A/N: Done! Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Blindspot.

It was Patterson that roused them from their focused state. "There's been a hit on the Jane doppelganger."

Immediately, the team stood and followed Patterson to the bullpen. Her words floated back to them as they neared the multitude of screens. "So this happened around three minutes ago - my software just picked it up now." The blonde pulled up footage from a security camera showing a hooded person nonchalantly loading suitcases into a truck. Once all twenty-three were loaded, a casual twist of the neck - a glance - was directed in the general direction of the camera, and the slim figure disappeared into the truck. Seconds later, the automobile was gone.

"Can you track the truck?" Weller asked, frowning at the footage. Whoever it was, they were doing a damn good job of keeping their face covered - yet, somehow, the body shape resembled the shots from the BOLOs sent out. His eyes tracked the figure's movements, comparing them to Jane's movements. It was a close match, but...not quite the same. He knew Jane's distinct way of getting around; it was confident, yet hesitant, strong but with a deceptive sense of vulnerability. A contradiction like Jane herself. These movements weren't hers - they were measured, emotionless, carrying a distinct sense of danger but also, strangely, blending in easily with the characteristic movements of the people bustling around.

Allie's voice floated into his mind. "What do you think they did in there?"

She was right, after all. The CIA could be brutal, and dealing with a person that could potentially expose their agency secrets through inked skin would probably bring out the agency's worst. His heart shuddered at the words, but there was nothing to be done now. Unless Keaton was still around to be strangled.

He gave himself a shake after contemplating the possibility, pulling out of his how-many-ways-can-I-kill-Keaton thoughts, and returned to the matter at hand. Jane wasn't the same Jane. He recalled saying that to Allie so, so many nights ago, but somehow it didn't mean as much as it did now. Whatever he knew and was familiar with back when Jane was still a complete mystery was obsolete. Especially since he hadn't been paying attention to her for the past few weeks. He knew that and hated himself for it. He also knew that anybody could change after torture, even Jane - although no one had really acknowledged it until now, when they were all faced with trying to determine the identity of a Jane lookalike.

" - truck's got no license plate," Kurt tuned back in to hear.

"Yeah, but you can recognize the car by the grill and the model, right?" Reade asked. It almost sounded like he was pleading Patterson for something, anything. Maybe he was. Kurt himself felt a strange need to chase someone, tackle someone, maybe even arrest someone. It was...decidedly odd.

Patterson's reply held a note of frustration. "Probably, if the person would let me have a look at it." She blew out a breath. "I even tried zooming in on the tires, but they're replacement ones - not ones from the car manufacturer." The blonde tilted her head slightly, considering. "Although, it wouldn't be hard finding the truck on the road because of its missing license plate."

"No one's gonna address the fact that the person looked at the camera?" Zapata pointed out dryly. Kurt welcomed her sarcasm, if only to cut through the thoughts clouding his brain.

"Unless they wanted us to find them, n - " Patterson cut herself off, scrambling to type something into her tablet. The rest of the team shared a fondly exasperated look, recognizing that the tech had figured something out. The question was when she was going to share her findings with the rest of them.

A few minutes passed. Reade was subtly watching an agent play Minesweeper on their computer - normally he would have murmured a warning, but the guy looked so exhausted that the former couldn't blame him. Weller was busy staring into space, a scowl on his features; what he was thinking about, no one wanted to find out. Then again, Scowling McScowls was his Quantico nickname, so his expression didn't really amount to much. Zapata had settled for watching her brilliant coworker, a slight hint of worry surfacing on her exotic features when Patterson starting murmuring feverishly to herself.

With a pang after taking in the scene, Kurt realized that Jane would have simply smiled, an easy tilt of her mouth, perhaps chewing on a fingernail or standing with her arms crossed, content to just watch everything.

No. Not anymore.

Post-CIA Jane would have kept an eye on all of them, filing away anything interesting that could be used at a later date. She would move to the back of the group, stance tense, eyes hard, expression unreadable.

It hurt to think of that, he admitted to himself. It hurt to think of what had happened to Jane, to the team, to Mayfair. It hurt to think of anything these days.

