The first thing that she recognized was that she ached everywhere. The second was that her mouth was so dry that her throat itched.

The heavy fog was lifting, slowly, but it was enough that she realized the full impact of her situation and none of it seemed good. She tried to open her eyes, and the effort it took was overwhelming. Screaming wasn’t an option because of the rag stuffed in her mouth, which she recognized must have a now fading but still active disabling chemical on it from the faint smell and the sweet taste. Methyl trichloride. Chloroform.

The bastard had knocked her out and she had let him.

She was incredibly cold, having been dumped unceremoniously on the bare concrete floor of God only knows where with her arms bound behind her back. She tried to sit up, which was no easy feat, but after a few moments of struggling she was actually able to straighten and scoot backwards far enough to lean against the wall.

Rita tried to breath through her nose as her mouth was filled with a gag whose fumes could potentially knock her out again if she inhaled deeply enough. She looked around and realized there was nothing that would give her any indication as to where she was. The dark, narrow, windowless cell was no more than ten feet wide and maybe twenty feet long. The door was to the right of her, and the sheer concrete walls went straight up at least two stories. Above her, a single fading light bulb glowed, casting the concrete in dark shadows. There was no furniture, no sink, none of the amenities of a jail cell, just a plain concrete room that had a drain in the middle of the cracked floor.

Dammit, everything hurt and she desperately wanted to be able to get her hands undone, even if only to relieve the incredible discomfort. For how badly she ached, she could only assume she had been bound like this for hours at the very least. No matter how hard she tried, there was going to be no way to undo the heavy, biting rope that bound her wrists. A moment of panic threatened, until she forced herself to focus on the positive. She didn’t seem to be bleeding, and she was fully dressed, so the worst of what could happen hadn’t.

At least not yet.

She was tired, groggy still from the effects of the drug. She prayed her head would clear before she would have to deal with any of Vargas’s men. Now that she was sitting up, she could feel the throbbing of bruises on her arms and knees, and figured she had been thrown on the floor when they had brought her here. A wave of fierce longing swept over her as Chris’s face filled her head, and she felt tears sting her eyes.

He would be worried to death. The thought choked her.

She tried to breathe again, to push the panic at the thought aside. She had to assume he was alright. He had been in Miami, and hopefully far enough out of reach that if they had wanted him they would have had a hard time finding him, at least long enough until he discovered she was gone which would be enough to put him on full alert to look out for himself as well. She couldn’t assume the worst. It would get her nowhere.

Rita looked at the door again, noticing for the first time that this side had no handle whatsoever. There was nowhere to go, and nowhere to hide to gain any leverage once they came for her. She grittd her teeth, resolved that she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being afraid, no matter what. She knew whatever was coming would be bad, Christopher had warned her, but she wouldn’t let them break her.

They’d never see her fear, even if they killed her.

Rita realized with clarity that that was a very distinct possibility. She probably would die here.

In so many ways, she prayed to God that he wouldn’t find her. She didn’t want him here, didn’t want him facing Vargas and his men on her behalf. She wanted him to stay away, where he was safe and where they couldn’t hurt him. She’d gladly let them take her if they would leave him alone. But she also knew that if Vargas killed her, that Chris would spend his life hunting Vargas down, and that sooner or later the two of them would come face to face. She just hoped that when it happened, that the deck was stacked in Chris’s favor.

Rita shivered, the chill of the damp floor seeping through her sweatpants. She drew her legs up to her chest and set her head down on her knees, still desperately fighting the still looming drowsiness.

The lingering effects of the drug must have won, because the next thing she knew she was waking to the sound of the door being opened. Rita lifted her head, squinting against the light of the hallway beyond, trying to figure out if it gave her any clue as to where she was. Nothing.

Rita focused on the big guard leering at her and struggled to stand up, pushing her hands against the wall behind her. She wasn’t fast enough, because the guard stepped out of the way and another thrust a man into the room, dumping him on the floor. He howled in pain, but didn’t seem to be bound at all. He fell onto the floor, huddled, and the guards left, the door slamming behind them.

The man began to stand gingerly, and looked at her. Rita’s eyes widened with horror, realizing what had just happened. She struggled into the back corner as he focused on her, his eyes narrowing with hate.

Brodie.

They had thrown a slightly injured, but definitely unbound Brodie in the room with her. She felt the panic seep in and immediately did her best to quell it as Brodie stood, his dangerous, vicious intent written all over his now reinvigorated face.

"Rita Lee Lance. Welcome to hell." His lips curled.

Rita couldn’t say anything back, still gagged. He was obviously in not much of a better predicament than her, having been dumped in here with an obviously bloodied knee. But two things were painfully clear; he wasn’t tied up in any way, and he blamed her for his situation. Vargas must have faulted him for failing to check out her background more thoroughly. So here he was, able to exact his revenge on her, while Vargas took his on Brodie.

