A/N: This time it's Keefe who wants to finish the job, and it forces Lisa and Jackson, two enemies blind with hatred and anger, on a hopeless, unwanted mission. Is there something beyond hostility for them? And if so, wouldn't it be their undoing?

Disclaimer: Sometimes I have red eyes. Does it entitle me to own this? I don't think so.

So here I go again with a new Red Eye story. Hope you're gonna like it. It's a bit darker, definitely more serious than Cruise control if you happened to read that one: I'm trying to create a reasonable emotional progression here, hope I won't fail:P
Sorry for all kinds of mistakes, unfortunately I'm not a native speaker.

Uprooted

Chapter 1: Square one

Heroics won't feed you.

This was the first thought creeping in Lisa's mind the morning she exited her manager's office at the Lux Atlantic Resort – as it appeared, most probably for the last time. Very politely, very apologetically but just as much matter-of-factly she was shown the door. Not more than four weeks after the- fascinating, if the newspapers were concerned; unfortunate, according to the CEOs of the hotel; nightmarish, if she was asked- events of the attempted murder against Charles Keefe and an undoubtedly unproductive month of sales at the hotel, Lisa found herself unemployed. Through the betrayal- and hurt-induced fog in her mind, somewhere deep in the forthrightness of her analytical side, she acknowledged what an inconvenient situation the hotel was facing but it didn't make it any easier. She had devoted her life to them, always available, always reliable, and though only she was aware that she had needed them just as much as they needed her, it didn't change the fact that she felt somewhat betrayed. Of course, they had to find someone responsible for the poor figures and decreasing number of guests, the slur on their reputation, and since they certainly couldn't blame an unknown, mysterious crime organization, it was obvious she had to carry the can. Their trust, and thus, all the guests' trust in her wavered; after all, she put the hotel with its guests and crew in danger by playing along in the game of a terrorist. What assured she wouldn't do it again? This was their point of view.

It was just ironic she was dismissed the exact same day Jackson Rippner was transported to a high security solitary confinement at the Florida State Prison after a one-month long hospital treatment at the, ironical enough, Jackson Memorial in Miami. It seemed petty heroics such as sending a criminal behind bars and saving human lives (and not just that but the very symbol the position of the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, that is Charles Keefe, possessed) really weren't of great weight when it came to the Profit and Loss statement.

So Lisa collected her personal belongings in a cardboard box, hugged a very solemn Cynthia and left. Not that there was much to pack apart from a family photo, a spare white blouse on the hanger, two pot plants and her chipped LisAtlantic mug. Chipped and cracked. Why she couldn't just discard it was almost ridiculous. She was one of those people who rather kept old, battered objects until they were of no use anymore than throwing them out at the first sign of wear. It was the same with everything else in her life. She preserved all those chipped mug emotions and memories that should have been long forgotten; instead she was collecting her own terracotta army of hurts and fears and pain. The Keefe case was the newest piece of broken porcelain she put on the shelf. Moving on, looking forward: her late grandmother's motto sounded elevated but wasn't anything that could be adopted overnight. Maybe she wasn't too comfortable with adapting to changes. And maybe because the changes were rarely the result of her decision.

Just as the kiss-off she was so ungratefully given.

: :

During the following weeks she had enough, too much actually, time to assess her situation. It took just as much courage as the events that made her end up here because being downright honest and clear-sighted was incredibly draining. In hindsight, everything was obvious and maybe even better this way but she had been too prone to ignore the signs. When the first days of shock following the flight had worn off and she was back in the rut, the underlying truth that she had gone through irreversible changes in the few hours on the plane and at her father's house was suppressed by flagging it as weariness. However, with every passing day it was harder to keep up the façade, to smile and please and submit to whatever nuisance the guests could come up with, now that Rippner had ripped off her mask and shredded it and showed her her own reflection, the raw bruised flesh underneath. And the power that rippled below the surface. The same power that had defeated him was now making her impatient in every faked moment of her life. She couldn't go back to whom she had been before the red eye and maybe somewhere deep she didn't even want to. That Lisa and the other from before the parking lot accident had been definitely gone. She had to find a place for the new one and it was a difficult task.

