"I've cloned their cell phones, although I have to say even for burners they're remarkably unrevealing. And - oh."
Sam sipped her coffee, hiding her mouth behind the cup as she replied to the voice in her ear. "Problem?"
"I may have inadvertently alerted them to your presence - they're attempting to return the favor."
"Don't sweat it, Finch. Pretty sure they'd already made me." She didn't bother to mask her reply this time. "An attractive woman, sitting alone, accompanied by an unusual breed of dog - statistically, at least one of those things should rate a little interest. Nothing."
She sipped her coffee again, no point in letting it get cold. "Devereux's in the cafe. My guess is they're waiting on her before making an exit. I can follow them if you want, but I guarantee they're expecting me to."
As if on cue, Devereaux, elegantly over-dressed in a gray sheath dress and red pumps, left the cafe and made her way unhurriedly towards her table. There'd been no communication that Sam had seen, but the woman didn't even glance her way: she knew she was being watched.
"They aren't using their phones," Sam said. "Earmics, maybe."
"That would explain lack of meaningful data," Finch muttered. "Scanning communication frequencies."
Parker stood a few seconds after Deveraux sat. She was scowling, but looked more exasperated than angry.
Presumably this would be who they hoped Sam would follow. With that hair she'd be easy to spot in a crowd, but more than skilled enough to slip away when she wanted to.
Except -
"Okay, this is ridiculous." Sam drained the last of her coffee and scritched Bear in the spot behind his ear he liked best. "The thief just winked at me and then left wearing a neon 'Hello, my name is Bait' tag. They know, we know, why don't we just talk to them?"
There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the comms.
"The tag was figurative," she added.
"I'd like to be significantly more familiar with their methods and affiliations before making any form of direct contact," Finch said after a beat. "We don't know whether they're the victims or the perpetrators and their communications are heavily encrypted. Mr. Hardison is an extremely security conscious young man."
Fine, except Ford and his Crew wouldn't move until she did, and Sam had no intention of playing her part. "The cafe closes in less than an hour. If we're still sitting here not looking at each other by then, it will officially be the most humiliating covert action since the eighties. And, Harold? I will absolutely silence any witnesses."
-o-
Nate pulled open Lucille's rear doors and backed up quickly when he was greeted by an enormous, shifting pile of empty plastic bottles. When he wasn't immediately buried, he hauled himself up into the interior and edged around the East Face of Squeeze Orange Soda Mountain, trying to avoid triggering an avalanche.
Behind the West Face, still out of sight, he could hear Hardison stabbing vengefully at his keyboard and muttering to himself. Which he had, by Nate's estimate, been doing for roughly thirty hours: since the cafe debacle.
He hadn't appreciated the sardonic glance at his half-empty bottle of bourbon when Sophie had 'suggested' it was time to stage an Intervention, but he'd had to agree. He just wished he'd thought to bring sherpas.
At least he'd brought the bourbon.
He swallowed a fortifying mouthful and circled his way around the back of Hardison's chair.
"You did not - yes you did. Oh, it's on like Donkey Kong. And every single knockoff! Every. Single. One."
"Hardison," Nate said. "It's Tuesday." Wait. He leaned forward, squinting at the clock on the computer desktop until it swam into focus. "Hardison, it's Wednesday."
"No, it's - " Hardison glanced at the clock. "Wednesday. Which is weird, because it smells more like Tuesday."
The aroma inside the van wasn't bad , exactly, but it was definitely layered. An empty packet of Gummi Frogs drifted serenely from the summit of Mount Soda. Nate absently plucked it out of the air and deposited it in an overflowing wastebasket. "What have you got?"
"Not a damn thing," Hardison said. Reflected in the monitor, his expression sat somewhere between spooked and impressed.
Nate sat beside him, peering at the screen again. There were a handful of windows open, none of which looked any different to the ones on display whenever Hardison announced he'd won everything. "How's that possible?"
"If you'd have asked me Monday, I'd have said it isn't." Hardison leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands in tired defeat. "Someone is anticipating my moves and data scrubbing before I got there, and that's … look, even I don't have that kind of access.
"One time I thought I had an in: whoever's hiding our mystery lady didn't think the dog was so important."
"You found it?"
"Footage in from six months ago. They figured out what I was doing after five minutes and Max turned into a poodle. A poodle . Reddit has horror stories about this kind of thing, Nate." He darted a look over his shoulder. "You know I'm all about helping people, but bleeding walls are a dealbreaker, just to be real clear right now."
Nate nodded. "So someone is actively monitoring you?"
"Someone with a sense of humor." Hardison tabbed to the facial recognition results and scrolled though image after image of women, and a few men, posing in long red trench coats and exciting fedoras. "But - good news for the family - we found Carmen Sandiego."
Nate waved his hand. "Okay, I get it. You don't think…"
"Chaos is not even close to this good. No one is close to this good - not without serious, government level power-ups. And it doesn't have to be the US government - China's bringing the heat." Hardison grabbed an open soda bottle, swallowed until it was empty and threw the bottle on the pile without looking. "Even North Korea'll fool you."
"You think China or North Korea's government is interested in the family Deli?"