Brodie was limping, but had seemingly found a renewed strength in realizing he could make her pay. He walked slowly towards her and she shifted against the wall, knowing that the room was too narrow for her to get around him. He came towards her, nearly lunging despite his bad knee, and she rolled to her right at the last second. He landed against the wall, but one hand managed to snake out at grab her hair, yanking her violently back against him. Rita struggled to remain standing as he brought her ear near his lips.

"Vargas wants to kill me, Rita. Does that make you my last supper?"

She bit back a whimper as he dragged her back by her hair and threw her on the floor in the corner. With her hands behind her back there was nothing to break her fall, so she went down hard on her knees, her cheek scraping against the concrete wall as her head hit. Pain exploded behind her eyes and she knew he had broken the skin on her cheek. She couldn’t let him make her pass out, she had to avoid him knocking her out cold.

Rita struggled again to get to her feet and face him, though her knees were now throbbing in pain along with the rest of her. She couldn’t breathe gagged like this when her heart was racing.

She got to her feet as Brodie laughed. "The more you get up, the more fun this will be."

Rita wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of thinking she was scared of him, no matter how terrified she was of her disadvantage at being tied up. He lunged at her again and she awkwardly shot her foot out, missing his groin but still connecting with his hip. He grunted in pain, then came at her again and backhanded her hard for her efforts.

She cried out against the gag, the blow landing on her newly cut cheek. He must have been wearing a ring of sorts too, because she had felt metal connect with her torn skin. She was nearly blinded with the shock of it. She hunched over, trying to catch her breath and clear the tears that had formed in her eyes from the pain.

Brodie would have none of it. He yanked her head up again and brought his face close to hers. "You little bitch. You little stupid bitch. See? I understand Vargas now. He put me in here to teach you a lesson. And when it’s over, I’ll get out and you’ll be dead."

Rita vaguely realized that Brodie thought this was a test. The more brutally that Brodie could punish her, the more respect he thought he would earn back with Vargas. The fool didn’t realize that neither one of them was going to get out, but that Vargas would enjoy watching this play out, likely through hidden ceiling cameras. She understood Vargas, knew it was about the game with him.

They were both as good as dead.

She tried to twist away from Brodie, bringing her knee up again trying to connect with his groin. She was quicker than he was, and she nailed him hard. He doubled over, and Rita tried to get past him, to the other end of the narrow room where she might have some leverage to see him coming. She had just gotten around him when his arm slid out and around her waist. Rita couldn’t fight him this way no matter how hard she worked to escape his grasp. He punched her hard in the stomach and she instantly reeled from the sheer force of it, dropping a step back. He punched her again and the crippling pain won, sending her hurtling towards the floor, nearly choking on her own bile.

She couldn’t breathe. Oh God, she couldn’t catch her breath well enough through her nose. She was horrified that the lack of air would make her pass out again and leave her vulnerable to this monster. Then again, she was pretty much at his mercy right now, unable to break the rope that was making her a sitting duck.

She tried to roll over, the throbbing fire spreading over her abdomen from where he had hit her. She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t let him see that she was hurting. But she also knew she was too weak to stand just yet.

There was nowhere to go.

Brodie was on her then, gingerly lowering himself to her. She rolled away from him and curled up in the fetal position away from him, trying to protect herself.

He tugged at her and she couldn’t stop him. He grabbed her hair and pulled her over so she was flat in her back and Brodie grabbed her face in in one hand. "I’ve never fucked a cop before." He laughed.

Rita went cold, the terror winning at the look on his face. The beating, the hitting, the fighting, all of that she could take. She knew that was only pain and that it would eventually fade. But what Brodie intended now she didn’t know how to disconnect from. She couldn’t stop the traitorous moisture from slipping out of her eyes and down into her hair as she lay on the floor, staring wildly into the eyes of a maniac. Rita wanted to scream, to claw at him, to tear him to pieces. But she had no leverage. No ability to truly defend herself.

Christopher filled her head. He’d blame himself. She didn’t want this bastard’s hands on her, was terrified he would erase the beauty she felt when Chris touched her. She didn’t want Brodie to be the last one to touch her. She owed it to herself and Chris to fight with everything and more, to push beyond the pain.

He unzipped her sweatshirt, laughing, and lay his hands on her, roughly grabbing her breasts through her tank top. A muffled cry escaped her as she kicked and tried to roll, thrashing beneath him. He was on top of her then, trying to slide her sweatpants down and she roughly arched her back and rolled quickly towards him a movement that she hoped he wouldn’t expect.