She resorted to exercise to let off steam. Apart from the adrenaline-rush, the only thing that had saved her in the footrace at the airport was the occasional jogging she had engaged in. Ever since the red eye, she had taken it seriously and the once occasional activity turned into regular, almost self-punishing running. She kept pushing her own limits, her body over the edge and coaxing the last bit of energy out of her muscles by mocking herself 'If it was a chase, you'd already be dead'. That always helped (the years-long deliberate and conscious loneliness made her comfortable about talking to herself without considering it insane), and her inner voice, the perpetual fighter retorted with a determined 'I won't be dead, Jackson Rippner'. It was always him, the scourge, the motivation to exercise as hard as she could. No matter he was in prison for- hopefully- the next decade: he represented the threat, danger in itself. It could have been the other man but of his face she didn't remember much, didn't have the stomach to remember and what she could recall- the smell, the touch, the pain and the animalistic, beastly rattle-, still flooded her with bilious disgust; that face was outlined with defeat, unable to stimulate her into anything more than self-destruction and cowering. She knew, it was a fact, that she had the vigor to wallop Rippner with luck and determination, and she had to bear this in mind and never let go again.

During those post-flight days, crushed under the exhaustion and the belated comprehension of the gravity and reality of her latest adventure, she tried to sort out the tangle of emotions and thoughts in her mind. It had been a very confusing period, and during the course of the assessment of damages she was forced to open a paragraph for Rippner. The heading started with the most confusing revelation: she didn't want him to die but not for any humanitarian reasons. It was utterly selfish. She called the hospital to get some information about his recovery, and when they said they weren't allowed to provide it over the phone, her anxiety brought her so far that she visited him. Unwilling to enter the secured ward, she merely stole a glance at him through the round window of the door. Thank God, he was asleep. He looked so pathetically vulnerable among the creepers of wires from the IV, the respirator, the heart monitoring machines and the chain cuffing him to the rail around the bed that the pity she felt, mixed with wavering guilt and anger and triumph helped her to overcome any fear she might have had of him. It took her long days of complete honesty to herself to come to the conclusion she didn't want him to die because she didn't want to live with the weight of the death of a human being, a death she had partaken in along with her father. She didn't want to think of them as murderers, even if it counted as self-defense it would have been a murder nonetheless. It was enough to digest that she had run over his associate. She'd known nothing about that man though, not even his name, had never talked to him and couldn't even make out his features in the brief moments before the crash – hitting him was akin to colliding with a fireplug. A crash test dummy. Rippner was different; they had interacted, there was a flesh and blood person, however monstrous and devoid of humane quality, behind the mere mortality data. And in a way it was worse.

It annoyed her to no end how she could misjudge him so badly when she was used to dealing with all kinds of people on daily basis. She would always know what tone and words had to be used, in most cases she could decide the best way to act after a mere glance – and in that aspect, and it was terrible to admit, she wasn't unlike Rippner. With him it had happened differently. Maybe because, in a very weak moment, she wanted to believe he was different and sincere and it was real. She should have known, he was too smooth, too charming to be true, to be interested in her just like that, so easily.

: :

Her dismissal was followed by three very frustrating weeks. She was sulking in her apartment all day, feeling sorry for herself. She was lost, so terribly lost; she couldn't remember a time when she had felt the same. Two years back, after the incident she didn't want to think of, she had been on the verge of complete psychic annihilation, and the only thing that could pull her out of misery was the comforting routine of her work. Now she had nothing and it made her hate Rippner with every single fiber in her body. The mere thought of him lolling about his cell, taking long naps, reading or watching TV, fed and well-kept as if he was in some kind of a wellness centre while she had to build up her life from its ashes enraged her. The least he deserved was a filthy rathole of a prison somewhere in the Far East. It very much felt like she got punished instead of him.

No trial had been scheduled yet for which she was extremely grateful. The mere thought of facing him again at the court, and laying out the details of their hideous encounter in public made her head spin. It had been more than enough to give her evidence over and over again to the police and then later a very attentive FBI agent. They collected every incriminating evidence they could: his cell phone was retrieved from the stolen car and they found the number of the dead assassin among the last incoming calls; in his suit pocket he still had the wallet with the embedded JR on it, full of -fake- credit cards issued for Jackson Rippner but, strangely, he hadn't thrown out the picture of Lisa her father would always keep there – maybe he planned to prove his point if Lisa happened to question the original owner of the wallet; or so they guessed. With her statement they assured her he would be sentenced to a long imprisonment for attempted murder.

