Author's note: This is part of a series which began with the story "Meetings" and continued with "Modus Vivendi" and "Ancient History". It picks up right where "Ancient History" left off, and if you haven't read any of the prior stories I strongly suggest you start with those first, as this whole thing has become thoroughly AU by now. All that said, I hope you enjoy this - please do leave a review if you liked it!
There was still over half of Finch's tea remaining that afternoon when the chime came from his computer. Harold grimaced and placed the paper cup carefully on a workbench well away from his keyboard. Another Number? But then he saw the message blinking in its little box and froze. "Ah. Oh dear." He sat and pulled the keyboard towards him and began typing. After a few minutes Bear came over and rested his muzzle on Finch's thigh.
Absently Finch paused for a moment to stroke the dog's ears. "Oh, Bear. It's deja vu all over again," he muttered, and resumed typing. But after another few minutes he stiffened and came to a sudden stop, then rose hastily from his seat, reaching for his laptop in its bag. "Come on, Bear. We need to go," he said, clipping the dog's lead on and walking as rapidly as he could out of the subway hideout.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
Reese was sitting in his shirtsleeves, his Sig disassembled for cleaning on his desk at the detective agency when the call came. 'Blocked Number'; Harold of course. He allowed it to ring for a few more seconds while he carefully put down his tools and wiped the gun oil from his fingers, and then answered it.
"Hello, Harold," he said easily. There seemed to be a lot of background noise; Finch must be out on a street somewhere.
"Hello, John. Are you having a pleasant day?" There was something just very slightly off about Harold's voice which had him sitting up a little straighter.
"Oh, I'm fine, Harold," he said: an even, pleasant tone in keeping with Finch's. "How are things with you?"
A chuckle from the other end. "Oh, much as usual. It just occurred to me that I never called to offer my congratulations on the Mariners' fine showing this season."
Reese chuckled in return. "Why, thank you, Harold. It was a good season for us. Maybe next year will be even better."
"Indeed. Well, I must be going, John. I'll talk to you again soon."
The call ended. Reese stood and trod over to the window, checking the street outside, two stories below. Nodding at what he saw, he turned back to his desk. Still standing, he leaned over and typed several commands into his computer. The screen flickered and went dead. Rapidly, his face a blank, he reassembled the Sig and tucked it into his waistband at the back. He pulled the card from his phone and snapped it in half between his fingers. Then the phone itself thudded to the floor and there was a muted crunch as his heel shattered it. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and in three long strides was out the door of South Manhattan Investigations and walking rapidly along the hallway to the fire escape at the back of the building.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
Finch's next call was to Detective Carter. He nerved himself for this conversation: it was going to be exceptionally hard. Her phone rang three times before she answered it. "Carter."
"Detective. It's Harold here."
"Can you speak up, please, Harold? I can hardly hear you over the street noise."
"Yes, I had to find somewhere crowded and anonymous, Detective. I… I have some news for you."
"Oh yes?"
He found himself reluctant to speak, as though his words would end something and send them all off down another rabbit hole – which he supposed they would. He gulped. "Joss, I got an alarm from my system this afternoon. Someone had been prying into the affairs of South Manhattan Investigations."
There was silence from the other end of the phone.
"I followed the trail to try to ascertain who had been looking. And I found the trail led back to the CIA."
More silence.
"When I went into the Agency's internal network, I found that they have cracked John's identity and are tracking him now. I just had to call him to tell him he's burned." Finch drew another breath. "I'm terribly sorry, Joss. But John won't be coming home tonight. He's had to go off the grid, and it may be a day or two before we hear from him."
"I see," said Detective Carter at last. "Thank you for telling me, Harold." She sounded quite detached, quite composed.
"I just didn't want you to worry..." his voice died away as he realised just how ridiculous that sounded.
"No, I'm fine. I'm fine."
"You need to consider your own position, too, Joss. If they're aware of your relationship to John-"
"Thanks, Finch. I'll be careful."
"If you need to contact me, make sure it's using the VHF network or a burner phone. And be careful what you say aloud. Remember, they're-"
"-Listening with a million ears. Yes, I know, Finch."
"Goodbye, Detective."
"Goodbye, Harold."
After the call ended, Finch turned the burner phone over and over in his hands. Then he carefully removed the battery. Taking up the patient Bear's leash again, he moved off at his accustomed uneven walk, and dumped the phone in the next garbage bin he came to.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
Reese took a second to check the tiny yard in back of the building before he opened the fire exit. A couple of dumpsters and, incredibly for Manhattan, two parking spaces - though God alone knew how the drivers actually manoeuvred their vehicles in and out. And a man half-hidden by one of the dumpsters, watching the fire escape.
