Disclaimer: The characters of Person of Interest don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit.

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Author's note: This story takes place in the second half of Season 3, but before the entire Samaritan storyline.

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Acknowledgements: Thanks to scully1138 for her amazing beta-work. And to BullDemon for her encouraging words. I wasn't going to post this story, but she kindly insisted that I did.

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Summary: Everyone has a breaking point, and Harold Finch might just find his.

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Chapter 1

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"Move."

There was no time for John Reese to actually even attempt to start moving before he was shoved in the back none too gently. He stumbled, and almost lost his footing since he couldn't use his arms to balance out his movements. The zip-ties keeping his arms locked behind his back cut into his flesh as he struggled not to fall. In the end all that prevented him from an undignified tumble was the cold, solid metal of the shipping container to his left.

There were thousands of them at the dock - forming a giant, metallic, man-made maze in which John had led his pursuers in hopes of losing them. He had, however, grossly underestimated their home-turf advantage. They knew their way around. He didn't. That's why he had walked right into their trap. Or more accurately into the man with the metal pipe.

John was pretty sure he could thank his years of training and the reflexes they had instilled in him for the fact that his skull now only sported a profusely bleeding laceration and what promised to be one hell of bump, instead of having been cracked open by the vicious whack delivered to it by a guy who looked like he enjoyed spending all his free time at the gym.

His instincts warned Reese of the metal object fast approaching from behind him a split-second before it connected with the base of his skull, and his immediately initiated evasive maneuver probably saved his life. But he hadn't been fast enough, and Schwarzenegger managed to graze his temple with the pipe. The glancing blow still packed enough force to drop John like a stone.

When he'd come to again his head was killing him and his vision was blurry and - while he was still stunned from the blow - he was just all too aware that he'd been disarmed and his hands had been tied behind his back.

"We got one of them," a voice said somewhere above him, and Reese had almost sighed in relief. Apparently his diversion had worked and Finch had gotten away. That was all that mattered, and John would start contemplating what sort of trouble he was in as soon as the world stopped spinning and his stomach gave up on insisting on purging itself of its meager contents.

He had been pulled roughly onto his feet, and physically motivated to move before he'd had a chance to figure out the rhythm to his swaying. Held somewhat upright by the hard surface of the container, John pressed his eyes closed to shut out the still gyrating world, and swallowed down the bile that burned in his throat.

Definitely a concussion. He'd had enough of those to be sure.

Hands clamped painfully around his upper arm, pulled him off the container and dragged him along. The ex-op would never admit it, but for the first couple of yards he was actually in need of the support. However by the time they reached the waterfront Reese had recovered enough to actually be contemplating trying to break free and make a run for it. The odds though, were not in his favor. Four to one - he being unarmed and with bound hands - while the other four most likely were armed to their teeth, and had no qualms about shooting him in the back. Besides, using the maze of containers as cover hadn't really worked out for him the last time, and in the absence of any alternative escape plans John figured his best option was to go with wait and see.

He knew that backup was not an option at the moment as Shaw had been tasked with shadowing a second Number on his business trip upstate. Even if Finch had called her the second he got away it would still take her at least a couple of hours to get here. And Harold knew better than to send in Fusco on his own.

He and his merry little group of chaperones were greeted by an extremely pissed off looking Michael Mercer, and that in itself was indeed a very satisfying sight. John had felt an almost immediate dislike for the man the moment he had met Mercer two days prior, and since then his first impression had proven to be extremely accurate. The man was a murderous, egocentric son of a bitch with a more than slight sadistic streak. When Reese had to take Harold along for some midnight snooping at the offices of Mercer's small Import/Export enterprise he had not liked it. Not one bit. But when it came to firewalls, encrypted networks, sub-servers and such hullabaloo John just couldn't deny that it lay beyond his area of expertise.

He didn't know if he should laugh or smack his forehead against the wall, but in the end it had turned out that Harold's skills weren't needed. Mercer had been smart enough to keep the incriminating records purely as hard copy but dumb enough to lock them away in an easy-to-pick safe - at least for someone with John's training ... and his stash of explosives.

Unfortunately his method of safe-cracking attracted more unwanted attention than John had anticipated, which had let to his decision to split up, and to draw their pursuers away from Finch.

He was dragged toward the pissed off Mercer, who probably knew exactly what had been taken from his safe - one look would have been enough - and what sort of trouble he could be in if that file were to end up in the hands of the law.

"You." Apparently the dislike had been mutual as Mercer regarded Reese with disdain, managing to make the single word sound like a slur. "Do you have it?" he asked one of his men, who shook his head. "No. He didn't have it on him."