The triumph, the pride that had reigned over her after thwarting his sick plans, the wake of the fighter within her dissolved after acknowledging the string of absurd events in her life; mind-crashing events that, one would think, always happened to only others. Somehow she seemed to be a magnet of trouble, and it left nothing but deep-rooted fatigue and languor behind. She was aware of what she was capable of, very much aware, but it was still dreary how her life had turned into something uncontrollable at some points. She didn't even question what made her deserve this – there was no point in asking it.

In the idleness of the upcoming period Lisa picked up a new disturbing habit. She started to make comments about every mundane act during the day like she was watching herself from a distance. Very sarcastic comments at that, which didn't quite carry her usual tone.

The mark met her father twice this week, and that was all the social contacts she made.

On Tuesday she slept in again; late night movies the previous evening.

At the grocery she bought two boxes of cinnamon cereal though there is still a half-full box in her cupboard.

The mark woke up at 2.48am -third time this week-, shuffled out in the kitchen and made scrambled eggs. Two eggs, slightly salted, topped with smoked cheese. Just to defy whoever had to be defied, sometimes she would opt for a French toast instead.

Methodically, she started to clean out her life, corner by corner. The dr. Phil books were the first in the row, refusing the memories that clung on them like heavy dust covers, and with that refusing the need for half-professional -or any at all- psychiatric help. Once again, Rippner managed to make her feel lonelier than ever before. Then she continued with old clothes, furniture, mugs even. The next victims were a very natural consequence of the spring-cleaning: she, slowly, almost instinctively started to leave out all the habits that had surely been witnessed by Rippner, and then one day she perceived she had no more habit at all. She wouldn't drink a Sea Breeze anymore or anything with sweetened vodka for that matter; no more scrambled eggs late in the night; no more old movies on Saturday evenings. And suddenly she realized her life was empty, completely cleaned out of everything she had ever liked. Maybe it was an involuntary wish to change her life, maybe discarding innocent objects that had been tainted with his unwanted, intrusive attention gave her the false impression that she could discard hateful memories too. She planned to move into a new apartment, because the old one made her cringe every time she entered it, in her mind's eye seeing him watching her, being the witness of the personal details of her life.

Starting everything from ground zero, it was like a rebirth but without the lofty, optimistic meaning to it. It was nothing more than being alone, in pain, cold and frightened. And screaming, more figuratively here, wanting to scream, to be precise, at the top of her voice.

She sent her CV to every hotel in Miami, later in Orlando, Tampa and Fort Lauderdale. In fact, it was undoubtedly an impressive résumé, having achieved a managerial position at such a young age in a well-known hotel was something anyone would die for. She could have been the front office manager in any hotel hadn't her name appeared on the news hundred times. All it took was a simple Google search and every detail of the predicament the journalists could dig out lay there, sometimes distorted, sometimes exaggerated, sometimes roughly outlined. Of course, it was the typical case of fifteen minutes of fame, fortunately she didn't have to be afraid that someone would recognize her in the streets but still it was a major drawback in trying to find a job in hotel business; the name Lisa Reisert in connection with the Lux Atlantic as her previous workplace rang a certain bell that should have never been rung.

: :

Give as good as you get.

Two hurricane-ridden but otherwise eventless days into the fourth eventless week of unemployment the phrase presented its positive meaning to her. Her cell phone chirped and it was none other than Charles Keefe on the other end of the line. As it turned out he was in Miami again, staying at the Lux Atlantic, maybe to show his confidence in the hotel, and learnt at once that she was no longer an employee there. Lisa, maybe as a part of the cautiousness toward anyone after her horrible experiences or maybe it was simply pride, usually tried to avoid any situation where she would end up being obliged for anything from letting a stranger pay for her drink to accepting a job that terribly sounded like alms. She hated to be pitied and she certainly didn't expect Keefe to provide anything that even remotely could have been labeled as charity, not even if it was an honest act to show his gratitude. However, when Keefe offered her the position of his personal assistant who was about to go on maternity leave, Lisa found herself accepting it with enthusiasm, even though she still cringed at the idea of owing anybody.

She agreed to meet Keefe the following day to discuss the position offered. Keefe seemed to be engaged in a week-long work that left him with no time for anything else, so she had to visit him at the FBI Field Office in Miami. The grayish building with its enormous black tinted windows was vaguely familiar to her. A few weeks back she'd had to visit the FBI agent here for her last statement on the Keefe case.

