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Chapter Text

Maggie woke the next morning exhausted and restless. Sleep had only come late, her thoughts refusing to let her rest. They kept circling back to the recent mission. Not so much the case itself—they had solved it. Another financier of terrorism was behind bars. Richard Caldwell was still in custody while the evidence was being gathered and processed.

Briefly, her thoughts drifted to Evelyn. After being stabilized in Santorini, she had been transported back to the States and admitted to a hospital. Investigations were ongoing to determine how involved she had been in her husband’s dealings. Somehow, Maggie hoped the blonde woman hadn’t been actively part of it. During the undercover operation, she had grown fond of her. That kind of attachment could be dangerous—when an investigator developed sympathy for a suspect.

But the real reason she hadn’t been able to sleep was her partner.

The man she had lived with professionally for the past few weeks.
The man she had pretended to be a couple with.

The closeness they had shared had been unavoidable. Part of the job. But those… feelings that had developed because of it…

Maggie sighed heavily and ran a hand through her hair. She tried to convince herself that those emotions were just a byproduct of the undercover mission. But her heart protested stubbornly—it already knew the truth. Her mind, however, was cautious and refused to allow it. OA was her partner. Her best friend. These new feelings could ruin everything between them.

And yet, the memories of Santorini felt far too real. They stirred a longing inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time. A longing she had forbidden herself after Jason’s death. Starting over had never felt right. She had dated once or twice, but it had never turned into anything serious.

When she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Her partner. OA.

She saw him laughing—light and carefree when they had teased each other. She saw his eyes. The way he had looked at her at the masquerade ball.

His warm, strong fingers at her back while they danced.

Her heart pounded at the memory.

His breath, hot against her neck, made her eyes snap open as she jolted upright in bed, the memory of his kiss burning fresh in her mind. Cursing softly under her breath, she threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She needed something to do. A distraction. Anything to escape her thoughts.

After getting ready, she prepared a small breakfast. Out of habit, she took two mugs from the cabinet—only realizing it when she poured the coffee.

She spent the morning doing laundry. Then she found more things to occupy herself with. Cleaning out closets. Rearranging shelves. All the tasks she usually never had time for. Anything to keep from thinking about OA.

Was he feeling the same way?

She checked her phone repeatedly throughout the day.

No message. Not from him.

Maybe he needed time too. Time to return to his own life. Time to process the mission. So Maggie gave him space—even though she already missed him. She stayed strong and didn’t text.

Even that evening, when the TV program bored her and she almost reached for her phone to message him, she stopped herself. She placed it back on the coffee table, though her eyes kept drifting to the dark display.

No notification came.

The following night was no better. Now her thoughts spiraled in a different direction. What if he was avoiding her? Creating distance?

The uncertainty hurt. It drove her crazy.

The next morning, exhausted and worn down by her thoughts, she made a decision after her first coffee. She would text him.

She typed. Deleted. Typed again. Searching for the right words.

*Hey,
you’re not ghosting me, are you?
Just give me a quick sign of life.*

She stared at the message, chewing on her lip. Could she really send that?

Ever since Richard’s arrest and their return flight, there had been tension between them. The air had been thick with unspoken words. She had hoped that once they were properly home, everything would settle.

After another minute of hesitation, she hit send. Closed the chat. Set her phone aside.

She threw herself into cleaning out her basement and completely forgot she was waiting for a reply. Around lunchtime, she ordered food from her favorite restaurant.

Still no message.

A skeptical frown formed on her face. Something felt off. This wasn’t like him. OA wasn’t someone who simply ignored her. And now she no longer believed he was just busy.

By early evening, she noticed that her message only had one check mark.

Sent—but never delivered.

A cold unease settled in her stomach. She opened the chat and saw his last online status:

*Yesterday at 2 a.m.*

Her brows drew together sharply.

Something was wrong.

She called him.

Straight to voicemail. His phone was off.

Without thinking further, she grabbed her keys and left her apartment. She drove to his place. The parking space in front of his building—where his car was usually parked—was empty.

The unease grew stronger.

Fear gripped her with icy claws as she stepped out of the car and approached the entrance.

A young man was just coming down the stairs after placing a bouquet of flowers on the steps. He nodded politely at her as he passed.

Maggie climbed the stairs and looked at the bouquet of white lilies.

A card was tucked between the flowers.

Instinctively, she pulled it out and opened the envelope.

It was a condolence card.

And the words made her blood run cold.

My deepest condolences on the death of Omar Zidan.

Maggie gasped and staggered back a step. Her mind went blank.

This had to be a sick joke.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs as she rushed down the stairs after the young man.

“Hey!” she called out. “Wait!”

He stopped a few meters away, pulling one earbud out. He looked at her, confused.

“Everything okay, ma’am? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“The flowers,” she said breathlessly. “Why did you leave them on the steps?”

He shrugged. “It was an order.”

“From whom?” Her voice sharpened.

He shrank slightly under her tone. “I—I don’t know. I’d have to check at the shop.”

She pulled out a business card and handed it to him. “Do that. And call me immediately.”

He nodded, intimidated, and hurried off.

With trembling fingers, Maggie opened the card again.

No sender.
No name.
Nothing.

But on the back, there was a QR code.

She pulled out her phone and scanned it.

A browser opened, leading to a private website streaming a video.

At first, the screen was black.

Slowly, faint contrasts began to emerge. The image brightened gradually. It had to be infrared—shot in darkness.

A dark room.

Then, from the chest upward, a body became visible against the background.

And when she recognized the face—

A scream tore from her throat, sounding utterly foreign to her own ears.

Chapter Text

“What are you going to do with him now, John?” Finch asked, his eyes wide with a trace of concern. He knew his partner wouldn’t shy away from violence—especially not when good people’s lives were at stake. But he also knew John didn’t resort to it lightly. Only when there was no other way left.

“I’m going to pay him a visit and find out what he knows,” Reese replied calmly and evenly.

He left the library to visit the man from the staged accident in his makeshift holding cell. In an abandoned subway tunnel, he had cuffed him to old pipes, leaving him there to stew. No windows. No sense of time. Only the artificial glow of flickering lights illuminating the place and casting ghostly shadows over the grimy asphalt.

John had let the man sit there for a good ten hours.

With a bottle of water tucked under his arm, he entered the tunnel and watched him from the shadows for a moment before stepping forward.

The man—square-jawed, with a buzz cut—looked up, his expression blank, unreadable. Only the muscles in his jaw twitched slightly. Reese dragged over an old crate and sat down.

“You must be thirsty. If you cooperate, you’ll get the water.”

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for a reaction as he held the bottle out.

The man only scoffed and looked away. But his gaze betrayed his thirst.

“Who gave the order?” Reese asked, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees.

No answer.

“Where did your colleagues take him?”

Silence.

“Do you even know who you abducted?”

A brief glance told him everything—he hadn’t known who he was pulling off the street.

“He’s an FBI agent. And do you know what happens to people who kill or kidnap a federal agent? I’ll tell you. A long prison sentence. You’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars. And trust me—cop killers receive special treatment in prison.”

John’s voice remained calm—almost provocatively so. Casually, he unscrewed the bottle and took a few deliberate sips.

“I didn’t kill him,” the stranger finally said.

“Traffic cameras will clearly show that you did.”
Technically, Finch could make that lie happen.
“Who do you work for? I’m guessing you’re a mercenary. Offering your services for the right price.”

The accusation hit home. A subtle twitch passed through the man’s jaw.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch’s voice came through the earpiece, “facial recognition has yielded a result. You’re looking at former Staff Sergeant Ethan Cole. It appears he’s amassed a small fortune from his contracts.”

He forwarded a bank statement to Reese’s phone.

John glanced at it, then back at Cole.
“That’s a nice little sum you’ve earned. One push of a button and it’s gone—donated to charity—if you don’t cooperate.”

