Ah, the key still works….so the lock hasn't been changed! Good. Not that it would have presented much of a problem given that his employee had taught him how to expertly pick such a mechanism, but he prefers this particular B & E not be so…so blatant. Observing Reese from afar via a camera is different than actually breaking into his place.

Or so he tells himself.

He stops momentarily.
Good Grief! He's actually adopting some of his employee's flexible morals! Not exactly a good thing as he's always seen himself as the one to provide an example of a more ethical existence. However, if one considers morality as merely the drawing of a line somewhere…then Mr. Reese does draw lines. He simply tends to move them occasionally…

Bear brings him out of his reverie as the animal impatiently pushes past him to enter the vast room. Finch drops the leash, allowing the canine freedom to roam the apartment, the dog obviously searching for his Alpha, padding from one area of the condo to the other.

"He's not here, Bear," Finch offers absentmindedly, as he drops the key in his pocket and wipes sweaty palms on his coat. This is so much more difficult than he had thought! In his mind it was simply a matter of picking up a tool, and then…and then using it to retrieve an item. Or 'items' in this case.

Once again he thinks about calling for help; the detective duo perhaps, since Mr. Reese is out of the city on another matter. But once again he decides that would expose him to too many questions. Like why he is even concerning himself with this case in the first place.

Limping to the closet he carefully opens the louvered doors, mentally squashing his apprehension at seeing all those weapons lining the walls, carefully spaced like so many pieces of art on display in a museum. And in a way these are. Art pieces that is - of war, of destruction, of combat. Pistols, rifles, grenades, flash bombs, shotguns...a rocket launcher. And then there is that stack of various ammunitions, weapon cleaning supplies…

He remembers his first introduction to this cache of destructive instruments, when he hid in this very closet in order to keep one of their Numbers from finding him in the apartment. "When were you ever going to need all those!" he had exclaimed, his horror overcoming his fear of discovery.

Reese had swiftly escorted him to the door, perhaps as much to keep his own cover from being blown as getting his squeamish boss away from that vast arms collection.

And here he is now, deliberately looking through that assortment of weapons with the intent to select one for use in his venture. "All right, Bear Let's see what we've got here. There should be plenty to choose from…!" The dog had finished his search of the condo and now stood dejectedly beside him, presumably because of Reese's absence, despite the ex-op's predominant scent in the place.

The idea of using one of these weapons horrifies no less now than before…and perhaps even more so… than the time he had braced himself to use a firearm to help break John out of Rikers. Thank God it had been unnecessary; Detective Carter had already done her magic in getting the ex-op released. And a good thing too; he had barely taught himself how to load the thing, much less shoot it!

But now there is no help for it; he needs a pistol.

"Semi-automatic weapons have no socially redeeming purpose."
A view held by civil rights advocate Ms. Edelman, and with which he can agree. However, only an idealistic fool brings a knife to a gun fight…and he's pretty certain the people he may encounter are armed with more than just idealism and a knife.

In addition, he's only too cognizant of the limits to his physical capabilities, which even without his disability makes him a target for any bully. With these handicaps…well, the outcome was only too well demonstrated when he was mugged in that alley some months ago. The result? Several cuts, bruised ribs, and a grapefruit sized lump on his forehead!

Brains he has in abundance, but in a physical fight he might as well be the dunce of the class for all the good it does. There is a reason these weapons are considered equalizers, but hopefully, with any luck, simply displaying a firearm will be deterrent enough to get the job done.

He carefully considers his choice, mentally imaging Reese with one of these in hand. He lifts the Glock from its perch…and it immediately points to the floor. Well, not this one; way too heavy! He then pictures the gun the ex-op normally carries in the small of his back. Shorter, more compact. He places the large Glock back on it's peg with two hands before reaching for a smaller pistol.

A Walther, he thinks, as his mind retrieves the data he has researched on various weapons, carefully comparing one to the other. The larger Glock would present a more intimidating image, but the smaller gun seems easier to control, fitting effortlessly in his hand.

And besides, it is a 007 weapon…

Carefully retrieving the appropriate box of cartridges, he slips both gun and bullets into his pocket and makes his way out of the apartment.

….

Hours before...

"I really don't know officer. Maybe an hour, or 45 minutes. I wasn't out that long," she sniffs, eyes still red from tears shed earlier. "When I got there, the back door lock was broken and…and the first thing I noticed was that all my art supplies were gone! Including the sketch book I use for my commissions."

He sits and listens to the conversation, still in shock from the moment the image on precinct's doll-cam revealed Grace walking into the station. Glued to the screen he had waited impatiently for one of the officers to approach her and offer assistance, consciously keeping himself from picking up the phone to alert one of the Detective Duo of her presence.

But as much as he felt the need to help, he couldn't draw attention to the link between himself and this woman. To keep her safe meant to keep himself away from her…with all knowledge of her existence in his past life a closed book.