The job seemed enthralling, something new where Lisa could still wander about the well-known territory of people pleasing and helpfulness without the nonstop fake smiles and the compulsion to endure the insignificant complaints of over-clamorous guests. If she accepted, and she was very much about to do so, among a lot of other things she would have been responsible for Keefe's travels to the very last details; and that was a familiar realm. There were two cons she had to consider though, and one was that she had to move to Washington, leaving her home town and her father behind. It was the hardest part, sailing off from the safe haven. The other con seemed a bit ridiculous compared to the job offered: she would have to travel a lot, follow Keefe wherever he might go and considering how much she hated flying, it wasn't anything she couldn't wait for.

After a long debate with herself then with her father, she agreed and signed the contract and the Non-disclosure agreement already the next day. The diversity of the position was irresistible and finally she could tell with great contentment that the importance matched the responsibility. Lisa found herself enthusiastic about the challenge behind it.

Janine, whose pregnancy was now more evident than two months back when Lisa had last met her, tried to brief her as often and thoroughly along the line as possible. Lisa accompanied her as she was following Keefe around the FBI quarter, took notes and attempted to understand the procedures and jargon unfolding before her. The IT support section was yet to create her a username and password, thus without a profile she had to use Janine's who showed her all the routines, regulations and history they usually complied with.

The day after, Keefe was continuously in and out of meetings with a small group of FBI operatives, so Lisa had no chance to speak with him before he would leave for Washington the same afternoon. She still had quite a lot of things to arrange and couldn't even guess when she would be available for work.

Lisa buried herself behind a laptop at an open station opposite the conference room Keefe frequently disappeared in, and examined the programs and sites Janine had granted her access to. The FBI office was buzzing around them, and Lisa suddenly found herself soothed by the continuous noise, half-grunted commands and relentlessly ringing phones. The life at the Lux hadn't been that quiet either so the familiarity put her at ease.

Keefe showed up at their desk: all manners, as always, with a slight tension on his face. "Janine, could you please move my Monday appointment with Carter to the second half of the week? Try to find a date suitable for both of us."

Before Janine could even nod, the attentive FBI agent Lisa had previously met -Alvarez, as she finally recalled the name- walked up to them, cell phone in hand, held a few inches away from his ear.

"They've just left the institute, Mr. Keefe."

"Good. That gives us about…?"

"Thirty minutes, sir."

"Perfect. Stay on the alert. I'll be right back," Keefe nodded intently. As Alvarez left, he turned to them and looked at Lisa as if he was seeing her for the first time. "Ms. Reisert, my apologies, I forgot to tell you, you could leave for today. My schedule got very hectic and I will need Janine all day, so there is no point in keeping you here. We will talk later, okay?"

"Of course."

Lisa watched Janine get up and following Keefe in the conference room. She didn't feel like leaving yet, it wasn't even lunch time and since she had yet to contact the HR department in Washington, she decided to arrange it via email. They promised to find her a suitable condo somewhere not too far from the Nebraska Avenue where the Department of Homeland Security was located, and briefed her with all the other details concerning her move. She contacted a removal company her father had recommended and arranged a date for the moving.

There was a slight commotion at the entrance of the floor, and when she looked up and spotted a small group of people, guards and agents mostly (and the emphasis was on this trifling word 'mostly'), entering the premise, her first thought was a very strange and resigned one that wasn't unfamiliar at all for it had crossed her mind not once in the past few years: it seemed the most hideous events that later turned out to be a pivotal point in her life happened on painfully ordinary days. Nothing in the morning would predict the change, no sleeping in, no spilled coffee on her white shirt, no finding her car with a flat tire, no overcast sky. No one throwing offensive insults at her. No foreboding at all. Just like the day of the parking lot disaster. She had woken up to a sunny day, made coffee, washed her face, dressed in a flowery summer dress and sung along with the radio - just like the day before, and the day before that and so on. The almost same routine happened two months back, apart from the fact that she had to attend her grandma's funeral on the day of the flight, and that she wouldn't wear a flowery dress anymore but all in all, that day was somewhat mundane either. Just like this morning. Nothing had told her it would be a day when her knees buckle beneath her.

She stood abruptly, the swivel chair spinning behind her back. The only contentment she could find in the situation was the evidence that Jackson Rippner was just as much surprised to see her as she was to see him. She didn't trust her own legs, jelly knees, sponge joints, so she stayed rooted to the spot, half leaning against the desk for support. Rippner was led along the wide corridor between the desks, handcuffed and escorted by two guards in uniforms with a blue badge on the chest. Before they reached her desk, he turned his head toward the jailers and said something in a quite peremptory manner. They halted, and the next moment Rippner stepped to her desk clear of the guards.