"I wouldn't have thought any government was interested in Nana Augsburger, except maybe ours after she threw eggs at that senator. Maybe she's a Communist spy." He blinked. "Do we think she's a Communist spy?"
They both took a moment to picture the tiny, smiling - surprisingly anti-authoritarian - octogenarian as a master of Cold War tradecraft.
"No," Nate said, finally. "We do not think that."
"Unless that's what she wants us to-"
"She does not," Nate said firmly. "Get some sleep, Hardison."
Hardison waved him away.
Nate transversed the mountain again and opened the back of the van, to see Eliot and Parker standing with crossed arms and identically determined expressions. "Good luck," he said, as he jumped down.
He was halfway back to the hotel before he heard a startled yelp, and what sounded a lot like a flood of empty bottles of soda cascading over an unsuspecting hacker.
-o-
Sam sat cross legged on the old trolley and chewed her burger while she watched Finch and Reese talking inside the subway car. It would have been easy enough to listen in, but honestly, she doubted it would be that interesting.
A minute ago, someone had opened the vending machine on the floor above and begun making their way down the stairs. Bear wasn't barking: not an intruder.
"Hey, sweetie." Root said as she approached. She looked like a preschool teacher - all gingham and bad choice in cardigan - but she reeked of gasoline.
Which was interesting, but Sam wasn't in the mood to play twenty questions. She hunched protectively over her lunch instead. "Why are you here?"
With a teasing moue of disappointment, Root sat. Then scooted closer, until they were pressed knee to knee. Sam stayed where she was - damned if she'd give her the satisfaction of moving. Besides, this was warmer.
On the downside, Root was inside her perimeter. On the plus side, Sam had remembered to get a large fries this time. So, whatever.
"I heard what happened," Root said, sympathetic expression too amused to be genuine. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I got made," Sam pointed out, rolling her eyes. "Not diagnosed."
"A little girl time will cheer you up." Root smiled encouragingly, and with so much saccharine that she was able to rustle a couple of fries while her slack-jawed victim tried to work out if diabetes was setting in. "You know I can show you a good time," she coaxed, sugar turning to syrup.
She popped a fry in Sam's still-open mouth; Sam chewed automatically while she considered the offer. It actually sounded promising. "There's an arms fair in town?"
"Sadly, no. But there is an attache with a bag full of embezzled money making a run for the airport."
"Sounds fun," Sam admitted, grudgingly, and snatched the pot of ketchup back. "I'll drive."
"I stole you a yellow Maserati, just the way you like it," Root agreed indulgently, and smiled in a slightly less terrifying fashion as she gently pried the junk food from Sam's clutches. " And I found your favorite balaclava."
Harold watched as Shaw and Root left, heads bent towards each other as they talked with disturbingly anticipatory expressions. "I have concerns," he said at last.
Reese shrugged with a complete lack of any. "You're the one who said we needed money."
"And even as I did…" Finch trailed away as he turned back to the computer. "Was Detective Fusco able to find any information about Ford's client?"
"Cecylia Augsburger, eighty-three. Owns and operates a Deli with her daughter - Ana - and grandson - Michael - in Queens. They've been closed for renovations the last six months."
"Six months?" Harold paused and turned again. "That seems excessive for a small business."
"Which is probably why our numbers are involved." Reese held out a sheaf of ink-smeared photocopies that looked like they'd been the subject of Bear's bored attentions. Apparently Fusco's efforts to teach Reese basic office skills had not been going well.
"We looked into the company doing the work," he said. "Heart's Homes. They only work for small, family-owned businesses. Two-thirds closed within a few months of renovations being completed.
"Civil suits have been brought against them, but they're usually dropped within forty-eight hours. One plaintiff took it to two weeks and died in crash. Her kids were in the car with her."
"That explains Ford's interest. Though I don't understand why The Machine thinks they're at risk, but the Augsburger family isn't."
"Could be it doesn't have anything to do with their client - maybe they just have history about to catch up to them. Might be quicker to ask," Reese said mildly.
"I'd really prefer-"
"More information. I know, Shaw said. We've worked with less than this before."
"But we've rarely associated with people who are quite as capable of making their own investigations," Harold pointed out. "Can you imagine what would happen if they alerted Samaritan? I've already spent the last few days combatting Mr. Hardison's efforts and that was far closer than I'd like. The best option is avoid interaction. If we absolutely must make an approach, Detective Fusco can do it."
"We've tried to stay around the edges before, it doesn't work. If anyone will understand operating below the radar, it's them."
Shaw and Reese agreeing on a course of action tended to be something of a double-edged sword, but on those occasions - and assuming outright murder wasn't involved - Harold usually tried to at least reevaluate his position. It was possible that he was being over cautious, he had to admit, but then it was debatable whether such a state existed when Samaritan was involved.
"I suppose there is an element of mutually assured destruction," he said, hesitantly. "Anything they rain down upon us, we can certainly reciprocate."
The corners of Reese's eyes creased in amusement. "That's the spirit, Harold."
"Still, I'd recommend you don't mention your day job, Detective."
"Don't tell the criminals I can arrest them," Reese said dryly. "Sure. Where are they now?"