Ressler Prompt #5 - Give a back story on how Ressler got the scar on his right shoulder, visible in the mirror at the end of episode 2x01, Lord Baltimore.
Vienna, Austria. 2010.
"Vienna, huh. And here we are, in the very city. Who sang it, anyway?" Pete asks from the back seat. "David Bowie?"
"Sting," Sam replies, glancing from the window to face the man sitting beside him.
Ressler smiles, turning into the plaza as the afternoon sun bounces off the gleaming bronze statue in the centre of the square, almost blinding him. "You're both wrong. It was UltraVox."
"How the hell did you know that, Donny? You were still suckin' on your mom's tit when that song came out," Jonica grins, turning to the guys in the back seat and joining in with their laughter.
"I know a lot of things you old farts don't think I do," Ressler grins, parking the car on the cobble stoned street. The town square is quiet, with only a few people crossing it. Some laden with groceries, another pulling a small cart with a child riding in it. Ressler watches them before his eyes leave them, darting to the rooftops of the town square and back to ground level, making a mental note of his surroundings.
"Good ole, Rez. Full of surprises," Jonica grins, then swivels around to face the front, his smile fading. "So that's the building, huh?" he says, not asking, merely stating a fact as they get down to business. "That fancy museum."
"That's the one," Sam Raimo tells him from the back seat, opening up a manila folder from a leather satchel. "Informant is due there very soon."
"He better give us valuable intel, after this long trip," Pete Maguire complains, shifting uncomfortably in the back seat. "Are we just going to sit here like an out of tune quartet and wait for this C.I. or get out and see what's what?" he asks, looking toward Ressler.
Ressler is the youngest member of the Reddington task force by several years, yet despite the good natured ragging from his colleagues, his authority as team leader is undisputed. He regards Pete in the rear view mirror. "We'll sit tight for a minute," he tells him before his eyes return to the cobblestone square before them. They're parked in a side street, facing a cream stucco museum, adorned with statues and inlays of barely clothed women. He surveys the scene again, making a mental note of his bearings, before slipping off his seat-belt and turning to the group. "Let's roll. And you know the drill. We're just out for a stroll."
Jonica laughs beside him, "Yeah, we won't look out of place at all," he says, perusing their attire. They've foregone their suits for casual wear, but there is no mistaking the hair and way they carry themselves. "We couldn't look more like Feds if we tried."
Pete and Sam chuckle from the back as they exit. The two of them hold back as Ressler and Jonica make their way into the town square and separate. Once they're a good 50 feet in, Pete and Sam follow suit. There are more people walking on the cobblestones now. Lovers arm in arm. A mother with two young children. Two older men walking with heads bowed, deep in conversation. And 4 FBI agents, who Ressler has to agree, couldn't look more like Government agents than if they had plastered FBI on their backs.
"There," Ressler says quietly into his radio mike, as a group of straw hat clad schoolgirls stroll past the building across from him.
"A little young even for you, aren't they?" Sam prods, but Ressler ignores the jab this time. He's not looking at the girls, but at the man walking beyond them. Their informant is hanging back in the shadows, near the marble steps of the designated museum.
"Sam, on your 6," Ressler says evenly into his mic, while changing direction and walking toward the informant. "Bobby, Pete, keep your eyes peeled." The men keep to their positions, following Ressler's lead.
Eyes on their subject, Ressler makes his way to the statue in the middle of the square, nodding to the young couple throwing coins in the fountain below the violinist's bronzed boots.
"Donny. Your 4 o'clock."
Jonica's tone catches Ressler's attention and turning in the direction he spots what Jonica has seen. Barely breaking his stride, he positions himself behind the statue and fountain, eyeing the second man who has entered the square. Ebony skin shining in the afternoon sun, and cap covered bald head, there is no mistaking the dark, quiet man. With the sound of water splashing in his mic, Ressler talks briefly to his task force.
"Reddingtons main man, Dembe. And if he's here-"
"That bastard can't be far behind," Jonica finishes, cutting into a side street and keeping Reddington's man in view.
"Why is here? We had no intel on him, only the informant," Pete asks, his voice hushed in Ressler's earpiece.
"Change of plans. Sam, talk to the CI. Pete, stay on Sam. Bobby, you're with me on Dembe." Ressler is firing orders to them, yet none of them really need it. They know each other. Know the drill.
The gunshot takes them all by surprise, shattering the quiet and sending a flock of pigeons into the air in a wild flapping of wings. Ressler whirls in the direction it came from, simultaneously dropping to a crouch, ordering the young couple beside him to get down and drawing his weapon.
"Trap!" Sam's strangled word reaches their earpieces as the man topples to his knees. It takes Ressler a split second to realize the shot came from their informant.