Rita was right, Brodie fell back. When he came at her again she was ready, smashing her head against his and praying she wouldn’t knock herself out. The incredible, sharp sting of pain again shot through her throbbing head and she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blinding spots. Brodie had taken the brunt of the hit and was now finally thrown backwards.

She contracted her abdomen and fought to stand, relieved that it didn’t seem he had cracked any ribs. She had to hurry and get her footing before he did. Rita stumbled back against the wall and used it to scoot herself upwards, sucking air as best she could without breathing in the gag. She was shaking so badly that she actually was twitching involuntarily.

Rita kept her eyes trained on Brodie, fighting back the tears and willing the trembling to stop. He started to move, to roll over back towards her and she launched herself at him, kicking him with everything she had in his sore knee. Brodie screamed, and she kicked him again, this time in the groin, the pain in her stomach once again nearly making her vomit.

He had hit her badly and without being able to breathe through it, the pain was getting worse. But she had to fight the blackness that was circling at the edge of her vision and make sure he couldn’t hurt her when she finally collapsed. Sweat dripped down her face and down her back as she gathered up enough strength to do what had to be done.

Brodie moaned, barely lifting his head off the concrete. Rita went for it. She kicked him hard in his skull, his head whipping to the side and falling still. She didn’t know if she had killed him or not, but he was definitely unconscious. She tried to block out the nausea from feeling his skull connect with her foot, and the sheer, horrific brutality of it.

Relief, however temporary, won. Rita fell back against the wall and slid down gingerly, her throat catching at the incredible soreness in her stomach and back. She tried to breathe through the tears, but gave up trying to fight the fear.

She tasted something sweet and wet soaking her gag and realized it wasn’t the sweat dripping down her face, but rather blood from her cheek. Her tears fell into the cut, making it sting. She cried then, her eyes never leaving Brodie’s bloodied and motionless body not more than five feet away from her.

Rita’s head fell to her knees again. The ache that settled over her now had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with the one person in the world she longed for most. She needed him, missed him, was desperate for him to hold her tightly and make the terror stop. Rita closed her eyes, sure Brodie wouldn’t move, and let Chris’s face fill the darkness as it closed in, searching for the feeling of safety she remembered in his arms.

She didn’t know how much time passed before the door opened. Rita could barely register Vargas’s presence through her swollen and tired eyes. She heard the sound of his laughter and noticed the way he just shook his head ruefully at Brodie’s limp form.

Then Vargas raised his gun, aimed at Brodie’s head and looked straight at her.

"You’re next," Vargas whispered, then pulled the trigger twice, sending blood spattering onto the cell wall.

+ + +

Rita was shivering uncontrollably, still huddled in the corner, and realized the shock was making her colder by the minute.

Even though she was used to dead bodies and hated Brodie, seeing him shot execution style as an example to her had still shaken her. Mercifully, they had dragged Brodie’s lifeless form out about an hour after Vargas’s had killed him, so she wouldn’t have to stare at his dead body anymore. But the blood was still there, spattered on the walls, the floor and even on her. There had been so much blood that it had dripped into the center drain, and Rita had heard the steady drops of blood fall through into the sewer below.

The sound had crawled on her skin until she thought she would scream.

Instead she was silent, and perfectly still. She would do whatever it took to hold herself together so Vargas wouldn’t have the satisfaction of getting to her.

The narrow confines of the room were agitating. She had heard from hostage situations that the first days were the worst, as the body became accustomed to its surroundings. She wasn’t used to it yet, and tried to distract herself to avoid the need to climb the walls.

Rita huddled down and focused on the one thing that felt safe. Christopher. She could still smell him on the sweatshirt, and she imagined that he was there with her, warming her. Her skin sought the soft cotton, desperate for the touch of it as if it was him. She closed her eyes and let herself fall blissfully into the safety net.

Rita jerked upright, her body stiff as she tried to shake off the drowsiness. She had wasted so much time with Chris that she wanted to cry with the loss. He had been there for her for everything she had ever needed, and she had deliberately ignored every opportunity they had had, scared it would mean change.

All she had done was waste days and nights, waste moments that were far too precious to begin with. She had the most amazing, gorgeous man who loved her, and she had been trying to hold him off.

Like a fool.

As if any other man was ever going to be able to compare to him in any case?

Rita had withheld telling him how she felt, afraid he was only going to love her for a little while and then need to move on. She hadn’t for once considered that he might feel the same way she did, that he might not only love her but need her too. Just like she had needed him for what seemed like her whole life.

Rita was overwhelmed. Everything hurt. Not only her body but her heart too. She was going to die in this hellhole without doing the one thing in life that was actually important.

She hadn’t told Christopher that she was truly, madly and completely in love with him.

She hadn’t told him that she felt, down to the very core of her, that she was the luckiest woman on the planet too, because he had loved her back.

