.
Hands land on her shoulder and her mind screams but she is sure her mouth does not cooperate. Warmth in her ear. A voice, accented, whispering how she is found out, how they have always known, how she was offered up as sacrifice by her own government so they could get the intel they needed. Pretty girls shouldn’t be so smart, he hisses in her ear. His hands are on her, mocking her.
Liz opens her eyes, realizing that in her sleep she pulled the pillow over her head. The nightmare does not taunt her; it is far too familiar for that right now. Memory of the imprisonment in Serbia, the fading in and out of consciousness, the voice she hates to recognize.
Kort. Four letters that to her are more offensive than any slur thrown in her direction. CIA pony-boy, runner, rogue, panderer to gun runners and dealer of death to whoever he felt deserves it in the moment. His smarmy accent, the smell of expensive alcohol but cheap cigars, the grime under his always manicured nails. Kort. The CIA tie-in to Benoit and in the end, the messenger of her salvation.
Even though she had not been the one to put the bullet in Benoit’s brain, the FBI had wanted to nail her. The CIA would have been glad to have her out of their hair. But, instead, Kort played it smart. The man who had held her in that basement in Serbia, the man who had been Vance’s runner between NCIS and Mossad, now held her loyalty in his hand. She wondered what redacted part of her file revealed that relationship; the twisted, convoluted blackmailing he’d done without ever having to once make a threat. No, the threat was there. The CIA could revoke her get-out-of-jail free pass at any time. She’d used Federal resources to hunt down a personal enemy, had tried to kill a confidential informant for the CIA, had acted as an accomplice to his murder, and had put the lives of civilians in danger while doing it. He had her; he had her actions in DC and her actions in Europe. He had her. And witness protection had been her only way out.
She stretches, realizing she slept the morning away. There are voices in the living area but she is hesitant to get up and join, even though she is desperate for a shower. Her room is the master suite, she does not need to even leave the room to get to the shower, but to shower means getting out of bed. If only she had her phone, her laptop, any connection to the outside world, it might get her moving. But there is not even TV in the safe house.
Forcing herself up, she wonders if anyone is missing her. Jenny would be. Adam might be worried. But recently she’s come to realize how good her cloak of invisibility really is. Maybe she’s better at this than she ever gave herself credit for and if they have to move her, the people in her life would move on. John could take over the stables and Kara would probably help. Matthew would keep volunteering. Jenny had Jethro and Daniel and the baby and her job. It is already weeks since she last talked to Adam. Her teenagers would, sadly, chalk her disappearing up to yet another adult screwing them over. She’d start over in Vancouver or Boise or St. Louis. This time she’d be a brunette and work in a boutique and hit on all the women who came through the door, all the while waiting for the inevitable moment when yet again, her cover was blown because yet again, some asshole wanted to get even.
But today, in a house in Santa Fe, one of those assholes was lurking. Who had been paid off? Which one? The bulky one who grumbled when she kicked his ass last night? The young, blonde one who didn’t say much? The older one who seemed to know Mary very well? The one who guarded the phone and door like a hungry dog over a bone? All were doing their jobs but any could be the one who had sold her out.
There is no lock on her bedroom door. Liz contemplates putting the chair under the knob, but tries to push her paranoia aside. These people are here to protect her. She fishes clean underwear, a tight tank top, and a pair of jeans out of the bag. Her baggy UNM sweatshirt is the best security blanket at the moment so she takes that with her as well. Outside it’s too hot for sweatshirts but inside she is shivering.
The water is too hot but she doesn’t care. The water slices over her, leaving her skin red and raw, but it erases the feeling of hands all over her. It was a decade ago, but she can still feel how they pinned her down, mocked her. She can still feel the floating sense of being drugged and willing when she wasn’t. But the water can’t wash away how she was told to take it for the team, and they were thankful for the intelligence she collected. What a good soldier. How often had she said that to her own agents?
