CHAPTER 1
Pulling the metal gate aside, Finch hobbles forward and approaches the young woman waiting impatiently inside the subway car. And how unfair that she's not even breathing hard! While she had continued to sprint onward, he'd been slowing to a snail's pace ever since they'd arrived safely in their private tunnel. At that point he'd bottomed out his energy reserves, his body declaring "no more!" to any attempt to move faster than in slow motion.
It takes a herculean effort just to move his legs for even those last few steps to the car.
Samantha Groves - and he certainly prefers that to any of the colorful monikers he's heard Detective Fusco use - reaches out as he lurches through the doorway. She stretches out her arms, though not to him, but for the attaché in his grasp...that small, unassuming case which currently houses his most ambitious, and to him, most mystifying innovation he's ever created!
He watches her sink down on the nearby bench and place the case on her lap, turning it on its side with shaking fingers. His onetime enemy, but somehow now a cohort in this fight against Samaritan, peers nervously at the corner of the precious case and for several seconds fixates on the small light, as though to prove to herself she's not just hallucinating its welcome glow.
"She's there! She's safe…and so are we!" she breathes, finally glancing up and beaming at him.
But he simply can't respond, his body and mind rebelling against any further interaction while he struggles to fill his lungs after their harrowing flight into the underground passageway. Until now he'd hardly noticed his trembling limbs or his weakened leg, but having been ignored too long, the latter is belatedly starting to scream with a vengeance for subjecting it to such unusual and strenuous activity!
He taps his overcoat with a shaky hand. Ah! The bottle of pain meds is still in his pocket, though Lord knows how it managed to stay put during that marathon run! For that he's supremely grateful, given the certainty he'll be experiencing even more severe pain when his adrenaline boost levels off and his body finally realizes it's safe.
"Did you hear me, Harry? She's still in there!"
Pride is evident in Root's voice as she shakes back a mass of tangled hair, running her hands over the case with a lover's soothing strokes. She hesitates briefly and frowns at a small blemish on the hard cover. They had made it through without catching a bullet. Apparently the briefcase had not.
But then her smile is back, in full force. "She was right as always about this case…it's impenetrable!"
Finch hears the words, but they barely register as he turns to focus anxiously on the entrance to their lair.
…..
Against all odds they had somehow managed to elude Samaritan's agents. Against all odds, somehow managed to flee through a storm of gunfire, a hail of bullets, a virtual Armageddon in the making…and reached the safety of their underground hideout.
Sandwiched between Root taking point, firing her pistols with both hands, and Reese bringing up the rear with his Def Tech launcher, he'd stumbled along, expecting at any moment to feel what would likely be hellish pain caused by a well aimed bullet. Or an accidentally lucky one.
And he, who'd always abhorred firearms, was now in the position of once again owing his life to his friend's practiced skill with these armaments of destruction, as the whizzing sound of various sized pellets targeting them like a swarm of angry wasps filled the air as they fled for their lives.
He'd never in his entire existence moved as fast as he had during those terrifying moments, his brain gearing up for the instinctive fight or flight response…and thankfully opting for the latter. His body went along with the charade that he had no infirmities to hamper him in a race for life as he powered on, feet slamming into the concrete, coattails flapping behind him.
Fear being such a powerful motivator...and adrenalin the most effective pain killer of all!
Putting distance between themselves and that intimidating row of SUVs, they'd dodged from parked car to parked car, kibbles of broken windshields and windows raining upon them as they zigzagged along the street and through several alleys - until finally reaching nearby Chinatown.
And with every twist and every turn, Finch had braced himself for the thud of a bullet hitting flesh. If not his, then that of his fellow fugitives...
He'd tried hard not to dwell on the number of innocents that may have been caught in that firestorm as Samaritan's goons - now also on foot – shot indiscriminately whenever Reese held back to draw their fire. And that latter situation caused him almost as much anxiety as the gunfire itself!
It was understood of course that John's actions helped ensure he and Root could race forward with a better chance of not catching a bullet in the back, but he'd also known it greatly upped the odds that his past employee - and friend - would be gunned down.
Thus each time Reese had stopped following them, Finch had felt compelled to glance back, practically running backwards to assure himself that John would catch up. And the ex-op predictably yelled at him to keep running, ignoring the volley of bullets that sped toward him when he failed to fire his own weapon.
You always did like a challenge, Mr. Reese…
That last sprint had been the most horrific, as he'd staggered down steps that marked the entrance to a barber shop. John had stood at the head of the short stairway and having discarded the launcher for his pistol, picked off their enemies one by one, his opponent's bullets tearing through the Chinese characters painted on signs that bracketed the steps.
As bullets ricocheted off the building to permanently pockmark the brick façade, Finch had glanced around, horrified to see the shower of brick chips and mortar spraying onto the ex-op's coat. If only one slug found its mark…
Samaritan agents were kept occupied dodging Reese's fire for the precious few seconds it took Finch and Root to reach the basement entrance. But their pursuers had followed as soon as John had abandoned the stairs and the thugs had chased the group into the underground passage, discharging their weapons with abandon.
As the fleeing trio raced down the corridor there had been not only the danger of being in direct line of fire, but the possibility of catching a bullet glancing off the thick walls. Even more so, off the various metal pipes that serviced the building above. The volleys had continued unabated; Greer's men were, if nothing else, persistent.
With apparently limitless ammunition…
"John! Keep up!" he'd shouted, slowing his headlong flight when Reese had stopped once again. But Root had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around a corner into a basement storage area, sprinting toward the seemingly unremarkable vending machine that hid the secret door to their sanctuary.
"Don't stop, Harry!" She had ordered, tucking the pistols in her belt and inserting hastily retrieved coins into the vending slot. With practiced ease she'd keyed in the required code, fingers flying over the number pad. "Over here…now!" She tore open the two doors in quick succession, ignoring the resultant avalanche of calorie laden snacks spilling on the floor from the first one.
He'd glanced once more behind him, but there had been no tall individual coming around the corner. Only dust swirling in the shadowy area to the continued eruption of gunfire…and the occasional distant cry as a bullet successfully found its target.
"But…but…John…" he'd stammered, and with one last fearful glance behind him, had followed Root into the safety of their underground refuge, stumbling and lurching like the walking dead in popular zombie films. Until finally reaching the subway car where he'd come to a halt.
And remained there.
…..
"Come on Harry! We need to start planning how to get her on line again," Root urges, turning back to the silent figure standing immobile in the doorway of the car. She notices for the first time his shaking hands, his stark expression…and that his attention remains fixed on the entrance to their hidden tunnel.
Following his line of sight, she sighs. "Don't worry so, Harold. The big lug can take care of himself; he always has. And they won't be able to find us here." She strokes the case once again. "We made it!"
Still, Finch continues to watch the entrance, counting the seconds ticking by, gauging the passing of time to the fast beating of his heart and picturing a life bleeding away. He stands watching the entry door, willing it to open, willing it to reveal the person who started out as a valued employee and gradually became a trusted friend. One who protected them all for so long.
Surely this can't be the end! There is so much work yet to be done! The Machine to rebuild, an offensive to be strategized, battles to be fought… How can they afford to lose even one more member of their team? How can he afford to lose one more friend?
But the door remains shut. His mind offers him no answers, only a snippet of verse from the past, a stanza learned as a child and thought long forgotten:
Tick by tick, the moments fleeting, measure out the passing day;
While the rapid pulse is beating, slips our precious life away.
Root is still watching him, but he doesn't turn, his voice cracking on his response.
"We made it? No. Not all…"