He had never heard her say it. And now because of her stupid, misguided fear, Chris might never know.

+ + + + +

The warehouse was empty, and even Chris was shocked that Vargas had managed to pack up so thoroughly in only twenty-four hours. Police were scattered over the pier, interviewing anyone who might have been in the proximity of the facility when they were packing, with the faintest hope that someone might know where they were moving to.

So far no luck.

The fury had consumed him hours ago, the fires of outrage leaving him empty and hollow. The idea that someone else had control of Rita in any way made him violently sick to his stomach and the feeling was only intensifying as each moment passed.

The bastard was as good as dead, it was just a matter of time. And he was going to take great pleasure in making sure of that fact. No one fucked with Rita. No one. He just wanted to hold her, to protect her the way he promised he would…and goddammit!

He was absolutely done with this shit. This fucking police procedure crap. He had had enough of the interviews and the stakeouts. She had been gone over six hours now and they were getting nowhere, and that piece of shit Calhoun wouldn’t leave him alone. They could all kiss his ass, because he’d do what he had to do to find her himself and do it a hell of a lot quicker without them following his every move, watching him as if he was a ticking time bomb.

He was going to explode all right, right in Vargas’s fucking face.

This was DEA’s fault. Without them, no one would have put two and to together on this. He shoved his hand angrily through his hair.

Then again, who the hell was he kidding?

If his partner was gone, it was his fault.

She was his, and he hadn’t protected his own.

Chris struggled to clear his head, but the terror was overwhelming. His pulse was raging, so completely furious that he was physically seeing white spots. He wanted to beat the crap out of something, but there was no one that would get close enough right now to even give him the excuse of provocation.

It was a shame actually, because connecting his fist with something, or better yet a bullet, seemed like an incredible tension reliever.

He knew where to go. First that interior designer Marco and Lindy, they might know how to get to Brodie. There was also a little bar on 8^th Street that was notorious for turning over meth. It wouldn’t be pretty or strategic, but enough guns, enough threats and he could cause enough fear that he could work his way up the food chain. Someone, somewhere knew where that slimeball Brodie was, and where Brodie was, Vargas wouldn’t be far behind. If he could disturb enough on the street, maybe Vargas would try and lure him in to control the chaos.

Chris glanced at Calhoun, who was busy on his cell phone over by the car. He hadn’t wanted to bring the Feeb, but Calhoun had insisted, and Chris had hated wasted time arguing. Now the piece of shit was on the phone, answering every bureaucratic nightmare of a call that came through. Chris glared at him as he made his way over, shoving Calhoun off the front hood of the car and opening the door to get in.

Calhoun slammed his phone shut. "Where the hell do you think you are going?"

"Get off the fucking car, Calhoun." Chris couldn’t even look at him.

"I’m sticking with you, so you might as well tell me where the hell you plan on going."

"Fuck you," Chris hissed. "Get off the car you piece of shit or so help me God –" he was interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He angrily snapped it open. "What?"

"You got a DB, Lorenzo."

For one second, the world stopped until he registered the casual tone of his Captain. He didn’t mean Rita. Chris pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the headache from getting worse. "Yeah, I don’t really give a shit if all of Palm Beach kills each other tonight, Cap."

The Captain sighed deeply and Calhoun was just patiently looking him over his now open door to the passenger side. Fuck. The Feeb must have taken lessons from super glue. "You might want to check this one out."

He was restless, desperate to get out of there and find her. Rita, sunshine, just hang on. Just hang on. "Who?"

"Check out Dock 46. It’s Brodie. They left him lying in the middle of the road, not hiding anything."

Chris’s blood ran colder than before, knowing that somewhere in his head he was hoping if anyone had Rita it was Brodie. Brodie would be bad but it wouldn’t be Vargas. Holy mother of God…"On my way."

"She’s still alive Lorenzo, you gotta focus on that."

Chris didn’t hear him, he had already slid into the car and began to pull away before Calhoun even been in and had his door fully shut.

+ + +

The blood was beginning to smell in the confines of the room.

At least the drugs in the rag were starting to wear off, and Rita was feeling a little more lucid, although the pain had settled in. She was incredibly sore, and her face was still stinging from the cuts on her cheek.

Rita replayed her call with Beauregard again and again in her head, knowing that she had specifically said Tolivar’s name, and hoping that would help Chris find her somehow if God willing he was out there, though she didn’t see how it would do much good. If that was Tolivar’s real name, he was underground by now, and if it was a fake, then it was of no use to Chris. Then there was the resemblance Tolivar had to Vargas, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were somehow related.

Her lips were cracked and cut and she had the unfortunate urge to need the bathroom. Rita closed her swollen eyes and leaned back against the wall, fighting off the chill, especially now that Brodie had managed to pull her sweatshirt open and nearly off of her. She hated this feeling of being unable to do anything to help everyone likely looking for her by now.