"What a reception, I have to say I'm flattered! Have been dying to see me, Leese?"

His voice was the same she remembered from the plane, and somewhere back in her mind she noted disappointedly that the homemade tracheotomy left no impact on it. He looked thinner though, and even paler, his hair longer. Judging by the size, the dark blue shirt he was wearing was clearly not his, at least one size larger than necessary. The look, the maliciously blinking blueness of his eyes were the same though, and just as disturbing as in her memories.

"In such company, yeah," Lisa nodded toward the security guards, and was relieved that her voice came out steadier than how she was feeling. Her remark had no visible effect on him apart from the twitch of an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

This time he let the mocking surprise through. "So you don't know?" And he was back in smug mode again. Lisa balled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to smack him. "I would never miss a good deal. You gotta love the juridical system of this wonderful country. Sadly, its loopholes put all your heroics in vain."

Lisa, intent on hiding the fact that she didn't get a single word of his insinuations, gestured toward the handcuffs. "I like your new accessories. They suit you just fine."

Suddenly he leaned closer, and Lisa was grateful anew for the desk between them. His voice was low and full of unconcealed venom. "Do you have nightmares of me, Leese?"

"And do you have? After all, if I am not mistaken, it was me who thrashed you."

She could tell he was preparing a blow by the way his upper lip curled into a taut smile. "Soon I'll be free and you can relish in your fair share of nightmares."

She couldn't help but recoil as if he had hit her. Eventually she was saved by the guards nudging him from behind. "Come on, Rippner, move."

He cast one last self-satisfied glance at her and walked on. Lisa followed his steps numbly, and realized belatedly that Keefe was standing beside her desk.

"You are still here," it was a statement, a bit apologetic as if it was his fault that she hadn't left the office yet. "I wanted to spare you this encounter, Ms. Reisert."

"He said… Why is he here?" she mumbled, fixating on the door behind which Rippner had disappeared, as if trying to convince herself that it was only a hallucination.

'I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't tell you that. It is confidential. Why don't you go home, and I promise I'll call you in the afternoon."

Even when Keefe had long retreated back to the conference room, Lisa stayed rooted to the spot. Go home, curl under the blanket and pretend this never happened. She really wanted to do it. Denial was a good old friend.

When she started toward the restroom to steal some time alone, she came across with the two uniformed guards on their way back to the entrance. She stared at their blue badge and shook her head.

"Everglades C.I.? I thought he was kept at the Florida State Prison."

One of them gave her a long guarded glance. "He is. Temporarily he was moved to Everglades a few days ago."

Before she could ask anything else, they were off.

Fortunately the restroom was empty. Lisa splashed water on her face and stared at the miserable woman in the mirror she could hardly recognize. Somehow, and it was disturbing, meeting him shook her more than she would have anticipated. The last time she saw him, he wasn't even able to go to the toilet alone or at all, and in cherishing this memory, reveling in the false belief that he was harmless now, she happened to forget how menacing he could be, how cruelly spot-on about the impact of his words, how his eyes and voice could deliver something exactly opposite than what he displayed. As she let hatred engulf her in a hope that she could suck every ounce of willpower out of it, a faint realization dawned on her. There was no way she would go home and wait for Keefe's call, she just couldn't do it. Sitting idly and staring into space, starting at every sound, counting the minutes while he was here, in the same city, without the reassuring iron bars and bricks and barbed wire fence and armed jailers around him – the mere thought made her sick to the stomach. Whatever Rippner was referring to with his last remark, whether it was true or just an empty threat, there certainly was something fishy, something she surely wouldn't like, about his and Keefe's appointment here.

She returned to her desk with the determination to get to the bottom of this case, no matter how much she had to wait.

Minutes or hours went by, she couldn't tell through the mind-numbing turbulent thoughts raging in her head. One minute she wanted to call her father but the next she realized there wasn't too much she could tell him, and the last thing she wanted was him starting to worry just because she couldn't bottle up her fear, revulsion and loathing of Rippner.

That was when the front wall of the conference room dissolved with a deafening bang, followed by a mild series of explosion from around the premise.

