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Jo watches the general's car pull away. A faint frown settles on her face, and she retreats back into the garage, closing the bay doors as she goes. She leans under the hood of the Falcon once more, returning to the work she was doing before she was interrupted, but her attention is not on the car.
She leans on the front end, staring down at the motor, but not really seeing it. "Bugger it all," she murmurs, her Irish accent undisguised, as it had been when Rachel Mahoney walked the world openly. "I've gotta find the leak." Because it is not a good thing when the government is able to track her down.
Pushing off the car, she closes the hood with a thud. The Triumph out back is a better choice than the Falcon in the bay. She takes a few moments to set her tools to rights — a long habit rather than conscious thought. Then, it's off with the coveralls and on with the leather jacket and motorcycle helmet.
Cruising through the mid-town streets isn't nearly as satisfying as the Jersey countryside had been. For one thing, there's more traffic. For another, the taxis are all right proper bastards when they drive. Especially when they drive slower than she.
Still, it's not long before she's rolling up to the loading bay door of the old factory and warehouse she's been slowly converting into a more useable maker space. (Nevermind that it's a good 40 or 50 years before it might be formally called that.) The charred remains of the target she blew up a day or two ago are swept over into a corner, but not yet disposed of. And the coil gun lays on the workbench, still, awaiting further tweaks. It's the phone in the corner she moves toward, however, picking it up and dialing a number.
"Jake Conway," picks up the phone on the other end after bearly a ring-and-a-half.
Jo smiles some at the voice, sounding a little older than she really remembers. "Jakey, y'old duffer," she says, letting her accent reign, "been a while."
"Who? Wait. Rachel? Izzat you?"
"In the flesh. So t'speak. Sorry I haven't kept in close touch."
"Well, no. No, I understand," Jake says now, and she can hear him scrape a chair across the floor. He's probably in the back room of the diner. "You were tryin' to disappear, after all." A beat. "I had a feeling I'd be hearing from you."
"Mm," she replies. "I was hopin' I was wrong."
There's silence on the other end of the phone for a handful of heartbeats. "I take it that government fellah actually found you, huh?"
"In a manner of speaking." She frowns and straightens, now, imagining him as he once was, rather than the 50-something fellow he must be now. "You weren't supposed to give out that number, y'know. That was our agreement. Emergencies only. And only for you."
"I know. I know, Rae. But, c'mon. Think about it. The whole world's at stake. I couldn't just— It was the president askin', honey. I may not like the democratic bastard, but I couldn't say no."
"You're tellin' me JFK called you up personally and said, 'Hey, Jakey, can ya tell me where your old girlfriend is?'"
"Well, no. No. 'Course not. But it was Thunderbolt Ross doin' the askin', honey. That man don't take no for an answer."
"That man," Jo replies with some rancor, "is a pompous ass, as far as I can tell. And, he'll take 'no' if I tell it to him. I'm done with savin' the world. Y'know that. I was disappearin' for a reason."
"Yeah. I know. I know… but, honey… this ain't Hydra or the Nazis we're talkin' about here. I mean, I heard those aliens are fittin' to take over the whole world worse than Hitler ever could. Hell, I'd help out if it were the President askin' me."
"You, Jake Conway, don't live with the same ghosts I do."
"No. I don't. I've got my own. Look, Rae, just think about it before you tell him to kiss off, okay?"
"Mm," she grunts again. "Mebbe. I'll see what he has to say. But don't go holdin' your breath, y'old chancer."
"Go save the world, honey. It still deserves it."