"Of course I value my life," Will stated, hoping his attempt at derision hid how well their scare tactics were working. Somehow, he doubted it. He glanced up at the steely cold eyes he could make out beneath the black ski mask. Even the man's eyes were intimidating. So cold they gave him the chills, so emotionless that it seemed an emotion for its lack.

"Do you?" the man returned, almostly sharply, despite the robotic effect of the filter. Will could almost imagine he saw annoyance flash through those chill brown eyes. Nothing so grand as anger, not in this man, just annoyance. "Your actions would indicate otherwise. So, I am going to tell you what it is that you are apparently dying to know. Your friend Daniel Hecht, David McNeil's wife Susan, Eloise Kurtz... they were all innocent victims. Their deaths were unfortunate. A matter of circumstance. Now, the only remaining question is whether the story ends there or whether it includes other innocent victims."

At each name mentioned twin pangs of fear and anger drove themselves into Will's gut. That this man held responsibility for their deaths, he held no doubt. That he belonged to SD-6 equally obvious. But as the man drew a sheaf of photographs from his pocket, blossomming outrage and need for revenge and justice faded behind chilling fear. The man's altered voice continued without pause. "Amy Tippin. 3723 East Conestoga Way." As his sister's name and address were so casually dropped, he stared at her image. He recognized the picture as the one she had taken for graduation. An identical one graced a wall in his kitchen. She had bought only a handful. Her flaming red hair seemed out of place in the hand of the man dressed entirely black.

As suddenly as it had come, the photo was replaced by another. A smiling couple in a park. His parents posed for the camera holding each other. "Robert and Patsy Tippin. 63064 Shulman Way." Will looks away, not wanting this enemy to see his fear. But he hears the photos slid against each other, and one last name is uttered in that awful, manufacted voice. "Sydney Bristow. 4260 Cochran Street."

"Stop," he whispers even before the man finishes. He hates that voice. He hates that man.

What right did this monster have to threaten his family? To threaten Sidney? Then he remembered Danny, and Eliose, and he didn't know how many others. Dead, all of them. Will hated himself for the terror in his gut as he thought of Amy or Sydney lying in a pool of their own blood all because he couldn't keep his questions to himself. He cursed himself for cowardice, as the tears tracked down his cheeks and his own voice cried out in surrender, trying to drown out the horrible voice reciting Sydney's address. "Stop, stop, stop. I understand."

The man just looked down at him for a moment. "This will be your only warning," he said finally. Will had the distinct impression he was supposed to be thankful for it. But the thought was quickly driven from him as the man introduced his fist to Will's face and the world fades to black even before he crashes into the floor.

Aside from McNeil, he didn't tell anyone about the incident. Not Jenny who he called to pick him up from the surprisingly bright warehouse, or Francie who he called to pick him up from the side of the road. That is, once he figured out where Jenny had dumped him. Poetic justice he supposed, but he made a mental note not to dump any more girls while riding as a passenger in her car.

The two positive side effects of his break-up with Jenny was that a, he wasn't badgered by her questions about what he'd been doing at that warehouse, and b, she wasn't spreading the story to the rest of the office.

When he reported his van 'stolen', the police had already found it abandoned in the same tunnel he had been abducted in. Blocking traffic, no doubt, or it would probably have still been there when he had Francie drive him past the spot on the way back. That was almost a blessing, since he didn't need to explain why it was left there. He filled out the paperwork and reclaimed his vehicle. The only thing left to raise questions was the bruise on his face where the man had hit him. That he passed off as getting hit playing basketball.

The dinner went better than he expected it to. Sydney's father was there, which surprised him a little, if only because he was doing something remotely social with her. Of course, this was work-related, and Sydney did say they were getting along better lately, so he covered his surpise and greeted Sydney's father cheerfully. The boss's wife, Emily and Will carried most of the conversation that evening. The boss, Mr. Sloane, tossed in a few leading questions, but generally let his wife play hostess. Sydney was her usual social self when she was in the room and the conversation didn't revolve around the article, though Francie's call made her excuse herself for part of the evening. Mr. Bristow remained quiet, except when he offered to fetch the wine, which seemed almost desperate. But Mr. Bristow was never an especially social person, in Will's experience, it could have just been awkwardness or a wish for air. Danny had briefly -very briefly- mentioned having his head bit off when he'd asked Mr. Bristow formally for Sydney's hand.

Weeks passed. He dropped the story. Sydney took two or three more buisness trips for the bank. Maybe more. They were hard to keep track of. It was a wonder she kept up with her schoolwork as well as she did. Aside from the occassional dig, everyone forgot about the jar incident. Jenny still kept away from him, and the rumours circulating the office had more to do with how he had left her car than where he had gotten in.

Then Deep Throat called again. Deep Throat scared him almost as much as his kidnapper, but when it insisted he pick up the story again, that the kidnapper was just bluffing to scare him away, Will snapped, "Well, you know what? It worked. I'm off it," and hung up on the source. It rang again even before he could put the cell away. "Just go away! Don't call me again!" he commanded in leiu of a greeting

"Mr. Tippin--"

His terror of the kidnapper overshadowed his caution as he interrupted the speaker, "Don't call anyone else again unless you want more people to die!"

"It was Jack Bristow."

"What? What? Wait, what's Jack Bristow? Hello? Hello?" But with his message delivered, Deep Throat had done exactly what Will had instructed. Deep Throat was gone. 'It was Jack Bristow.' Sydney's dad. What was Sydney's dad? By the previous conversation, the answer seemed to be that Jack Bristow was his kidnapper. But that didn't make sense. Sure, Mr. Bristow was a little anti-social, but a kidnapper? Who'd threaten Sydney?

Either Deep Throat was wrong for once, or he was talking about something else. Or so he had believed until he found a photo of Jack Bristow later that day. Something in the eyes gave him a cold chill. All but ignoring the exterminator he was there to help, he put a piece of saran wrap over the photo and began coloring out of the lines like a two-year old with a black marker. When only the eyes were left showing, knot of trepidation in his stomach bloomed into true fear as he flashed back momentarily to stare up at the cold, cold eyes of his kidnapper. The cold, cold eyes of Jack Bristow.

"Holy," he whispered. He screamed and jumped a nearly mile when the exterminator put a hand on his shoulder.

The exterminator drew back in startlement, but kept to his business. "I asked, is bait alright?"

"Uh, y-yeah. Bait's fine." The exterminator looked down at the colored over picture as though seeking a clue to the client's strange behavior. He shook his head, shrugged, and went back to work without comment. Disturbing as the blackened photo apparently was to Will, it wouldn't scare away the rats.