They were flying in to the night, crossing the continent westward, extending the darkness with every mile. Most of the lights in the small Beechcraft 400A were out. Only the floor safety strips and one lone reading lamp gave life to the nocturnal trip. The lamp lit up Aaron's tray-table, casting a spotlight on his small hands and the brightly colored Legos.

The boy had napped for the first few hours, giving Maxwell a chance to properly bandage his cheek. Torrealba had cut deep and it would need stitches, but that could wait until they were back.

Aaron woke up when they landed at an airstrip outside of Miami for refueling. Maxwell gave him a juice box and the construction set in hopes of keeping him calm. The terror of earlier was hovering just below the surface. With all the unknowns of the future, Maxwell wouldn't be surprised if the boy broke down for the rest of the trip and didn't feel safe until he was in Emily's arms. But Aaron had surprised him. He drank half the juice but quickly forgot about it and everything else once the toy bricks were spilled out in front of him.

Maxwell watched the small fingers work with exacting delicacy putting pieces together in apparent randomness. The shambling tower rising up from the tray held no resemblance to the fairy-tale castle depicted on the discarded box and instructions. Maxwell was mesmerized by the boy's actions as fatigue weighed his body down. He only broke his gaze to look over his shoulder at the cockpit door, every few minutes.

The only other people on the plane were the pilot and co-pilot. Having his back to them felt unnatural. With only four seats in the cabin, the choices were limited and Maxwell preferred to sit across from Aaron instead of beside him on the other side of the aisle. Aaron had stubbornly refused to sit backward. Maybe it was only out of fear of getting motion sickness or some childish preference, but Maxwell couldn't help thinking, he's learning. Sitting with your back to the door is only inviting trouble. There's a lot of Emily in him.

Maxwell picked up a white, four pip square and moved to place it on the haphazard structure.

"No!" Aaron pushed the piece away before it could click into place. He grabbed it from Maxwell's hand. Small, soft nails scratched the pads of his fingers. "It doesn't belong there. It goes over here." He added it to some arbitrary part of the building with a forceful press of his palm.

Controlling, Maxwell mused. Yes, there was a lot of Emily in him.

He rested his head back against the seat and let his glance drift to the window. The world outside was gone. They were flying through cloud cover and there were no lights from the ground and no stars in the sky.

They were probably somewhere over Louisiana by now. The plane would be crossing into Texas soon. It wasn't quick, but home was moving steadily closer. This long journey was almost at an end, both the journey on the plane and the one that began months ago. When he had gone into that dismal prison that morning in May, Maxwell had no idea of the expedition he was starting.

He hadn't been happy waiting in that concrete room. He preferred to walk in on a prisoner. Psychologically, it always put the suspect at a disadvantage when he invaded their space. If he could have arranged things that way, he would have, but sometimes even his DTAA credentials couldn't navigate around the obtuse bureaucracy of some institutions. So he sat in the gray visitor's room watching the milky light leak through the sole window high on the wall.

It was important to remain calm and unaffected in these situations. Mindless waiting built nerves. Another reason he liked to put the prisoner in that position. To keep his mind occupied with something other than the passing of time, he began to calculate the position of the window based on what he knew of the prison and the route he had taken there. It was an idle game that would lead to a hypothetical escape plan if given enough time.

He had narrowed it down to somewhere on the western side of the front courtyard when a loud click signaled the opening of the lock.

A handcuffed woman in an orange jumpsuit was led in. She looked younger than he had expected. Several years younger than the age of twenty-seven that her file said. Red, lifeless hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. The plastic frame of her glasses was broken and the left arm was held in place by white tape. Behind the lenses, her eyes had that swollen look of someone who hadn't seen daylight in a while. Maxwell was familiar with that look but had seen it rarely on women.

"You have thirty minutes." The heavyset guard spun to the door. Her short, mousy hair lifted off her neck from the velocity of her rush to leave.

"You can take the cuffs off. They won't be necessary."

She visibly cringed at the order and didn't even turn to look back at Maxwell. "The rules are..."

"Please," he cut her off and his voice held none of the politeness of his words. "I really did not like my earlier chat with the warden. I would hate to have to go back and spend more time with him discussing the favors you are doing for the inmates."

The guard spun around even quicker than before, her mouth hung open in disbelief. Her fear rimmed eyes examined him for any sign of doubt. Finding none, her maw closed with a snap and she wordlessly undid the handcuffs. "Thirty minutes," she repeated, before storming out and leaving them alone.

"Please have a seat." He waved at the empty chair on the other side of the table without looking up from the papers spread out on its surface.

"Neat trick." She didn't move any closer and she spoke warily as though she were testing to see how dangerous he was as if they had locked her in with a wild tiger instead of a man. "How did you know she brought in drugs?"

"Please, sit down and I'll tell you."

She sat with reluctance sensing some trap she couldn't see. But that was the best type of trap, the one the prey never saw until long after they'd been caught. Do what I want and get a reward. It was the first step in her training.

"It was a bluff." Maxwell looked up at her and smiled. It was a sheepish grin meant to feel like he was shyly letting her in on his big secret. "Although a calculated one. Statistically, corruption is high in these corporate-run correctional facilities. The way she walked and spoke was very aggressive. She had nothing but hostility in her eyes. There was no tan line on her ring finger, suggesting she was unmarried: lonely and uncommitted to anyone. In short, she fit the profile of someone who would take advantage of her position."

"And what would have happened if you'd been wrong?"

"You'd still be wearing the cuffs and I would be no worse off than if I kept my mouth shut."

"Clever."