She was completely at the mercy of a man who wouldn’t know mercy if it slapped him upside the head.

The door opened, and she lifted her head and squinted against the light from the hallway, registering the silhouette of Vargas, followed by two of his armed guards. One came to her and pulled down the gag before stepping back, which made her immediately aware that Vargas was expecting some sort of response from her.

She wouldn’t pay him the compliment of being interested in his presence. She closed her eyes again and settled back against the wall.

"Get up, puta."

"I’m resting. Come back later." Her voice was rough, her dry throat cracking under the strain.

"Get up, now!" He spat.

She finally looked at him, with as much boredom as she could muster. "Why? I’m comfortable. Who wouldn’t be in the lovely accommodations?" She tried to lick her lips, but then stopped when she tasted sweetness again. Rita didn’t know if it was blood or the remnants of the drug, and she wasn’t willing to find out.

Vargas did something unexpected. He threw his head back and laughed unpleasantly. "You will be enjoyable. I was correct in my assumption that you will be much more interesting than Brodie."

She fought the dread that began to seep in. Rita knew that death was so much easier than what Vargas could do to her, and inciting him to kill her would be an easy escape from it all. But to live, she knew her only shot was to goad him into enjoy tormenting her for as long as possible. The longer she held his interest, the more time Chris and Calhoun had to find this prison cell.

She was going to be as entertaining as hell.

Rita tried to smile in feigned amusement, but it split her lip again. She rubbed the blood against her shoulder. "Don’t compare me to that spineless pig."

Vargas grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to a standing position. "You have guts, that much I will give you." He leaned close to her face and she could smell the tinge of scotch on his breath. Rita fought the urge to recoil. "I’ll bet you are incredible in bed."

Rita lazily glanced at him, her expression not betraying the horror she felt in knowing where this was going. "When I’m inspired."

Vargas’s hand trailed down the open front of her sweatshirt, lazily trailing over her breast and stomach. His moved close to her, so only she could hear his whispers. "So what inspires you, puta? Does pain inspire you?" Vargas grabbed her hair again and threw her forcefully against the back wall.

Rita managed to gain her footing a split second before her head hit so that only her shoulder slammed into the concrete wall. Tears sprang to her eyes with the jolt that rocketed through her. She blinked them off before looking at Vargas again. "Takes a courageous man to hit a bound woman." She taunted.

He sneered at her, and reached into his jacket pocket, extracting a cigarette and a lighter. He drew the cigarette into his mouth and lit it, taking a long drag of it. "It takes a stupid woman to think she can do a man’s job."

"You’re as good as dead, Vargas. You just brought heat on yourself that won’t relent until they kill you."

"Ah yes," He drew in the cigarette again. "Your partner. Lorenzo right?"

She glared at him.

"Yes well, the only thing more amusing to torture than a defiant woman is a man in love who can’t find her. Does he love you, puta?"

How did Vargas know about her and Chris? The thought faded as quickly as it came because it gave her the first piece of information that she had. Chris was out there looking. Vargas didn’t have him. She almost smiled with the newfound knowledge. She could handle whatever Vargas would throw her way until Christopher found her. Vargas didn’t realize how much he had just steeled her resolve. "Yeah. He does. Which makes your life worth the price of shit."

"I’ve left him a little message, you know. Something to remember you by."

Her stomach rolled, fear mounting for what Chris was going through. "I’m sure he appreciates the thought, Vargas. I didn’t know Hallmark had a card commemorating federal crimes."

Vargas laughed again, ashing on the floor. "I have a few things to take care of, puta. But then I will be back, and will truly take the time to make you sorry you ever fucked with me." He grabbed her close, smashing the lit cigarette brutally into the bare flesh of her shoulder.

Rita spasmed, the burning white-hot in its intensity. She couldn’t stop the hoarse cry that escaped her as he held it there, the smell of burning flesh filling the room instantly. Her skin seared under the fire and she wrenched herself away just as he let her go. She fell back against the wall, trying to catch her breath, and slid down as Vargas turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

She dropped her head and finally let herself cry then, knowing it was only the beginning.

+ + + +

Two things were immediately obvious. Brodie had died from at least two gunshots and he hadn’t been dead more than a few hours.

The normal regret that Chris still felt when he saw a dead body was noticeably absent. It was this bastard’s fault Rita was involved in this to begin with, and his only frustration was that he hadn’t had the chance to kill him himself.

Chris slid the gloves on as he knelt over the body, realizing Calhoun was kneeling over Brodie on the other side. "Don’t touch him."

Calhoun shot him a disgusted look. "Wasn’t planning on it." He shook his head. " You’re a real control freak, Lorenzo."

