Dominic caught up with John, Elias and Marconi in the office, but he's not alone... And there are some things that must remain secret. At any cost. John will see to it.

... is a canon character death the death of a canon character or the canon death of a character ( which, obvious, is canon too )?

Anyway, here is a... randomly violent... thing. ( murder, brief torture, blood, gunshots, character deaths, and damn, did I just kill the only female character in the fic? Oops. )

Ep 4x09, The Devil You Know, going slightly AU, because John's a freaking killer and you all tend to forget that ( I still love him though )

It's all about priorities

When Dominic pushed the door, he wasn't alone – of course, his lieutenant, Link, and a few muscle guys were there, but it wasn't about them.

Oh no, it wasn't.

They all stood with a weapon strained on the others, John and Marconi, Dominic's goons – all of them except Elias himself since the man didn't use weapons, Dominic who wanted to assert his authority and importance.

And a woman, older than them all. Nearly sixty, John'd say – if he hadn't known for sure the moment he looked at her, which he had – with pale skin, greying dark hair, blue eyes, and freckles.

The woman might not have had a gun, but her eyes were strained on John nonetheless. And while John was giving the other enemies in the room enough of his attention no matter what, he still was more... interested... in her than in the other threats.

Interested was certainly not the word.

John, as usual, decided it was better not to say anything, and see what she'd do – what she'd say. He had always done so, and mostly it had kept him from revealing too much about his missions, his identity, his secrets. Wait for the others to tell him what they know, rather than telling them something they might not have known to begin with by trying to figure out how much exactly they did know. Because even if they said they knew enough about him, that they knew everything...

It was rarely the truth. And John'd rather have them think they did, than to hint that they had missed something. If they thought they knew everything, they wouldn't search for what they had missed. Which greatly reduced the odds of anything he wished to keep secret from being found out.

John had worked like that with Finch, when they had first began working together. When they hadn't trusted each other yet.

As a matter of fact, John was almost certain Finch still didn't know absolutely everything about him. That his friend knew about everything from the moment John had joined the army... but not so much about the time before that. When Finch had admitted not knowing the exact reason John had enlisted... John hadn't told him that what he had said to Jack Salazar wasn't the complete truth.

It wasn't a matter of not trusting the other man. It was simply a question of priorities: Finch didn't need to know what had come before WITSEC, before John Rykes, whereas John's last remaining family did need the protection. Not that Finch would have told anyone... But when one person knows one thing, others start to hear about it too, even if by accident. John had enough enemies not to want to potentially unleash them on his brother's family.

Besides, Carter would have eventually found out, one way or another, and the detective would have insisted for John to go and see Frank, to let him know he was back and well. Then, when John would have refused, she'd probably have made it so that they'd stumble into each other anyway... She'd do it thinking it was for the better, but she would be wrong.

Because Carter had no idea how much it would endanger everyone, if even only one of their enemies heard about the Man in a Suit's brother.

And this elder woman, standing behind Dominic with a small, unpleasant smile on her lips, this woman was one of these people, even if no one else in the team knew about her. This woman, while moderately dangerous herself, would pass on the information about Detective Riley to people who wouldn't hesitate to go after Frank, Julia, and Raimy. To Dominic, to...

Perhaps all the way back to Samaritan – one person hears something, says it again, and soon enough everyone know about it. If the woman was really here for the reason he thought...

He might have to clean up later. After all, three could keep a secret if two were dead, wasn't that right? John didn't particularly feel like quoting Benjamin Franklin, and through him Greer, but if he wasn't left with any other choice...

It wasn't only about protecting Frank and his family, even if that reason alone would have assured his decision. It was also about making sure that John's brother wouldn't be used against him, against Finch, Fusco, Shaw and Root as a consequence, too. It was about keeping John Riley and John Reese separate from John Sullivan. Because if Samaritan eventually understood that John Riley was John Sullivan, he might link back together John Sullivan and John Reese... And so Greer might be able to tell that John Riley was John Reese, even if Samaritan itself couldn't thanks to the Machine's and Root's intervention.

Killing the woman would be about protecting everyone – it wasn't as if she was an innocent either.

Killing the woman only might not suffice, John mused as he surveilled the room.

Finch's voice spoke up in his ear, jolting John out of his homicidal considerations... for now.

