9: Monsters
"I can hear your censure from here," Red said dully from his spot next to her on the couch.
"You're giving me a lot of credit for six a.m.," Lane replied, leaning her head against his shoulder with a yawn. He absently pressed a kiss to the top of her head, startling her a bit. He must be pretty emotionally wrought to allow himself that small affection.
"This is more complicated than I ever imagined."
"Matters of the heart always are, Ray," she said, scratching her nails over the fine hairs on the top of his hand without thought. "Have you slept since we've been back?"
"Not much."
"How can I help?"
"Stop wearing skimpy pajamas around the house?" he quipped, as he was wont to do when things got too serious. She elbowed him the side and he chuckled.
"I don't believe my nighttime attire has a single effect on you."
"Lane, you're an exceedingly attractive woman and I'm not blind."
"You sure? Cuz I've often wondered," she said with a laugh. She felt him shake his head and could imagine the half smile on his mouth even though she didn't bother to look. "Seriously, how can I help?"
"I don't know that you can. This changes everything."
"Not really."
"It's a goddamn kill squad."
"So it has a vague face and catchy name. It gives us a specific target to focus on instead of worrying about every shadow, right?"
"You don't know the scope and power of these people, Laney. These aren't going to be your typical flunky thugs. They will be trained assassins."
"And I have a feeling that, with the exception of the computer guy, the boss, and Liz, most of us have some pretty extensive combat experience. We can hunt them down."
"There is no 'we' in this." His voice hardened measurably.
"Let me just stop you right there. Your way isn't working. So we're going to do it this way."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes."
"I'm still having a hard time imagining you as anything but a very talented actress."
"Then I'm truly better than you think if I've got you snowed. I assure you, I have been trained better than you could possibly imagine. You need me. You know I'm right about this."
He heaved a heavy sigh and shifted her off his shoulder with a nudge so he could stand.
"Go get ready. We have some trees to shake."
"And what role am I playing?"
"Expensive, brilliant, affluent companion worthy of Raymond Reddington, of course. Wear that lovely cerulean silk top that does that thing to your eyes."
"What?" she asked with a startled laugh, standing, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.
"It's positively mesmerizing. See? I notice," he said, kissing her cheek impishly before taking his leave.
X X X
Being Raymond Reddington's companion had a certain je ne sais quoi. He commanded a room with his mere presence. People were drawn to his vivacity. He could charm anyone with a statement and a smile. It was ridiculous how charismatic and engaging the man could be when he put his mind to it. Underneath, though, Lane knew it was all a façade—a means to an end. She knew without a doubt that he could turn it off just as quickly. The Mr. Congeniality ruse only went so far.
For a man who lived off the grid, Red certainly had a lot of connections. Or at the very least, he knew the right people to catch off guard to get just the information he was looking for. Lane stood shoulder to shoulder with Dembe while Red exploited one such connection, trying not to think about the half dozen laws they'd broken already this morning.
"Raymond Reddington. What an unpleasant surprise," sneered the older man in a silk robe.
"Careful, Michael. You'll hurt my feelings," Red said with a deceivingly pleasant chuckle, resting his hat on his knee. He was leaned back in the leather wing-backed chair looking for all the world like he owned the place and hadn't just committed two misdemeanors to get there.
"What do you want, Reddington?"
"Talk to me about Strike Force Eight." The man sitting across from his tipped his head back and laughed.
"If you're dealing with SF8, you're better off asking for help from above because you're fucked."
"My idea of 'help from above' is a sniper on the roof. Tell me what you know," Red retorted, unamused.
"SF8 is the best and most brutal covert kill team this government has never utilized. They're ruthless and methodical and allow for total deniability. They're the monsters your worst nightmares are made of."
"How many are on the team?"
"Now why on earth would I tell you that?"
"Because I asked nicely," Red said, his voice hardening by degrees.
"You'll have to do better than that," Michael said, standing to leave.
So quickly that Lane almost didn't see him move, Red was on his feet with a pistol pointing at the man's head. Lane took a step toward the men but Dembe grabbed her wrist in a gentle but unbreakable hold. He shook his head at her once and let her wrist go.
"How's this?" Red asked. "I'd hate to put a bullet in your skull, Michael. I feel sure my companion would object and I strive not to offend her delicate sensibilities."
"Any woman that whores around with you, Reddington, doesn't have the sensibilities God gave a goat," the man retorted.
"You can shoot him," Lane snapped. Red's lips quirked with amusement although he didn't turn his attention away from his target.
"She has a vindictive streak."
"You and your lady friend can go to hell."
"All in due time. How many?"
The man just laughed smugly. Lane could see this was going nowhere fast and she sensed there was a very real possibility that Ray would put a bullet in this guy's head. She decided that while she wouldn't cry if Ray shot the bastard, she probably should offer another less lethal route.
"Raymond?" she asked conversationally, moving toward the men.
"Yes, darling." His attention never wavered.
"Have I ever told you about my time in Mogadishu?"
"Mogadishu? Really? Wretched area."
"Indeed," she agreed. "However, I learned some very useful things during my time there." She motioned Ray to step back a bit with her head before she took Michael to his knees with a neat little thumb lock. The old man grunted. "There's this nerve under your jaw that, when combined with pressure to another nerve at the base of the skull, makes it feel like your head is coming apart."
"Fascinating."
She squatted down in front of the old man and tilted her head sideways. He snarled at her and she just sent him a pursed-lip smile, flashing her dimples.
"Aw, look at him," she tsked, glancing up at Red. She didn't miss the amusement flashing in his eyes. "I don't know if he could withstand the pain without his poor, geriatric heart giving out on him."
"Fuck you," the man snarled.
"Now that's no way to talk to a lady," she said, narrowing her eyes. "You know, the thing about government created monsters is that they're all the same underneath. It's really just the degree of creativity and humanity that separates the bad from the worst. Honestly, I've always been an imaginative soul. I think a kill shot to the head would be too easy. Personally, I'd shoot you right here." She tapped a spot under his chin. "That bullet would scramble your brains nicely but probably wouldn't kill you. Of course, it wouldn't be much of a life—drooling, pissing yourself, unable to control your own body. It's probably a good thing that he's the one holding the gun. Funny thing, though. Raymond does like to accommodate me when he can. Probably you should just answer the fucking question before I lose my cool."
When he failed to act quickly enough, Lane held her hand up to Red. Reluctantly, he handed her the pistol. She positioned it under Michael's chin with a pleasant smile.
"See?" She saw the flicker of fear behind his eyes for a fleeting second and knew she had him. "How many are on the team?"
"I don't know," he gasped when she jammed the barrel of the gun against the soft tissue under his chin. "They have a number of people at their disposal when and if they are needed."
"And who makes that decision?" she asked.
"Squad leader…They call him Wraith." Lane paled.
"Impossible."
The man chuckled as Lane stood. She shoved the pistol back into Red's hand and left the room. Red wasn't far behind her by the time they reached the car. He turned to her as soon as Dembe started the car.
"Well that was…enlightening," he said, a hint of something she couldn't name in his tone. "Care to explain to me what I clearly missed?"
"He's either lying or misinformed," she said flatly, brushing an invisible spot off her pencil skirt.
"He seemed pretty inclined to tell the truth with a gun shoved under his chin. Why do you think he's lying?"
"Because I killed Wraith five years ago."