"Least I’m honest. More than I can say for the DEA."

The agent snapped. "You know, fuck you Lorenzo. I’m on your side. So why don’t you lose the miserable attitude and realize that other people want to help you find Rita?"

The truth hit hard. There were a lot of people whose lives she had touched. Cops had come back into the station all night, volunteering to do whatever they could. For a moment, Chris thought he would break down. He knew they were trying to help, but he was so frustrated, so completely terrified, that he couldn’t even bring himself to accept anyone else’s concern. He didn’t want to see sympathy on anyone’s face because it just reinforced the knowledge that she wasn’t there with him. "Look," he took a deep breath, "I just don’t want you messing up the evidence. This is what we do, not you."

Calhoun looked like he was about to say something and then stopped. "We’ll get her out, Lorenzo," he said quietly.

Chris nodded, oddly reassured by Calhoun’s quiet confidence but unwilling to admit it. Brodie lay on his back, his arm slung over him and the right side of his head practically missing. He had obviously not been killed here because there was no blood on the gravel. "So there’s a reason they want us to find him…" Chris scanned his body, noting what Brodie was wearing. "Search his pockets."

It took less than two minutes before they found it. Calhoun pulled it out of the jacket breast pocket, his face darkening as he looked at the photo. Chris saw the look on Calhoun’s face and froze. "What the fuck is that? Calhoun, what the – " he snatched it out of the other man’s hands.

It was a Polaroid.

Rita was lying on a dark cement floor, unconscious and curled up the fetal position. Her hands were bound and her hair covered part of her face, but it was her. Sam. Oh God. Sammy. The picture just made it all so fucking real.

His heart contracted violently and then exploded into a million pieces, his urge to touch her nearly doubling him over. He wanted to pick her up, warm her, tell her it would be alright. He wanted to see those luminous green eyes focus on him when she smiled and feel the way she would lean close to him and whisper when she had some funny, completely inappropriate comment to make.

He just plain wanted her back and wanted to smash everything that stood in his way to pieces if that’s what it took.

He loved her so goddamned much. How had he lasted four years before telling her?

Rita looked so small, so damned vulnerable and alone. There was nothing there in the photo to give away where she was, just concrete on the floor and walls. She was wearing his sweatshirt and it dwarfed her. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe; knowing that getting sick all over the crime scene would do him no good.

His whole world was lying on a floor god only knew where and was completely unable to physically defend herself.

He looked at Calhoun, somewhat in shock, barely registering the forensics team hovering nearby. Calhoun was pulling something out of Brodie’s closed fist on his side. "Lorenzo-"

But Chris had already seen it, the significance not lost on him. The lights from the police cars behind him glinted obscenely off the shiny gold, until it was the only thing he could see.

Rita’s guardian angel necklace.

Vargas had put it there to remind Chris that he couldn’t protect her.

Chris reached for it slowly, the haze settling over him. He knew protocol would say it would be bagged as evidence but he didn’t care because he knew exactly who he was after. The metal burned into the skin of his palm and Chris wrapped the chain around his wrist, bringing the pendant up to look at it.

Chris stood up quietly, the lights and sounds blurring together. All of the anger, the restlessness was dissipating. Instead, it was replaced by an eerie, methodical calm.

He was going to turn Palm Beach upside down tonight. No one was safe. Nothing would be sacred.

He numbly shoved the necklace into his pocket. He was bringing Rita home where she belonged.

+ + +

Rita shifted against the wall, trying to shake off the ache settling into her muscles. She was hungry, thirsty and desperately needed to use the bathroom. If her hands hadn’t been bound she would have used the darned drain a long time ago. Normal luxuries like bathrooms and cold glasses of coke with crushed ice seemed like a lifetime ago.

She was in survival mode now.

She was trying to keep track of time, but the drugs had played with her sensibilities in the beginning. By how tired and groggy she was, she assumed it was the middle of the night by now.

Rita prayed that Cap had realized what a time bomb Chris would be by now and had figured out some way to help him channel his anger. She didn’t want him acting like some renegade and getting himself hurt in the process. She buried her nose into the sweatshirt and inhaled, her abdomen protesting in pain at the movement. She was sore, her skin still flamed from the cigarette burn and her face was bruised, but all in all it wasn’t as bad as it could be.

She had to focus on that. There had to be hope, right? Because without hope she had nothing.

Rita pushed herself up against the wall stifled the knowing ache that wasn’t contained to her muscles. She blinked back the tears, unwilling to give Vargas the satisfaction. Her tears weren’t for him, and they weren’t even for her.

They were for Chris.

He’d never forgive himself.

She closed her eyes and felt the guilt and the raw emotion permeate every little crevice of her body. She had given up so much with him. She had wasted time, protested relentlessly and kept herself from absolutely everything that mattered. She had built barriers, walls and gates that would put Fort Knox to shame.

