Title: Safe as Houses

Author: Evelyn Benton

Rating: Mature

Date: 01/06/2012 – 05/27/2013

Genre: Drama, Action, Romance

Fandom: Red Eye (Lisa/Jackson)

Archive: Stellar Phenomena and fanfictiondotnet; all others, please ask.

Disclaimer: Dreamworks & co. own Red Eye; I own this not-for-profit fan fiction; no copyright infringement intended.

Acknowledgement: Endless gratitude goes out to son-of-puji for beta reading this story. Her patience, honesty, and attention to detail made this final product far better than it would have been without her support. Her words of encouragement brought me out of my self-designed protective shell that I've been hiding in online for quite some time. This is the first story I've had the nerve to post in years and I owe it to her. Thank you for everything!

Prologue: A Long Thirty Years

October, 2005

Lisa Reisert could hear the rude commentary all the way back at the main desk. One of the large flat-screen televisions in the lobby had almost magnetically attracted a small but very vocal group of observers. Some viewers knew Lisa personally, some didn't, but none cared about her feelings at the moment. They were too distracted by their own personal desire to see the conviction of Jackson Rippner, and with any luck, his sentencing to death.

It was a twisted impulse, and a disturbingly human one at that, Lisa thought of their attitude as she grimly glared at the practically salivating group in front of the television. Her assessment of the human race had grown more negative as of late, but somehow she had to maintain her dignity in a cruel, cold world, or at least the appearance of dignity. She hated Rippner as much as the next person, perhaps more so, but she was not going to lower herself to the role of spectator in this disgusting sport that celebrated death and misery. Her hands were occupied with straightening a bouquet of peach-colored roses and carnations on a lamp table, but her eyes stayed on the group. She refused to look at the screen, but when a man in prison orange was escorted into the room in wrist and ankle cuffs, her eyes involuntarily traveled to him. She quickly averted them after spotting him on camera but not actually seeing him. She didn't want to update her image of him, to refresh his presence in her mind. She turned sharply and walked toward the main desk of Miami's extravagant Lux Atlantic Hotel.

Lisa flinched slightly when she noticed her cell phone was ringing. It was an ordinary ring tone. In Lisa's world, particularly the newest version of her world, there were no cute ring tones or fun popular songs to alert her to a call. It was a plain ring that was standard on millions of cell phones, yet she was in the less than one percent of the population who actually used it. Normally Lisa's cell would be off when she was at work, but today was different.

"Hi, Mom," she said without hesitation. Before she could say anything else, her mother commenced a nervous ramble.

"Are you watching it? Of course not. Why would you watch it? You shouldn't watch it. I'm watching it. I can't believe he got off on terrorism charges—"

She knew the phrase "calm down" would only anger her mother, so she opted for a similar substitute. "Mom, it's okay," Lisa patiently insisted, her customer service skills instinctively taking over without any conscious effort on her part. "Whatever happens, he will do time or maybe even get the death sen—"

"That doesn't matter!" her mother interrupted, her voice high pitched and anxious. "Lisa, he's a terrorist. And you aided a terrorist!"

"Under duress and protest," Lisa automatically corrected as she scanned the computer screen to see the work schedule for the week. "I assisted a terrorist and undermined his efforts. Aiding a terrorist is illegal regardless of circumstances, but I undid the mess. Keefe knows this, Mom. He's now the new Secretary of Homeland Security," she reminded her mother of Keefe's recent promotion after the previous Secretary's sudden resignation three weeks prior. "I think if I get an excuse from him, I won't be required to go on the class field trip to Guantanamo Bay."

Lisa made a face as she held the phone away from her ear for a moment. She had become more open with her thoughts and tended to sharpen her words like weapons lately. It was a bad habit, but it had felt so good the first few times she had done it. Verbally assaulting—mocking—Jackson Rippner as she beat him with her hands and whatever else she could find was sickly invigorating, and it made her feel alive for the first time in years. Putting the world's most obnoxious hotel guests in their place made her feel like she had a voice again. Words had power and it took psychopathic Jackson Rippner to teach her that. Now, like a drug junkie, she was addicted to saying what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. It was a bad addiction that she attempted to keep under control and only use in non-work circumstances, but like all addictions, she knew it was only a matter of time before it completely overtook her personality.

