Chapter 4

Thankfully Stein had been very quick in packing the few things he might need. Despite his evident shock, the old actor had bitten the bullet and followed John's instructions without making a fuss. The big, comfortable looking sofa in his den had been a very appealing sight for the ex-op but he had resisted the temptation to sit down, guessing that, if he did, he might not be able to get up any time soon.

The walk back to John's car had seemed endless. Snowflakes were swirling through the air, though not heavily like the previous day, and finally sitting on the cushioned seats of the car and out the chilling air had felt like heaven. A few minutes into their trip to the safe house, Reese had sensed that the other man had been about to explain his current situation, but the ex-op had stopped him, deeming it better to postpone the conversation until they reunited with Finch.

And so there they were, all sitting around the huge mahogany table in the living room. Judging by the alarmed look that had flashed on Harold's face as soon as he had laid eyes on him, he guessed he probably looked as bad as he was actually feeling.

"So," he began, throwing a piercing look to the old actor, sitting directly across him, "I guess it's safe to assume that what happened in the alley wasn't just a random mugging, right?"

"Yes," Stein quietly said with a sigh. "I don't exactly know who he is, I – I mean, not his name…but I know what he wants."

Finch nodded minutely, encouraging him to go on. If the number had been surprised or frightened to find someone else waiting for them in the safe house, he hadn't said. In truth, considering he had just been assaulted, rescued by a mysterious man and subsequently whisked away from his house towards an unspecified safer location, he was actually taking it all pretty in stride.

"These people…they want me to help them rob the mall."

The declaration was met with a perplexed silence.

"But who? Who are these people?" Finch finally asked with a frown.

"I don't exactly know them – they're some sort of gang or something, I guess," Stein shrugged. "I really do not know. They approached me a couple of weeks ago, said that I was supposed to be their… way in, since I've worked into that mall for years and I'm so well known and everything. They said that nobody would suspect me of any wrongdoing."

"Yes, but why you?" Reese cut in. The story didn't make any sense, and he was sure that the actor was hiding something from them. Yet he could feel that he was not outright lying to them. "How would they even know all of this?"

Stein stopped again and looked away. Whatever it was that he had kept out of his explanation, it was now time for him to spill.

"It's my nephew, Steve. He's- he's one of them."

Reese blinked. He hadn't known what to expect, but surely not this. He threw a quick glance at Finch, frowning – just a few hours before the billionaire had said that Stein had no living relatives and while it was possible that he had simply missed something, Reese doubted it. Harold's input was always detailed and spot-on, to the point that the ex-op was fairly sure they often had much more information about the numbers than any official channel could ever hope to rack up. Finch's only response was an equally blank stare.

Probably sensing his benefactors' puzzlement, or maybe just for sake of accuracy, Stein hurried to clarify his statement.

"Well, he's not really my nephew, since my brother didn't have any children," he amended, "but when he married Juliet she already had a kid - Steve."

He sighed again, and this time it held some melancholy.

"My brother wasn't Steve's father, but he raised him as if he had been. He loved him like a son. And he's a good kid, you know? Got mixed up with the wrong people, owes 'em some money but he ain't a bad kid."

Reese's eyebrows shot up at the last part of the statement, but he chose not to comment. Instead, he tried to bring the conversation back on track.

"So they asked you to do what, exactly?"

"I have the keys of one of the service entrances and I pretty much can come and go as I please. They want to get in from the locker room tomorrow evening, after the plaza closes for the day and then rob the stores." he trailed off, but the rest was pretty obvious.

"That's quite cliché, robbing a mall on Christmas Eve," Finch observed. "But their plan sounds rather lacking to me."

"It's not just lacking, Finch, it's awful," John commented, shaking his head in wonder at its sheer absurdity. "It's plain stupid. How can they think even for a moment that it might work? There'll be some private security, at least. And even if they manage to get in unnoticed, and I doubt that, they'll trigger some alarm in no time. There's only one way this thing can end – badly."

"I tried telling Steve, but they wouldn't listen! They threatened me. They know where I live, where and when I volunteer during the week, everything. They said they'll know where to find me if I say no."

"Well," Reese slowly replied, "we'll stop them, and make sure they get a nice surprise."

"What do you have in mind, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked. In the last few minutes he had been apparently engrossed in some research and he didn't look up from the monitor. John figured he was pulling information on Stein's nephew.

"We can't let them get away with it, can we? We'll have them arrested for something."