And she had kept Chris on the other side. Even though she had loved him with a ferocity that was overwhelming, she had pushed and run and fought against the inevitable.

She had been willing to let him go if it meant never having to admit that she needed him.

Stupid fool. Stupid, stupid fool.

She had been a coward.

Rita lost the battle and cried again, dropping her head to her knees. This time it seeped into her soul, and somewhere deep inside she let herself admit the cutting loneliness and paralyzing fear that had lived within her since she had been a little girl. She wasn’t infallible and she wasn’t strong. She had just been a shut down shell of who she wanted to be. Of who Chris thought she could be.

Loving anyone this much scared the hell out of her so she had refused to let herself believe in it.

Rita had loved her father beyond reason, idolized him, watched him fascinated with the magic that surrounded him, and with the unfailing belief he had in the next moment. And the next moment had always disappointed him. Ultimately, when the idea of tomorrow had finally failed him, when hope had cheated him, he had given in.

Her father had let his hope die. And she had let her hope die with him too.

Until Chris.

And now she didn’t think she had a chance at telling him what that had meant, let alone living a lifetime under the protection and warmth of his smile. The visions of a future with him danced at the edge of her heart, just out of grasp. Trapped here they weren’t possibilities, they were just dreams. Little girl fantasies all over again.

She wanted him. Oh God, she wanted him desperately. Not just for now, not just in this moment.

She wanted him forever.

"Sam, please." She whispered, her hoarse plea cracking painfully in the silence. Her face crumpled into tears, and she let herself break. There was no time like the present to let go. The irony was she couldn’t even say exactly what she was asking for. But there was something she was missing, something she needed in her heart so badly it was nearly paralyzing.

But then again she didn’t have to explain any of it.

If somehow Chris could hear her, he would just know what it was anyway. Of course he would.

She used the back of her hand to furiously wipe at the damp streaks on her face and stared blankly at the cracks in the shadowy cinder.

"Sam, please."

+ + +

+ + +

Chris jerked his head up and looked at Calhoun. "What did you say?"

Calhoun fished out the keys from his pocket, rubbing one hand over his weary face as they headed back to the car. Upending Lindy’s house hadn’t accomplished anything. She had been stumbling into the house with some equally drunk idiot as they had pulled up and she didn’t know how to reach Vargas no matter how hard he had pushed.

She had never even heard of the man, Chloe had never mentioned him to anyone, which is what Chris had figured. And even if she had, Lindy would be far too inebriated to really be able to recall. But with no leads, it had been worth a shot. He’d go turn over the place on 8^th next, and he’d keep going long after the sun came up.

Calhoun looked at him. "I didn’t say anything." He said quietly. Calhoun’s fear had manifested itself nearly two hours ago after finding Rita’s necklace on Brodie’s body. The man had looked defeated ever since, but he hadn’t said a single word to the fact. Nor had he let up.

But his belief that Rita was dead was written all over his face.

Chris gritted his jaw, unable to shake the feeling that had just settled over him. He had thought he heard something. He didn’t recognize the feeling right away, and when it dawned on him what it was, he nearly jerked back with the force of recognition.

Hope.

All of a sudden he felt hope. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be.

Not when he had hope.

"She’s alive Calhoun." Chris opened his side of the door and slid into the sedan with newfound confidence.

Calhoun slammed his door shut and started the car, looking at Chris as if he had just grown multiple heads. But he wouldn’t dare voice his disbelief. "Then we’ll find her."

Chris was suddenly pissed. "Fuck you Calhoun, if you don’t want to believe me then go home and get some goddamned sleep. She’s alive, you got that? She is. I know she is, and she’s waiting for me to get there. So stop driving like a fucking female and get me over to 8^th."

Calhoun swerved the car out of the parking spot, never looking at Chris. "I didn’t say I didn’t believe you."

Chris ground his jaw. "It’s all over your boy-scout face, Calhoun."

Calhoun didn’t say anything, and Chris had to give him credit for not trying to deny what he was thinking. Honesty was always more welcome than platitudes.

Silence stretched as Calhoun navigated the side streets to get back to highway. It was permeated by a flash of lightening that lit up the sky in a brilliant angry streak. The residual light had barely faded before the rain began to fall, the water droplets smashing against the windshield before being shoved summarily out of the way by the wipers.

The rhythmic pounding blanketed the car, and within seconds the streams of water began sliding across the road and into the gutters.

Chris closed his eyes for a second, determined to find the will to unclench his fists and clear his head. He reached over to the radio and flipped it on, the sounds filling the car.

Breathe. Just breathe.