Cole flared his nostrils slightly, as if battling an internal conflict.

John leaned forward again—and noticed the tattoo on the man’s forearm. The sleeve had slipped up, revealing the faded scroll of the Army Rangers. Ranger.
Beneath it: Sua Sponte.

“You didn’t just help abduct an FBI agent,” John said quietly. “You hurt a fellow Ranger. Agent Zidan served in the Army Rangers, too.”

That broke him.

John had hit exactly where it hurt—in the code that said you never leave a man behind.

“I don’t know where he was taken,” Cole admitted at last. “My job was to take him out with the garbage truck. He was supposed to stay alive. I don’t know where they brought him. I don’t know who ordered it.”

Not good. They were still almost at square one.

“Cole received payment,” Harold said, typing rapidly. “I’m attempting to trace the funds to identify our generous benefactor. The transfers went through several offshore accounts.”

John nodded slightly, though with resignation. Tracing that money would be a scavenger hunt.

“How were you contacted?” he asked Cole again, whose gaze lingered just a second too long on the water bottle.

“A company called Blackridge Solutions. I received an encrypted email about a job. Take a target off the grid without causing a bloodbath. Fast money. Half up front. The rest upon completion.”

Finch was already digging through the web.

“Blackridge was founded five months ago. The CEO is a retired investment banker—Jonathan Whitaker—now a security consultant. Based in Virginia. They offer risk analysis, executive protection, crisis management, asset security, and strategic consulting. The website looks professional—but not remarkable.”

He paused.

“They recruit ex-military personnel for various assignments. Their servers are routed through multiple proxy stations. This may take some time. Someone has gone to great lengths to make this look legitimate.”

“Good work, Finch.”

John held out the water bottle. Cole had cooperated—and he believed he wasn’t holding anything back.

After a long, searching look, Reese stood and unlocked the handcuffs. Cole rubbed his wrists but remained seated, tense, watching him.

“If I find out you knew more,” John said evenly, pocketing the cuffs, “I’ll come back.”

He stepped away.

“And next time, I won’t bring water.”

Reese disappeared into the shadows and resurfaced in the streets of New York.

He went first to the accident scene—nothing. The car had already been towed.

His next stop was the junkyard. Flashing Detective Stills’ badge at the entrance, he claimed he needed to re-examine an accident vehicle. The bored attendant waved him through.

“I’m taking another look at Zidan’s car,” he informed Finch.

The vehicle was badly damaged. Hood crushed against the bridge pillar. Passenger side caved in from the garbage truck. Shattered glass. Scraped paint.

Inside, he found the phone. The screen was cracked beyond repair. The device was powered off—possibly dead.

He circled the car, knelt, and felt along the wheel well.

There.

A tracker.

“They knew exactly when he moved and where he was going,” John said quietly. “I found a tracking device.”

He dropped the tracker but pocketed the phone. Perhaps Finch could salvage something—maybe it had been cloned or hacked.

After delivering the phone to Harold, Reese drove to Agent Bell’s neighborhood. He parked a block away and positioned himself to watch her building.

If a ransom demand came, it would likely go through her. She was Zidan’s partner.

At first—nothing.

Then she suddenly left her apartment, visibly unsettled, and drove off.

John followed at a safe distance. She was heading to her partner’s apartment.

“Finch… someone left a bouquet in front of the building,” he murmured.

“What kind?”

“White lilies.”

A pause.

“Lilies are commonly used to express condolences,” Finch said thoughtfully. “Though they could be meant for someone else in the building.”

“I don’t think so,” John replied quietly, moving parallel to Maggie across the street. “She looks shocked. There’s a card in the bouquet.”

She raised her phone, scanning something.

The color drained from her face.

“Whatever’s written in that card,” John said grimly, “it’s about him.”

Chapter Text

Silence.

It was almost suspiciously quiet.
No birds chirping. No engines of passing cars.

A heavy weight on his eyelids made it difficult to open them. His mind still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

Then, a cautious blink. His body was beginning to wake up. But complete darkness surrounded him. A dull headache throbbed deep behind his forehead, a quiet companion. He blinked again, harder this time, trying to force himself awake.

How could a room be in total darkness?

Normally, at least a sliver of light always slipped through the curtains.

His fingers moved hesitantly over the fabric beneath him. That wasn’t a blanket. It felt like upholstery—cool and smooth. And what lay beneath his body wasn’t a mattress. It was hard, as if he were lying on a board. Only his head rested on a pillow.

His heart began to beat faster, his breathing shallower, loud in his own ears. A wall reflected his breath back at him—no more than a foot above his face.

A wave of panic seized him. Muscles tensed. His arms moved hastily to the sides—meeting walls. They lifted upward—hitting another wall above him. His fingers explored the surfaces, which were also lined with fabric. Beneath it felt like solid wood. A knock against it confirmed the suspicion.

A sharp pain shot through his side along his ribs, forcing a sharp inhale.

Breathe.

In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.

Panicking now would achieve nothing. Slowly, his heartbeat steadied, allowing him to think more clearly—analyze the situation.

A small red light flickered in the darkness—then disappeared. It returned in a steady rhythm.

The realization hit him like a blow.

That could only be a camera.

“Hello, Omar… nice to see you awake. I was starting to get bored watching,” an unfamiliar voice suddenly echoed. Though that was partly because the speaker was using a voice modulator.

“What is this?” he asked, striving to remain calm despite everything. As an Army Ranger and FBI agent, he was trained for high-stress situations. But this one… this was different.

“Let’s call it a little revenge. Watching you and Maggie suffer as well. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.”

A soft laugh followed—one that made his blood run cold.

Maggie.

Fear gripped him. Not for himself. For her.

“Where is she? What have you done to her?” His pulse raced with worry and anger. His entire body screamed to break free from this prison.

“Relax. You shouldn’t waste too much oxygen. Your partner is unharmed. Probably sitting at home watching TV.”

OA didn’t know whether to believe him. Was she really safe? At home? He wanted to see for himself. To make sure. But that would have to wait.

“You won’t get away with this,” he replied, clenching his fists, jaw tight.

“We’ll see about that.” The distorted laugh returned.

Then the sound cut off. The red light of the camera disappeared as well.

OA was alone again.

In the darkness.

Alone with the fear for Maggie that had been violently awakened.

Inside a coffin.

Somewhere beneath the earth.

Chapter Text

O² level: 100%

Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. Her eyes were locked on the display in her hands. Her breathing was shallow, far too fast. Dizziness crept in from the excess oxygen flooding her bloodstream. Blindly, she reached out beside her, searching for something to steady herself, and grabbed onto the fence next to her.

A wave of helplessness rose within her, threatening to consume her while her brain struggled to process what she was seeing.

She had no doubt it was OA lying there.

His face looked peaceful. As if he were asleep.

Nausea spread through her.

He had to be asleep… right?

At the thought, she gasped loudly and tightened her grip on the phone. He had to be alive. Why else would there be a camera on him?

Maggie sent up a silent prayer that it was true. At the same time, she searched desperately for signs of life. But the camera wasn’t that good—it didn’t capture the subtle rise and fall of breathing.

There was a roughly taped gash at his temple. A dark shadow suggested the blood hadn’t been cleaned properly.

“Please… OA… please be alive,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her vision blurred with tears.

There.

His eyelids fluttered.

Or had she imagined it?

No.

Maggie blinked hard, trying to clear the veil of tears. There it was again. He blinked. His eyes opened.

Relief rushed from her lungs in a shaky exhale.

He was alive. He was breathing.

She saw the confusion in his face. The disorientation. She watched as he began to take in his surroundings, his hands exploring the space around him.

And then—the realization.

A coffin.

Her stomach clenched violently. She felt sick. Her fingers, still wrapped around the fence, began to ache—but her focus remained on him. Her partner. The man who had been ripped away from her without warning.

