Keeping his head down, Reese leaned back in his seat. Traveling from New Rochelle back to NYC should only take him about 45 minutes on the train. Rubbing his hands together, he realized they ached. The knuckles were bruised and cut and his left hand was beginning to swell. Wiping his hands on his thighs he realized what he was really trying to do was trying to rub off a slight wetness. Quickly turning his hands over he looked at his palms. Partially dried blood could be easily seen. Balling his hands up into fists to hide the blood made his knuckles split more and start bleeding.
Without raising his head, he cut his eyes to the side. Nobody was sitting across the aisle. Raising his head slightly, he looked at the seat in front of him. Also empty. There were a couple of people toward the front of the car, on the other side of the aisle. They all seemed to be ignoring him. Good. He needed to blend into the woodwork.
He began worrying that people would wonder why his hands looked so beaten up; he didn't need anybody asking questions. Crossing his arms he stuffed his hands under his suit jacket. Feeling something damp, he pulled his jacket open. Bright red blood was all over his white shirt. Damn, the wound from Ordoz had started bleeding again.
His Chinese rescuer, Zhang, had told him he was not completely healed yet and to be careful or all that hard work he had done to save him would have been for nought. But he'd been frantic to get back to Jessica and ignored the man's warning. Shaking his head, he laughed grimly to himself. Beating Peter to death with his bare hands probably did not qualify as 'being careful'.
He was very good at killing people...in fact, he knew hundreds of different ways to do so. But he'd never liked killing people...until now, until Peter. Even as he thought the man's name, he snarled with contempt. He had enjoyed that very much. Too much. For the first time in his adult life he'd actually lost control.
Closing his eyes, he slowly shook his head side to side. He barely remembered what he'd done. But Peter never had a chance. Just like his sweet Jessica had never had a chance.
Even thinking her name made him gasp in pain...but not the kind of pain that could be eased with a bandage or meds. This was a pain deep in his chest...one that made breathing difficult. Made him moan out loud. He clamped down hard on that pain or he knew it would threaten to completely undo him. He locked it away deep inside, far, far down so nothing and no one would ever touch Jessica or that pain again.
But he'd made very sure Peter felt pain. Every time he'd punched Peter he made sure it was in a spot to cause the most pain...but not enough let him become unconscious. He wanted that animal to feel his rage at what he had done to Jessica. And so that was just what he'd done. Eventually, he'd realized Peter was no longer trying to defend himself or to get away. Looking down at the bloody remains of what had once been a man he had finally stepped back.
Breathing heavily, he realized Peter was dead. Dead and gone. Never to hurt anyone ever again. Reese, being the meticulously vicious killer he'd been trained to be, Peter never had a chance. Even after picking up a fire iron. Reese had relieved him of that quickly. With his knee banged up and in a brace Peter couldn't outrun him. So Reese just beat him where he stood. Peter landed one blow and it was a good one. By pure coincidence, it hit him right where he'd been shot in Ordoz. The pain from that blow and the anger over what had been done to Jessica flipped the 'kill' switch in Reese.
That was when Reese lost all conscious thought, all the parts that made him human, the parts he'd worked so hard to hold on to all through his work for the CIA. The only thoughts he was left with was a desire to take out his anger and rage on the man that he'd entrusted Jessica to and who had, in turn, killed her. Reese's anger at himself for abandoning her and not being able to get to her when she called for help only amplified his rage.
Sanity had been slow to return. Holding onto his side, he knew he had to 'clean up' what he'd done. Looking around the dining room where he'd destroyed Peter he realized there was only this room to sanitize. And he'd done that many, many times in his years with the CIA.
Finally the train pulled into the station and Reese stood up to leave the car. He became dizzy and almost fell back down into his seat. Grabbing the back of the seat in front of him, he took a moment to regain his equilibrium while letting the others get off ahead of him. Pulling his jacket tight around him to hide the blood on his shirt, he glanced back at his seat and was relieved to see he hadn't bled on it.
Slowly making his way off the train, he was pushed and shoved by the people trying to get on the train. The pain in his side kept him conscious and focused. He set his sights on the stairs leading up to the street and pushed forward.
Stepping out onto streets of NYC he was immediately taken back to the time he first met Peter. And almost saw Jessica. The thought brought such intense pain that he gasped out loud and stumbled. She was gone. He'd been too late. She was dead...lost to him forever.
Seeing his unkempt appearance, people shied away rather than try to help, probably thinking he was drunk. Which actually wasn't such a bad idea.
Thinking about that 'run-in' with Peter, Reese almost screamed aloud with rage. If Kara hadn't talked him out of seeing her...would he have seen the same scared, timid Jessica that he'd seen in that wedding video? If he had, he would have taken Jessica away right then and there. To HELL with the CIA and his country. What if he had waited to see her...?
Reese staggered to the wall of a building and leaned heavily on it. The internal screaming was getting louder. What if...GOD there were so many 'what ifs' in his miserable life.
What if he had gotten out of the army like he'd told Jess he would? Would they now be Mr & Mrs John...NO! Damn it. Can't go there. Ever.
