Chapter Text
“All I took was eight files."
OA clenched his jaw. Someone was still in danger. That doesn’t mean it’s her, he told himself, it’s a one-in-a-hundred chance. It’s not her. Despite the silent mantra, he was unable to quell his anxieties. The odds tended to work against them. It didn’t help that he was a worrier of nature. As a teenager, he’d stay up until his sisters arrived home safely. There were times he’d awake in the middle of the night just to Google the names of old army buddies to reassure himself there weren’t any obituaries he'd missed. Ever since he lost his dad, thoughts of worst-case scenarios and deaths plagued him, especially concerning the people he loved.
In the nearly seven years he’d known Maggie, she’d been a frequent source of those worries. She had a proclivity for getting into dangerous situations, and he'd almost lost count of times he thought he might lose her. Her undercover stints tended to worry him the most. Out of sight, but not out of mind. He particularly remembered her 2020-stint as tough. Whilst he trusted her ability to handle herself, the pandemic didn’t discriminate. Until she returned, he’d been worried about her health on top of everything else. However, she had gotten through the pandemic and all her other undercover operations. She’d get through this one too. She had to.
“Eight?” Scola asked.
“Our count was seven." OA had rechecked the folder they recovered a dozen times, just to be sure.
“Well.” Dylan chuckled softly, pleased at the realization he had leverage.
OA hated him even more for that. As much as Dylan postured, OA knew he didn’t have a real ideological motivation. He wanted money. He didn’t care for the lives he put at risk, only about how those lives could benefit him. Now he was leveraging a life for his benefit yet again.
“There were eight,” Dylan continued. “There was one file Swann couldn’t sell. And the group that would have been interested in it, they were hard to reach. But I kept digging until I found them myself.”
It’s not her, OA told himself.
“Well, I’m sorry to say I already sent the file over. You’re gonna have to move fast if you want to save the last agent before it’s too late.”
Selfishly, he hoped it wasn’t her, even if it meant it was someone else’s partner, someone else’s loved one. They’d earned a break from the constant trials the universe kept throwing at them.
“Dylan, who’s the eight undercover?” It’s not her.
He leaned back. “What’s in it for me?”
A deal was off the table. There was no way he — or the bureau — would let him get away with what he’d done with only a slap on the wrists. He’d spend the rest of his sorry life rotting away inside a cell, as he deserved.
Before OA had the chance to speak, Scola cleared his throat: “You already got one federal agent killed.” There was a rare intensity to his voice. “Do you really want to go in front of a judge and explain that you got another one murdered when you could have stopped it?” He paused. “I know I wouldn’t.”
Something told him that Scola harbored the same fear he did. Whilst Maggie and Scola weren’t the closest of pairs, both emotionally closed off in their own complicated ways, they were a team. A family, as Maggie sometimes called them. He knew Scola agreed, and he knew the two of them held a deep respect and care for one another.
“ALS has a prognosis of what, three years?” Scola continued. “If you want those years to be comfortable for you, you better hope we tell the prosecutors that you cooperated with us.”
Dylan pressed his lips together, silently considering his options.
“You have the choice to make things easier for yourself, or infinitely harder,” Scola pressed, moving closer. “I suggest the first option.”
In what must’ve been the first time Dylan made a smart choice for himself, he nodded. "Alright."
“We need a name,” OA pressed.
He sighed. “Bell.”
Strange, how a word delivered with such nonchalance could turn the universe on its head.
“First name?” Scola asked, as if it would somehow change the outcome.
Dylan shrugged. “It was a woman.” Despite having handed over her life, he seemingly didn’t care enough to memorize her full name. “Something on M, if I had to pick.”
Damn it. He could feel Scola’s stare, but didn’t trust himself to return his gaze. Instead, he rose from the chair. They had a job to get done. He’d deal with his emotions later. Soldier on.
“You better hope she turns up safe,” OA spat out.
He left the room before he had the chance to ruin his career.