“I’ll find you, OA. I promise. Just hold on,” she murmured before hurrying back to her car.

She called Jubal as she slammed her foot on the gas, tires screeching as she sped toward the JOC.

“Maggie, what’s going on?” Jubal asked, confused. After all, she was still on mandatory leave. “Missing the office already?” There was a teasing smile in his voice.

“OA,” she breathed, racing through an intersection as car horns blared. “He’s been kidnapped.”

“What? Maggie, where are you? How do you know that?” The teasing tone vanished instantly, replaced by tension. Maggie wouldn’t throw around vague suspicions.

“I drove to his apartment after not hearing from him for almost two days. Someone left flowers at his door—with a condolence card. There was a QR code on it,” she explained, her words rushed as she navigated traffic. “The code leads to a live stream. OA’s on it. Jubal… he’s in a coffin.”

The last words broke with a sob. Tears pooled in her eyes again. She was terrified—for her partner, for her friend.

Jubal told her firmly not to get herself killed on the way to the JOC with the speed she was driving.

While she was en route, he briefed Isobel.

Maggie practically ran out of the elevator and into the office of the Agent in Charge, the card from the bouquet clutched tightly in her hand.

“Oh God, Maggie, sit down and breathe first,” Isobel said gently, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk.

But Maggie shook her head and handed over the card.

Jubal appeared with a glass of water and a piece of chocolate he’d broken off from a colleague’s stash. A little sugar would help her circulation—and her nerves.

Confused, Maggie looked at the chocolate in his hand.

“Chocolate has a positive effect on the nervous system,” he said with a concerned smile.

After handing her the water and chocolate, he passed the card to Isobel.

The sentence inside made her swallow hard. She ran a hand through her short hair.

“That’s… disturbingly macabre,” she muttered. “I’ll have Ian check the code and the stream.”

With trembling fingers, Maggie put the chocolate in her mouth, trying to focus on the sweetness before following Jubal into the bullpen.

“Everyone, listen up!” Jubal called out. “Drop anything that isn’t higher priority. One of our own is missing. OA Zidan has likely been gone for nearly two days. We don’t have much—just a bouquet of flowers and a QR code.”

He paced in front of the large screen like a restless animal.

“Pull every traffic camera. Retrace his route. When did he leave his apartment? Where was he headed? Who intercepted him? I want everything. Move!”

The bullpen erupted into motion like a disturbed beehive. Agents leaned over monitors, typing rapidly, scanning footage.

“Do you have any idea where he might’ve been going?” Jubal asked Maggie.

She shook her head helplessly. Maybe groceries. Maybe takeout. She couldn’t think of anything else—and the not knowing gnawed at her.

“I’ve got something,” a dark-haired agent called out. “He left his apartment around 2 a.m. and headed west. I can track him for a few blocks. Then the cameras go dark at an intersection. After that, his car’s gone. Whatever happened, it was there—or just beyond it.”

A cold feeling settled in Maggie’s stomach as she followed the route on the screen.

She knew that way.

She’d driven it countless times—on her way to his place for a beer.

Her heart skipped.

Then pounded faster.

No.

That couldn’t be.

She shook her head slightly, convincing herself it had to be coincidence.

He was driving toward her.

A lump formed in her throat, making it hard to swallow. A vise tightened around her chest, making it harder to breathe.

Why would he come to her at that hour?

She had a suspicion—but she didn’t want to face it.

Had he wanted to talk? There was still so much left unsaid between them. They couldn’t just bury what had happened on the last mission.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from spiraling.

“There’s an accident report from NYPD in that exact area,” someone added. “A car crashed into a bridge pillar. No occupants were found. The vehicle’s at a junkyard now.”

“I’ll check it out,” Maggie said immediately.

“Wait,” Jubal stopped her. “Take Scola.”

They were lucky someone was still at the junkyard to let them in.

“That car’s getting popular today.”

Maggie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Good-looking detective in a suit was already here. Wanted to take a look at it.”

Maybe there was still an overzealous cop who thought the accident smelled wrong and decided to investigate despite budget cuts.

“That’s his car,” Maggie confirmed, swallowing at the sight of the wrecked vehicle.

Scola circled it critically, shaking his head.

“That was definitely no accident. The entire passenger side is crushed,” Scola shared his assessment.

Maggie climbed into the car and searched for clues. His scent still lingered faintly in the driver’s seat, tightening her throat. But she forced herself not to get emotional. The only thing that mattered now was finding him.

“There’s blood on the B-pillar,” she said. The spot matched the gash at his temple she had seen in the stream.

Otherwise, the search turned up nothing.

Scola collected a paint sample from the other vehicle. Whether it would lead anywhere was uncertain—but it was worth a try.

Her phone rang.

Unknown number.

“Agent Bell,” she answered briskly, listening intently.

“Hello. I’m the flower delivery guy… you gave me your number about the order,” the young man said—the same one she had thoroughly frightened a few hours earlier.

He told her he had the buyer’s information ready. Maggie replied that they were on their way.

She and Scola drove to the flower shop.

“It was a phone order,” the florist explained. “The buyer paid by credit card. I’ll gladly provide the details.”

He was cooperative and handed over the purchaser’s information.

The agents returned to the JOC.

“Hey… we’ll find him,” Stuart said gently, offering her an encouraging smile.

“Yeah… it’s just finding the needle in the haystack,” Maggie replied quietly. “If this is someone looking for revenge… OA’s put a lot of people behind bars. Narrowing it down to the right one won’t be easy.”

Exhausted, she ran a hand through her hair.

Don’t lose hope.

Like Scola had said—

They would find him.

Chapter Text

O² level: 98%

“I hacked into the Magnolia House florist’s firewall to trace the incoming order and the payment process,” Finch reported. He had gotten to work immediately after Reese followed the agents to the flower shop.

“And what did you find?” Reese asked, discreetly taking photos of the investigators as they entered the store. He would need to get closer eventually—to clone Agent Bell’s phone. Only then could he listen in on what she was discussing with her colleagues or what they had already uncovered.

“Not much, unfortunately. The credit card used to pay for the order isn’t registered to any real user and leads me through several shell companies,” Finch sighed softly, adjusting his glasses. This case was difficult—no question about it.

“So someone knows how to cover their tracks,” Reese concluded, watching through the lens as the florist handed Agent Bell a slip of paper.

“First, that—and second, he must have money to set something like this up,” Harold added, continuing to dig, following the money trail. It had to originate somewhere.

“All these shell companies and hidden identities feel oddly familiar,” John said dryly, a faint grin tugging at his lips—even if Finch couldn’t see it.

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

“I don’t use those methods to abduct FBI agents,” Harold replied, lips twitching slightly.

Agent Bell and her partner exited the flower shop. Reese didn’t miss how shaken and worried she looked. But this wasn’t ordinary worry—it was fear. Fear of losing someone she loved. He had seen that expression many times over the years in the eyes of people he had saved. And in those he had killed during his time with the CIA.

“Reese, the credit card was loaded only once—with 500 dollars. The recharge took place at a terminal in Midtown Manhattan,” Finch informed him, providing the address.

Reese headed there immediately. The terminal was easy to locate, and he waited briefly until it was free.

“Can you access the terminal’s camera?” he asked. “Maybe we’ll get a face to match the transaction.”

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of keys clicking.

“I have a face that matches the time of the recharge. I’ll ask our friend at the NYPD to run facial recognition.”

John nodded and returned to his car.

“I found something else,” Finch continued after sending Detective Fusco the image. “The shell company the money came from was reactivated just the day before yesterday. It’s existed since 2019—but was inactive.”

“Until the day before yesterday,” the man in the suit added, pressing his lips together slightly. This level of anonymity made things harder. People with power and money rarely made his job easy.

Rather than sit idle, he drove back toward the JOC to keep track of Agent Bell’s movements. At the same time, he considered a plan to access her phone. He only needed to get close enough—but not inside a building full of FBI agents. Not while Zidan was being held somewhere unknown.