Soap stings her eyes. She lets it, waiting for the water to wash the pain away. She stands under the shower until the water runs cold and even then waits until she can’t take the cold to shut off the faucet and step into the bathroom. Wrapping the towel around her hair she stands, letting the air dry the water on her body. She can feel the hard water tightening on her skin, the faint salt residue left behind, and wonders if she thought enough to put lotion in her go bag.
Glad she thought to bring her clothes with her, Liz pulls them over her damp body, knowing the tank top clings but the sweatshirt covers everything and hangs to her mid thighs. The towel comes loose from her hair and she leaves it to dry, worrying about the tangles later. Showered at least she is more in control of her mind. This is nothing to lose her mind over. She’s in a safe house because they need to keep her out of danger. She’ll be home in a couple of days and laughing with Jenny about it in no time. They haven’t relocated her. That means everything.
But inside her bedroom, she stops. Standing there is the blonde Marshal, his arms crossed over his chest, and beside him is the four letter word who has been haunting her dreams for weeks. Agent instinct kicks in and she backs up. She is clear and sober and Huntington’s aside she can still defend herself or at least make enough noise in defending herself to attract attention. The problem is that they don’t have to move. She’s trapped. The Marshal - what was his name? - stands at the door. Kort at the window she’d thought was nailed shut. They can stay right where they are. Her options are to scream and hope that someone comes fast enough or to talk her way out of it. While debating, she keeps backing up toward the bathroom.
“Move all you want, Kitty,” Kort snorted, his thick voice mocking her. “Kitty. It’s been so long since anyone called you that. Not so special now without your bodyguards and your driver are you?”
“What the fuck do you want, Kort?” Defensive plan achieved, she stood in the doorway to the bathroom. At worst, she could duck inside and lock the door. At best, she could talk her way out of this. They hadn’t hurt her. Ample opportunity had been given while she stood naked in the shower, and they’d just waited. It also wouldn’t do them any favors for her to emerge from this bruised and bloodied. The Marshal, while dirty, still didn’t want to face life in the prison general population. For a moment, she actually had the upper hand.
He chuckles, that low, terrifying chuckle that still sent shivers up her spine. She flashes back to the car in Paris, when she’d married her trust to him, knowing he was sending her on a wild goose chaise to Russia and yet needing to know any kind of truth about her father and Benoit. She’d died not knowing if he really was alive or dead, despite the images of his cold body that haunted her memories.
“What do I want, Kitty?” He smirks and moves to sit on her unmade bed, right in the spot she’d vacated to shower. His hand rests on her pillow and Liz forces herself to hold her ground. If they don’t get her home tonight, she’ll sleep on the damned couch before she slides between those sheets again. “What do I want? Well, other than to gloat?”
“It’s Liz,” she corrects quietly.
“Yes, yes. Elizabeth Jackson. No middle name. Esteemed adjunct professor of Russian and French at the local community college. Rescuer of abused horses and children. Occasional lover of your ranch hand, Matthew Torres. Engaged on and off again to Agent Adam Bower. And of course, the secret mistress of the current director of NCIS. You bank with Wells Fargo, drive a blue Ford F-150, and are applying for a grant through the Huntsman Foundation to receive money for your work with sick children. You write tirelessly in your journal, send love letters to Washington, and are dying of Huntington’s. Currently, you are making your way through the rather boring tome about President Lyndon Banes Johnson and are on the second book. Your dog, Cassie, is also your service animal.” He pauses and strokes his hand along her pillow. “You are hopelessly devoted to the Director, despite being last in her priority list and your friendship with Agent Bower is on the skids. Tell me, Liz, am I missing anything?” He smirks and leans back. “Want to join me here? For old times sake?”
“Fuck you.”
“Such laungage for a lady,” he clicked his tongue. “But if you insist …”
“I scream and there are four US Marshals beating down this door. You know that, it’s why you haven’t done anything.”
“Yet.” He looked at his nails and continued, bored. “How do you know we want to do anything, Kitty? Maybe we just want to catch up.”