"Don't take that tone with me," her mother warned in a low, measured voice that was nothing like the jittery panic of a few moments prior. "I'm looking out for you, Lisa." Lisa remained speechless a few awkward moments, so her mother took the quiet space as her own to fill. "I still think you should talk to a lawyer—"

"I don't need one. Dad said I don't need one." Lisa had also learned the importance of playing the "Dad Said" card with her mother. It was pathetic for an adult to do it, but she knew it irritated her mother when Lisa ignored her comments and suggestions in exclusive favor of her father's.

This time, though, her mother's reaction wasn't quite the one she was hoping to earn. "Joe said it's alright?" her mother asked softly. Lisa stopped looking at the computer and squinted her eyes as she contemplated this for a moment.

"Yeah," she answered in an uncertain voice. "Yeah, he said he thinks I'll be fine. He trusts Keefe." Both women were wordless on the line. "Mom, I'm fine. I don't need a lawyer. I don't need to see his sentencing. I just need to be left alone for a while. Get back to the real world, you know?"

"I know." Her mother's response was brief, but her clipped words told Lisa how truly helpless her mother felt yet again. It seemed Lisa was always giving her parents a reason to worry and that made Lisa feel guilty for not only her own actions, but her inactions as well. Lisa, the victim of two horrific crimes, felt like she was to blame for her parents' distress. It was another unhealthy habit of hers on a long list of other unhealthy habits.

"Mom, I have to go. I love you." Lisa spoke quickly and ended the call. Based on the tone she used, her mother would think she had to get back to work, that a customer was approaching and Lisa had to flip on her best Manager's persona, but that was just another lie in the life of Lisa Reisert. Lisa had never realized what a liar she was until Jackson Rippner, of all people, had pointed it out to her. He had stalked her and caught her in several lies, but the worst part about it was that some of the lies were the ones she told to herself in the privacy of her own home. Now, Lisa welcomed the freedom of telling a lie when she wanted to do so. She wanted to own the lie, not hide behind it in fear. She was in control, just as Rippner had inadvertently taught her to be.

Lisa slid her cell into the pocket of her black blazer and stood vacantly for a moment in an attempt to compose herself. She felt something, but she could no longer identify her emotions. Since her encounter with Jackson Rippner, nothing had made sense. He was a man who practically boasted about his obsession with facts and logic, yet he was weakened by a storm of his own emotions, a tempest that had helped her defeat him. It seemed now that her mind had become as confused as his. She couldn't handle information and feelings the same way she had before, and more often than not, she merely felt—

"Lisa!"

—dead.

Lisa looked up to find her co-worker Cynthia running toward her in wobbly high heels. Cynthia came to an abrupt halt in front of the check-in desk, her hands clutching the counter as she attempted to catch her breath. "Thirty years!" Lisa's response was blank. "He got thirty years in prison!" the redhead announced again.

Lisa's gaze shifted to the left of Cynthia. The flower arrangement caught her attention once more. Lisa couldn't determine what to think of this new information. Was it a victory? Was it a shock? Was it a dream? Was it a nightmare?

"Lisa? Did you hear me? He got thirty years!" Cynthia repeated, a dry laugh of unintentionally sadistic enthusiasm sneaking into her words. Cynthia didn't wait for a reply. She spun swiftly and scurried back to the lobby to watch the coverage of the trial.

With Jackson Rippner out of her life for the next thirty years, without having to see his face, hear his voice, or think about his ways, her life was empty. There was no one to fear. No one to hate. No one to be her enemy. No one to be her target. No one to help her world, a world violated by rape and assault, make sense, even if it was a vile type of sense. Rippner was a horrible person, a despicable excuse for a man, but he gave her a way to vent her anger and frustration. He made her feel, even if those feelings were rage and hatred. For the next thirty years, she would be alone with only the cold hollow spot in her heart to keep her company.