“Detective Fusco just got back to me. The man at the terminal is Lewis Davenport. Asset protection attorney,” Finch relayed.

“Maybe I should pay Mr. Davenport a visit at his firm,” Reese mused. “Do you have an address?”

“He represents multiple clients. Discreet mandates,” Finch added, forwarding the address. Then something else caught his attention. “He also represents Whitaker’s company.”

John’s eyebrows drew together briefly at the mention of the name. He filed it away—Whitaker was no stranger in this case.

The firm was located on the 32nd floor. Glass walls, muted lighting, a panoramic view over Manhattan.

Discreet. Expensive. Tasteful.

The receptionist studied him as he stepped out of the elevator and approached her desk. Then she nodded.

With his tailored suit, calm posture, and controlled gaze, he fit right in.

“How may I assist you?”

John offered a charming smile. “I have a meeting with Mr. Davenport.” Finch had hacked into the system and scheduled a short-notice appointment under the name John Rooney.

“Of course. Mr. Davenport will see you now.” She stepped out from behind her desk and led him to the office door. After a light knock, she announced him.

“Mr. Davenport, your two o’clock appointment is here.”

John entered, and the door closed behind him.

“Mr…?” The man behind the desk rose. Mid-fifties, well-groomed, self-assured.

“Rooney,” Reese replied calmly, shaking his hand with firm pressure.

Davenport gestured for him to sit and resumed his seat.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Rooney?” he asked, studying him closely.

“I need a structure. Discreet. International. No unnecessary paper trail,” John stated evenly.

The lawyer smiled faintly, folding his hands on the desk. “Discretion is a matter of complexity. And of fees.”

“Money isn’t an issue.”

A brief pause. Davenport assessed him—who he was, what risk he posed.

“And what exactly do you wish to protect?”

Reese mirrored him loosely, hands clasped. “Let’s say… assets that shouldn’t attract unnecessary attention.”

The attorney nodded slowly. “We work with existing holdings. It speeds up the process.”

Reese’s gaze lifted slightly. “Reactivated holdings are more efficient than newly established ones.”

Silence followed.

A nearly imperceptible twitch in the lawyer’s jaw.

“Indeed,” he said calmly. “Not many people know that.”

“I do my research before hiring someone,” John replied smoothly.

Now the lawyer examined him more closely.

“And how did you become aware of my firm?”

A cautious test.

“Recommendation,” Reese answered. Technically not a lie. He leaned back slightly.

“A structure was reactivated yesterday. Terminal recharge. One-time use. No digital footprint.”

The lawyer said nothing, weighing his options.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“You appear well-informed, Mr. Rooney.”

“I invest only when I recognize competence.”

A long moment of silence.

“Our clients value our discretion.”

“So do I,” Reese replied evenly.

Another pause.

The lawyer reached for a notepad.

“If you wish, we can prepare a suitable construct for you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Reese said, rising and pulling out his phone. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”

He quickly activated the cloning process to gain access to Davenport’s phone, pretending to answer the call. Once the cloning was successful, he left the office and the firm.

“We now have control of Davenport’s phone,” he informed Finch.

Chapter Text

O² level: 95%

Bum bum.
Bum bum.
A steady, calm rhythm that seemed to fill the coffin.

A paradox, really—there shouldn’t be a heartbeat audible inside a coffin.

Three seconds in.
Three seconds hold.
Three seconds out.

Like a mantra, he placed the rhythm into his mind to keep the claustrophobia from driving him insane.

The air felt thicker. Heavier. Damper. His body radiated heat that had nowhere to escape. The wood absorbed it and gave it back. Stored it.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and along his neck, tickling faintly as they made their way down his skin, pulled by gravity.

OA tried to breathe more shallowly, careful not to consume too much oxygen at once.

He had completely lost his sense of time.
Had it only been hours? Or already days?

Had Maggie noticed the unwanted radio silence by now?
What if she thought he was deliberately not calling? That he wanted distance?

His thoughts tangled, caught on Maggie. His current situation faded into the background. Instead, he worried about how she might misinterpret his disappearance. That he was hurting her by being gone.

His heartbeat quickened, his breathing turned uneven. He didn’t want her to think he was avoiding her.

Not after the mission.
Not after everything he had come to realize—things he had wanted to tell her.

OA forced himself back under control when he felt panic beginning to rise. He couldn’t lose his head now. The moment his absence was noticed, Maggie would know he wasn’t pushing her away.

He placed a hand on his chest, feeling the weight and steady beating of his heart beneath it.

An image of her appeared before his inner eye. Her smile—warm and familiar.

His heart began to calm. The pounding in his ears softened.

The image of her remained, giving him peace and certainty. She would find him. Of that he was sure.

The red light flickered on again.

He waited for the unknown voice to return.

But nothing happened.

He thought he had heard a noise. Down here, in the silence, it was just as possible that his mind was playing tricks on him.

Chapter Text

O² level: 95%

Back at the JOC, Ian worked on tracing the credit card payment, which was proving difficult to follow. Maggie sat at her desk, going through old case files, trying to figure out who might have a reason to target OA.

At some point, her head began to throb from all the reading and thinking. The letters were already starting to blur and dance before her eyes.

“Maggie… hey.” Jubal approached her desk, leaning against it, his voice gentle. “How about you grab a coffee? You’ve been staring at that screen for hours, digging through files. Stepping away for a few minutes, thinking about something else, seeing something else—it might help you refocus.”

She looked up at him, almost helpless. “I can’t stop, Jubal. We barely have anything while OA is locked inside a coffin somewhere, fighting for his life. Is there any lead yet on where the camera feed is coming from?”

She knew everyone was working at full speed. Still, it felt wrong to take even five minutes for a coffee while OA’s air supply was running out.

Jubal pressed his lips together. He wished he had better news—or any good news at all.

“Try to take a short break anyway. You’re not helping him if you can’t see the forest for the trees. At some point your brain starts filtering out anomalies automatically.”

With a resigned sigh, she pushed her chair back and stood up. Stretching her legs wouldn’t hurt either. She headed for the elevator and went downstairs to step outside.

The fresh air felt good. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment, leaning her back against the warm stone wall. She felt the sun on her face, heard the birds chirping—

—and then it hit her with brutal force.

Where OA was, it must be completely silent. Pitch dark.

Suddenly, the sunlight didn’t feel comforting anymore.

Maggie opened her eyes and pushed herself off the wall.

Just grab a coffee. Quick.

The line wasn’t long, so she was served quickly. While waiting, her gaze fell on the trendy coffee listed on the board—the one OA loved.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

“Your coffee, ma’am.” The barista handed her the to-go cup, which she accepted. Still lost in thought about OA, she turned around—and bumped straight into a tall man who had just ordered his own drink.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She stared wide-eyed at the mess she had made on his snow-white shirt. “I’m really sorry. I was distracted—I didn’t see you,” she rambled, reaching for napkins.

“It’s really not a big deal. These things happen,” he replied calmly, without a trace of annoyance—which surprised her. “Bad day, huh?” A nearly understanding smile curved his lips.

Still slightly unsettled by his friendliness, she blinked at him. “You could say that.”

With the lack of sleep and the constant worry about OA, she felt anything but okay. The pressure was eating away at her.

The stranger tried to salvage what he could with paper napkins.

“I can pay for the dry cleaning,” she offered immediately, but he waved it off.

“It’s just a shirt. Everyone has a bad day. Don’t worry about it.”

Maggie nodded faintly, apologized once more, and left the café.

Back at the JOC, she returned to her desk. She hadn’t touched her coffee yet.

Once again, she scanned the QR code. Moments later, the stream appeared. Her eyebrows drew together painfully at the sight.

“Where are you…” she murmured, turning back to her computer to continue working.

