Matching snapshots, one new, one several months old and frequently handled with the utmost care. An unmarked envelope had arrived promptly, intercepted before LJ could get a glimpse of its singular content. Michael had waited until he was en route to the exchange point before looking inside -- knowing, already, what he'd find there.
Matching snapshots. One subject dead, the other scarcely better off.
Because he screwed up, again.
Because, again, someone else is paying the price for his missteps.
"Too many. Too many people have died because I wanted you to be free."
"You couldn't have known, Michael. You couldn't have known it'd end up like this."
"But it did."
Linc had said it in Las Cruces, after they buried their father; it wouldn't end there. This would keep spreading, keep staining their hands with more blood. How many times did he tell Michael it's not your fault -- ? And how many times had the words scoured, like salt in a raw wound, instead of offering any semblance of reprieve? The lost endure as black marks on the tally sheet he keeps in his mind. No amount of penance can grant absolution.
On his right, channels of Pacific and silent rows of docked boats; on his left, a dark sprawl of foliage from the park. He eases the car to a standstill, hesitates, cuts the engine. A temperate California breeze ghosting through the open driver's side window touches his skin like a hand searching for fever.
The roads are still empty, the foot traffic nonexistent. He's the first to arrive. There's a tracker embedded within the device he intends to give Gretchen; the odds of her following through, of Lincoln even being present at the exchange, are meager at best.
She'll piece it together, sooner rather than later. But that's what the tracker is for.
To buy a little time.
To pull his brother out of the fire.
"Do you regret it?"
"What ... ?"
"Knowin' what you know now -- do you regret helping me?"
"You would've done the same for me."
"You think?"
"I know."
His phone rings at 12:01, thirty seconds after a black Suburban pulls up on the narrow service path alongside the supply shed. From where he's parked, he can see Gretchen and two operatives, presumably armed; he can't see any sign of Lincoln.
"We had an agreement."
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Eyes continue to survey the scene as he pockets the phone, maneuvering himself out of the car. As discussed, he's lacking a weapon. One of his brother's handguns is still at the hotel but these people are too thorough -- there's no way they'll proceed until they've patted him down and confirmed just how easily they can put a bullet in his head.
"You didn't answer the question."
"I don't regret the act. Just how it turned out."
She's all in black, color-coordinated to match the vehicle. Lips tinted arterial crimson that look vivid even in the dark, curving upward, an infinitesimal comma at each corner, as she sweeps aside a windblown strand of hair.
Panama all over again.
"When the exchange is over, and LJ is safe, you and I are gonna spend some quality time."
"When the exchange is over," she echoes with a smile, "you'd better run for your life."
A calculative appraisal on her part precedes a nod at one of the men, who instantly moves forward. Michael's gaze doesn't stray from hers, arms held out, allowing the operative to frisk him; seconds after, he's stepping back with a curtly mirrored nod at Gretchen. Then, and only then, does she stride closer.
"The card, Michael."
He draws the replica from his jeans pocket, but doesn't relinquish it. "My brother, Gretchen. Otherwise we're done here."
"What, you didn't like the picture?" Her corrosive smile doesn't quite reach the ruthless blue of her eyes. "You'll get him back, as promised. Once I verify that you're not playing games."
"I'm not playing games."
"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but your word -- ? Is worthless to me. Now hand it over."
Whether she misses the irony or chooses to overlook it is irrelevant, despite evoking a near-imperceptible curl of Michael's upper lip that's more grimace than smirk. Still watching her every move, he passes over the 'card' without further resistance.
"A deal's a deal." The Suburban's windows might be tinted; regardless, he knows there isn't another occupant in that vehicle. "-- but you were never gonna hold up your end, were you? He was never gonna be here."
This time, her smile is wide enough to bare immaculately white teeth. "It's called leverage, honey. We just wanna make sure you get the message. As long as you stand down, Lincoln keeps breathing. But for now, he stays with me."
And there it is: the entire reason Michael came here equipped with a plan B. All that's left now is turning on his GPS and waiting for Gretchen to show him exactly where to go. He doesn't speak another word, and his expression doesn't change as he watches her retreat; watches all three parties get back into their car, watches the taillights until they round a corner and disappear from his field of vision.
"Let me get us out of here the only way I know how."
"... fighting -- ?"
"Yeah."
The only detour he plans to spare is a trip to the hotel. To check on LJ, make sure Sucre is on standby. To retrieve the gun Linc left behind. One way or another, this is ending before sunrise.
Kellerman's mouth upturned fractionally to form a tolerant smile. "He's a Los Angeles native, an avid gambler, and, most importantly, he's your first objective."
"He's a cardholder." Eye contact was maintained while a substantial manila folder switched hands. "What kind of gambling, exactly?"
"Horse racing. All the information is there. He'll be at the track tomorrow, three PM -- when the time is right, all you need to do is provide a distraction."
"And steal the card."
Kellerman shook his head. "No, we've made it this far because the Company has no concrete proof that we're going after Scylla. Once he realizes that the card is missing, our one advantage is gone. You have to copy the data, and put the card back exactly where you found it. Get in, and get out. There's no margin for error."
"Right." This time, it was Michael whose expression shifted; a dry half-smile, if that, without a single flicker of genuine amusement. "So, no pressure."
Considering his brother's latest predicament -- a funk, Lincoln had said -- Michael opted to see this one through on his own. A gamble, in and of itself, under the pretense of running an errand; there would be hell to pay when the truth surfaced, but that was a bridge he'd crossed innumerable times before. Several rounds of verbal sparring paled in comparison to the larger risk of getting more parties involved, even if Linc wouldn't see it that way.
Features thrown into shadow by the brim of his cap, his eyes downcast to the card's copy as he turned it slowly in his hands. Diligence and curiosity were in line to get the better of him, a nigh-on magnetic pull to glimpse behind the curtain; this was more, Kellerman assured him, than simply the Company's little black book. This was everything they needed to be free.
And what he held was only a small portion.
"I already have confirmation that he placed his bet. It's all riding on a 'sure thing.' The horse, the numbers, the odds, all of it is in that folder."
"But if something incidental were to compromise those odds -- ?"
"That," and Kellerman damn near smirked, "would qualify as a distraction."
Edison's horse had never made it out of the gate.
All those solitary months spent keeping his head down, animosity and guilt simmering to a slow boil, driven by the erosive pull towards vengeance; he'd almost forgotten what it felt like, to be so wholly caught up in the adrenalized fray. Chasing a high, Sara called it.
Had called it.
Releasing a low and steady exhale, Michael tucked the first tangible piece of an intricate puzzle into his pocket and reached out to start the car.
"Congratulations. You've officially made it to the home stretch. Would either of you like to say a few words to mark the occasion, or are you ready to get this over with?"
"You know, for a wrongfully convicted killer with a national conspiracy named after him, this seems a little second-rate. At the very least, I was expecting a Holiday Inn."