"Mr Reese, I'm afraid Detective Fusco won't be able to come and help."

Ah. Well, John thought as he narrowed his glare at the woman while Dominic did his speech about power and dominance and whatnot. At least that will make dealing with this easier, if he managed to take them all out. Which would be more difficult, though, as Marconi and him were alone against... Four armed guys in the building, possibly a few others waiting downstairs in case someone tried to get away. Plus Dominic, who was dangerous enough even without a gun.

The elder woman had probably a poisoned dagger or something of the kind in her boots.

But still, it was better if Lionel wasn't here to see him kill her. Plausible deniability, amongst other things – like, not explaining why John absolutely needed to get rid of her, definitely, more than anything else.

Dominic stopped talking for a moment, and looked at John – at the intense staring contest between the officially-a-detective-but-really-so-much-more-than-that pain in the ass and Annie O'Connor.

"Detective Riley. I am curious, I must say, about your position in all this. Which is why I tried to learn some things about you. Infortunately, no one know anything except that you like to kneecap criminals and that you were a Narc for a few years, most of which in Chicago, before transferring to New York and after that to Homicide."

Had John not been planning seventeen ways to get rid of O'Connor's lady if what he was suspecting turned out to be right, he might have quipped something about how it's always better to lose a kneecap than your life. Then he'd have added that he could demonstrate the life-taking event on one of Dominic's goons, then the kneecapping of Dominic himself.

John switched off his comm. He didn't want Finch to hear what he might be about to do.

Also, he didn't want his friend to try and talk him out of it. Just as with Fusco, he'd have to explain himself, to tell the whole truth about him, about his past, about the few secrets Finch hadn't yet uncovered about him.

It wasn't that John was against the others knowing. If one day it became relevant, he'd tell them. If Frank's number, for example, came out, he'd tell them. If Samaritan found out about his remaining family in a fashion he hadn't thought about, he'd tell them. But for now, he'd rather make sure it never had to become relevant. And the best way to do that was to keep it a secret.

Dominic wasn't finished, though.

"Then one day, there's this woman who comes to me, interested in the questions I've been asking. She's not anyone, no; she's the widow of a former crime boss, an irish man by the name Peter O'Connor, and she knows a few things about how New York was divided twenty years ago."

Elias frowned, his eyes on John, as he wondered what Annie O'Connor – he knew the woman well enough, too, and he didn't like the small smile on her face one bit – could have known about "John Riley", that he didn't know.

Elias had been there too, twenty years ago.

Marconi too, for the matter. And Elias' right-hand man watched as the detective / vigilante / Man in a Suit / probably-very-lethal-man visibly relaxed his stance. Or, so it seemed. Anthony Marconi had met enough experienced killers to be able to tell when someone is even more about to commit a murder than before, and to do so, pretends to relax.

John was wondering how Annie O'Connor had guessed... Or if she had really recognized him – probable, but you never know. She might not tell Dominic, too, to be able to have him killed herself, even if she had recognized him – which would be easier to deal with, in fact, since he'd only have to deal with one corpse.

But that, that was considering he could be a lucky man. Which John wasn't.

It was more likely that the woman had already told Dominic who John was, and had only come here to confirm. That the Brotherhood's boss had someone watching John's family, right now, or perhaps even threatening them. That'd gave Dominic power over him, and that'd start O'Connor's vengeance.

Then again, Finch hadn't received Frank's number, or any other number from John's estranged family. The only number today had been Elias. And abducting or otherwise threatening someone from John's family would have definitely ended up in death.

You didn't just go and abduct a cop to let them walk free afterwards.

Maybe she hadn't told Dominic yet. Or, at least, not the details. Not the things that'd have allowed the man to find out who John Riley really was, without her help.

Keeping her cards close to her chest, then. Annie O'Connor knew how to play with power.

The question being, how much longer would she keep everything to herself?

John had thirteen bullets left in his gun. More than enough to decimate every single soul who might tattle in this room. But only one gun, and the others too had weapons. John couldn't be sure he'd walk out of here unscathed – or that Elias and Marconi would, for the matter – and he couldn't be sure none of the criminals in this room would run away before he was finished if things went badly.

...If he died here, knowledge of his estranged family would do Dominic no good.