"Oh, just betting confidence against a guilty conscious. You should appreciate that Mrs. Kendrick." Enough trust-building. It was time to make her uncomfortable. He had tossed out an accusatory jab, now he'd follow up with a pointless question. It was odd how unnerved people got by the simple questioning of identity. "Is it Miss or Mrs.?"

"Miss."

"Yet, it says here you have a child." He put on his best confused look as he mindlessly belabored the issue.

"It happens. I hope I don't have to explain to you how babies are made." She sat back folding her arms, closing up her body into a tight cocoon. "What the hell is this all about?"

Good. Hostility. Things were moving like clockwork.

"You're facing some pretty serious charges, Miss Kendrick."

"It's bullshit. I never sold any military secrets. My lawyer will get me off."

"You mean, Donny Mosely, your court-appointed attorney? Yes, he's extremely competent with plea bargaining. I'm sure he can get you down to forty years if you plead guilty. But if it goes to trial...well, his track record isn't so good in the courtroom."

"I didn't do it. That's the truth. I just need a chance to prove it."

Maxwell laughed lightly. The sound rang like tin against the concrete. "Now we both know, the truth isn't exactly your strong suit. Is it?"

She scrunched further into herself, shrinking in front of him. Her face reflected the heat of anger building up inside her body. "What the fuck do you want?"

He shuffled through the documents, catching random words on the pages, which outlined the DTAA's new policy on ordering office supplies. He took his time, dragging it out, making her wait, before looking back at her. "For what it's worth, I believe you. Espionage isn't your style. No, a two-bit grifter wouldn't risk that. My guess is you were only playing that bloated, old professor. You probably scammed your way into the job and went in wearing short skirts and low cut blouses pretending to be an overly admiring lab assistant, hoping to shake some cash loose."

This is the part Maxwell liked most: when the subjects saw their secrets spilling out in front of them. It made them feel small and insignificant, naked in front of the world.

"What happened? You tried blackmailing poor Dr. Pyatt, perhaps with a sex tape, he didn't know he was participating in? Threatened to expose him to his wife, unless he parted with some of that lucrative grant money? And then what? The pathetic patsy turned the tables on you and sold you out to the feds?"

She ground the chair across the cement floor as she sprang up. "Were done. I'm not talking to you."

"Oh, but we've only just begun." Maxwell flourished the contract in front of her, letting the paper flap noisily in the air. "Your experience in Old Pyatt's lab makes you a valuable commodity to my employers. Despite being a hustler who never finished high school, all your colleagues said you did an excellent job and they never suspected you were a fraud until the FBI showed up. So I have a little job for you. This contract says you will agree to our terms of employment. Sign it and all your problems go away."

She hung there, held in place by the sight of the legal document. And that was how you made a snare look like a lifeline. He wasn't going to need the guard's thirty minutes. He'd be done with her in less than fifteen.

"What is this? What do you want from me?"

"I want nothing. However, the people I work for need a competent lab assistant. Take the deal and all charges will be dropped. You will be released from prison and flown to your new life. You'll be provided with money, an apartment, a car. You just have to sign." He held out the pen.

"What's the catch?"

"Smart girl. Yes, there is always a catch. The hours are shit. You won't have the freedom to quit. You can't tell anyone what you're doing or what's going on in the lab."

"And what's going on in the lab."

Maxwell put his finger to his lips. "That's a secret. I can't tell you that until you sign." He evaluated her frown and guessed what she was thinking. People always trusted you when you echoed their own thoughts back to them. "Yes, you will be handing your life over to the government for the next few years. But at least this way you will have a life."

He offered her the pen again and she took it. The defeat was all in her shoulders. The sparrow-like bones sagged as though magnets were drawing them together and folding her in half as she bent over the table.

It was the capitulation that sucked all the elation out of a person. This woman ought to be overjoyed. No matter what kind of suck-hole Grierson was building in the Arizona desert, it had to be better than life in prison. But subconsciously she knew—just as they always knew—that she had caved and given in. But what choice did she have? She would sign.

But she didn't. Emily dropped the pen. Her hands lurched out and grabbed Maxwell by the wrists. Her grip was surprisingly strong and her fingers dug into the tender part of his wrist. He was about to put her down when she spoke. "No. I don't care about prison. Get my son and I'll do whatever you want."

It was the anguish in her voice the caught him. The desperation in her words was like a punch to the chest.

Still, he couldn't allow her to get to him. If he listened to every plea he heard, he'd be finished, his career over. Not to mention, the report indicated she had been living without her son for the past year. She had abandoned him to some friend or relative. So what if now she wanted him back.

He pulled his hands free. "Is that the boy you stashed before going to work on Pyatt?"

"I didn't hide Aaron. He was taken from me."

"Taken? By who?"

"His father." Her lips contorted at the word. They seemed to taste the same displeasure Maxwell was feeling. "Or should I say, the coked-up sperm donor I slept with. He kidnapped my boy. Get Aaron away from that fucking monster. Then I'll sign your paper."

Later that night, Maxwell replayed that moment over and over again in his head. Her words. The way her hands felt on his skin, the despondency traveling down through her tender fingertips into his arms. The heartbreaking misery in her eyes. Now looking back, he could see that it had been the moment when Project LARS stopped being an assignment and became something person, became about Emily and Aaron.

He was finally taking her son home to her as he'd promised. Everything would be alright from now on.

***

Author's Note: So things are coming to an end. Although some characters reappear in this final chapter, expect that each section is the last you will see of them until Book Two. Not too much happens in this part but I liked the idea of starting off the chapter with the sense of conclusion—and here Maxwell is concluding his personal mission. I enjoyed bringing the story back to the beginning with a scene of him recruiting for Project LARS and finally giving a bit of a sense of how his relationship with Emily started. What did you think?