A faint cough pulled her out of her focus.

It wouldn’t have caught her attention—if it hadn’t sounded like it was coming through a microphone.

Her gaze immediately snapped to her phone display.

Had that been OA?

Her heart began to race as she picked up the phone with trembling fingers.

“OA?” she asked, holding her breath.

She saw his body tense briefly, his head lifting slightly toward the camera.

“Maggie?” came the response—just as questioning and confused.

“Yes! OA, it’s me!” she burst out, overwhelmed, feeling her eyes fill with tears.

It was an immense relief—to hear him. To be able to speak to him.

Chapter Text

O² level: 94%

“We have access to her phone now, Finch.” Reese glanced at his own display, where the successful cloning was still visible. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked down at the coffee stain spreading across his chest. The skin beneath it still burned slightly from the hot liquid. The whole setup had been perfect—an ideal way to get close to her without exposing himself.

Before continuing the investigation, however, he needed to change his shirt. So he headed back to his apartment. Now that he had access to Agent Bell’s phone, he would know if she made a call, received a message, or left the building. It gave him more control—without having to be on site.

“Mr. Reese, I was able to decrypt some data from Mr. Davenport’s phone,” Finch began, adjusting his glasses as he skimmed through the messages. “On an encrypted messenger, I found several messages from an unknown number. They appear to be instructions. He was told to reactivate the shell company. Unfortunately, I’m unable to trace the unknown number. It’s a prepaid phone that is currently switched off.”

Reese nodded slightly as he buttoned up a fresh shirt. “So we wait until the prepaid phone is turned back on?” he concluded, slipping his jacket back on.

John hated waiting. Hated being unable to act. Especially when he didn’t know what condition Zidan was in. Where he was. Or how badly he had been injured. The crash hadn’t looked like something one simply walked away from with a few scratches.

He checked his phone—rather, Maggie’s phone. According to her location, she was still at the FBI.

“Through the shell company, a significant amount of medical equipment was purchased,” Finch continued after a moment. “Bandages, disinfectant, gloves, medication. And a vital signs monitor.”

John frowned at the list. For an asset protection attorney, that was an unusual shopping cart.

“Do we have a delivery address?” he asked, leaving his apartment and getting into his car. He had a suspicion.

“The items were delivered to an address in an industrial area,” Finch replied, giving him the location.

John started the engine immediately and drove off.

“I suspect Zidan was treated there,” he said, sharing his thoughts. “The crash must have caused serious injuries.” Still, he found it highly unlikely the agent was still on site.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he reached the industrial district. He slowly drove past warehouses and company buildings until he arrived at the address in question. He turned off the engine and stepped out, inspecting the building from the outside. Large gates on the ground floor likely led into a warehouse. Along the side, a metal staircase led up to a door.

Quietly, he climbed the steps and pulled lockpicks from his pocket. Within fifteen seconds, the lock clicked and the door opened a crack. He put the tools away and drew his weapon from the waistband at his back. Gun raised, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was an industrial loft—large, open spaces flooded with light. An old couch and a makeshift table stood in the middle of the room. A few beer bottles were scattered around.

He checked the closed-off rooms as well. An empty bathroom. And a makeshift medical room.

This one, however, looked disturbingly real.

There was a hospital bed. An IV stand with a half-used drip bag hanging from it. On the bedside table lay medication packaging. The vital signs monitor was switched off, but some adhesive sensors still clung to the sheets. A used IV line lay on the rumpled mattress.

Reese holstered his weapon and looked into the trash can. Wrappers from bandages and compresses. Empty ampoules. A thin film of blood circled the drain in the white ceramic sink.

“Finch, he’s not here. But he was definitely brought here and stabilized. This was done professionally,” he reported. “I can’t find any indication of where he might be now. Can you check whether any payments were made to someone with medical training? A doctor, paramedic, maybe a nurse. This isn’t the work of someone who only provided basic first aid.”

There had to be a lead. Someone he could track down. Someone who knew something.

John left the loft and searched the warehouse below. But apart from a few oil stains from a vehicle, there was nothing.

When he checked Maggie’s location again, he noticed she had opened a link. He opened it as well—and saw what she was seeing.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose and pressed his lips together.

“We have a problem, Harold. We need to find Agent Zidan as quickly as possible.” His voice was urgent, edged with seriousness.

Finch recognized the tone immediately. It usually preceded a significant escalation.

“What is it, John?” he asked at once, alarmed.

“He’s lying somewhere in a coffin.”

Chapter Text

O² level: 93%

The air grew heavier. Staler. Taking deep breaths was difficult, so he kept them shallow and slow instead. The air irritated his lungs, making him cough from time to time—which in turn aggravated his injured ribs.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing when he thought he heard a voice.

Her voice.

Was it real? Or just a figment of his imagination?

“Maggie?” he asked, hope threading through his voice as he listened into the darkness.

Then—her answer.

His eyes flew open at once. A relieved laugh escaped him. It was unbelievably good to hear her voice. His heart leapt in his chest.

“Mags, I’m so glad to hear you. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” The words rushed out of him. He had missed her voice. He had missed her. Painfully so—he realized that now more than ever.

“OA…” Her voice sounded tight, like she was fighting back tears. “This isn’t about me.”

He could hear the tremor in her voice, how hard she was trying to hold herself together.

“It is. For me, it is.” His voice threatened to break, a faint, almost sad smile brushing his lips. She always came first. Only once he knew she was safe could he deal with anything else.

“You’re probably injured, OA, lying in some damn coffin somewhere, and you’re saying this is about me?” He heard the desperation in her voice—the fear—and it stabbed painfully at his chest. He hated when she was worried. When she was afraid. When he was the reason.

A soft sniffle followed. Quiet. Almost frustrated.

“Hey… Maggie… it’s going to be okay. Breathe. Just breathe.” His voice was calm as he tried to give her the steadiness she was missing.

For a while, only her shaky breathing could be heard. Gradually, it slowed—and with it, his own heart began to settle.

“Do you remember anything, OA?” she asked, professionalism returning to her tone.

He thought about her question, desperately searching his mind for memories. But it felt filled with fog.

Headlights blinded him. A brutal impact. Glass shattering. Metal screaming.

And then—nothing.

“I was… driving. Then a truck or something rammed me hard. After that, everything went black,” he recounted the fragmented memories, hoping she wouldn’t ask where he had been headed. That he had been on his way to her—to talk about the emotional wreckage the mission had left behind.

“Yeah… I saw your car,” she replied quietly.

He felt a slight tremor in his chest. OA didn’t want to imagine what must have gone through her mind at that sight. Because he knew exactly how he would have felt—if it had been her car.

“I don’t know how long I’ve been here, Maggie. I’ve completely lost track of time. My head feels heavy.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose lightly, as if it might somehow bring his memories back.

“It’s okay, OA. If anything comes back to you, I’m here.”

A faint smile touched his features.

Carefully, he began to feel himself over. He sensed adhesive bandaging beneath his fingertips at his temple. He had clearly been treated. There was another bandage in the crook of his arm—covering the puncture of an IV line?

OA tried to relax, hoping something else would surface.

“I must have been treated somewhere. I didn’t put these bandages on myself,” he said. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered in the coffin, clinging to his clothes.

“Then they wanted to make sure you weren’t injured when they put you in there,” Maggie concluded thoughtfully.

“They saved me so I’d survive longer.”

The realization was icy in the hot, cramped space.

His muscles began to ache from lying in the same position. His T-shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, damp with sweat and humidity.

But he couldn’t let himself sound weaker than he was.

She was already scared enough.

Chapter Text

O² level: 91%

Relief flooded her body when she heard him. Tears welled up in her eyes as her heart pounded unbearably fast and excited in her chest. Maggie was still deeply worried about him, but being able to talk to OA was a good sign. This way, she could hear about his condition firsthand.
Which was both a blessing and a curse.

