Ellie

There's fear, and there's worry, and there's terror.

And then there's what I was feeling as I sat in the passenger seat next to Roman – helplessness. It sapped away at my energy, swallowing it whole, draining my life force. I felt the tendrils of depression creeping up my spine and I felt powerless to resist. It was like the worst of my days under Rick's reign of terror, when I was afraid of so much as sneezing while he slept, in case I awoke the beast. But it was different, too. At least in one way. It wasn't the man I could see that I was so scared off.

It was the ones I couldn't.

Roman drove as though he were conducting an orchestra, not driving a car. His body was a hive of seamless, graceful, balletic movement. His eyes never stopped moving, flicking from right to left as he drove at the very edges of the speed limit, weaving through cars and maneuvering past huge, plodding trucks. I wanted to scream at him, to urge him to drive faster, and to hell with the law, but I knew he was right. Speeding might feel like the thing to do, but it was anything but. We had to operate inside the law, nipping around the edges perhaps, but coloring inside the lines until the very last moment.

When we would bring hell down upon the men who had taken our child.

Our child. Even thinking about it was crazy. I couldn't quite believe that things had moved this far, this fast. A month ago, my biggest worry in life was strengthening my legs enough to walk. Two weeks ago, mastering something as simple as how to write my own name. A week ago, getting to grips with the idea that the neurons in my mind were beginning to knit themselves together once again, that I was healing faster than anyone had expected – and that I could go home soon.

I almost laughed out loud. That prediction seemed so far away right now that it could easily have been made in another century. My mind was spinning, whirling. The outside world appeared as a blur, cars and trucks and buildings flashing past so quickly I couldn't take them in before they disappeared. The only constant, in fact, was Roman. In all this, he was the only one who had remained by my side. Even when I ran off, he came to find me. To save me. Once, twice, and now a third time lucky. Even if it was a funny definition of luck. My eyes settled upon him, watched as he drove, his eyes narrowed and focused only on the 20 yards of tarmac dead ahead of him.

In the zone.

Roman was the ultimate professional. His mouth was set with grim determination, his brow furrowed. He had but one goal, and just looking at him I knew that he would achieve it. He made me believe again, hope again, enough to pray again. I knew that with him by my side, we had a chance. No matter how great the forces stacked against us, we had a sliver of hope. Even though it seemed as though there was no way we could possibly fight through, or even survive ourselves, he gave me hope. And not just hope, either.

Roman was an all in one role model, the kind of man that I felt I should strive to copy. In any other age he would have been a leader, a general or a chieftain. His skills were timeless – strength, deadly accuracy, and the courage of his convictions. They weren't modern. He was almost a man born out of time. But right now, there wasn't anyone I'd rather have by my side. The way he acted was almost inspiring – not because he was showy, because Roman had spent an entire lifetime learning how to disappear into a crowd, not play to it, but because his deadly professionalism shone out. I knew that the half bit, sloppy mafia crooks who swarmed Alexandria like ants had, this time, bitten off more than they could chew. And the thought of them suffering at Roman's practiced hands warmed me up inside.

"Thank you," I murmured under my breath. It was meant just for me, but he heard. Of course he heard. His eyes snapped to face me, just for a second.

"Don't thank me yet," he said. Growled, more than spoke. "I haven't done anything."

I decided not to challenge him. I knew he had, because I'd be dead, not sitting by his side if he hadn't. But Roman clearly wasn't the kind of guy who needed his ego massaged, stroked or managed. He wasn't weak, far from it. That he wasn't into bling, diamond chains and golden rings didn't mean a damn thing. Not to me, and not to him. I changed topic. Focusing on the task ahead was the only thing keeping my mind off the enormity of what was at stake. "You trust this guy?" I stared dead ahead as I spoke, watching as Roman ate up the miles. It was a cheap trick, one I only used in a pretense at acting casually. I kept staring at him out of the corners of my eyes, straining to see the expression on his face, desperate to monitor his reaction.

"My source? Not as far as I can throw him," Roman muttered, a fatalistic grin tickling his cheeks. "In fact, I'd be surprised that worm wasn't running to Victor right now and vomiting out everything he knows."