What that something could be, he still did not know for sure, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd have to get creative over a perp's arrest.

"But Steve…" Stein objected. "He's a good kid, really. I'm not saying this because he's my nephew. He's not like those people, he's helping them because he owes them money! He's just…" he trailed off, hiding his face in his hands. "He's made some mistakes."

"Steve will have the chance to help us stop the robbery and get his so-called friends arrested," Reese cut him off. "Let's hope he's clever enough to take it."

It was obvious that Stein was genuinely worried for the young man, but this was all they could promise him. They would offer him an option, a legit way out. Whether to accept it or not, it was on him.

Reese tiredly rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to fight off the first signs of an impending headache and rested his head in his hands. A migraine was the last thing he needed right now - he needed to think, to form a fool-proof plan in order to get the gang arrested. And, on top of that, there were still the previous day's loose ends to tie up.

Patterson, indeed, was not out of the woods yet. Reese guessed he must still be in the hospital, being treated for his wounded knee, and was about to get prosecuted for brandishing and shooting a weapon, and carrying without a permit. But this wasn't enough. He was sure that the broker was still in trouble with the money-lenders who had tried to use him as a drug mule. Not only did he owe them a huge sum of money, now he had also apparently lost a briefcase full of drugs! If anything, his situation had got worse.

But maybe there was a way to fix both matters in one fell swoop, he thought, an idea slowly beginning to take form in his brain.

Sensing Harold's eyes on him he moved his hands away - and indeed, again there it was that concerned, piercing stare. He threw a tight-lipped smile to the older man, which evidently did nothing to appease his friend's concern.

"Harold, what happened to Patterson's briefcase?"

Finch frowned, evidently perplexed by Reese's apparent non-sequitur, but answered anyway.

"Detective Fusco has it," he said. "We thought it best for Patterson not to be found with a case full of meth, so it hasn't been impounded yet."

"That's good," John replied slowly. "I have an idea on how to put it to good use." He shifted in his seat, ready to get up, and couldn't hide a wince when the movement brought a sharp pain in his midsection.

"Well, Mr. Reese, we'll discuss the details later," Finch hurried to say, and he put a restraining hand of John's shoulder, effectively preventing him from getting up. "Now, what about some dinner?" he asked, directing the question to both John and the old Santa. "There's a Chinese take away a block ahead – rather good, I might add."

Eating definitely sounded like a good idea – as his stomach tried to remind him, cold donuts and too much coffee hardly constituted a suitable choice for nourishment. Something hot and without sugar would be a nice change.

"Good plan, Harold," he agreed and again started to get up but Finch immediately stopped him.

"I'm going, Mr. Reese. You stay here."

And so, just a few minutes later, Reese found again himself alone with the actor. This case was proving to be quite weird, Reese mused, almost out of a Christmas movie. A Santa Claus in need, a long-lost nephew, a Christmas Eve robbery. Well, maybe out of a weird combination of movies, he amended. But still…

Stein himself was quite a curious character, both for his career choice and current lifestyle but he seemed like a decent person. Reese had no doubts that the actor was really sure of his nephew's innocence – or, to be exact, of his unwilling involvement in the heist. He just hoped that they weren't making a mistake in giving the kid a chance.

"So, do you live here?" the actor asked, rousing him from his musings.

Reese frowned suspiciously at the sudden inquiry, but a quick look at the other man's face was enough to reassure him that he was just trying to make conversation, and not fish for information. In any case, better always be careful.

"It depends," he replied vaguely. "Not really."

"This place is nice, but a bit lacking in Christmas decorations," Stein commented, evidently unoffended by the obvious ambiguity in the ex-op's answer, and looked around with a melancholic smile. In effects, from what little Reese had seen of his apartment earlier that afternoon, the actor did love decorations. He had only got a glimpse of the place and there had been quite a lot of them, including a huge, bright, overly loaded Christmas tree.

"Well, Mr. Stein, to be honest I'm not much in the Christmas spirit," Reese said.

"That's quite sad," the actor observed. "But, anyway, no more with this Mr. Stein. You can call me Nick."

John frowned. "I thought your name was Jacob."

"Oh yeah, but, you know. Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas. Nick," the older man explained with a laugh.

To this, Reese could not reply. Maybe this guy was not so sane after all.

Correctly interpreting his silence, Stein went on.

"Don't worry, I'm not delusional. But you know what they say, we are what we do, isn't it true?"

