Faol had taken his sweet time in getting to the safe house, mostly because he had some stops to make, things that would never be linked to his name or any name he'd held, and the car that Mrs. Mazzi had been good enough to loan him didn't like going above 50. Aptly titled Rambler, it was old, and it ran, and most importantly it had a metal body instead of a light fast thing made from fiberglass. Better that way; if he had to hit anything he was going to do a lot more damage to them.
He'd even brought Bo's dog, sans electronic leash (left that attached to the Roomba) to the palace in the desert. And maybe it was a little much to call it a palace, but the place was a little much. Definitely not what was expected of a safe house and maybe it was better for that.
He'd followed the sounds of voices into the house, heralded by the click of dog nails on the floor, his step lighter than it had been in months. Some of the people he knew by name, others by sight, and he stayed quiet to listen to them. He wasn't involved in the training facility, didn't know the people there, their families, but he knew something about getting dirty. Dirt was ground into his veins, turned his bones black and he was damn sure that staying clean meant tucking his tail between his thighs and going back to the CIA.
He hadn't wanted to come back in the first place. A grin split his lips when Bo's favorite named everyone but him. "Oh, I'm in too." It wasn't about the bodies in bags -- they were dead, they needed to be mourned, their families notified -- but it was the living that needed help now.