I stopped pretending I wasn't staring. My head snapped to face Roman, quick enough that it could have been mounted on the spring. My blood ran cold as I spoke, and the little hairs on the back of my neck all stood up as one. My brain dumped enough adrenaline into my blood to outrun a pack of chasing hyenas, yet strapped into the passenger seat of an old car, I couldn't actually do anything. "What," I choked. "What do you mean – he knows?"

Roman nodded grimly. "If not now, then soon. I –," he paused, correcting himself. "We didn't have any other choice. We're out of options, Ellie. It was either that, or nothing. And I'm not in any mood for nothing."

I gripped the car seat's hand rest, the thin flesh on the back of my hands turning white with the effort. I gulped. "Okay, okay, I trust you. But get us there fast, whatever you do."

Roman pulled a hard left, turning off the main street and down into a residential neighborhood. "Way ahead of you," he said.

"We're here?"

He nodded. "We're here. Number thirty-seven, it can't be far away."

Going against every one of my better instincts, Roman slowed the car down, almost to a crawl. He kept one hand on the wheel, and the other wriggled somewhere out of sight.

"What are you doing?" I begged. My legs were burning with impatience, as though a thousand tiny, poisonous fire ants were crawling up and down on the backs of my thighs. "Come on, hurry up, we've got to get there, to stop them!" I couldn't understand why he wasn't speeding, knocking men, and women, and children aside, powering past parked cars and driving on people's front yards to get there, even if only a few seconds faster. Okay, perhaps not the first bit, but didn't he know what was at stake? Who is at stake?

Roman pulled into an empty parking space and turned to face me, killing the engine as he moved. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and placed it on my shoulder, where it hung heavy. His voice was deep, and rumbled as he spoke. "Listen to me, Ellie. Don't mistake patience for inaction. Don't mistake action for results. And don't you ever think that I want this any less than you."

I cringed as he spoke, but he wasn't done.

"Rushing in there could get both of us killed. And then who does our son have? No one. This is me. This is what I do." His voice softened. "Can you trust me to do it right?"

I nodded, masking a tear. "I can, I'm sorry. It's just –."

He stroked my arm as he spoke. "I know." He lifted his hand off my shoulder, twisting his body as he reached to fish something out of the passenger seat footwell. "Put this on," he said, handing me something – a heavy, navy-blue something. My brow furrowed together as I stared at it, my brain trying to match it against anything it had ever seen before.

"What is it?" I said, noticing a Velcro strap on the heavy package. Roman was already moving, his body reaching in a hundred directions at once. He opened the glove compartment, pulling two fresh, black magazines of bullets out and tapped them against the dashboard before stuffing them into a back pocket. He checked his handgun's action. He was fast, smooth and efficient.

"Bulletproof vest," he grunted. He was economical with his use of words now, as if his brain power was in use somewhere else. Focused on solving the problem. Focused on saving our son. I hope that was the case. I knew it was.

"Where's yours?" I asked, flipping the vest over now that I realized what it was, and that it was upside down. My aching muscles protested as I pulled the heavy Kevlar-plated garment over my shoulders.

"You're wearing it," Roman said, shooting me a quick, caring smile as he tightened up. "Come on, let's go. Whatever happens, stay behind me. If I get shot, run. And go to the FBI, not the police. Maybe they'll be able to help."

His door was open before I had a chance to reply to this new barrage of information, and I followed his lead. My head was spinning, but I knew I could figure out the details later. I closed the car door quietly, and as I turned I bumped into a letterbox bearing the number thirty-five. Next door's letterbox. "We're here," I whispered to myself.

Roman had his weapon up, pointed at number thirty-seven. It was broad daylight, and anyone could have seen. It was a white picket house in a white picket neighborhood. I knew that something was already wrong. I choked out the question, desperate not to hear his reply. "What is it?"

He didn't speak, perhaps couldn't, just poked his chin towards the house. I didn't need a second explanation. The front door was ajar, and shards of orange-red porcelain and clods of dirt littered the porch. There had been a scuffle.

We were already too late.