An End to Hiding
"We found him", said the voice on the phone. "Wheels up in 160 hours."
Meanwhile, in California, "We found him in, Bill. He's working as a bartender in New York. We can be there tomorrow." "Let's move", said Bill.
While in New York, "We have a new number, Mr. Reese, one Desmond Miles, who has been masquerading as a Dan Thompson for the past several years. In fact, there is more information on file for Dan Thompson than for Mr. Miles. You can find him working a bar on 49th street."
"Any reasons why someone would be intending to harm Mr. Miles, Finch?"
"No, Mr. Reese," Harold Finch, the voice in his ear bud said. "In fact, the only thing that makes this guy stand out is that he is almost a ghost. He has no phone, no email, and no social networking accounts. The only thing with his name on it is his motorcycle license, and both that and his bank account are in the name of Daniel D. Thompson. The only reason I could connect the two is traffic cam footage of him without his helmet matched against old photos from Child Services. I'm currently working on opening his old foster care records and seeing if there is anything in there. Until then, Mr. Reese, I can't tell you anything you don't already know."
"I'll keep you informed."
Reese walked into the bar. Desmond noticed immediately. It was his job to observe everything he could about a customer and try to predict their needs. The man was completely overdressed. Nobody wore a full suit to this bar. But a suit like that meant a wallet to match, and Desmond got by on tips.
"What would you like, sir?" he yelled at the well-dressed man.
"I'll get a boiler-maker" replied the man.
"Navy" observed Desmond. Most people didn't just tip for quick drinks. People came to the bar when they were down and lonely, and if the bartender could cheer them up, or stimulate them in conversation, they parted with their money more easily.
"Army", replied the man, "A long time ago. But, I spent a lot of time on ships. I acquired an affinity for the Navy while I was there."
"Afghanistan?" asked Desmond.
"For my third and fourth tours", replied the man, but my first was in Bosnia, and the second in Serbia."
"How long were you in for?" asked Desmond.
"'96 through 2001. I got out for a few months, but after 9/11 I reenlisted. Served 2001 through 2006."
"How's civilian life been treating you?"
"Well, enough. I got a good job, and it makes people happy. I actually need to get back to it."
"The drink's on me" Reese left, leaving the money for the drink on the table as well as a lofty tip.
Once he was outside, Reese tapped his ear bud to open the line to Finch.
"Mr. Miles doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would have someone after him, Finch. Have you found anything?"
"Mr. Reese, Miles ran away from home when he was 16. He lived in several foster homes until he was 18 and then in a homeless shelter in San Diego until he changed his name at 19. A week later he arrived in New York and started over, presumably so that whatever he ran away from couldn't find him. This might be an ancient ghost coming back to haunt him."
The next day was uneventful until 2:15. It was 45 minutes after the end of the lunch rush and 45 minutes until the end of the work day. Desmond was inside, cleaning shot glasses when 6 men armed with police batons came in into the bar.
"Take him" said one of the men. But before anyone could move, the man in the suit from yesterday entered the room. He punched the first baton wielding man in the chin, knocking him out cold. The second thug attempted to strike Reese, but Reese kneed him, first in the stomach and then in the face, neutralizing him as well. Drawing his handgun, Reese shot the remaining thugs. They were only flesh wounds, but they still crippled the thugs.
"Desmond", he said urgently, "Come with me!"
"Who are you?" asked Desmond, as they darted out the door.
"A concerned third party", replied Reese sardonically.
They got in Reese's car and sped back to Harold, not noticing the man on the sidewalk taking a picture of the two.