Of course, the first thing he did was worry about her, asking if she was okay. A sharp pang shot through her chest and made it hard for her to breathe. Even in a situation like this—one where things couldn’t possibly be much worse for him—she was the one he asked about.

No pleading or begging for her to find him as quickly as possible. No status update. No. The first thing he wanted to know was how she was doing.

It was something she secretly loved about him. You could always rely on OA—they looked out for each other. And whenever she was struggling, OA was always by her side.

She felt helpless, because they weren’t really making progress with the investigation. The payment for the flowers by credit card ran through so many shell companies that it was almost impossible to keep track. It was like a labyrinth where you had to find the right way out.

She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to be strong. For him. She had to keep a clear head. For him. But hearing his voice and realizing that he was more worried about her than about himself made her emotions spill over. He was so selfless that it almost hurt.

Maggie tried to breathe, to regain a steady rhythm, while he attempted to calm her with the deep timbre of his voice. She closed her eyes for a moment and focused only on that—on OA’s voice and his steady breaths. Slowly, the trembling faded and her breathing became steadier again.

She imagined him being there with her. Standing next to her or in front of her, just like countless times before—especially over the past few weeks. A lump formed in her throat when she thought about the closeness they had shared. His warm, strong hand at her waist. His presence at her side…

She missed him. That realization hit her painfully again.

To distract herself, she asked him about any clues. Anything that might move them forward. Back to him—so that she wouldn’t soon have to attend a funeral. She hastily wiped the tears from her cheek and took a deep breath.

Attentively, she listened as he told her what he could remember.

It wasn’t much. Only parts of the accident—and that someone had treated him medically before burying him underground. His remark made her swallow hard. Someone had wanted to make sure he survived longer… for this twisted game.

“He or she contacted me. They can see and hear me as well. And he said: eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth,” OA said after a brief pause. She could practically see how hard he was thinking. How exhausting and frustrating it was for him that there were so few memories.

“That sounds like revenge,” she said thoughtfully. “We’re already going through the cases. Seeing which of the people you put behind bars might be out for revenge.”

“No. It’s about both of us. He said you and I should suffer just like he did.”

Thoughtfully, she rubbed her forehead. Alright—so cases they had both worked on.

“We’ll find you, OA. And we’ll get you out of there,” she assured him firmly. “I’ll get you out of there, Omar.” Her voice was quieter now, but the promise carried no less weight.

“Will you stay with me, Mags?” she heard him ask carefully.

A small smile crossed her lips as she remembered their last mission. He had asked the same thing when he had been burning with fever.

“Of course,” she replied, watching as his body seemed to sag slightly.

As if he felt safer knowing she was still within reach.

“Maggie!” Jubal hurried over to her. “We’ve got something. From the account that was reactivated to buy the flowers, a lot of medical equipment was purchased as well.”

Maggie was instantly alert, even though her mind was already exhausted. “Please tell me there’s a delivery address,” she said, almost pleading.

“Even better. I know where it was delivered, and I was able to access the cameras around the building. There’s footage of OA’s disappearance. Three men took him out of a van and brought him into the building. Unfortunately, you can’t see their faces because they avoided the cameras,” he explained while playing the footage.

Captivated, she watched. The timestamp showed that almost thirty-six hours later, a car from a funeral home parked in front of the building and two men brought in a coffin. Not even two hours later, the coffin was carried back out to the car—this time by four men.

“He has to be in there,” Maggie concluded. Why else would a coffin suddenly need four men to carry it when two had handled it before?

“Can you track where the car went?” she asked her colleague, who nodded.

“We’re on it.”

A hint of a smile formed on her face—a glimmer of hope. Like a golden streak of sunlight on a dark horizon.

She turned back to her phone.

“OA, we have a lead. With some luck, we can follow the car that took you,” she told him about the hopeful progress.

Chapter Text

O² level: 89%

Reese had listened in on the information the FBI had uncovered and was already on the move.

“Finch, can you give me the address of the funeral home?” he asked the man at the computer as he headed out immediately.

The business was open, but when he arrived there wasn’t a single customer inside. A quiet atmosphere filled the place. Different urns were displayed on shelves, and several coffins stood open in the room. An employee sat behind a counter and looked up when he saw Reese enter.

Pictures about grief, farewell, and the final journey hung on the walls.

“How can I help you?” the man asked politely and professionally as he stepped out from behind his desk.

Reese pulled out the badge he had once taken from the detective and had used ever since as a disguise and door opener.

“Detective Stills. Maybe you can answer a few questions,” he said, pulling out his phone with a screenshot from the surveillance footage. “Have you lost a vehicle in the last few days? Maybe even a coffin?”

The employee frowned and then shook his head.

“No. All the cars are in the backyard. I haven’t noticed anything missing. As for the coffins, I’d have to check.”

He stepped back behind the counter and began flipping through a list.

“What is this about?”

John stepped closer. The coffins, the oppressive atmosphere… grief practically hung in the air here.

“It’s about a kidnapping case. The victim was most likely transported in one of your coffins using one of your vehicles,” he replied calmly, though there was an unmistakable urgency in his voice.

The other man’s eyes widened slightly in shock.

“That is one of your vehicles, isn’t it?” John showed him the photo on his phone.

A slow nod followed.

“Yes, but like I said, all the cars are on the lot.” He returned his attention to the list in front of him. “And it seems no coffin has been removed without authorization either.”

“How many coffins did you sell two days ago?” John asked.

Time was running out for Zidan, and most of the leads so far had been thin at best. This one was the best he had at the moment.

“Two,” the man replied and was already printing the contact details.

John thanked him, took the paper, and left the funeral home.

At the same moment, Agent Bell entered. He held the door open for her and let her step inside before leaving the building. Apparently, she hadn’t recognized him again from the café where she had bumped into him earlier.

“I have two names and addresses. Can you narrow it down so I don’t have to visit both?” he asked Finch, passing along the contact details.

For a few moments, only the sound of typing could be heard.

Meanwhile, he listened in on Bell’s phone again, using the microphone to hear what she managed to get out of the clerk. At the same time, he quietly slipped into the backyard to examine the company vehicles. Maybe he could hack the GPS and find out where the agent had been taken.

Skillfully, he pried open the door and slid into the driver’s seat, first checking the recent routes in the built-in navigation system.

“What do you mean I’m the second person asking about the vehicle and the coffin?” Bell’s voice sounded skeptical, almost alarmed.

“A Detective Stills from the NYPD was just here asking the same thing.”

“What?” Her voice grew tense.

“Yes, he walked out the door just as you came in.”

“Mr. Reese,” his partner’s voice pulled him from his quiet observation.

“You don’t need to go to Mr. Andrew Cofield’s address. He most likely bought the coffin for his mother. She was buried yesterday. There are no funeral services or obituaries connected to Victor Stanford.”

Victor Stanford, then. Another name that hopefully might lead somewhere useful.

“Finch, the funeral home’s vehicle made quite a trip the night before last. It drove to an address in the Hudson Valley.”

John took a picture of the address and left the vehicle again. Carefully, he glanced toward the street and merged back onto the sidewalk as if he had never been in the backyard at all.

Then he got into his own car and headed toward the address in the valley.

“The Hudson Valley offers many possibilities to hide a coffin,” Finch added while studying the map. “There are huge properties with a lot of land. Estates belonging to wealthy families.”

“At the address lives an older woman—Joanne Miller. What will you tell her if you want to enter her property?”

John started the engine, entered the address, and drove off.

“I’ll know when I’m standing in front of her.”

With screeching tires, he pulled away. Traffic was slow, but once he reached the city limits it moved much faster.

The drive took about an hour—if he had followed the speed limit, it would probably have taken an hour and a half.

When he reached the address, he slowed down and observed the house as he drove past. The lights were off, even though dusk had already begun to fall. Maybe no one was home after all. That would make things easier.