“What do you want?” She had enough to keep the case open. It hadn’t just been about Vance. This was her vindication. This was her chance.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” his voice was soft and still bored. “The CIA is far too entrenched in Afghanistan and the group you are trying … well … were trying … so hard to take down still has power in the region. You didn’t kill everyone in that diner, Sweetheart. It was a nice try though.”
“My only mistake was not taking you out when I had the chance.”
“Such murderous instincts. You would think your time with horses would have changed that.” He laughs lightly. “And if you think we orchestrated this silly little operation just to let you know that you will never be safe, your ego still hasn’t deflated.”
“So, Kort, indulge me.”
“Oh, I think I’m going to indulge myself shortly.” He smirks and Liz tries to swallow the lump in her throat. “See, Kitty, we called this little meeting because you are still useful to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We want you to keep the case with Vance open, so we are giving you a little present. Right now, the US Attorney is being given information that links Vance to the leaks in the US Marshals office. We want him looking over his shoulder. The more he worries, the less he is involved with us. See, for as calculating as he is, he is still not you. You were so willing, such a good soldier for the cause. We’d love to have you back. Well, we would have at one time. Now, you are just too slow for our tastes. Sad how your muscles have betrayed you.”
She ignores the dig about her Huntingtons. “I was taking out terrorists and gun runners, threats to the US Navy.”
“Such a great operation for the CIA. And your legs are still beautiful, by the way.” He stands and walks toward her and Liz backs into the bathroom, ready to scream. But he is just a hair faster and his hands are around her throat and she is pressed into the doorframe before the sound emerges. His whole body is pressed against hers and she squirms, while his hands press harder and harder against her windpipe. He is well trained and leaves her just enough air to stay conscious but her body stops struggling. She has no choice but to listen to his threats. A voice in the back of her mind tells her that his low life partner has joined him and she is completely trapped. “We’ve given you a gift, sweetheart. Precious Kitty. The case will stay open. The attorneys will focus on corruption in the military, which is the media’s favorite blood sport in an election year. Don’t worry, Vance will still get off. Hell, his name will probably never be mentioned, unless of course, some intrepid liberal reporter susses out some piece of paper with your scribbled handwriting. A note to your former control officer.”
Liz struggles to breathe. “What’s the catch?” She manages to gasp out.
“Your backup files. Yes, we know about them. All of them. We also know you never gave a backup to Adam or your precious director. The flashdrives with your testimony and your notes. Everything, including your investigation that ties our gun group to your father’s death, all of it is now in our possession.”
Too weak to do anything but fight to breathe, Liz’s brain takes in the words and tries to process them. Her backup, her evidence incase anything went wrong, her proof of Benoit’s involvement in her father’s death, the evidence taken at the Paris hospital after she was drugged, her different cases presented, all of it gone? She was now at the mercy of whatever the CIA wanted to do to her. She now had no recourse in case things went wrong. No backup. Nothing to start a second investigation. Nothing to prove that she belonged where she was. Nothing that proved who she used to be. It was the one thing she’d kept, well hidden, backed up on three separate flash drives and encrypted well enough to make McGee proud.
“Now listen, Kitty. We didn’t have to tell you anything, but we thought we’d be nice.”
Liz closes her eyes. She knows better. She was a good federal agent. This whole thing had been staged so they could get the files, all of them, the ones she’d tucked away, the only ones she knew of with all the redacted information. To go this far, they had to even have access to the safety deposit box. Everything. Yes, they’d given her a gift, they’d kept the case open, but taken all of her recourse. They’d reminded her that she was being watched. She is again at their mercy.
Air is scarce and the world starts to spin. She feels her body being lifted and she tries to fight, but all that is left is her brain fighting to keep her alive. She crashes onto the bed and feels her body being pressed back into the sheets. Like so many times before, she tries to fight, but her body betrays her and blissfully, she fades into nothingness.
To Be Continued ...