A/N: So... this happened. I promised myself I wouldn't post before it was complete, but I also promised myself it would be done before the premiere of Season 5. I may return back to the comfort zone of S1/S2 when it's finished!
"Finch?"
Static. A hum.
Shots echoed from a neighboring corridor as he tapped the com in his ear.
"Could use a little help here."
"Mr. Reese. Where are you?"
Reese knelt at the end of the hallway to reload.
"What was that phrase you used earlier-" Reese snapped the magazine into place and pulled back the slide on top of the barrel of the pistol.
There was a faint tread of footsteps and he leaned around the corner, firing twice.
A grunt, a thud.
Getting to his feet. "-Something being ill-advised?"
There was another round of shots fired, censoring his employer's response. Reese hissed as a bullet narrowly missed his shoulder.
"I'm upstairs," he said, pausing for a breath. "Need an exit."
The hotel was a maze of hallways. Elevators, stairwells.
Armed Russian mobsters.
It was ill-advised to re-enter the building, if he remembered correctly.
A pause. The sound of typing. "There's a private elevator from the 1930s," Finch started, speaking quickly. "Used by General Pershing, MacArthur, Franklin Roosevelt-"
"Finch."
A pause.
Typing.
"The elevator took them directly to the lobby and their suites from a underground train platform."
There was a stairwell in front of him, Reese cleared the hallway and took the door. There was static in his ear, then Finch's typing.
He exited on the fourth floor.
"An exit, Finch," he said. He just needed a way out. "How do I get to it?"
Finch hammered off three suites, a floor, a direction.
At the same time another voice in his ear relayed one simple phrase.
:: Three o'clock. ::
A bullet lodged itself into the wall above his head and he spun, shooting out two kneecaps. The two men crumpled to the floor with groans and Reese looked to his right.
A window.
He glanced up and down the carpeted hall before stepping toward it. Peering down.
The alley below held a dumpster. He raised his eyebrows.
He was four stories up.
"Mr. Reese?"
He had once fallen from six stories.
The latch unlocked easily, he hoisted up the window, pushing out the screen.
A commotion down the hall.
The mechanical voice in his ear: :: Jump. ::
"John?"
He jumped.
Earlier that night, things had turned with a single word.
:: Silver. ::
At a lavish Midtown wedding, buried somewhere in a midst of colorful, tissue-stuffed gift bags and paper-wrapped boxes, a thumb drive sat awaiting pick-up.
Hours into the event, already doubting their plan of interception, Reese had cocked his head as the static word came in over his ear com.
Taking a pause, his serving tray of shrimp puffs and bacon-wrapped scallops abandoned on the bar, he scanned the room.
The bartender eyed him critically-not the first time that night-as his gaze wandered across the parquet dance floor.
A thumping bass. Dim lights and flashing strobes.
His eyes found Finch first, three-piece suit and checkered tie.
Conversing about having gone to college with the bride's brother's uncle's something- "computer engineering, actually"- his employer made no indication of having heard anything. A glance his way, but it wasn't with news or alarm. Just a mutual check-in.
To Reese's left the father of the bride was throwing back vodka shots with comrades. Bellows of laughter ensuing, louder each round.
His eyes reworked the room, slowly scanning. Landing back on the gift table.
He sensed the moment a slight hand lifted a half dozen hors d'oeuvres from his abandoned platter.
"Easy, Shaw," he murmured, keeping his eyes trained past her.
"We might not make it to dinner," came the muttered reply. She signaled to the barkeep.
Reese watched as she gave the ass of bartender a wink with her order. He stayed silent.
"Jealous?" Her eyes flicked to him. A smug smile.
He turned his own eyes back to the ballroom.
Shaw took the beer and appraised him critically with her first swallow. "Nice tie."
The tie in question, a bow tie, had been redone by Finch earlier that evening after his own attempt had been deemed unsatisfactory.
He gave her another look.
Whatever.
"It's the silver one," he said, and she frowned as his eyes went back across the dance floor. "Foil-wrapped, silver ribbon."
Shaw turned, casually leaning her back against the bar. Her gaze, following his direction, zoned in on the small, carefully wrapped box at the rightmost corner of the gift table.
She flicked her eyes back to him. "X-Ray vision?"
"Something like that."
She wasn't amused. She waited for more, but he didn't give it.
"Have Finch meet me upstairs."
"That's your job, busboy." Shaw took a last swig from the beer bottle and set it on his tray. "I'll get the package."
Reese turned back to her with a frown of his own, but she had already slipped away.
He abandoned his role. Moving across the ballroom, toward the circle Finch had infiltrated.
Past the raw bar, the meat-carving station, the two guests requesting more champagne.
At the edge of the small group, Reese cleared his throat. "Sir?"
Five pairs of eyes turned his way. Among them, Alek Ivanov, brother of their number.
Too close, Finch.
He gave his employer a look.
The older man raised his eyebrows.
"You have a phone call," Reese said, for lack of a better out.
Finch looked amused, then excused himself from the circle.
Out of earshot. "A phone call?"