Reese withdrew slightly. It didn't really matter. He tripped the fire alarm, conveniently located right next to the exit. He waited as the high-pitched wail started up. Doors along the corridor opened and a steady stream of accountants, notaries and small-time financial advisers began to make their way out of the building. He joined the crowds heading for the main exit. Mostly he just wanted witnesses, in case the Agency man outside had orders to retire him. He clattered down the stairs in the wake of a couple of well-dressed women, the pressure of the Sig in the small of his back merely an extra reassurance.
They all emerged into the watery sunshine on the street. In the distance Reese could hear sirens as the fire department responded to the alarm. Knots of people, variously confused, annoyed or resigned, cluttered the sidewalk. He didn't look at the guy across the road, the one he'd seen from his office window, who was still watching the building as he and the ladies walked past, but his peripheral vision showed the man peeling off to follow him. Reese was quite pleased. There was a conversation he wanted to have with the guy, and sooner was better than later.
He was confident he could evade the man in the courtyard he'd spotted from the fire escape, should he choose to join in, though again it didn't really matter. He was happy with odds of two to one. He picked up his pace a little, threading his way through the crowd. The Agency man would be ten or twenty yards behind him; no need to shake him off, so he just kept walking. Along the street, around the corner. Fewer people here, so he kept on until he found an alley. He ducked down it, taking an exaggerated look up and down the street to check for his tail, who for some unfathomable reason he completely failed to make. Halfway down the alley he pressed himself against the wall by another convenient dumpster, hoping the man's ego wouldn't allow him to draw the obvious conclusion until it was too late. Sure enough, the CIA guy came around the corner and began to make his way down the alley cautiously, but not cautiously enough. He stopped abruptly when he found himself staring into the wrong end of Reese's Sig, six inches away, right at eye level.
Reese found his eyebrows rising. "Jimmy Shannon," he said after a moment.
"John," said Shannon.
"I thought you were too good to be caught like this."
Shannon grimaced. "So did I," he said resignedly.
There was a long pause. Reese was content to let the silence stretch. Sometimes the best intel came that way. But Shannon was an old hand, and he knew that trick too. He simply stood there, waiting for Reese to make the next move.
"How?" whispered Reese at last.
Shannon blinked, and then smiled sadly. "I saw you a couple of nights ago. Out at the hospital in Queens, chasing an SIS guy we were tailing. Couldn't believe my eyes. How many lives do you have, John?"
Reese was silent.
"So, what happens next, John? You gonna off me for doing my job?"
"Nope." He stepped back a little, the gun still rock-steady and pointed right between Shannon's eyes. "But I do want to send a message. Sorry, Jimmy." He suddenly shifted his aim, put two shots neatly and efficiently into Shannon's lower legs, and then stepped over his writhing form. "Next guy comes after me, I aim for head and centre mass," he told the man. Pushing the gun back into his waistband, he walked to the mouth of the alley and away.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
Joss arrived home to their empty apartment. She opened the door nervously, her service weapon in her hand, and didn't relax until she'd cleared every room. When she had finished, she stood in her living room listening to the silence as she put her gun away. She slumped down onto the sofa for a few minutes, but her own tension soon drove her to her feet again.
Restlessly she wandered back into the bedroom, and then through into the bathroom. There was a faint, lingering smell of John in the air, left over from his shower and shave that morning. His electric shaver was still out, left carelessly on the edge of the bathroom vanity. Mechanically she picked it up and put it back where it belonged in the medicine cabinet. A dusting of his shaved-off stubble could be seen in the basin; she pulled a cleaning cloth out of the drawer and began to wipe it out. The shower could do with a clean, too…
When she'd finished in the bathroom she found herself wending her way back through to the living room again. She didn't feel hungry, or tired, or even very upset. Numb, she decided, was the word. She suddenly remembered the time in Afghanistan when the vehicle in front of her had hit an IED. The bang, the gout of smoke, the shuddering slide as they'd pulled to a halt. The confusion of shouts and automatic weapons fire. She and a couple of others had gone forward with the medic and found a guy, just an ordinary grunt, sitting next to the canted-over Humvee. His left foot was missing. He was staring at the stump in surprise. He met Joss's eyes with honest incomprehension in his face. "Would you look at that, Ma'am," he said conversationally. "My fuckin' foot got blown off."