"Son of a-" Ressler hisses. Sam is down but not out as another shot rings out. The informant flies back under the impact of Sam's bullet. A woman screams, and Ressler catches sight of her from the corner of his eye trying desperately to cover and shield her two children.
Gunfire rattles the air again. Ressler can't see the source until he scoots further along the fountain, then curses at the sight. He's just led his task force into a trap when he should have known better. The two elderly men now walk purposefully toward himself and Pete Macguire, their robes thrown back to reveal two far younger men, both brandishing semi-automatic pistols.
"Stay down!" Ressler yells at the mother laying over her children as best she can. Beside him, the young woman is sobbing as terrified eyes hold his, before her mascara stained cheeks bury themselves in her boyfriend's chest.
"Bobby! Stay on Dembe! Pete! Stay on Sam!"
Ressler has more pressing issues than coordinating his men, and timing his shot he fires at one of the approaching gunmen, dropping him with a clean head shot. Almost instantly a shot from Pete's weapon takes out the other assailant.
Jonica runs toward Reddington's man who has slunk back into the shadows while the echo of gunfire still reverberates around the town square. Three dead men lie in the square, their blood seeping from them and darkening the worn cobblestones. With a thumbs up from Pete as he leans over Sam, Ressler give him a nod as he sprints across the town square. The woman sheltering her children is screaming, looking right into the dead eyes of one of the gunmen.
"Go!" Ressler shouts to her, urging her to take her children and get the heck out of Dodge. "It's safe now! Go!" Rising to her feet in seconds, the woman grabs a child under each arm and is off, heeding Ressler's instructions. She is followed closely by the young couple seeking shelter behind the fountain. Within moments, police sirens split the air, but Ressler doesn't wait around for them. With another nod to Pete he sprints in the direction Jonica took in pursuit of Reddington's man. His wrist mic is at his mouth.
"Jonica! What's your 20?" Ressler breathes.
Bobby misses a beat before replying, his breath coming in hurried pants. "Damn it, Rez! I lost him!"
"Shit." Ressler swerves around the next corner, almost collides with Jonica and comes to a halt. "Scour this area. I'll try up there!" he fires at Bobby.
Without another word, he flies off down the street, brandishing his firearm, eyes darting to the buildings around him. A movement catches his keen eye. Dembe is ascending a tall flight of stairs surrounding an ornate theatre. Ressler changes tack and dashes up a narrow ramp at the front of the large theatre. There is apparently no show on this afternoon and the building is deserted, much to his relief. The last thing he needs is a throng of the elite crowd in the line of fire. With an urgency in his stride, he gains on Dembe, taking the steps three at a time as the man turns the corner ahead of him going up another flight of stairs. A few more moments and he is on the green tiled roof, sun shining down on him.
And Ressler is so intent on catching Reddington's man, Dembe, he doesn't see Raymond Reddington step from behind the central building on the rooftop until it's too late. Ressler's weapon is raised, but blinded by the sun his shot to Reddington goes wide. Reddington's bullet finds it's mark, ripping through Ressler's right shoulder, knocking him from his feet with a grunt. With the loss of grip in his right hand, his gun clatters to the tiles, bouncing on the hard surface to land out of reach.
From his vantage point on his knees at the top of the stairs, his eyes raise and take in the sight of his quarry. Dressed impeccably in grey suit, matching vest, white shirt and grey fedora, Reddington regards him. Weapon still raised, he walks toward Ressler. Breath coming in pants as blood seeps through his light blue shirt, Ressler attempts to stifle the flow of blood. Reddington has hit him squarely above his right lung. An inch lower, and he'd be sucking in air through a ragged hole in his lung.
'Donny! Where are you?!" Jonica's breathless voice comes through his earpiece.
"Stay back!" Ressler calls, not wanting any more of his task force to be taken down. Raimo is on the ground in the square, his own blood is splattering onto the rooftop, and he doesn't need Jonica taking a bullet too.
"Donny! You okay?" Jonica calls again.
Hand shoved into his right shoulder, kneeling on the ground before Raymond Reddington, Ressler again radios down to his man through his blood stained wrist mic. "I'm good! Go check on Sam!"
Reddington nods as a small smile crosses his features. "That's good advice, Agent Ressler. Agent Jonica needs to catch his breath and take in the vista," he says, gun wielding hand motioning to the city skyline.
Ressler doesn't ask how Reddington knows their names. Information is gold to the criminal. Of course he knows the names of the men tasked with hunting him down. He meets Reddington's eyes. He's never been this close to the man. He's shorter than he imagined. Thinner. Smaller somehow. Yet the gleam in the man's eyes is the same he's seen in photos. This is Raymond Reddington in the flesh.
And all Ressler wants to do is kill the man. Something that he's not tasked to do on this mission, but still, the sentiment is there. Brussels was different. Sanctioned by a nameless somebody higher up than his pay-grade, they'd previously been sent to find Reddington with one instruction. Kill the criminal. But a shuffle in the ranks above him, and the word had changed. Do not kill the man. Find him, arrest him and bring him stateside for questioning.