Lisa was thrown out of her chair, less by the impact and more out of an instinctive reaction to cower. Within a few seconds the office sank into frenzied panic as smoke, so dense and opaque Lisa had never experienced, filled the room. There were a few shouts, another sound of explosion filtering in from the ground floor but Lisa didn't pay attention. Choking at the throat-scratching smoke and her own tears, squinting her stinging eyes, only one horrible thought could reach through the incredulity binding her mind. It is happening again; another attempt on Keefe's life.

She scrambled to her feet and stumbled in the direction where she guessed the conference room was. In the darkened room she almost fell through someone who was wheezing on all fours, then evading the figure she ran into another one, the momentum repulsing her backwards.

She recognized him just a fraction before he did and caught him off-guard by lurching at him. In the stupefaction of the previous minutes she had completely forgotten about Rippner but his sudden manifestation before her made the pieces of puzzle clash in her head, forming a very likely and worrisome image. It was just too obvious, too clear right now.

"You! Get off-!" His grumble got lost in a croak, and instead of talking he tried to yank his arm free. Lisa, an adrenaline-shot exploding in her stomach, clung onto him, desperate to make him stay till a security guard would come to her help. Rippner, with an incomprehensible growl, grabbed her hair and pulled her away from him.

"No…!" she shrieked and as soon as he turned to leave she lashed out again, knocking him down from behind. In the debris he lost his footing but immediately pushed himself off the floor. Before Lisa could even blink, he whirled around and the feral sneer that appeared on his face coiled her stomach into a small knot.

"Hell, why not…?" and he pulled her closer to him by the back of her neck, and with his left arm secured around her shoulders, he gnarled into her ear from behind her back. "Since you insist…"

With wide open eyes, Lisa's glance fell on the glinting object in his right hand just before he pressed the edge of the broken glass to the wildly pulsating vein in her neck.

"Be a good girl," Rippner tossed her forward and just when she regained her balance, he grasped her arm and dragged her along with him.

Between the realization that she was in an all too familiar trouble and the almost blinding pain he caused in her arm, all Lisa could focus on was her legs. She was sure if she fell he would lug her across the building by her hair. When they burst into the emergency staircase, she fought his grip but the strength he was clinging to her was so relentless that Lisa momentarily gave up resistance when it resulted in a misstep on a stair.

On the landing they ran into a guard. The moment he pulled out his gun, Rippner yanked Lisa to his chest and stuck the glass below her chin.

"Drop it!" he commanded, and as the guard hesitated, he stabbed it deeper in her skin. Lisa could feel the hot trail of blood running down her neck but bit back the whimper, not wanting to satisfy him or unsettle the guard. He was her last chance to get away from Rippner. "Drop it and kick it here now!"

His voice carried such power and coolness that Lisa involuntarily shivered. Horrified, she watched numbly as the guard obeyed, turning around when Rippner ordered him to do so. With a swift movement he bent down for the gun, and so quickly that Lisa couldn't even see it, knocked the guard out with the metal butt end. Before she knew it, they were out in the bright sunlight, running across the adjoining parking lot. Rippner slowed down, intently scanning the rows of cars. Behind them the western wall of the building was coughing black smoke toward the sky, and in the distance Lisa could already hear the sirens of fire-engines.

Suddenly, when his attention was occupied by the cars, she tore her arm from his grip and before he could recover she jumped into a full-fledged sprint. He shouted something that wasn't audible above the clicking of her shoes, and she chased the fact of him possessing a gun back in the depth of her mind. Run, run, run. Her world shrank into this single word. And she ran.

There was a loud creak, and simultaneously a painful pressure on her chest that pushed the air out of her lungs, a snap as the buttons on her suit jacket flew off. Lisa staggered to an abrupt halt, almost dove onto the concrete. She tried to quickly slip out of the jacket but Rippner was already blocking her way, keeping her in place by the shoulders.

Grinding her teeth, Lisa glared at him through the curtain of her hair and blind venom. "Let me go."

She kept him in the farthest possible distance her arms provided. Like logs, they pressed against his clavicles. Weak logs, though. Delicate logs, compared to his strength; she had to realize it the next minute.

"Be more consistent, Leese. Back inside you seemed to be eager to stick to me."

His irritated yet malicious grin, the parking lot, the smoke-spitting FBI building in the background, the shrill sound of sirens growing louder with each minute, even her desperately restrained fear splitting open inside her plunged into blackness as his forehead collided with hers with a brain-cracking noise.