Lisa retrieved the phone book from under the counter. She flipped through the yellow pages for a moment before stopping on a page and letting her eyes roam it. She took out her cell and started to dial.

"Let's hope it's a long thirty years," she muttered to herself as she waited for someone to pick up her call.

After the sentencing, Jackson was transported in a police van from the courthouse to the prison. He was cuffed at the wrist and ankles, and he couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction of how dangerous the authorities apparently had deemed him. Although he wasn't back to 100% yet, he was more or less healed from holes caused by bullets, pens, high heels, and other debris that Lisa Reisert and her father had shared with him as a parting gift. Still, he wasn't planning to fight anyone today or for a long time to come. He wasn't a fighter by nature, but Lisa had somehow managed to bring out the less advanced, more primitive side of his character.

Jackson sat apathetically in the cold steel chair of the interrogation room. He wasn't told why he had to wait there, but he assumed it was merely a placeholder for him while the prison pencil-pushers arranged his paperwork. The cold and sterile gray room was made of silver metal, from the wall trimming to the chairs. There was a camera in the top corner above the door that was aimed directly for Jackson's chair and the seat opposite it. Suspiciously, there was a bottle of water on the table. The lid seal had been broken open, but it was arranged to look unopened. His eyes took in every detail of the room and mentally catalogued them. It was a routine based on survival instinct.

After sitting there for over twenty-five minutes, the door finally opened and Jackson's two court-appointed lawyers entered the room. Jackson was no amateur and his Company wasn't born yesterday. They remained silent on everything. No one could get anything out of Jackson aside from his name being Jackson Rippner. Although a record was in the system for that name, it was clearly an alias. When it came time for legal action to be taken against him, his Company made no effort to break him out of custody or make any contact with him at all. It was standard procedure. If an agent was idiotic enough to get caught, he deserved to lose his job (and possibly his life).

The female lawyer was a blonde in her late forties. She was still a very attractive woman, not in a made-up "cougar" way like the woman on the plane, but she was good looking and powerful. Her strength was visible in every movement she made, every blink of her eyes, and every slight tilt of her head. She gracefully slid into the seat opposite Jackson. She opened her briefcase and dug around in it for a moment. Her pupils were concealed by long bangs that hung over her eyes just enough to be trendy. The young male lawyer stood to the side of the table, his briefcase on the table and his hands folded neatly behind his back. The dark skinned gentleman's crisp and immaculately smooth suit in conjunction with his neutral expression made him seem almost like a statue, but Jackson could feel authority radiate off him as well.

The woman collected a tube of lipstick from her briefcase. He had seen, and planted, enough smart jammers in his day to know an electronic frequency blocker when he saw one. Without looking upward, he knew that the red light on the room's surveillance camera had blinked off. As the blonde closed the tube, Jackson leapt to his feet and the male lawyer immediately backhanded him. Jackson stumbled back, unable to move very well due to the restraints on his ankles. The woman tossed the lipstick back into the briefcase and the dual snaps echoed in the room when she shut it. Before Jackson could regain his footing, she was already in front of him, pulling him up by the collar of his prison uniform. She leaned in close to his ear, and in the deep velvety voice saved for a lover, she whispered, "The Piper says 'hello.'"

Without giving her a chance to back away, Jackson smashed his head into hers with all his might, knocking her back onto the floor. The other lawyer pounded Jackson with his fists, inflicting upon him rapid hits one would issue in a boxing match. Jackson let himself fall to the floor and when the young man bent down to grab him, Jackson reached up and wrapped his handcuffed arms around his neck. He pulled the man down and released his hold on him so he could punch him in the eye and then again in the nose. While his attacker was disoriented, Jackson appropriated one of the chairs and slammed it down on him several times, cracking ribs and other bones with each blow. The man was barely breathing, but even barely was too much for Jackson. As he brought down the steel chair one last time, he did so on the man's head rather than his torso. A wet cracking sound filled the room.