But it could be a problem where Samaritan's agents were concerned.

He needed a better way, with better odds, to end it all, shall it come to that.

Dominic turned to look at Annie O'Connor.

"Well? Is he who you thought?"

The woman smiled fully, now. She knew.

Of course she knew. John had aged twenty years, give or take, but he still looked like himself. Older, hardened, perhaps, and much less broody – yes, no matter what Root and Shaw may think, he was, overall, less grumpy than two decades ago... or at least he looked the part.

But still John Sullivan. Very much John Sullivan, in fact.

The hair was grayer.

No one had noticed, so far, because John made it a point to keep away from the people who had been more than mere acquaintances, people who could tell who he was at first glance. If he crossed path with one of those people while working a number, he did his best to be even more discreet.

New York was a large city, of course. He rarely had to be that careful.

This time it wasn't even about being careful anymore. This time, he had been made so beautifully he could just shoot himself in the temple, save the others the time to try and save him.

...Or he could get rid of the threat.

O'Connor walked around him in a circle, her eyes a display of amusement and vengeful anger even if the rest of her face told nothing of the rage she was certainly feeling.

As if she had any right to be angry at him for what he had done.

If anything, John was the one with a right to be wrathful – he had been, years ago, and it had ended in what was fueling the current situation. It had ended with blood on his hands, a corpse in his kitchen, a price on his head, and a new identity courtesy of the US Marshals.

John was really considering a remake for the blood and the corpse, right now. Though there might be more than only one cadaver by the end of this story.

The elder woman smirked, and turned back to look at Dominic.

John, sensing the big revelation coming, lowered his gun. Let them think he was giving up. Let them think he was considering to negotiate. Let them think whatever they wanted, as long as they didn't think him to be that much of a menace anymore.

Marconi looked at him funnily as John changed hands, now holding his gun in his left hand – not quite the same meaning as if he had seathed it again, but definitely a sign.

"You see, Dominic, I never thought I'd see this man again. I mean, until my husband's death, his head was worth half a million dollars. The Marshals had him relocated, whole new name and identity, and even when Peter tried to bribe a Marshal and get his new identity, his paper file turned out incomplete. No way to find him. Sullivan had completely disappeared."

Yeah, that kind of had been the point of tampering with the files.

Dominic eyed John thoughtfully, as did Elias, for that matter. They seemed to be considering what exactly Annie O'Connor's words were implying – so far, John'd have said he was one of Paul O'Connor's enemies, or perhaps one of his men who'd have turned traitor, if he didn't know any better.

After all, O'Connor was an irish mob boss, and John's last name was Sullivan. He could have been an irish gangster, for all they knew.

Speaking of which, the mention of his original name wasn't something John could let pass. It wasn't the moment, yet, to get rid of them all – they weren't distracted enough. But now, he was certain of it: he'd have to kill to keep his family safe.

He wouldn't, if the people in the room with him were innocents. But they weren't, and while John was all for giving people a second chance, these people certainly weren't likely to accept it. And wasn't it what he did, anyway? Trading a life to protect another?

Frank's life was definitely worth a few murders.

"But a few months ago, I heard about a homicide detective who did things however he wanted, whenever he felt like it. Not much to go by, I know, and the name wasn't the same, and WITSEC wasn't supposed to let him do the same job again, but John Sullivan had always been stubborn. And while I can't say he used to kneecap people back then, John Sullivan wasn't afraid to dirty his hands with the blood of others if the situation asked for it. Not corrupt, no, and certainly not a criminal, but a dangerous man, certainly. More likely to follow the spirit of the law than the letter of the law. Not quite the kind of man the police prides itself in having, but certainly the kind of man who did what the others wouldn't dare if it was necessary."

There was a certain tinge in the way Annie O'Connor said the words "blood" and "necessary". A nuance that spoke of her disdain – a disdain that John shared, only his was towards her, towards the people who thought they had a right to resent him for what he had done, when their nephew had been the one who had started it all.

Sure, John had gotten his vengeance when Sean O'Connor had died by his hand, but it wouldn't have happened if the man hadn't been a freaking serial killer in the first place. It wouldn't have happened, either, if Annie's nephew hadn't gone to John's place during the night to try and murder him before he could arrest him. It wouldn't have happened, if the Nightingale Killer hadn't taken John's mother when he and his brother were thirteen years old.

