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In 2002, a corporation known as the Centre was infiltrated by various law enforcement agencies who acted in a synchronized global effort to eradicate the organization, it's counterparts, and all subsidiaries. The raid on the Centre was led by Agent Jarod Spence, an admitted victim of the Centre.

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Hundreds were apprehended including Sydney Mikhail, Mr. John Broots, and Dr. William Raines. During the raid, however, an explosion leveled the structure, presumably killing everyone within fifty feet of the building, including thirty of the governments’ finest, Mr. Lyle and Miss Parker.

A month later, still immersed in grief and guilt ridden, Agent Spence embarked on his daily visit to the site of Parker's empty grave.

Walking solemnly through the cemetery in the fine November mist, Jarod caught a glimpse of a figure kneeling by the grave of Catherine Parker.

A pursuit ensued, but the figure vanished among the monuments. 

That morning, more determined than ever, Jarod Spence became the hunter.

Ten Months Later

In the cold, stale afternoon, among the bare trees, Agent Jarod Spence glanced over his shoulder and motioned for the men behind him to move.

Four men rushed the house and quietly took position on either side of the door and in practiced perfection, Jarod moved in, abolished the door in one kick and drew his weapon.

"FBI. Freeze."

The four Agents entered and provided cover, while fifteen other men moved in from all directions to search the house.

During the commotion however, Jarod studied the figure sitting on the sofa with a delicate cup of steaming tea held at the lips, waiting for the 'unfreeze' command.

"Jarod," Sydney smiled. "I was just sitting down for tea. Can I interest you in a cup?"

"You knew we were coming."

"I've known for six months," Sydney said. "Parker knew you'd be here today. She left last night."

"Damn it," groused Jarod, holsterng his weapon. "Why didn't you tell me she was here?"

"You didn't ask."

Jarod smiled, nodded. "How is community service?"

"Pro bono psychiatric services for underprivileged children is very rewarding."

"It feels good to help."

"It does," Sydney agreed.

"Six months is an all time record, not to mention risky. What did you do, Sydney? Glue her down?"

"No. She couldn't even walk when she was deposited on my steps by a truck driver."

Sydney saw the questions in the other man's eyes and continued.

"She was attacked on the outskirts of DC and delivered to me, unconscious."

"Who?"

"She didn't say."

"Didn't or wouldn't?"

"Wouldn't."

"How bad?"

"Bad. They-" Sydney inhaled in a ragged breath. "They hurt her."

Jarod stood, circled the sofa.

"They," he asked, suppressing rage as his jaw clenched of its on own accord.

"Her wounds finally healed."

The pretender's head snapped around to meet the other man's steel gaze.

"Her recovery was slow and would have been much less painful had she the benefit of a proper medical facility. Life on the run just doesn't allow for such luxuries."

"My God, Sydney! Why didn't you call me?"

"She told me she'd rather die than call you."

Jarod grimaced. "And the emotional scars?"

"She's a survivor, Jarod," answered Sydney, returning cup to saucer; the objects clanked together as unsteady hands trembled. "I worry," he added softly.

"I need more information, Sydney."

"So do I. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on one's perspective—she didn't allow me to discover the full extent of the damage. I treated the worst of her external injuries, what she would allow me to see."

Sydney sighed, his eyebrows raised in quiet, bridled frustration as he placed the dishes on the coffee table. "I could only pray that there was no internal damage."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"She would only say that you are not the only person searching for her."

"I can protect her."

"By arresting her? Imprisoning her?"

"All she has to do is take the offered plea bargain."

"She isn't responsible for the explosion, Jarod. I'm sorry for the lives lost but they didn't die by Parker's hand."

"And the agents found slain outside her lair in Chicago seven months ago?"

"She said—"

"She said," Jarod exclaimed, incredulously.

"I believe her."

"I want to believe her," Jarod said after a protracted sigh. "If she would turn herself in and agree to a lie detector test, it would be a start in clearing her name. If she's innocent, I can prove it and if she's not-"

Jarod fell silent and leaned in closer after a quick appraisal of the room. "I can help her, Sydney. I obtained some of Lyle's samples from a past case. I can plant the evidence, implicate Lyle and clear her of these charges, but she has to tell me where the weapon is, and where she purchased the C4 if I'm to build a case in her defense and offer the court a solid—"

"Jarod," Sydney chided. "She would never allow you to compromise your principles for her, and frankly, she doesn't want your help." 

"She doesn't want my help?"

"I begged her to let me call you. She became irate, she said that you had six years to help her, to expose the Centre and break her chains. She feels that she is finally free—"

"Free? She's on the run, Sydney, and I can tell you from experience, it isn't freedom. It's terrifying to constantly have to look over your shoulder and-"

"Then stop chasing her."

"I can't do that. I can offer her some protection but I can only do that if I find her first. She has to turn herself in," Jarod said. "To me."

"You never turned yourself in," reminded Sydney softly.

"Sydney, please," Jarod said, exasperated. "No D.S.A.s have surfaced to aid me in finding answers. I have no leads. Please, Sydney."