However, the higher ups that made that call weren't staring into Reddington's gun barrel two feet away from them. Ressler dives for his own weapon a few feet to his right, a grunt escaping his throat as pain sears through his shoulder and fresh blood seeps from the wound.
But Dembe is faster. Dembe has all his limbs intact and simply places his foot on the weapon before kicking it away. Almost in slow motion, Ressler watches the weapon slide across the tiles in a grind of metal before disappearing from view over the edge of the rooftop.
"You won't be needing that, Agent Ressler. Or shall I call you, Donald?" Reddington asks congenially.
Ressler is still on his belly, arm outstretched for a weapon that has long since joined the cobblestones below them. With an effort he raises himself back up to his knees, blood stained arm dangling beside him. As far as he's concerned, Reddington can call him whatever the hell he likes.
"What do you want?" he asks, leaning up further on his knees, attempting to stand.
Dembe's hand is on his shoulder. His right shoulder, gripping it under a vicelike grip as his finger deliberately finds the bullet hole. Ressler can't stop the gasp escaping his lips. He gets the message, and settles back on his knees. Apparently Reddington has him right where he needs him.
"What do you want?" he repeats, glaring at the criminal.
"You killed two of my men. I believe I'm quite within my rights to settle the score. Two of yours for two of mine," Reddington tells him, the smile fading from his eyes as he moves the gun closer to Ressler. "But one will suffice."
"Your men?" Ressler asks, eyes narrowing.
"Mine," Reddington confirms. "The informant was yours. But the men in the square were most definitely on my payroll."
Ressler leans back on his heels, facing the criminal squarely as more blood seeps down his right arm. "Well, perhaps your men shouldn't have opened fire," he challenges, "because you know, I'm going to answer fire with fire."
"Of course you are. It's what you do. But someone played both of us today. Which brings me to why I brought you here," Reddington tells him, still holding his weapon at Ressler's head.
"Brought me here?" I chased your man-" He looks to Dembe, sees the hint of smile in the dark eyes, and stops. Yes, he was brought here. "So what do you want, Reddington? Because I don't know about you, but I have places I need to be."
"The only place you need to be is a hospital, Donald," Reddington tosses back, lowering his weapon a little. "So I'll save us both some time here."
Ressler glares up at the man, shifts his knees on the hard tiles and stays silent, letting the criminal speak. Shoulder throbbing as the blood seeps out, he attempts to keep his arm still.
Reddington takes a step toward him. "I admire your tenacity, Agent Ressler. You're like one of those little dogs with a bone, not letting it go until you've savored every last morsel. No one can ever fault you for the exemplary manner in which you've led your little band of merry men."
Ressler sighs. The last thing he needs or wants is kudos from the Concierge of Crime. "Get to the point."
With a tilt of his head, Reddington regards him, before a small smile breaks forth. "You won't like the point. I'm here to tell you that you're being lied to, Agent Ressler. This task force of yours is being sent to find and detain me. What they haven't told you is why."
Ressler shakes his head, gives the man a humorless grin and replies. "You abandoned your country. Left your family. Sold secrets to the highest bidder. You're a traitor to the very country you once defended." He winces as a bolt of pain shoots through his bleeding shoulder. "So I know why, thank you very much."
"Cover story. Nothing more. Did I do those things? Most certainly. But actions are not the entire story here. You're a smart man, Donald," he tells him, pointing to him with the barrel of the gun. "Well, when you're not slipping on banana peels."
Ressler shakes his head and looks to the side, seeing Dembe standing still beside him, poised and ready if needed.
"I'm not getting any younger here, Reddington. Get to the point."
"Nor are you getting any healthier. That bullet wound is now on fire, radiating through your entire chest and back, am I right?"
Ressler grits his teeth. Damn straight it feels that way. Sweat drips down his brow as he holds the criminal in his sights.
Reddington regains his seriousness. "What I want from you is for you to open your eyes and develop an open mind. Not everything is black and white and unfortunately, circumstances have dictated that I enter the grey. You are in a place of privilege currently, but make no mistake, Agent Ressler. Change can come out of the blue like a bolt of lightning, or seep insidiously into your very core."
Ressler leans forward a little, as a wave of lightheadedness sweeps over him. Reddington takes it in, and leans forward, face to face with him.
"Donald. You teeter on the brink. You're a good man. An honorable man. But there are hidden agendas; people on the playing field who are not who you think they are. Do not let them corrupt that which lies within you."
Ressler grits his teeth. "You done? You, the most wanted man in the Bureau are seriously in no position to lecture me on MY morals."
"Oh, come now, Donald, let's not exaggerate. We both know there are three more who are wanted ahead of me."