It was the problem, with criminals – not only criminals, but it showed more often in people who lived constantly at odds with the law.

Most of them refused to see that whatever happened to them was mostly their own fault. That they had made the choices which had led them there. And when someone they cared about died because of their activities, they refused to acknowledge that they had accepted the danger the very moment they decided they'd rather shoot someone in the face than work honestly.

Annie O'Connor's hatred was visible on her face as she walked closer to John, the two of them almost face to face now – except that John was about five inches taller than her.

John took a step back.

"Tell me, Detective Sullivan... Does your brother know you are back in town?"

John recognized the threat instantly.

As did Elias, Marconi, Link, and Dominic. They stared, realizing what O'Connor's words meant – the leverage they could get once they'd have found John Sullivan's brother.

It had gone long enough.

John shot Annie O'Connor in the head without remorse, without so much as a twitch of his lips as warm blood splattered his face – he was still holding his gun in the wrong hand, but the facts were, John had no wrong hand. He favored his right hand only because people would expect him to, and because there was no point advertising that he was ambidextrous.

There was a moment of silence, after the shocking sound of the gunshot. The body started to fall down, the hole in her head suddenly real, deadly – lethal. Dominic's goons finally reacted, firing several shots at John – emptying their magazine. Good.

John grabbed O'Connor's body before it fell to the ground, used it as a human shield – at this point, she wasn't going to mind. Not big enough to protect him completely, of course, but better than nothing. He fired back at the two hired men, choosing to hope none of them would hit him seriously so that he could aim properly.

Two bullets later, they had matching holes in their foreheads.

John, as for him, had a graze on his right cheek, but Annie O'Connor had taken the brunt of the gunfire. As he let her body finally hit the floor, John could already see three large, bloody holes in her clothes, and he'd bet there were others, hidden from view right now.

Someone moved on his right, and John immediately strained his gun on Marconi.

Scarface held his hands up, his own weapon hanging down; he was simply making sure that Link, whom he had shot while John played human target, was as dead as he looked. Nothing threatening, I assure you.

John didn't lower his Sig Sauer right away, his eyes following Marconi's hand as it went down to check Link's pulse. Definitely dead. Marconi put his gun down on the floor, stood up on his feet again, and took a step back – between John and Elias, though.

Not certain of John's intent, then.

John finally turned to look at Dominic – wounded, on the ground, but alive. The wannabe mob boss had a bullet in his side – one of John's too. A shame. He had been aiming at the stomach, but the man had moved a bit to the right. Oh well. This wound would do well enough.

John just wanted to make sure that O'Connor hadn't talked to anyone else about "John Sullivan".

Then Dominic would have to die.

The man might have survived if he had taken a weapon too. Now it was too late – it had been too late the moment he had thought John would let him get away with threatening his family. John had seen it in the younger man's eyes, just a few seconds before he put a bloody hole in Annie O'Connor's head. The glint. The willingness to try.

A reason to kill.

John pushed the four other weapons in the room asides, far away from Elias, Marconi or Dominic. Then he put his own gun away, this time – still ready to get it back and shoot Dominic in the throat, should the need arise. Why the throat? Why not? The man had killed more than one person, he had caused more than one death. He didn't particularly deserve to die a clean death, nor did it need to be spectacularly cruel.

The moment he got close to Dominic, the man tried to grab his head, possibly to break his neck. John got a hold of the wounded man's right arm when his hand got too close to his face, and twisted. At the same time, he aimed for the gunshot that Dominic was hiding with his other hand. The criminal instinctively reached out to stop the pain from the twisted arm – John pushed his thumb inside the bleeding wound.

Dominic cried out, but quickly got his countenance back. Then again, that was probably all the man had left right now – the pain would prevent him from trying anything, and should he still try, well... John had no qualms twisting his finger around the injury.

The scream died down, and the man gave John a dark, promising look. The kind that said he was going to suffer for this. John didn't particularly care. After all, it wasn't as if he intended to let Dominic – an enemy who knew his original name, who knew he had a brother, here, in NYC – live to hold this promise.

Because John was a "good guy", his enemies tended to forget – not to realize, even – what he could do, with the right incentive.