Reese didn't respond.
"We're well into the twenty-first century, Mr. Reese. Cell phones and so forth."
"They bought it fine, Finch."
He waited until they were near the exit of the four-story, two-tiered ballroom to speak again.
"We found it."
Finch shifted sideways with his gaze, then stepped through the doorway behind him. A murmured, "That was quick."
Reese stopped mid-step and Finch landed a hand on his back as he almost walked into him.
A female voice: "That was quick. Saves us some time."
Reese stared.
Finch pushed him slightly forward and then stepped up to the side.
He blinked.
Root.
"Ms. Groves," he managed. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Hi, Harold." A look to Reese and her smile faded, no greeting.
He stared back stoically.
"She asked me to follow up on the drive. It's of… interest," Root said. She looked back to Finch. Before either could comment, she continued, "We have to move."
Reese scanned the hallway. Nothing stood out.
Glancing to Finch.
In his ear, the static voice.
:: Elevator. ::
Reese tilted his head. "Elevator," he said, touching Finch's arm.
Root gave him a curious look and Reese ignored it, herding Finch to the metal doors.
She followed.
Pressing the button. A ding as the elevator doors opened.
They stepped through.
On the ride up, silence. Reese glanced to his right. A question. Finch gave an ever-so-slight shake of his head.
Reese turned his gaze forward again, not bothering to hide his frown.
Upstairs, Shaw opened the suite door. At the sight of the extra party member, a flicker of surprise broke through her expression.
As her hesitation grew, Reese pushed past into the hotel room. Frowning at the sugary, "Hey, sweetie," behind him, he moved to the windows. Drawing the curtains. Peering behind one of them.
Giving Shaw a look.
She made a face back.
"Erik Ivanov," Finch was saying. He and Root were setting up laptops on the desk, moving swiftly, the drive sitting between them.
"Prominent member of the Russian mob. Also a prominent member of one of the largest broadband and telecommunications companies here in New York."
Finch was bringing a series of windows up on his screen, typing quickly. Reaching for the drive, he glanced to Root, filling her in.
"In recent months, Ivanov's goal has been to 'kill the copper', if you will. Abandon the landlines, move everything to wireless."
Plugging in the drive, Finch's fingers went back to the keys.
"Something he's been targeted for, even from within the Russian community."
People liked what they knew and feared the monopoly.
The screen changed, another series of windows opening. Finch paused, scanning the contents. Pressing his mouth into a frown as he scrolled through.
Root waited until he had pieced together a few lines of the code before she spoke.
"It's more than that, Harold."
He glanced at her, raising his eyebrows.
Behind them Shaw looked to Reese, exchanging a glance.
Nope. He was clueless too.
Root spoke suddenly. "We need to move."
A repeat of her earlier words. Closing down her laptop, quickly returning it to a bag that was slung over her shoulder. A slight tilt of her head.
"Now."
Reese was already moving toward the door. Reaching a hand under his suit jacket.
Taking his cue, Shaw's hand went to her own weapon, pulling it out from under her short black dress. Root eyed her with a smirk.
Shaw stared back without a smile, slapping a cartridge into the Glock with extra force. It earned her a wink.
She muttered something under her breath.
A knock.
Muffled from outside: "Housekeeping."
Reese cocked his head.
"Housekeeping," the man's voice called again. There was a quick jiggle at the door handle, the sound of an keycard slipping into the slot.
:: Twelve o'clock. ::
Reese took the chance; he cocked his pistol, firing a single shot through the door.
A thud from the other side. He opened the door and the body fell forward, landing at his feet with a groan.
"Mr. Reese-"
"We have to move." Stepping over the indisposed body. "Now." Not turning to see Finch's shocked expression. Shaw's raised eyebrow.
At the direction in his ear, he motioned them to follow.
Pausing at the end of the hallway.
"Wait," he said, repeating the static guidance. Shaw was shoulder to shoulder with him.
Murmured. "Something you want to fill me in on, Reese?"
A slight shake of the head.
"You're acting a little-"
"To the right," he said, at the same time Root's voice came from behind them with, "Go right."
He glanced over his shoulder, back at Root.
"You can hear her too," she realized. A vibrant smile broke across her face.
"Crazy," Shaw finished lowly. She stared at both of them. Finch's eyes shot to Reese, but the ex-op was already leaning around the corner.
Finch frowned.
Bullets pinged off the wall as they exited the stairwell one floor below.
By the time they reached the back end of the lobby, Reese and Shaw had kneecapped over half a dozen armed pursuers.
Across the edge of the foyer. Music thumping from the bass of the wedding. The back exit.
Pushing through the bar of the door, an alarm started to ring.
Reese cursed under his breath.
"Go," Root said, at the same time Reese relayed, "Stay."
He looked at her.
There was a yell behind them.
He glanced back to Finch and Shaw.
Again in his ear. :: Stay. ::
"Go," he told them, hanging back.
Finch started to shake his head. "John-"
"Go," he repeated, and he turned back as Finch's words were drowned out.