Ressler attempts to stand again, but this time it's not Dembe's grip to his shoulder that stops him. Closing his eyes briefly, he steadies himself. "Well, I'm glad you know your place on the list," he tells the criminal. "Because that's my job. Arrest you, and take you back to answer for your crimes against the country."
Reddington steps back, shaking his head in unmasked disgust. "Parroting the company line. They wind you up and send you and your little coterie of door kickers out to do their bidding. Open your eyes, Agent Ressler. Not everything is as it appears."
Ressler leans forward, wondering if he's going to pass out or throw up. It's a toss up. But he's not going to let himself do either in front of this man. "Thanks for the pep talk," he pants, leaning back with an effort. "Now, you're under arrest."
Reddington doubles over with laughter, slapping his thigh. "Really, Donald, I don't know why it took me so long to have this little chat."
Ressler grimaces, glaring up at the criminal. If he had a gun. Not to mention a functioning arm. "I will get you. I will arrest you," he tells the criminal through clenched teeth.
Reddington's demeanor changes. The gun is back up in his hand, as he plants the barrel squarely on Ressler's forehead. "I think not."
"You gonna shoot me? Then do it," Ressler tells him. Unbidden, the image of Audrey flashes through his mind. Audrey, with her long auburn hair, beautiful smile and feminine grace. His future wife who will make the most beautiful widow. "What are you waiting for?" he goads. Reddington may have the upper hand, but he's not going to cower in front of the man.
Reddington's eyes are as cold as the gun metal on Ressler's forehead. "I could pull the trigger. Payback for my lost employees. End it all with a flash of white through your brain. You'd have barely half a second to feel or think of anything else and then you'd be gone."
Sweat trickles around the gun barrel, dripping into Ressler's eyes that silently hold the gaze of the criminal. "I will hunt you down," he tells him through clenched teeth.
Reddington pulls back the gun, causing Ressler to lean forward a little at its sudden loss. "Determined to the last. Or I could ruin your day, not to mention your chance of promotion, and turn myself in if I so desired. Wouldn't that be one for the books?" he chuckles.
Ressler has no time for the man's wit. Not when the ground is beginning to look very inviting. He needs to lie down before he falls down. "I will find you," he hisses, leaning further forward.
"Of that I have no doubt. But will you apprehend me, is the question." Reddington stands back, tilts his head again as he surveys the injured agent. "I've enjoyed our little chat. However, I don't think you're in any condition to hunt anyone down at this juncture in time. I don't need to pull this trigger. You're done for, Agent Ressler, if those Neanderthals in your task force don't reach you very soon."
In confirmation, the ground rushes up to meet Ressler as he lands in a puddle of his own blood. "Reddington... I swear…"
But Ressler never manages to tell Reddington what he swears, as he passes out and the blackness overcomes him.
###
"Rez!"
The voice is coming from the bottom of a barrel. Far in the distance. With an effort, Ressler manages to open his eyes. He's lying down, but no longer on a green tiled roof top under the blazing sun. The hospital light fixtures move over him, yet he's the one moving below them on a gurney.
"Rez! Are you with us?"
Bobby Jonica. That's who that voice belongs to. He nods. "I'm…with you."
"There you are! Had us worried we'd have to promote Pete or myself as leaders," Jonica grins, "and what a goddamn disaster that would have been."
At the omission of their colleague's name, it comes flooding back to Ressler. "Sam…?"
Pete Maguire is on the other side of him. "He'll be okay. They already pulled the bullet out of him. Got him in his right side and didn't hit too much of importance."
"It took us an hour to find you!" Jonica tells him. "Didn't think to look on a roof."
Ressler nods, then wishes he hadn't as the corridor swims. He closes his eyes. The voices fade behind him as he's wheeled into an operating room, and the double doors swing closed behind him. The flurry of activity picks up pace around him. Orders are barked. His shirt is cut from him, revealing the blood soaked chest. Someone takes his left hand and starts to put in an IV.
"You're one lucky dude, you know that?" the doctor says, leaning over him. Ressler isn't feeling too lucky and is sure the doc is talking about the wrong guy.
"You could have easily bled out, but for this," the doctor nods, pointing to his chest.
"Wha…?" Ressler has no idea what the doc is talking about.
"Smart idea, rolling up your handkerchief and plugging the wound, sir," the nurse smiles.
"Let's get this out so we can get you patched up," the doctor tells him, beginning to gently tug on the handkerchief. Ressler barely feels it, the previous fire in his chest having given way to a cold numbness. As the handkerchief is pulled gently from the wound the blood stained silk fills Ressler's vision, and through the blood, the unmistakable embroidered initials of R. R. are clearly visible.
"…son of…a..."
Ressler never finishes his sentence. The mask placed over his mouth silences him as the ether fills his brain, confusing his senses. The lights of the OR dim, and once again darkness envelops him.