It was several minutes later when Patterson finally spoke - or, rather, spoke loud enough to be heard. Zapata had been watching her murmurings with increasing worry and was relieved when her friend finally broke away from her quiet, hurried musings. She glanced over at the other two and saw Weller snap to attention and Reade moving his eyes away from an agent's screen (though, if she was being honest, she swore her partner was mentally debating whether or not to snatch a coffee from somewhere).

"Okay, so there are three cameras in the person's vicinity," Patterson began. "One of them is directly in front of the doppelganger, one is on the other side of the street, and the last one is behind." She pulled up the footage from all of them.

Zapata's brows furrowed. "If they wanted us to find them, why turn to the camera behind them?"

"Exactly," Patterson nodded. "So, I looked into anything that might be different about that one. Nothing really jumps out, until you look at the serial number."

A jumble of letters and numbers appeared on the screen. Kurt tilted his head slightly, as if that would help him understand whatever Patterson was hinting at. There was no obvious pattern, no strange anomaly - and besides, what kind of person just randomly knows a camera's serial number? He opened his mouth to say so but paused.

Jane would know.

Or rather, Remi would know.

"There was a whole lot of Sandstorm activity in that area," Kurt found himself saying, suddenly remembering reports from Nas' files. "No regular thief would know serial numbers unless they were involved with Sandstorm."

The rest of the team stilled. It was true - Sandstorm had once remotely hacked into the very cameras surrounding their Jane doppelganger years ago, before Jane had been found in Times Square. It was an unsolved hack until Nas brought the proof when she joined forces with the team.

"What's in that area?" Reade asked.

Patterson tapped away at her tablet, gnawing on her bottom lip. "Uh...a couple of bistros, hair salons, bakeries…"

"I'm asking for anything Sandstorm might be interested in, not a tourism brochure," Reade deadpanned.

"I'm sorry, did you want to do this?" Patterson shot back, giving her coworker a glare. Zapata noted that her fingers were still typing like they had a mind of their own.

A rough beep startled them all. The blonde glanced down at the tablet in her hands. "Got something. A storage facility - heavily guarded, state-of-the-art protection."

"Then the person we've been following is Sandstorm connected?" Zapata frowned.

"Or Jane," Weller interjected.

There was a split second pause. Patterson closed her eyes as if to shield herself from what might be coming next. "How do we know we can trust her, doing whatever she's doing?" Zapata suddenly demanded.

"If it was Sandstorm, there'd be a lot more casualties," Weller snapped, unable to keep himself calm. The torrent of emotion rose to the surface much faster than he was used to.

"We don't know if Jane's sided with them," Zapata began, her voice soft and dangerous. "We don't know if she's doing all these things of her free will. We don't know why, how, and when she decided to do this. We don't know anything, Weller, and we can't assume that she's with us!" Her words shook at the end - from emotion or something else - and the characteristic lilt of her voice was gone, replaced by something rough and more guttural.

Kurt could feel his pulse pounding in his head as he watched her lips move. The words of the Latina slipped into his mind, not making any sense until his brain snapped the answer out. "This is Jane!" His timbre thundered. The agents scurrying around stopped for a moment and stared before carrying on, deciding that their Assistant Director was being his normal self.

Kurt was unaware of this, however. "We assumed she'd turned on us almost a year ago, and now we're doing the exact same thing all over again. I'm not going to be responsible for her second trip to a CIA black site."

"Mayfair is gone, Weller, and that was all Jane. We had proof that she had turned!"

"What, so if any of us are trying to protect the team and end up with some bodies, we're going to assume that that person has turned?" The words felt acrid on his tongue, and he hated himself for saying it.

He hated himself even more when Zapata simply stared back at him, jaw slack. Kurt didn't need to look at the others to know that they all had similar expressions.

"Look," he said with a softer tone, "I'm not saying that Jane wasn't responsible, and I'm not saying that she is. But we can't assume things like we would on a tattoo case. Yes, Jane's done a lot of questionable things but she's also done a lot of good things, too. All I'm saying is that another bit of time at a black site will break anyone."

