Here are three tag scenes to BSOD. Apologies if you have already read this one, since it started as a standalone but now forms part of a series.
Exfil
At least we're wearing dark clothes, was Harold's main thought as they left the building. Which was an absurd thing to be thinking at a time like this. As the bullets pinged around them he clutched the precious briefcase and concentrated on following Ms Groves and Mr Reese. John seemed quite relaxed, walking and shooting at the same time, while Root had the light of battle in her eyes. After what seemed like an interminable time they reached some cover, dodging around a corner and then disappearing into an alley like rats into the wainscoting. Thankfully his colleagues' marksmanship had been good enough to deter Samaritan's operatives from following too closely, although Harold knew that couldn't possibly last more than another couple of minutes. He glanced down at the briefcase, its little blue light glowing reassuringly. You're not dead. Not quite. Not yet.
"We're going to have to split up," said Root. She took a cautious look back around the corner of the alley. There was blood dripping from her arm.
"Are you hurt, Ms Groves?" he asked.
"It's okay, Harry. A bullet just nicked me a moment ago. Hardly more than a graze," she replied.
"Root's right," put in Mr Reese. "If we split up now we can keep 'em guessing a while longer. We can rendezvous back at the subway."
Harold looked down again at the case in his hand. The decision was obvious, really. But handing his child over, even to his best friend… seemed like a dereliction of duty. I can't protect you, he thought to the Machine. But he can. And you know you can trust him. He held out the briefcase to John. "Here, Mr Reese. You're the best person to take care of this right now."
After the tiniest of hesitations John reached out for the case. His eyes met Harold's. "I'll do my very best, Harold," he said softly. "I'll keep it safe, I promise." One corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to give a reassuring smile, but his eyes were dark and troubled as he took the briefcase.
"I know you will," said Harold just as softly.
Root was watching impatiently. "Go on," she said to John. "Just go. I'll lead them off." Without waiting for a reply she made for the alley entrance and vanished into the darkness back in the direction from which they'd come. Mr Reese began walking down to the far end of the alley, where it gave out into a quiet street. Harold followed. As they reached the end of the alley John gave him one brief nod and a smile – a genuine one this time. "See you on the other side, Harold," he said. Then he turned and trotted rapidly off into the darkness. Harold watched them go for a couple of seconds. Then he turned his collar up and began limping as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.
Death of an Obstructionist
Joe Soriano sat down at his desk in a particularly bad mood. Dealing with Feds was practically guaranteed to piss off any self-respecting cop, although Soriano prided himself on his ability to maintain a good working relationship with the arrogant bastards. But this was aggravation at a whole new level.
For one thing, there was that douche-bag Fusco, sliding out from under him again. Soriano had a good nose for a dirty cop, and Fusco was dirty, he was positive. He'd come so achingly close to nailing the smartass a couple of years ago – had him dead to rights in the murder of his crooked pal Stills. Just needed Stills' corpse to prove it. How the hell Fusco made it out to Oyster Bay to move that body Soriano had never been able to figure out. He itched for the opportunity to get the truth out of Fusco somehow. But the bastard had kept his nose clean for quite a while now.
Soriano paused as he went back over Fusco's report. There was one thing which niggled at the back of his brain. The expression on Fusco's face when LeRoux came out with that ridiculous line about getting a commendation for the shooting. He didn't want it. A flicker of doubt stirred in Soriano's mind. If Fusco had shot Dominic, wouldn't he have been more pleased at such an easy escape? But instead he seemed… frustrated. Confused. Like he knew there was a cover-up going down.
Shit. He wasn't the shooter. Not this time, anyway. Soriano stared hard at the computer screen in front of him. The diagram of the crime scene, the placement of the bodies. Fusco thought there was a shooter up high on one of the surrounding buildings. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be worth taking another look up there. See if there was any evidence of this shooter. Because Soriano was damn sure the FBI's story made no sense.
But if there was a cover-up going on, it would be handy to have someone else in on this. Someone to watch his back. With a sinking feeling, Soriano realised there was only one logical person he could read in. He wrestled with the thought for a moment, but finally, reluctantly, he gave way. He pulled the keyboard towards himself and began typing.
Detective Fusco,
I would appreciate it if you could meet me at the site of your "accident" tomorrow at 10am. I would like to
The surge of pain in his chest was sudden and blinding. His fingers dropped away from the keyboard and he found himself slumping sideways in his chair as the pain exploded out from his chest, down his left arm and up into his neck. My heart? The pacemaker? He was faintly aware of distant voices, alarmed colleagues calling for a bus, getting him onto the floor and trying to start CPR. Then the blackness roared up and took him.
Finding Root
Reese took a momentary detour into the locker room to collect a few important items – like a gas mask and some tear gas grenades – after he left Lionel. He stuffed them in a tote bag and slung it over his shoulder before walking as nonchalantly as he could out of the door of the 8th. At least his identity was holding, as long as he didn't do anything too outrageous to draw Samaritan's attention. Sure wish we had god mode about now, he thought as he hesitated, glancing down again at the incident sheet in his hand. Root had overpowered a cop at a subway stop and taken his weapon. Last seen fleeing the location, heading down a side street. Nothing for it but to try to track her on foot, hoping not to run into Samaritan's agents.
He got a ride in an NYPD cruiser heading out that way, spinning a line about a CI he needed to approach discreetly. The uni dropped him at the corner near the side street Root had fled down. Reese tried not to glance up at the security cam bolted to the utility pole. But it was his first clue. He had a gut feeling Root would have been avoiding the cameras as much as possible – just as he had been doing since their exfil from the power substation. So… what would be the quickest route into a camera blackspot? He cast around for a moment. Ah… there was a set of traffic lights about fifty yards away; guaranteed to have a camera monitoring them, so not that way. And not back towards the subway and her pursuers. He took the last remaining choice, walking rapidly with a purposeful stride. A gleam of sunlight on brass: shell casings scattered on the sidewalk. For the first time in what seemed like hours, a smile creased his lips. "Root wuz here," he murmured to himself. He rounded a corner, and instantly flattened himself against the dirty brick wall. The tall black Samaritan agent who'd come so close to KO'ing him at the ferry terminal. Along with half a dozen heavily-armed goons. They were filing into an e-waste recycling centre. He watched as the last of them disappeared, and with a grim smile he reached into his tote bag and pulled out the gas mask. Show time….