Or what if he had stayed with her even when he re-enlisted in the army after 9/11? Would the CIA have come after him? They usually didn't take agents who were married. Jessica could have handled being an army wife. Being a nurse would have allowed her to transfer with him and get a job anywhere. NO DAMN IT! Stop it! He couldn't change what had happened!
He needed to stop his brain...stop the direction his thoughts were taking him. All of that was lost with Jessica. Rubbing his hands over his face he was surprised at the week's worth of beard. How much time had he lost? He was in so much pain...mentally, physically and emotionally he couldn't make himself move. But he needed to move, move away from the wall and walk. The instinct to not remain in one place for long was too well ingrained in him, first as a Ranger in the Army and then in his time with the CIA.
But walk where? He had no place to go. As far as the CIA knew, he had been blown up along with Kara in Ordos. They wouldn't be looking for him. He needed a drink. A strong one. And lots of it.
Going through his pockets he came up with $28.82. That was all he had in the world. Both literally and figuratively. It was all he had left after buying the train ticket to and from New Rochelle. He needed to eat and he needed a drink. He figured the drink would do him better. He began walking down the street looking for a liquor store. People gave him room when he walked towards them. He was dirty but he carried an aura of danger that made people nervous. If only they knew just HOW dangerous he could be, they'd do more than just shy away from him. If they could actually see how dark he was inside, they would run screaming the other way.
It took a couple of blocks before he found a liquor store. Looking around he realized he was not in a very good part of town. Few people were on the streets and the fact that there were NO yellow cabs told him he was far from downtown. There were some questionable people hanging around the outside of the liquor store, begging for money to buy liquor. One started to approach him to beg but one look at Reese's face and he quickly faded back into the dark.
There were bars on the windows and the door. The lights were on inside and Reese could see the guy behind the cash register waiting on a customer. He pulled open the door and he heard the tinkling of the bell that let the cashier know someone had come in. He glanced up at Reese while handing change back to the customer he'd been helping.
The man wasn't too concerned about Reese...he'd seen worse. Lots worse in this end-of-the-world neighborhood. He caught his eye and just nodded to him. Reese nodded back and went towards the back of the store where the cheap liquor was.
Checking the prices, Reese kept going farther to the back. His money wasn't going to buy very much. He was trying to figure out if he should buy two bottles of OK liquor or four bottles of rot gut. Want he wanted was to drink and make the pain go away...make the world go away. He'd lost everything he'd ever cared about and had nothing left. Oblivion would be a welcome release.
Finally deciding for quantity over quality, he bought 4 bottles of the cheapest liquor the store had and put them on the counter. He dug into his pants pocket pulled out the crumpled $28.00 in bills.
"That going to be all for you tonight?" asked the man at the cash register. Looking at Reese up close, he realized he wasn't the normal type of customer he got in here. Suit was kind of dirty and the white shirt had seen better days but it was decent quality. He looked up at Reese's face and froze.
There was nothing behind the eyes. Just emptiness and death. He felt chilled to the bone. Last time he'd seen a look like that was during Desert Storm. When men came back from some of their black-op missions. He knew to say very little and to keep his distance.
Those four bottles of rot gut cost Reese $17.50. That left him with $11.32. Maybe he would get himself something to eat. Opening one bottle right at the counter he took a long swallow. He welcomed the burn of the cheap booze as it slid down his throat. If it wasn't for the burn he'd swear he was dead...after so many days of pain...mental, emotional and physical pain. The lack of pain made him wonder if he was one of the walking dead.
Walking out of the liquor store, Reese ignored the men standing off to the left, in the shadows. They certainly saw him, and his four bottles. Two of the men started following him. One block over Reese found a bodega and went in. Grabbing some snacks he paid for them and went back out. He knew the two men had followed him. They fell back in behind him as he walked away.
The street was relatively dark and there were few people about. Reese took a couple of more pulls on the open bottle of liquor. He had downed half the bottle before he realized it. Shaking his head he just kept walking and throwing back the bottle until it was gone.
Being ex-military he couldn't bring himself to throw the empty on the street so he looked for a trash can. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the two men following him. He knew what they wanted. But they were going to have to fight him to get the bottles.
Finding a trash can, he threw the empty away. Opening the second bottle, he closed his eyes and he took a couple of swallows. Because it had been so long since he'd eaten anything, he was starting to feel the effects of the booze. He knew that was what his 'watchers' were hoping for, that he'd be too drunk to give them much trouble. Taking a deep breath, he took one more long drink before he put the cap back on the bottle.
Turning away he walked farther down the street. He could hear the two men behind him. He wasn't worried about them. He knew he could still handle them. He just didn't want the bottles of liquor to get broken.
He headed toward a park and walked down one of the paths. It was overgrown but he could follow it. He stopped by a bench and carefully placed the three liquor bottles down. Thinking better of it, he picked up the open bottle again and drank it down til it was empty. Two-fifths of cheap liquor in such a short time was finally having a noticeable effect on him. He weaved a little as he was standing there holding the empty bottle and unbuttoned his suit jacket.