For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of guilt in Zapata's eyes, but it was gone so fast he almost told himself he imagined it. He knew he didn't. Kurt's gaze shifted to Reade, who looked thoughtful, considering. Patterson, the alpha male knew, wore an expression of worry and conflict on her features.

He sighed silently. Defending Jane was something he was used to when she first came on to the team. This...this felt like raging a war. Subtly, the man gestured for Patterson to speak, hoping that a change in focus would cool tempers. (Not that his own was any better.)

Patterson glanced at him briefly before turning her attention back to her tablet, clearing her throat. "Okay, back to the serial number. If you isolate the numbers and remove every repeated number, you get this string of three digits - 324. The letters, when arranged backward and including the dash, spells out SOS-R."

"FBI, SOS, Remi," Zapata murmured, connecting the dots. "324 is a representation of FBI on a keypad."

"It's Jane," Weller breathed gruffly, exhilaration flooding through him. He was right. He was right, he was right, he was right. Jane hadn't turned.

Reade, though, remained skeptical - and, Weller supposed, the voice of reason, since the Assistant Director of the NYO was notorious for having a soft spot for Jane. "Yeah, but how many other cameras are out there with a similar message?"

"How many other cameras out there were purposely looked at?" Weller countered.

"Look, I'm not saying that it's not Jane, 'cause it could be," Reade began, emphasizing his dubious tone. "But there are hundreds of thousands of security cameras out there. And, what, a Jane doppelganger singles out one and we decide it's Jane?"

Furrowing his brows, Weller sighed. "We've got nothing else. But if it is Jane, however small of a chance that could be, we need to check it out."

Jane tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, ideas dismissed one after the other as she wove through traffic. Aware of the time ticking away, she gnawed on a fingernail at a red light, desperately searching her mind for some sort of leverage or trick she could use.

She needed to calm down, look at the facts. Fact: she was carrying twenty-three suitcases of diamonds. Fact: Shepherd wanted her to deliver them to that initial starting point. Fact: she now had thirteen minutes to make it there. Fact: Shepherd had multiple hostages. Fact: a note was left in the safe she had just emptied. Hopefully, the team wasn't too wary; maybe, just maybe, they'll make it to the point Jane was meeting Shepherd at. It'd take a whole lot of luck, but Jane had enough bad luck stored up to get the universe to take pity on her.

Hopefully.

There was a very, very slim chance that the team would actually go after her and follow the directions she had scribbled down. She wasn't stupid; she saw those wary looks and the blatant distrust among the team. She knew that they thought their partnership with her was a necessary evil - and that's all it was. Whatever rapport they had back then was lost.

Agonize about it later, Remi snapped. If you want to keep those diamonds out of Shepherd's hands, think.

And so she did, not bothering to respond to the first part of Remi's comment. They'd had too many arguments over it as Jane had stared at the walls in her house so many lifetimes ago.

Thirteen minutes, Jane discovered as she pulled up to the meeting point, was quite short when frantically trying to outmaneuver a mastermind. It wasn't anything like the thrill of adrenaline shooting through her veins when defusing a bomb with a millisecond left; it was more like wading through a pool of molasses filled with sharks. Every second that went by tore at her consciousness.

Shepherd stood in front of the entrance of the building as Jane cut the engine, her heart sinking. Her mother's arms were crossed, tightly folded against her chest like a bulletproof vest.

The amnesiac left the vehicle and approached Sandstorm's leader. "We're moving," Shepherd informed her shortly.

Jane stilled. "Where?"

"I'll give you directions," was all her adoptive mother said as she brushed past, headed for the passenger seat. Jane mechanically followed.

The first thing that shot through her mind was a curse. The second was where are the hostages? And the third was an overwhelming sense of resigned dread. The team - if they even found and followed the directions - would simply find an abandoned warehouse instead of Shepherd and a bunch of hostages. They'd probably think she really was working with Sandstorm and aim to capture her.

And Nas would send me back to the CIA.

"I hope you like hunting down defective hackers," Shepherd commented casually as Jane guided the truck down the road. "Especially ones captured by the FBI."

A/N: I wonder who the defective hacker(s) is/are? As always, thanks for following, favouriting and reviewing!

~Wolf and Phoenix