Ressler fumbles with his keys as he attempts to balance a bag of takeout and his briefcase. He's looking forward to settling in on the couch with a beer or two and the Capitals game on ESPN. After the hectic pace of the last few months, a quiet evening is a welcome change.
As soon as he opens the door, the smell hits him. Blood. He drops the food and his briefcase and reaches for his gun. Something's not right. He moves quietly through the dark foyer and living room. The smell is stronger as he approaches the kitchen. He flips on the light, and quickly ducks behind the wall, waiting for the ambush. Nothing. He peers around the corner, carefully, and immediately sees bloody footprints on the floor, and a bloody handprint on the fridge. The window to the fire escape is ajar, with blood on the sill. Gun in hand, he tiptoes down the hall, following a trail of bloody footprints towards the bathroom. From the doorway, he can see the medicine chest, wide open, and blood leading into the bathtub. The shower curtain is drawn – not open like he normally leaves it. Behind the curtain, a shadow hovers.
"Freeze! FBI!" he shouts from the doorway towards the closed curtain, his gun trained on the bathtub, his heart pounding.
"Don't shoot, it's me, Tom," a voice says weakly. The shadow slumps.
"Keen?" Ressler asks, incredulously.
"Yeah," the voice says, with a cough.
Holstering his weapon, Ressler pulls back the curtain and stares in disbelief at the man lying before him in a pool of blood.
"What the hell...?"
"I had nowhere else to go," Tom says weakly.
Ressler can see immediately Keen is in bad shape. The questions and answers will have to wait. He kneels down to get a better look. "Where are you hit?"
"Leg, thigh." Tom gestures towards his right leg.
Ressler kneels and surveys the wound, loosening his tie as he does. "This is gonna hurt, but I gotta do it, ok?"
Tom nods and braces himself as Ressler uses his tie as a tourniquet. "Aaaaah! Go easy there, would you?"
Ressler shakes his head. He remembers all too well his own experience in the box with Reddington. "Can't have you bleed out. Sorry. Look, I don't know what you've done or why you're here, but I gotta call 911. You're in bad shape."
"No," Tom whispers. "No ambulance, no hospital. I'm a dead man if you take me in."
"You're a dead man if I don't. Look…Keen…"
"Remember how you told me you trusted the wrong person?" Tom's face is growing paler by the second.
"Yeah, at the cabin. I remember, but…"
Tom cuts him off. "Well I did the same thing. Tell Liz I'm sorry."
"You can tell her yourself." Ressler looks at him sharply.
"Yeah. Look – I made a mistake. " Tom's voice is growing fainter.
Ressler can see Keen's fading fast. Damn the man. He can't let him die. Personal feelings aside, Liz would never forgive him. "Sorry, man. I got to call this in. Liz isn't going to appreciate it if I let you die."
Tom reaches up and grabs Ressler's wrist tightly. "No, " he croaks. Moments later his grip loosens as he slumps back, unconscious.
Ressler reaches for his phone, his other hand on Keen's pulse, which is growing fainter and fainter. His fingers hover over the screen, hesitating. Damn the sonofabitch. He should be dialing 911. He should be calling this in. After a few seconds, he curses under his breath and jabs his speed dial instead.
"Donald, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Ressler grimaces. He can only imagine Reddington's smug expression on the other end of the line. He grits his teeth. "Tom Keen. Showed up bleeding in my bathtub. Got in some kind of gun fight. Begged me not to call it in. But he's gonna bleed out."
"Don't call it in. I'll send my medical team." All trace of humor is gone from Reddington's voice. "Does Elizabeth know?"
"Not yet. She's my next call."
"Fine. But Donald?"
"What?"
"Don't let Tom Keen out of your sight. Mr. Kaplan will tell you where to go."
Mr. Kaplan? Who the hell is that? He slides his phone back in his pocket. He'll call Liz once he knows where Reddington is sending them. No sense upsetting her until he has more information. He keeps his fingers on Keen's pulse, feeling for the beats. His pulse is thready, but he's hanging in there. The guy has nine lives, that's for sure.
He will never understand why Liz keeps running back to Tom over and over. Whatever Tom has gotten himself into this time, it can't be good. He's sure of that much. He's not sure of much else, particularly why Keen broke into his apartment out of all the goddam apartments in the city.
Ten minutes later, he hears voices in the foyer. He gets up and walks out to the living room and finds two paramedics wheeling a gurney into the apartment under the watchful eye of a thin woman in a raincoat. He gestures towards the bathroom and turns towards the woman.
"Reddington said I would get instructions from a Mr. Kaplan. Is he here?" The woman nods and hands him a card with an address on it. She extends her hand, her handshake firm. "I am Kate Kaplan, Agent Ressler. My employer has instructed that Mr. Keen be taken to this address where we have medical personnel waiting."
Ressler blinks. This is Mr. Kaplan? He looks down at the address on the card. Whatever the place is, it's not a hospital. He's sure of that much.
The woman speaks again, more softly. "Leave me your keys, dearie, I'll clean up here and meet you at the location to return them."
Ressler wordlessly digs his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Mr. Kaplan. Mr. Kaplan? This whole evening is getting stranger by the minute. But if he's learned anything in two years working in close proximity with Reddington, it's that sometimes it's better not to ask too many questions. The paramedics wheel the gurney back through the living room and Ressler follows it out of the apartment to the elevator. He glances back as he leaves the apartment and sees Mr. Kaplan pulling latex gloves out of her purse. Bet that lady knows where all the bodies are buried.
He's surprised to see an actual ambulance parked outside. But this is Reddington, right? Of course he'd have regular paramedics on his payroll. He climbs in the back with the paramedics and the gurney. As the ambulance pulls away, he pulls out his phone and presses speed dial on his phone once more. Liz picks up on the second ring.
"Ressler? What's going on?" She sounds concerned. It's unusual for him to call her at all these days, much less this late. Things haven't exactly been the same between them recently. And especially not since she announced she was having Tom's kid.
"It's Tom," Ressler replies gruffly. "I came home and found he broke into my apartment and was bleeding in my bathroom."
"What? What happened? Is he going to be ok? Did you call an ambulance? Where is he now?" He can hear the panic in her voice.
"He begged me not to call anyone, Liz. Said he'd be a dead man if I did. But he needs medical attention. So I called Reddington. He sent paramedics. And some lady called Mr. Kaplan. He gave me an address - 422 Morgan. Probably some pop up ER like where you took him when he was shot."
"He sent Mr. Kaplan? What was Tom doing? Do you know?" He can hear the pitch of her voice rising.
He closes his eyes. He hates to be the one having to tell her this. "Yeah. I don't know much. He passed out after telling me he trusted the wrong person. Liz - you know I have tried to stay out of this. But this guy - he's bad news. I don't like this." He waits, and hears her breathing on the other end of the phone. But she's silent.
Finally, she responds. "I'm sorry he dragged you into this, Ressler. It's good Mr. Kaplan is there. She'll make sure nothing can be traced back to you. I'll meet you at the location." He can hear the tight control in her voice, the anger.
He licks his lips. "Don't worry about me. Worry about protecting yourself. And that kid."
He hangs up and contemplates the unconscious man in front of him. Whatever Keen has gotten himself into this time, he's up to no good. Of that he's certain. But Liz is carrying his child. And as much as that kills him, he's not eager to see the father of her child in jail. Or worse, dead. So for Liz's sake, he'll play along. For now.