Joss decided that she knew now exactly what that man had been feeling. Which was not a damn thing.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
Reese walked rapidly down the street away from his ambush. First priority: ditch his compromised ID. At the next trash container he paused and dug out his wallet. There was fifty dollars in cash, which he pocketed, but the rest would have to go. Joss smiled up at him from the photo he'd put in there. He pulled the picture out, intending to keep it. But then he thought again. Was it putting him in danger? Was it going to put her in even worse danger? It had been a huge self-indulgence to keep a photo of her in the first place. He hesitated a long, long moment. He could almost feel the tearing sensation in his chest as the scrap of paper slipped from between his fingers to disappear into the garbage along with the rest of his identity.
He turned and walked on. Next priority – visit one of his caches and stock up. He considered as he walked. Central Park was nearest, but required darkness and a shovel. Grand Central Station might be easiest. At the next subway station he walked briskly down the stairs and bought a card, and hopped the next train.
He changed trains twice, as extra insurance – even though he was sure he wasn't being followed. Finally he emerged at Grand Central Terminus and followed the crowds along the platform. At the men's toilets he ducked inside and reached up to the ceiling just inside the door, using his own body to block the door from opening again. Quickly he popped one of the ceiling panels. Groping a little, he fished out a package wrapped in black plastic and secured with duct tape, and dropped the ceiling panel neatly back into place. He retreated to a toilet cubicle to unwrap his prize: two thousand dollars in small bills, which was most of the physical bulk; another Sig and four clips of ammo; driver's licence and passport as John Wiley. Half the two thousand and the driver's licence went into his breast pocket, the rest back in the black plastic wrapping along with the Sig but not the ammo. He considered popping the ceiling panel again, but decided not to push his luck. Wadding up the wrapping and its contents, he stuffed them into his jacket under his arm where they were least noticeable and left the toilet.
Back on a train again, but this time he headed out of the downtown area and rode out to Crown Heights. A fleapit hotel for the night, he decided. In the morning, once he was absolutely one hundred ten percent certain that he'd shed his CIA watchers, he would buy a burner phone and make contact with Finch again. But as he sat in the brightly lit train his thoughts drifted to Joss. Riley was gone. So where did that leave him – whoever he was now? He wished he hadn't thrown away the photo.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
"Ms Shaw? I have some rather disturbing news," said Finch. Another difficult call, but it was getting towards evening now and he really couldn't put it off any longer.
"Yeah, Harold? What's happened, someone kidnapped John or something?" Ms Shaw's voice was flat and emotionless, just as usual. Yet not, somehow. Harold put that aside for now, though. One problem at a time.
"Not exactly," replied Harold. He still found Sameen very hard to read. "The CIA has realised that the rumours of John's death were greatly exaggerated. He's had to go off the grid to get away from them. I'm hoping we hear from him in the next day or so."
There was silence from Ms Shaw. "Okay, Harold. Thanks for letting me know," she said finally.
There was another silence. "Well, good evening, Ms Shaw. I must go now, I have some things I need to attend to," he said at last.
"Okay Harold. Good night." She ended the call, leaving Harold staring slightly surprised at his phone. Even by Ms Shaw's standards, that was...odd. Shaking his head, he put the phone away in his pocket. Time to go out again to some suitably anonymous spot to try to ascertain how much the CIA knew – or guessed – about John, and whether he'd been successful in evading them. He picked up his laptop, attached Bear's lead to the dog's collar, and left the subway, pulling the metal gate across as he went.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
It took Reese a long time to go to sleep in his damp and lumpy hotel bed that night. But in the end he was able to ignore the weird sounds of the plumbing, the traffic noises from the street and the occasional thump from the other side of the wall. He breathed deep, relaxed and dropped off.
The wedding was taking place in a garden. There was a white pergola with red roses rambling all over it, and under it there was Joss. She was wearing a gorgeous dress, all white lace with something sparkly dusted over the bodice. Her smile was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He could see the roses and lilies in her bouquet. Janice was right beside her, her dress like a winter sunrise of pearl grey and gold, and she was smiling too. Finch, Fusco, Shaw, even some of their Numbers were part of the crowd. He saw Megan Tillman there, and Wendy MacNally. Darren McGrady smiled shyly and gave a little half wave from where he stood. He felt great himself, but as he approached the group he saw their smiles slip. Was something wrong? He looked down at himself and groaned. He wasn't dressed for a wedding! Mud-spattered boots, camouflage fatigue pants, a black t-shirt. His hands – they had gunshot residue all over them, ground into the skin even. He could smell his own body odour, which was always a bad sign, and then when he looked more closely at the t-shirt he realised with horror that there was brain tissue spattered on it. He tried to pick it off, but it wasn't working. When he glanced up again they had all vanished except for Joss, who was looking at him sadly. The roses were gone from the pergola, it was the dead of winter and around them gravestones stretched away, row after row, all the way to the horizon.
To be continued...