Their loss.

"Is there anyone else who knows something, anything, about me and my family, Dominic?"

Riley's tone was flat, cold, unforgiving – not particularly cruel, though... simply, uncaring – and the younger man didn't miss the hidden meaning. He hadn't realized yet who exactly John Riley was... He still had no idea, but he could see what the man was, beneath the benevolent attitude.

It wasn't that Riley / Sullivan / whatever-his-name liked doing what he did... but he didn't mind doing what was necessary, as O'Connor had said. And even the things he minded, he'd do them if there was no other choice.

Riley definitely saw his brother's protection as worthy of being just as much of a monster as the ones he protected him from.

Dominic spat at the detective, and the man twisted his thumb in the wound. The younger man felt something tearing apart, without being able to tell what exactly. It hurt like a bitch.

John had the tip of his finger on the bottom of the bullet – just a little push, and it'd go deeper inside. A rotating motion would be even better, but he wasn't sure he could actually do that without putting two fingers in. He could feel the cold metal, so different from the sloshy flesh and the warm blood. Contrast.

He didn't like causing pain, never had, but if Dominic didn't want to speak...

"Who, Dominic?"

The big man muffled a scream, and John pushed harder.

"No one! She hadn't even told me your name beforehand! She just told me she had gotten a look at you from afar, and she was almost certain you were 'him', but she' have to check, and if I wanted to know, I had to bring her to you!"

John watched the criminal's face, assessing the truth of his words – Kara had always been the one doing the torture, but John had been the one concluding whether or not they were being lied to. Easy, really, when in such a situation. John was good at telling a liar apart – knowing what kind of lies, relevant or not to the investigation, was yet another story. People lied all the time, sometimes even without really meaning to.

"Good."

Dominic tried to lunge at him when he removed his finger from the wound, but he was weakened, and while the younger man was big and bulky, John was still strong enough to hold him off, especially in this state.

John took a step back. Considered.

No strangulation; Dominic was too large and strong for it to be efficient quickly. A bullet wound would be a problem with ballistic, but it wasn't as if the man didn't already have one of John's bullets in his body. Then again, it wasn't as if John had never taken bullets out of his victims.

Oh well. He'd just have to make the bodies disappear. Or, at least, to destroy them well enough for it to be very difficult to deduce anything post-mortem. Like, oh yeah, that's Dominic and his goons, but apart from that, man...? Gunshots, probably, but no promise.

Still...

John got his gun out, pointed it at the younger man, but didn't shoot right away. Instead, he bent down – his eyes still on Dominic, because you never know – and picked up Link's weapon.

"Wait, wait, wait, what are you going to...!"

The shot resounded in the old building; John surmised the other thugs downstairs were thinking that was the sound of his, or Elias', death. They wouldn't imagine that Dominic could possibly lose, they wouldn't dare come up without being told to. After a time, perhaps they'd come, but not right away. Then, at some point, the police would arrive... He had to get his bullets back before that happened. But first...

John looked at Elias and Marconi as he took out a sharp blade. No time to lose, certainly, because he didn't particularly want to explain to IA why "Detective Riley" was turning a crime scene into... another kind of crime scene entirely. Multitasking.

"Because I am willing to give people a second chance, they tend to forget what I am capable of."

Elias' upper lip twitched, his eyes fixed on John's hands, expertly extracting one bullet after another.

"Clearly."

"Because I don't try to kill you the moment things go a bit awry doesn't mean I'm not capable, I hope you'll remember that, Elias. It's just that my priority isn't usually to kill you, but to keep the body count as low as possible. It's all a question of priorities; try not to kill anybody, but try to stay alive first; try to stay alive, but try to save the innocents first; try to save the innocents, but try to protect the ones you care about first. Obviously, if you screw with my priorities, keeping you alive too drops lower on the scale."

John looked around, searching for the bullets that had gone in and out of his victims' heads.

"I wouldn't want to have to kill you, Elias."

The mob boss smiled thinly. Then he headed to the safe he had in the wall, to John's surprise.

"I wouldn't want you to kill me either. Now, what do you think about a destructive fire?"

I'm pretty sure Elias had two codes for his exploding safe: one that went boom immediately, and one with a timer.