He heard the two men come up behind him. Using the empty liquor bottle like a bat he swung around and cold-cocked the closest guy who went down in a boneless heap. The second guy was right there and swung his fist aiming at Reese's head. But he never connected. Reese ducked and followed up with an uppercut that took him out. With just two swings Reese handled the two men and left them unconscious on the ground.
Wiping his hands on his pants, he took stock of himself. He placed his hand on the dried blood on his shirt but there was no fresh blood. He carefully buttoned his jacket again. No need for anybody to see that.
Once again he looked for a trash can and got rid of the second bottle of booze. Finding a quiet, relatively dark part of the park he sat down on a bench and opened the third bottle and took a swallow. If nobody else came along, he just might be able to drink himself to sleep and to forget.
Thoughts of Jessica threatened to take over but he willed them away, pushing them down deep. He was not ready to deal with them. Taking another long drag on the bottle, he leaned his head back and stared at the sky. He kept waiting for the alcohol to do its job and take the edge of the pain away, to blur the images in his mind. Closing his eyes, blanked out the outside world but made his world collapse in on him. He could feel the raw pain welling up in him once again. He had left her behind. He made that decision. And it had cost her her life. A low groan escaped him as he remembered that day in the airport when she'd asked him to say those words…"Please stay". God, if he'd only opened his damn mouth and said those two words! She'd be alive. Tears slowly rolled down his cheeks as he wrapped himself in a cloak of misery and pain.
Snapping his head back up he looked around himself wildly. His breath came in short gasps, he wanted to yell as loud as he could, to scream in rage. Balling his hands into fists, he brought one down hard on the bench. With the other he slammed the half bottle of booze down on the bench and was immediately brought up short. Dragged out of his misery, he looked down at the bottle. He'd slammed it hard enough that some spilled out but at least he hadn't broken the bottle. He precious elixir was still there.
Taking another swig of the bottle, he looked and realized he'd almost finished off the third bottle. Damn Kara Stanton! She had worked on him until he could hold his liquor...a lot of liquor, and still not be incapacitated. He had prefered to NOT drink while working but she'd pointed out at that first meeting and many times after that it made him stand out in a crowd. But his job was to blend in. And blending in meant being able to drink anywhere, anytime and anything and still hold it together. Thanks to her training, it was probably going to take more than four fifths to drink himself into oblivion.
Thinking of Kara brought back a whole different set of memories and emotions. Some good but most bad. But at least not painful like his thoughts of Jessica. He grabbed ahold of that one thought and stayed with it.
He'd thought a lot about Kara during his escape and convalescence with Zhang. He'd given up everything because of her. His job, his country...his life. And he'd let her turn him into an extremely adept killing machine. Taught him to turn off any emotions that would get in the way of 'getting the job done'. No matter what, that was the overriding goal...get the job done. He was still trying to accept that they were both given a kill order but she tried to complete her mission while he didn't. What bothered him was she shot him, knowing he had a vest on, but didn't go for a Kill Shot. Why? He knew her well enough to know that she followed orders without question. That very thing was what had begun to undermine their relationship. She never worried about right or wrong. Kara felt that the right or wrong had been decided by Control and it was not her job to question the order...just follow the order. He had begun to doubt some of the missions they had been on together. Some things just didn't feel 'right' and he began questioning things but after being rebuffed by her more than once with his questions he kept them to himself.
But Kara had been his handler, his mentor, his trainer, his partner and on occasion, his lover. Although 'lover' was not really the right word. Their coupling was more of a stress reliever, a physical release. Sometimes they couldn't even wait until they got back to the safe house. Once she'd forced him into an alley and he took her up against a wall. But there had never been any emotion involved...which in the end, had left him unsatisfied.
Taking another long pull on the bottle he realized it was empty. Three down, one to go. And he was still in pain, still remembering. Please GOD let this last bottle do it. Opening the last bottle he held it up as a salute to his dead partner, blown up by their own government.
Without her at his side he felt rudderless. For so long they had been a team. Working perfectly together. Most targets feared him, but she was really the more dangerous one. It had not taken him long to realize that Kara was a sociopath. She was very good at her job. She seemed to enjoy the torture and the killing. He could do both but he did not derive pleasure from it like she did. He found himself trying to cause as little pain as possible; dead was dead after all.
They had lived side by side, in each others' pockets for eight years, seldom coming back to the US. The CIA was not allowed to work in the US. And now she was dead. He was supposed to be dead. He was disillusioned with the CIA and had absolutely no reason to let them know he was alive.
The woman he'd come back half across the world for was dead. Because he'd been doing his job and couldn't get back to her in time. The only two women in his adult life were gone. He had no family. There was no one for him.
His eyes were getting heavier and his thoughts were finally getting sluggish. Tipping the bottle up, he took three good swallows and almost threw up. The rotgut liquor was finally getting to him. He fished around in his pockets until he found the snacks he'd bought with the rest of his money. Nibbling on crackers and sipping on the bottle of booze he slowly felt himself drifting off. He carefully put down the bottle next to the bench. There was about 1/3 left, no need to waste it. Sighing deeply he stretched out on the bench and drifted off, oblivion finally claiming him.