He parked his car one house down the road and walked back, heading straight for the front door.

The house was enormous, built from gray stone, and looked rather old. Large floor-to-ceiling windows allowed a clear view inside.

The doorbell sounded with a deep chime that echoed through the ground floor.

John waited.

Nothing happened.

Once he was certain the owner truly wasn’t home, he walked around the house toward the backyard. The garden stretched far behind the property—but it wasn’t particularly well maintained. The grass was far too long, and weeds grew wildly among the flowers.

Had Mrs. Miller perhaps not been here for quite some time?

“No one’s here, Finch. The property looks neglected. Either she doesn’t care what the neighbors think, or she doesn’t live here anymore,” he reported while continuing to look around.

Where would be the most tactical place to hide a coffin?

He searched the area close to the house first before venturing further out.

A crack made him spin around and take cover behind a large tree.

Silently, he drew his weapon and listened.

Footsteps approached, barely audible on the dry grass.

“I know you’re there. Come out and stop playing this game,” a voice called from no more than five meters away.

The man in the suit recognized the voice.

Agent Bell had obviously followed him.

Chapter Text

O² level: 88%

With her weapon drawn, she confronted the stranger and ordered him to step out from his cover. The gun rested steady and heavy in her hand, her finger close to the trigger—ready to move onto it if he refused to comply or became a threat.

Maggie had seen him leaving the funeral home’s backyard and heading for his car. From that moment on, she had followed him, driving after him all the way to the Hudson Valley. She was almost certain he was the detective who had asked about OA’s car at the scrapyard.

Was he trying to cover his tracks?

“FBI! Come out with your hands up!” she called out firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. Her gaze was sharp and alert, ready to act.

Slowly, the man in the suit stepped out from behind the tree, his hands open and raised. At first glance, he didn’t seem threatening—more like a businessman in his elegant suit. But that made him look rather out of place, standing here in the middle of the greenery.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said calmly.

“Oh no? Then explain to me what it doesn’t look like. What are you doing here?”
She didn’t believe him for a second. Still aiming the gun at him, she studied his face, trying to read in his eyes why he was really here.

“I’m here for the same reason you are. I know your partner was kidnapped, Maggie,” John replied, lowering his hands slightly. He could see the conflict in her mind—the struggle between belief and suspicion.

“How do I know you’re not involved and trying to sabotage the investigation?” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Who the hell are you to pretend to be a detective?”

The agent had questions. Many questions. But at the same time she knew she was wasting precious time she needed to find OA.

“My name is John, and I help people who are in danger. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear the long version. Omar is running out of air.”

He looked at her with quiet understanding and finally lowered his hands completely once he was sure Maggie wasn’t about to shoot him. Otherwise, she would have done it already. Besides, he wanted to build trust.

“I was there. I tried to save him. But the men who took him were a well-trained team. Former military.”

Maggie was still torn. But her instincts told her he was telling the truth. Slowly she lowered her weapon and holstered it.

The FBI hadn’t had that information before.

Thoughtfully she frowned. “Were you there by coincidence?” she asked, because she still didn’t understand the bigger picture. Who—or what—was John?

“No. I received information from a source that your partner would be in danger. Maggie, I know this all sounds very strange. But I can tell you one thing—the source is never wrong.”

He looked at her intently.

“And you should decide now whether you want to learn more about me… or about how we can find Agent Zidan.”

It was in her nature to get to the bottom of things and understand why they were the way they were. But they didn’t have time for both.

Reese watched her take a deep breath, as if collecting herself and making a decision.

“Alright… let’s focus on OA,” she finally said decisively, even though she desperately wanted to know what kind of source he was talking about. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

After all, he had driven here very purposefully.

“Not exactly. But I assume he must be somewhere around here.” He gestured broadly around them. “The funeral home vehicle’s navigation system listed this place as its last destination. They must have brought him here.”

But the property was huge. It would take forever to search every inch.

Maggie pursed her lips thoughtfully. What he said made sense. Checking the car’s navigation system had been a clever move.

“We should first get an overview of how big the property really is and then identify possible places where they could have buried OA.”

The thought alone made her stomach tighten. What if they didn’t find him in time?

“Can you help us, Finch?” John asked the billionaire.

The agent looked confused at first—she hadn’t noticed the small earpiece.

“I’m sending you a layout of the property to your phone,” Finch said, and at that exact moment John received the message.

He opened the plans and stepped closer to Maggie so she could see them as well.

Together they studied the map—and were not impressed in the least.

The area was enormous.

“We need to think like those men. Where would you most likely bury someone in a coffin?” Maggie said thoughtfully, rubbing her forehead.

The situation kept getting worse, fueling her fear and worry until it almost took her breath away. But on the outside, the agent didn’t show any of it.

“Where the soil is loose,” John said. “Digging on the fields would be a lot of work. You’d have to break through the grass and the roots. In the woods, the ground is usually easier to dig.”

But where exactly should they start?

“The place also has to be accessible by car,” Maggie added. “A nearly two-meter-tall man in a coffin isn’t exactly light. They probably didn’t carry him all the way from the entrance to the far corner of the property.”

She glanced back toward the house and the gate at the driveway. In theory, there should also be tire tracks.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” John asked her. So far, neither he nor Finch had a suspect.

Maggie shook her head with quiet frustration.

“We found out that the flowers were paid for through a reactivated account. Through a camera we traced it to a lawyer named Davenport. He reactivated the card at an ATM. He manages assets—and he’s known to push boundaries if the payment is right.”

John began briefing the agent. Maybe one of the names would ring a bell.

He also told her about Whitaker, who ran Blackstone Solutions and passed on jobs to former soldiers.

Maggie listened attentively.

But none of the names seemed familiar.

Her phone suddenly vibrated.

An incoming call.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to John before answering it.

“Bell?” She turned her back to him and walked a few steps away.

“Mr. Reese, I looked further into Joanne Miller. She didn’t purchase the house herself. It was financed through a trust account belonging to a foundation—The Horizon Initiative,” Finch informed him.

“Agent Bell? This is Dr. Tillman speaking. I wanted to inform you that Evelyn Caldwell’s condition has worsened. Her wound has become infected—sepsis. We’re currently treating her with antibiotics.”

Maggie rubbed her forehead. That wasn’t good news. Even though Evelyn was a suspect, she had grown somewhat fond of her during the undercover mission.

“Thank you for the information,” she replied before hanging up.

She took a deep breath, slipped her phone back into her pocket, and walked back toward John.

“Joanne Miller didn’t buy the property herself. It was purchased through a trust account belonging to the Horizon Initiative Foundation. Its founder is—”

John had intended to bring the agent up to speed, but she finished his sentence before he could.

“Evelyn Caldwell.”

The color drained from her face.

Chapter Text

O² level: 86%

The trail with the car was good news and gave him hope. Maggie would be there soon, and then this nightmare would finally be over. OA trusted that she would find him.

But following the lead also meant that he would be alone again. It was selfish, but he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t say anything, though. He kept that suffocating feeling to himself. Maggie promised she would call him as soon as she found out anything.

The stifling heat was becoming almost unbearable. It felt like being in a rainforest, deep in the tropics. The humidity irritated his lungs and made him cough. But every coughing fit pulled painfully at his injured ribs.

OA pressed his arm against his ribcage and suppressed a groan filled with pain.

His body felt stiff and begged for movement. His back protested against the hard surface beneath him. It was driving him crazy. But there was nothing he could do except wait.

After his body calmed down a little, his thoughts grew sluggish as the oxygen slowly dwindled.

Eventually, he drifted into a light sleep and dreamed of the moment he would be with her again.

The sky was blue. He could smell the fresh grass and somewhere the sweet scent of lilac. He held her tightly in his arms and would never let her go again. His heart overflowed with relief.

“Omar,” someone called out to him. The voice echoed faintly, forcing its way into his consciousness.