"And the other guy?"

Mercer's men looked uncomfortably at each other, silently arguing out between themselves who should deliver the bad news until the same man - who had answered their boss's question before - shook his head again.

Mercer cursed, and kicked a grate beside him before getting into John's face. "Your friend has it, doesn't he?" The former CIA agent ignored him, pissing him off even more. He grabbed Reese by the lapel of his coat and pulled him so close their faces almost touched and the ex-op could smell Scotch on the other man's breath. "Where is he?" Mercer asked, his voice quiet yet strained with anger. "Where is the file?"

John's eyes slowly moved from a point somewhere in the distance to focus on the unshaven face in front of him, and he allowed a small smirk to creep onto his lips. "I don't know."

Mercer stared at him - his eyes burning into Reese's calm ones - and his breath grew more and more pronounced. Finally he let go of John with a push and an angry huff. Turning around he tore at his hair in frustration, just to spin back again with a roar and to use his momentum to deliver a surprise punch to Reese's face. Spinning with the punch - and without the use of his arms - John had a hard time keeping his balance. He stumbled backwards and the world was once more spinning like mad.

Tasting blood in his mouth, Reese felt the telltale sting and pull of a split lip but didn't get any farther with cataloguing his growing collection of cuts and bruises as Mercer drove a fist into his unprotected stomach. The blow forced the air out of his lungs, causing his knees to buckle while his torso curled reflexively around the pain.

Landing hard on his knees, John grunted in pain as his vision started to grey and the asphalt of the docks rushed up to meet his face. He lay there - dazed and panting - while the blood from the cut on his forehead dripped into his eyes. He expected a kick to his ribs or kidneys to follow any second now, but instead hands were patting him down and going through his pockets.

"There you go," said Mercer, as he pulled Reese's smartphone from within the folds of his coat. John had lost his earpiece when his head had made the acquaintances with the metal pipe. He wasn't entirely sure if the phone had automatically severed the connection to Finch's device when his earpiece had gotten out of range, but he certainly hoped so now.

Reese rolled onto his side - still breathing heavily - and attempted to at least get back onto his knees while Mercer inspected his phone with his goons just looking on. They could at least give him a hand, John thought.

"I'm sure you've got your buddy on speed-dial, don't you?" John shot the man a withering sideways glance, and spat out some blood on the pavement in front of him as an answer. The other man seemed to have reined in his anger, sounding almost pleasant. "Let's see ... Call History ... sounds promising." Mercer gave John a speculative look, trying to gauge the other's reaction. Unbothered by Reese's lack of emotion he continued in a conversational tone, "You better tell your friend to get back here."

John looked at him with a steady gaze, and with quiet finality said, "No."

Mercer's eyebrow twitched, and Reese expected him to launch into a torrent of threats. But instead the man went back to inspecting his phone. "I see your phone's got a video streaming feature." He grinned. "Pictures do say more than a million words, don't they?"

He continued to manipulate the phone until the LED on its backside started to glow and exclaimed in triumph, "Ha! We're online."

He aimed the phone towards John, who winced and turned his head away from the bright light. "I've got your friend," Mercer said matter-of-factly. Refusing to look at the phone and its bright LED and camera, Reese kept stoically staring ahead across the dark water of the Upper Bay. Mercer motioned for one of his goons to take the phone, then pulled out a gun and aimed it at Reese's head. "I want that file back. You've got thirty seconds."

John heard the click as Mercer cocked the gun, briefly closed his eyes and exhaled. He should have tried to break free and make a run for it. The outcome would have probably been pretty much the same, but that way Finch wouldn't have been put into a situation where he had to stand by and watch.

"Twenty."

Looking across the still water of the Upper Bay, John took in the sight of the lights of Manhattan and Brooklyn, and their reflections on the dark surface. He even had a good view of the illuminated Lady Liberty farther up the bay. As last sights went, this was actually not a bad one. Beautiful even.

"Ten."

John wasn't afraid. He'd never really feared death, otherwise he wouldn't have been as good at what he did. There was a time when he would have actually welcomed death with open arms. He didn't believe in an afterlife, or the judging of souls. All death promised was an end to everything. An end to suffering and pain.

And also to contentment.

Now he wasn't really surprised that he actually felt some sort of remorse - he had failed Harold and his purpose. But then they had both known that it would end like this or in a similar way eventually.

Mercer was counting down the numbers aloud now, drawing nearer to the final number with inevitability.

And John Reese was ready.

"Four ... Three ... Two ..."

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To be continued ...