He didn’t wait for Scola.
It only gained him a few minutes, but every single one counted as he made the two-hour drive to the middle of nowhere. Why they hadn’t sent helicopters was beyond him. Her safety shouldn’t be dependent on him breaking fifteen different traffic laws and ignoring Isobel’s call telling him to wait for backup.
Plagued by images of what terrorists could do to an enemy, he reached the compound with half an hour to spare. It was still too long, he thought. They could’ve put her through unspeakable horrors already. Regardless of the outcome, he’d have nightmares for the next few weeks. He just hoped they wouldn’t be rooted in her reality.
He jumped out of the car, barely able to feel his hands from how tightly he had been gripping the wheel. The compound had been left in an unplanned hurry, the tents still open and staggered tire marks leading away from the make-shift camp.
“Maggie!” he shouted, hoping she’d jump out from a hiding spot.
Silence was the only reply. Damn it. At least there weren’t any obvious graves. Or any blood. Until proved otherwise, he would have to believe she was safe somewhere. She couldn’t be dead. Maybe she’d realized she was compromised and made it out of there.
The smell of smoke announced itself. He whipped his head around, confronted by a black cloud quickly building behind the hill in the near distance. Oh God, no.
Taking the car would take too long. Instead, he sprinted across the camp and up the hill, making his way toward the burning van. No, no, no, no. She had to be inside it. There was no other reason for a vehicle to be on fire out here.
He reached the car, yanking the doors open. “Maggie!”
The horror of the scene momentarily paralyzed him: It wasn’t enough for them to put the van on fire, they had restrained her, dooming her to a violent and painful death.
“Maggie!”
She didn’t respond.
He refused to dwell on her stillness, jumping to free her instead. Damned seatbelt. He grabbed his knife, unwilling to lose any more time. Come on. They didn’t have much time. He had no idea how much smoke she had already inhaled.
“I got you,” he assured her, hoping she could hear him.
At that, she briefly opened her eyes. It was enough to send a cascade of relief through him. She’s alive. He hadn’t been too late. She still had a chance.
The knife tore through the belt, freeing her. The exhaustion must’ve gotten to her, because she faded to the floor, unable to push herself the last few feet to safety.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey.” He scooped her from the floor. “C’mon,” he told her.
She responded by slipping her arms around his shoulders, letting out an exhausted sigh.
“I got you, I got you,” he promised, hurrying them away from the burning coffin. “I got you, I got you.” Not a moment too soon. They were still close enough to the van for him to feel the heat as it exploded behind them.
The adrenaline pushed through him like a drug as he ran them toward his SUV, whispering reassurances that she was okay. They were as much for him as they were for her. He needed her to be alright.
She barely moved, quietly curled up against his chest, the only sign of life being a few weak coughs. It worried him. If she had any energy, she’d be demanding to be let down. How much smoke had she inhaled? Had he only gotten there in time to make sure she wouldn’t die alone? He didn’t think he could ever make peace with that.
He put her down against his car, immediately placing his fingers against her throat. Her pulse was racing, but strong. That’s a good sign, he convinced himself. Her heart was strong, and so was she. She’d get through this.
The concern for her immediate survival subdued. He lifted his gaze to her face, noticing how streaks of tears contrasted starkly against the ash. Crying made sense, of course. The combined adrenaline and pain of nearly being burned alive would take a toll on anyone.
“You’re okay,” he promised. “You’re alright, Mags.”
He lifted his hand to grab her face, brushing away her tears as he felt his own threaten to spill. Evilness rarely surprised him anymore, but this rattled him. He couldn’t imagine much crueler than trapping someone in a crematorium. Had he been a few minutes later, had he waited for backup, she’d faced an intensely painful and scary death. All alone, and all because of something outside of her control.
“You’re okay,” he told her, voice breaking as he grappled with how close it had been. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Without opening her eyes, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He returned her hug, running his hand across her back as he finally let himself cry.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Always.”