“Omar!” the voice came again, more urgently.

With a deep breath he jolted awake.

“Maggie!” he gasped, immediately starting to cough. But he wasn’t outside. He wasn’t with her. Everything was still dark.

“Oh, you’re starting to hallucinate now.” The voice sounded cold despite the distortion. “They called.”

OA frowned slightly, unable to make sense of it. Who had called? Maggie? And who was he?

The dull pounding in his head grew stronger, pushing everything else aside.

Fresh air.
He needed fresh air.

OA tried not to focus on that need too much, afraid it would send him spiraling into panic.

“She’s worse. She has sepsis.”

The tremor in the voice revealed the worry and pain behind the words.

OA’s thoughts struggled to form a connection. But the fog in his mind kept growing thicker.

“Do you know what it’s like to lose someone you love?”

Immediately an image appeared in his mind.

Maggie.

There had been moments when he thought he might lose her. And twice it had come dangerously close. Yes, he knew what it was like to lose someone. Or at least almost.

But what was the man getting at? Was he threatening him? Was he going after Maggie now as well?

The fear for her cleared his mind for a moment.

“You played your role well. Very convincing. Both of you,” he continued, pausing deliberately while OA tried to process the words.

“But even if everything around it was an act, I know that what was between you wasn’t. That was real. The way you looked at each other when you thought no one was watching.”

A quiet laugh followed.

OA froze as the pieces fell into place.

There hadn’t been many cases where he and Maggie had to pretend.

In fact, recently there had only been one.

The realization struck him like lightning.

Richard Caldwell.

His heart started beating faster, making his breathing grow shallow—and at the same time dizziness crept in.

“If I lose her, I lose everything. So you will lose something too,” Richard said bitterly.

Was he making OA pay for it now? Because she had been shot, and Richard blamed him for it?

“She wouldn’t want this…” OA said weakly, his voice rough and scratchy from his dry throat.

“What do you know?” Richard snapped angrily, his voice filled with rage and pain. “You don’t know her the way I do.”

Then he grew calm again—almost too calm.

“I’ve been wondering how long a person can survive in a coffin.”

A click sounded, followed by a faint hiss.

The oxygen supply he had received until now was cut off.

“No… Richard, don’t choose this path. You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison if you kill a federal agent,” OA tried to reason with him.

But the decision had already been made.

“It’s all lost anyway. You should use the time you have left.”

Silence spread, broken only by the pounding of his racing heart.

“Shit…” he muttered, trying to calm himself.

If he panicked now, the remaining oxygen would be gone much faster than he wanted.

His fingers clawed into the fabric, searching for something to hold on to in the space that seemed to be closing in around him.

Chapter Text

O² level: 82%

“You know Evelyn Caldwell?” John asked the agent. Her reaction had been unmistakable. The question was mostly rhetorical—what he really wanted to know was how she knew the woman.

“Yes. She was a suspect in our last case. OA and I were undercover. We were supposed to prove that she and her husband, Richard Caldwell, were involved in weapons smuggling,” Maggie explained, while trying to keep a clear head.

“I’m convinced Richard is behind the kidnapping. His wife was shot by a cop after we called in local police for backup following a successful weapons deal.” Her voice trembled slightly with agitation. Her instincts told her it was Richard.

“People are capable of incredible things when the ones they love are in danger,” John agreed. He himself had been capable of terrible things when he had learned about Jessica’s death—when he discovered it hadn’t been an accident.

“I need to get to him immediately. He’ll surely tell us where he had OA buried.” The agent was already moving, striding back toward the house where she had parked her car. There was no time to waste.

John followed her without asking or commenting. He was going with her whether she liked it or not. If she was about to do something that might jeopardize her career, he would step in and take over.

“Go home, John. Or wherever it is you usually go,” she tried to brush him off.

“No. I’m not letting you go alone,” he replied, and there was no convincing him otherwise.

“This is an FBI matter, not the job of a hobby superhero.” Maggie shot him a brief glance while digging her car keys out of her pocket.

“Maggie.” He overtook her with two long strides and stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “You don’t have to trust me. But believe me when I say we’re on the same side. And I can do things you’re not allowed to do with that badge.”

She stopped abruptly to avoid walking straight into him. Much to her annoyance, he was right. With her badge, she could only bend the rules and laws so far.

But for OA… she would break them.

Career or not.

She could worry about that later.

She sighed in resignation. “Fine. Then come with me.”

A satisfied smile flickered across Reese’s face as he stepped aside and held out his hand.

“I’ll drive. You’re far too emotional right now,” he said.

Moments later, she pressed the car keys into his hand—reluctantly.

Maggie pulled out her phone and called Jubal to tell him the news.

“If you’re heading to the prison now, you won’t find him there. We were just informed that Richard has been granted a visit with Evelyn. A transport is currently taking him to the hospital,” the Assistant Special Agent in Charge briefed her.

“Damn it,” Maggie muttered. “How did he manage that?”

“He has expensive lawyers. Apparently they argued their case well enough that the prison warden gave in,” Jubal replied.

“Do you have the route the transport is taking?” she asked.

He gave it to her. She thanked him and hung up.

“Richard is on his way to the hospital to see his wife. Her condition has worsened critically. I have the route the transport is taking.”

John nodded and opened the passenger door for her.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, walking over to his own car. From the trunk he retrieved his sniper rifle and placed it on the back seat of Maggie’s vehicle.

That earned him a stunned look.

“You just drive around with something like that in your trunk?” she asked, incredulous, shaking her head.

“I like being prepared for every situation,” he replied dryly with a small shrug before sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“Find a good spot along the route where we can intercept the transport. We’ll ask Richard on the way where he hid your partner.”

Reese pressed the gas and left the small town behind, heading toward New York and the hospital until Maggie pointed out a possible location.

She studied the map carefully, along with the transporter’s position.

The route showed that the driver would take a detour along a less-traveled road through a deserted industrial area.

That was where they would wait.

Reese parked the car sideways across the road and turned off the engine. From the back seat he took the sniper rifle and walked to the hood of the car, unfolding the bipod and setting the weapon down.

“You’re going to shoot the transport off the road?” Maggie asked, still stunned, watching as he assembled the rifle with calm routine and inserted the magazine.

He did it with such ease and confidence that it impressed her. John clearly knew what he was doing.

“I need your help,” he said, handing her a pair of binoculars so she could call out distance, incline, and wind.

When she looked through them, she spotted the transport vehicle coming around the bend and heading straight toward them.

“Distance approximately six hundred meters,” she reported.

John adjusted the dial with a soft clicking sound.

“Five hundred,” he corrected calmly as he took position.

One hand steadied the barrel while the other rested on the trigger. His finger lay calmly against the metal, the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder.

Through the scope he captured the vehicle in the crosshairs.

Reese exhaled slowly, letting his breath flow naturally while focusing on his heartbeat.

Steady and calm in his chest.

“What if you miss?” Maggie asked nervously, fidgeting with her fingers.

“Don’t know… never happened,” he replied casually, full of quiet confidence.

She shot him a brief glance before her eyes returned to the approaching vehicle.

The man in the suit inhaled slowly and let the breath flow out again.

All he heard now was the rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears.

Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.

His finger moved onto the trigger, slowly taking up the slack.

Thump. Thump.
Thump. Thump.

The vehicle drew closer.

Reese aligned the crosshairs and pulled the trigger further until he felt the slight resistance.

He exhaled slowly and fired between two heartbeats.

A sharp crack echoed.

The shell casing was ejected.

At the same moment the hood of the transport vehicle flew open. Tires screeched as the vehicle swerved and came to a halt.

John left the rifle on the hood for the moment and walked toward the van.

Maggie followed, her hand on her weapon as they approached.

“FBI! Stay inside the vehicle!” she shouted immediately before moving to the rear door to pull Richard out for a conversation.