For a moment, he was back in the Buick with Rita, on one of their first stakeouts. The night had fallen, and she had teased him that he had been trying to hit on her. For a moment he had wanted to agree, but then he realized that there was something so much more important that he had with her. Something he would value against all else, and the one thing that had carried him through and given him the patience to wait for her all these years.

"Nah, "he had said that night, denying his intentions, "Cause you’re my best friend too, Sam."

She had laughed and the darkness of the car had lit up with the brilliance of it.

Calhoun stepped on the gas as he pulled onto the highway, his face set tightly.

"She’s alive, Calhoun. Trust me." Chris said in the darkness, suddenly calm again.

The other man never looked at him. The silence stretched again before he spoke. "You love her, huh?"

Chris looked out the window. This wasn’t about territory or showmanship. Calhoun was asking as a friend.

He nodded to no one in particular. "Yeah." He said quietly. " For as long as I can remember."

"Then you’ll get her back, Lorenzo."

For the first time since he had met the man, he had to agree with him.

+ + +

The woman sat in the dark of her apartment, staring at the phone. She knew she should make the call, but didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. She hadn’t seen Tomas in the last two days, and he most certainly hadn’t come home tonight. She had even used the two payphones on the block to call his office line, expecting to hang up if he picked up, but there was no answer.

The most telltale sign of his disappearance was the fact that the lights in his Brooklyn apartment across the street had never come on and it was almost dawn.

She knew him, knew his every nuance. She knew when he was angry by the way he walked home. His stride would be heavy, his head bent into the wind and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pale gray wool trench coat. She knew when he was tired by the way he would trudge up the steps and fumble for the keys, gently closing the front door behind him. And she knew the nights when he would leave a young woman battered by the way he would wrap his arm possessively around her as he brought her up to his apartment, laughing at her in a way that never really touched his eyes – something apparent even from her vantage point across the street.

But in all the years of watching him, unnoticed even to his trained eyes, she had never once seen him not come home.

Until now.

Which meant something was finally happening. Tomas was a man of methodical, unrelenting habit. He had to be, leading the duplicitous life she knew he had chosen. Any deviation from routine would create new acquaintances, new lies, new falsehoods that he would have to remember.

No, she knew Tomas, and he liked to keep things simple. Black and white.

Uncomplicated.

She sighed heavily at the irony and looked out the window again, hoping to see the lights on in his second story apartment. But there was no light on that side of the street except for the streetlamp and the little fading bulb attached to the brick of the doorway.

She rolled her neck and slowly pushed herself off the couch, knowing the ache in her body reflected how tired she was. She was too old to stay up all night, those days had been left back in a time that she barely remembered anymore. As long as she could recall, she had lived with the knowledge of what she had done and the regret had wiped away any semblance of youthful innocence.

The call had to be made. It was what had been requested of her and it was the least she could do.

She went across the room, into the kitchen and lifted the knife block, the knives scattering on the counter as she turned it over. The sound of the metal hitting the counter was hollow in her ears, her instincts knowing that loss was coming soon.

Loss that she would inevitably bring about.

Her fingers grasped one of the fallen knives and she slowly used the blade to pry out the small block cut in the bottom of the wood. It popped out, and she reached in and grasped the small worn piece of paper.

Carefully she opened it, the aged paper so thin it nearly ripped as she unfolded the edges. There it was, written in scrawled handwriting, the ball point ink nearly faded. The number she had dreaded using all these years.

She picked up her coat from the edge of the chair and lifted the keys off the small hooks by the front door. She reached into the small ceramic bowl on the small side table and pulled out several quarters and pocketed them.

She was careful to lock the door behind her as she made her way out of the building and into the dim lights of the breaking dawn. The air had begun to get chilly, a welcome respite from the stifling humidity of the summer.

She made her way to the end of the block, her heart heavy as she entered the small phone booth and closed the scratched door behind her.

The phone receiver was cold, slippery and damp from the dewy air. She dropped in the quarters and dialed the number on the paper. A local number though she knew he could be anywhere in the world. He had been thoughtful enough to make this as simple as possible.

He answered on the second ring.

There were no greetings even after all these months, no explanations needed. "What happened?" he said softly, the urgency apparent in his voice.

She cleared her throat, stifling back tears. "He never came home," she leaned forward and rested her head against the dirty metal of the phone receiver. "It’s time."

He paused a moment. "I’ll take care of it."

She nodded in the darkness, a forlorn smile briefly breaking over her face as she watched the movement that caught her eye across the street. A young boy, no more than fourteen years old, was riding his bike, tossing the morning paper onto steps as he passed. There was hope in his demeanor, a reminder that there were still children left that weren’t fated to destruction.

"You heard me, mama?"

"I heard you." She expelled a deep breath, her heart filled with resignation. "Te adoro."

And with that she hung up the phone.

+ + +