"Jarod, search for her if you must, but do not ask me to help you. I simply cannot."

"Why not?"

"You aren't fully aware of the changes, the rapid deterioration of her work place environment once Raines and Lyle took control. If you want the truth, you will have to hear it from her."

"It's all clear, Sir," an agent called from the stairs.

"Until next time, Sydney," Jarod said, deflated.

"Send your family my best."

"I'll do that."

He was tempted to tell Sydney to do the same: give Parker my best.

He was quite certain, however, that he'd catch up with her eventually. She can't run forever. 

There was irrefutable proof that she paused occasionally, and much of it was locked away in the evidence room, and he had little doubt that he'd be gathering additional evidence in the coming months.

Four months to be precise.

The tip was phoned in on an ordinary Tuesday, and was so rare an occurrence that the series of three short rings startled the Pretender. He eagerly scribbled out a name and address and ejected himself from the leather chair.

With his entourage in tow, and with an inconcievable—and heady—rush of adrenaline, Jarod sped to your basic hole in the wall tattoo parlor.  He studied the establishment rather skeptically as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

"The Inkwell," Jarod stated dryly.

"Problem, boss," inquired Agent Janeane Burke.

Jarod was a strange one, she opined. He was mysterious; maybe that was the appeal. Strange or not, she wanted him—nothing long term or safe, or even sane for that matter..

No, there was nothing sane about the extremely unorthodox games she wanted to play with the man.

"Tattoos aren't really her thing," Jarod replied.

"Do you want to blow it off, maybe kick back a few kamikazes down at Loco Amigos?"

"A drink named after Japanese suicide missions sounds very tempting," he said after some thought, "but I'm going to check this out. She may have left a clue."

"She's never left you a clue, boss. She doesn't want to be caught."

But Janeane did; she wanted to be captured, frisked, cuffed and—

The rookie agent held open the door and presented Jarod a Cheshire cat grin.

"After you, Sir," she cooed.

The other agents were just two steps behind Jarod. They entered swiftly, flanked him, and then separated to check the back rooms and rear exits.

"What the hell is this," a burly, middle aged man shouted his protests. "You can't just come barging in here like-"

"We have a warrant," Jarod announced coolly, presenting aforesaid document. Jarod then retrieved a photo of Parker, said, "We're looking for this woman."

"Haven't seen her."

Jarod offered the man a full body photo. "And her?"

"Damn, G-Man. Smokin'," the multi-pierced, multi-tattooed man behind the counter exclaimed. "I wish I had seen her but no, oh no, I'd remember a body like that."

Jarod glared at the man, who stammered, "Hey, pal, you can't arrest a guy just for being honest. Can you?"

"Unless you're confessing to a crime," returned Jarod, dryly.

"The last time I checked, it wasn't a crime to look. Say, pal, can I keep the pic?"

With a grimace of impatience, Jarod snatched the photo from the man.

"Look, Mr.-"

"Swain. Greg Swain."

"Mr. Swain, we received an anonymous tip regarding a suspect from the Bureaus' most wanted list. The call was made from that," Jarod gestured to the red rotary dial phone on the counter, "telephone."

"Shirley must have phoned it in then. I do the tats, she mans the phone."

"Where is Shirley?"

"I'll give her a call."

And he did; the telephone conversation included everything from Nascar winners to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and Jarod found it all rather infuriating, but his patience paid off.

Greg Swain returned the receiver to its cradle.

"That damned woman drives me crazy. She called it in; she said the lady came in for a huge job."

Jarod's eyes narrowed. "A huge job?"

"Uh-huh. I remember the job, but not the face and definitely not the hair. She had a scar on her back. Wanted it covered."

"Can you describe the scar?"

"Thin lines, but deep," the man explained with a grimace and then shrugged. "Come with me and I'll get you the drawing."

"Drawing," Jarod asked.

"I draft custom tats by hand first."

The Agents followed the man into a musty room just off the left of an unlit and dilapidated hallway.

"She gave me a statue, said it's what she wanted and she demanded that it cover the scar completely."

"Statue?"

"That thing over there," Greg said, thrusting out a finger to indicate a shelf on the opposite side of the room. Jarod eyes riveted on the object; he was immediately transfixed. "She called it something, it's an angel or a sise-"

"Nemesis," Jarod said.

"As in enemy," Agent Burke asked. "A veiled threat?"

"As in Greek mythology," Jarod clarified, his strides quick and purposeful. "The Greek Goddess of Retribution," he said, lifting the small statue from the shelf.

"What does it mean," said Burke.

"To give what is due," answered Jarod softly.

"But uh, the lady had blond hair, roots and all," Swain said.

"Her eyes?"

"Green."

"Green?" Jarod furrowed his brows. "Are you positive?"

"I'll never forget her eyes."

"Can I keep this," asked Jarod, indicating the statue in his grasp.

"What if she comes back for it?"

"My card is on the counter out front."

"Your name?"

"She knows my name."

"You think it's her," Agent Burke asked Jarod as they exited the building.

"I hope not."

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