"Stop it Ethan," Bree shot back, edging a little closer still, her hand still outstretched to the green-eyed man dancing on a ledge. "If that's all you were, just a murderer, I should shoot you off this ledge right now and be done with it - and save the federal courts a few million dollars in legal fees to boot."

She didn't so much as flinch as his eyes bored into her, a vile mix of anger and loathing - though she somehow suspected not all, nor even most, of his hatred was truly directed toward her.

"I get it, I do. I'm not some negotiator with the all the right, comforting words to give you the warm fuzzies, so we'll be holding hands and humming kumbayah off into the sunset after a warm hug, hot chocolate and handcuffs. I don't know who you are Ethan. I don't know what you are. But I know I could be wrong. I've been wrong before, about a lot of things."

"Show me where I got it wrong, Ethan. Please. Talk to me... " And the plea in those last three words might have come through just a little too truthfully, a little too plaintive, coming as they did from the exhausted woman beneath the hard armor of the agent. But Bree was beginning to fear, inexplicably, that time was getting as short and precious as a few moments of restful sleep.