Jackson didn't have a chance to set the chair down. A bony set of knuckles impacted the base of his spine and it rendered him helpless for a few seconds. As his body crumpled downward, strong feminine arms claimed him in a very masculine chokehold. Instead of fighting the hold, he used his legs to push himself backward and in the process shoved her into the steel table. In a flash, he wheeled around and struck his forearm across her throat, forcing her to gag as she gasped for air. Her arms flew around wildly as she panicked. Jackson's hands were close enough to the bottle of water on the table that, with a little effort, he could clutch it in his grasp.

"You put an oh-so-innocent bottle of water in the room," he said as he struggled with unscrewing the cap. It was not an easy feat to accomplish while handcuffed and holding down a thrashing woman, but he was feeling particularly motivated. "You cut the camera feed to the room," he grunted out as he finally made progress on removing the cap. "And you brought a date," he added, mindlessly nodding toward the remains of the other lawyer. "The only thing you didn't do is a good job of getting me off on all charges. A real public defender actually helps free criminals, especially the guilty ones. They want the attention so they can get a real job at a power firm and get the hell out of the public system. See, that's how I knew you worked for them. You only just confirmed it today."

"Do—do whatever you want to me," she spat, her voice rough and strained as she wheezed. "You're still a dead man." Jackson loosened his hold on her throat because she was finally starting to say the right things that he wanted to hear. "Prison loves pretty little bitches like you," she coughed out. "You're dead, one way or another."

Jackson made a disapproving face and returned maximum pressure to her throat. "Speaking of ways you're dead," he began, "would you prefer I break your neck or do you want to have a few sips of water?" Her only answer was a shrill whine of pain. "I'll take that as a drink," he answered on her behalf as he jerked her up by the hair, and tugged her into his arms and onto the floor. She didn't have a chance to resist him as he used her blonde locks to yank her head back and force water into her mouth. She tried to snatch his hair or scratch his face, but she was too tired and disoriented. She finally fell to the floor, a limp corpse whose hair was wet and whose make-up was runny. The poison meant for him was faster-acting and more painless than he had expected. Darn.

Jackson stood up slowly and looked from one body to the other, surveying his work. He had never done something so heinous or savage in his life. He wasn't particularly broken-up over it; it was kill or be killed. There was no room for weakness when one wanted to survive, and the man known as Jackson Rippner was nothing if not a survivor. He was wet, bloody, and bruised, and not all of the fluids on his body were his own. The adrenaline coursing through his veins was supposed to make him feel alive, make him feel like he wanted to live, yet it did nothing but remind him that he felt as he had always felt—like he was dead. If the Piper had his way, he would be dead in a more literal sense as well. Jackson wanted to live. He didn't know why exactly, but he suspected it was more of a control issue. Only Jackson would decide when Jackson would die, and Jackson wasn't ready yet.

He rubbed his bloody nose and mouth against the shoulder of his shirt in an attempt to clean off some of the blood from his busted lip and nose, but it didn't do much except make a bigger smear across his face. The door opened and two guards stepped into the room. One shut the door while the other approached Jackson.

"You know," the guard said, "there is a reason you didn't get charged with committing an act of terrorism." Jackson remained mute as a confident look of amusement and curiosity illuminated his inhumanly blue eyes. "Terrorists go to Gitmo. They're safe from the world in that place." The guard stepped closer and seized Jackson by the handcuff chain. "But here," he continued as he unhurriedly dragged Jackson toward the door. "Here is where we have a wonderful thing called Gen Pop. Accidents happen all the time here and it's a shame that these monsters never learn how not to fight so…randomly."

With the guards in the Piper's pocket and who knew what other surprises waiting for him, Jackson's thoughts evolved into a simple mental groan of misery.

It was going to be a long thirty years.

TBC…