When one of the unis finally interviews her, the details come out. Some lowlife had broken into her condo and had stolen not just the traditional street-value items like jewelry and electronics, but also made off with the tools of her livelihood: her art supplies and still incomplete project sketches. The anger rising in him at those revelations is like something he's never experienced before! How dare anyone cause this lovely woman such grief? How dare they!

He envisions turning his personal attack dog (as Shaw calls him) loose on the perpetrators, and gleefully pictures Reese meting out his unique form of justice with plenty of shattered knee caps, broken noses and split lips. But the image is only that; the ex-op is not even in the city and presently is busy with another troublesome Number.

And he can't call the detective duo now to ask them to give special consideration to this case; that would only open the cover on a book best left unread. He sighs. In a city that logs a murder every 8 hours, there will be minimal attention given to a mere robbery; the chance that Grace will ever see any of her belongings again are slim to none. He rubs his face in frustration.

Still, there is something he can do! After all, surveillance is his specialty, his gift. He quickly sits at the computer to pull up the feeds from all the city cameras in the vicinity of Washington Square, near Grace's condo.

…..

"How's it going, Finch?" The familiar whispery voice is suddenly in his ear has as he scrolls through the dozens of images. John. He'd almost forgotten their latest case and the work that currently keeps his employee occupied.

"Oh, it's going, Mr. Reese" he replies in an offhanded way, his attention focused on the screen. Ah, there! That's the camera he needs…one that shows the entrance to the back alley of that row of condos. "Are you on your way back yet?"

"Not yet. I'm at the Tiffany Hotel, same one our Number is staying at. Something should shake loose soon."

"Oh." He tries not to let disappointment leak into his tone. After all, their prime mission is to work the Numbers the Machine throws at them, and that is exactly what his employee is doing now. Besides, he may not be tall and strong like Mr. Reese, but isn't Grace his concern? This is obviously an off-the-books case; he'll handle it on his own...somehow.

"It was a late night, Finch. Our Number seems to be down for a nap so I'm going to get some sleep while I can. I'll check in with you as soon as my target is on the move again. Call me if you need me." And Finch finds himself alone with his thoughts, and quickly centers his attention on the surveillance images.

"There! Now I've got you…!"

He's suddenly conscious he's voiced the comment out loud and he leans into the monitor for a better view of the grainy image, feeling his heart quicken as he watches a shadowy figure traipse toward the camera. Whoever this is carries a large plastic garbage bag and a small suitcase type box. But the really damning evidence is the easel slung casually over a shoulder. Grace's easel…

A wet nose grazes his hand as Bear comes to investigate this change in the emotional atmosphere. The dog pricks his ears, bright button eyes filled with concern. Finch turns to the animal, offering a quick ear rub for reassurance.

"It's all right, Bear. We're going to get Grace's belongings back for her. And you're going to help! But first we need to stop off at John's place…"

….

Present...

The apartment building is as grungy as one could expect from the address. There are simply parts of every big city in the world where the sun never seems to shine, it's inhabitants walking forever in the gloom. Shady characters, living shady lives, in shady environs.

And dangerous environs if one pays attention to the evening news reports. He's not at all comfortable with this. An upbringing in the safety of a loving family, an education at exclusive universities, and a proclivity for technologic apparatus didn't exactly prepare him for stepping over rat feces in an over-crowded apartment building….or take in stride the sound of slamming objects and violent arguments behind scarred doors.

Bear crowds his side, primed for battle and seemingly right at home with this situation.

Well, of course.

The military dog had seen plenty of action in a war torn country; loud angry voices, threats of violence, and the scents of danger and death are all likely more familiar to him than the relatively sedate atmosphere of the Library!

"Volg, Bear. Stay with me…" he whispers to the dog as they advance down a dimly lit hallway.

He had parked the car near the alley with a plan of sneaking through apartment's back entrance, only to be thwarted by a door capable of being opened only from inside the building. And then a nervous journey around to the front had brought him face to face with a youngish woman sitting on the front steps.

Too much face paint, towering heels, and not enough clothing advertised her profession. Finch had braced himself for the traditional proposition as the woman straightened her posture, throwing out her rather ample bosom like a lure to a fish. But when Bear shifted position, she'd eyed the dog with apprehension and settled back with her cigarette.

In spite of his grim intent, he smiles inwardly. It's at least gratifying that even with his disabilities he's still considered fair game…

"Watch that loose railing, Gramps. The super ain't fixed it and one of these days someone is going to end up on their kiester!"

He'd nodded his thanks, stoically ignored the 'Gramps' title and mindful of the shaky banister, carefully hauled himself up the steps. Bear stayed at his heels, the dog's nose busily analyzing a plethora of odors. A handy weapon in itself, though in this case technology trumps nature: he's traced one of the perpetrators' phone to this building and using it's GPS, can pinpoint exactly in which apartment it's located.

"All right, Bear", he warns the dog softly. "This is it. Put on your game face…"