Was it? Again, Reese did not know what to say. In truth, he really hoped not. If it was someone's job or choices to define their identity, what did his past told about John's character? For God's sake, he shot people as a job. This probably say a tale he didn't really want to hear.

Thankfully, he was spared the trouble of giving an answer by Finch's timely arrival, but that disquieting thought was hard to ward off.

Over dinner, he forced his mind to focus on the planning part instead, struggling to sort out all the details and finally proceeded to lay out his idea to his companions.

It was quite simple, actually. With Steve's cooperation he would plant incriminating evidence – Patterson's drugs and maybe a few well-chosen pieces from his weapons collections, heavy enough to raise some alarm in the arresting officers – in the other gang members' cars. Not only would this get them arrested, it hopefully might also help Patterson's case. If the money lenders got word that the gang had assaulted him and stolen the drugs, they might turn their wrath on the gang instead of the broker himself.

Of course, it was not devoid of flaws. For one thing, even if everything went according to plan, the money-lenders that had got Patterson in trouble would get away scot-free, and there was the chance of provoking some sort of feud between the gangs involved, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't come up with a better plan. The tiredness, the biting, unrelenting pain in his chest and now the blossoming headache were making it hard to focus.

The feeling of restlessness, bordering on frustration, was creeping back on him. Against common sense, he got up from the table and began pacing, his mind reeling with thoughts, an arm surreptitiously pressed on his side, and he almost didn't even realize that Finch was back in the room after walking Stein to one of the several bedrooms of the apartment. He could feel Harold's eyes boring into him.

"John. Sit down."

Not surreptitious enough, evidently. He kept pacing.

"John."

Again, he ignored the suggestion, but stopped his pacing at the window, staring unseeing at the snow-covered street below – a compromise of sorts.

"It's a good plan," the older man observed after a minute. His tone was casual, conversational almost, but John wasn't fooled. He wondered how it was possible that Harold always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

"Not good enough, maybe," Reese carefully replied. To him, a good plan meant that all the parties involved got what they deserved. This time, this wasn't going to happen.

"It is enough," Finch insisted, quiet but firm. "You can't take care of the whole city in a night, John."

To this, John had no answer.

A sigh, some rustling, a few uneven steps, then the older man appeared beside him, a few pills and a glass of water in the proffered hand. "Here, take these."

Reese shook his head, continuing to stare ahead to the heavily falling snow and blinking Christmas lights. "They make me sleepy." And addled, he mentally added, and they make it impossible to think clearly. And that's already hard enough tonight.

"Then sleep," Finch exclaimed in exasperation. "There's nothing else you can do for tonight."

Reese hesitated another moment, then caved in, finally accepting the glass and the pills and washing them down with a gulp of water, then gingerly lowered himself on the leather couch.

Finch clearly disapproved of his choice of accommodation if the shake of the head and the accompanying frown were of any indication, but chose to let it go as he settled on the table with his ever-present laptop, and soon the only noise that could be heard in the room was his soft typing.

What he was up to, Reese had no idea, and he lazily pondered whether he should ask, finally deciding against it. He sank deeper into the cushions, adjusting his position. The pain meds – probably some prescription-only drug straight out of Finch's very own collection – were beginning to kick in. The pain in his ribs was definitely less sharp than before and a not totally unpleasant drowsiness was falling upon him. He closed his eyes, letting the incessant, soft noise of Finch's keyboard lull him into sleep.

When he woke again, there was a blanket loosely draped over him and some time must have passed, since the dusk outside had given way to dark and the room was faintly lit by the bluish glow of Harold's laptop.

Whatever it was that Finch was doing, it had him completely absorbed – he was apparently looking again and again at some sort of clip, in a continuous loop on the monitor. Reese squinted, and a more attentive look revealed it to be a webcam feed showing a someone getting hit by a car – a hit and run. He blamed it on his current lethargy that it took him a couple of rewatches before it dawned on him it was his hit and run.

A few strokes of the keyboard and the image on the monitor grew larger, zooming in on the car. A couple of clicks on the mouse and the enlarged portion was sharpened. More strokes and clicks followed, Finch leaning in towards the monitor, deeply engrossed in scrutiny. Reese felt he should say something to Finch – to let it go and not bother, that there was no need, that he was fine – but summoning the energy to speak felt like a titanic challenge. His eyes soon closed again against his own volition.

To be continued...

As always, a huge thank you to DancingInTheDark85. I don't know what I'd do without you!