CHAPTER 10

At the other end of the line, Finch was plunging deeper into his own part of the investigation, mulling over the knowns and unknowns of the case as he clicked through the relevant images on his screen. "Undocumented workers. Ruthless henchmen. Nail salons?" He shook his head, baffled, unable to make sense of the scattered pieces. "What . . . are . . . we . . . missing?"

"I think we'll have our answer soon," Reese murmured in Finch's ear. "The van's about to stop." The vehicle was slowing as it approached the left rear corner of the residence, and Reese heard the clatter of movement and the buzz of quiet exchanges from the rear compartment, as if the women were getting ready to disembark.

Just before they rounded the corner, Reese detached himself from the side of the vehicle and landed as gracefully as a cat on a strip of lawn that ran alongside the house. He dove into the shadows, then stayed low as he moved behind a screen of shrubs and flowering plants until he could get a good view of the action behind the house.

"What's happening?" Finch's voice came out of nowhere. He sounded tense.

"The women are getting out behind Mr. Lee's house, including our Number," Reese reported. "A couple of guards are letting them in—there's a steel door, probably leads to a basement. I'll try to get inside once the van clears out. Just need to take out a couple of guards."

That was going to be more interesting than Reese made it sound. A bright three-way floodlight beamed out from above the door where the women were entering, and two armed guards flanked it. Although they held rifles and carried a brace of other weapons on their utility belts, they were dressed in plain clothes. Henchmen, Reese decided, not formal security; depending on their training, that could make them either more or less dangerous. Either way, a rifle could only be used as a club at such close quarters, and Reese could easily close the fifteen feet between them before they could access their other weapons.

Reese studied his path to the door. To his annoyance, the lush plant growth ended at the corner of the house where he was hiding, giving way to a border of low-growing ground cover that offered no cover. Of course, Mr. Lee might just be a cheapskate when it came to landscaping, but it seemed much more likely that he didn't want people sneaking up behind him.

After the van drives away with the sound of shifting gears and a diesel-engine hum, a silence follows in which Finch forms an image of Reese's movements in his mind's eye: crouched low, focused on his prey, a coiled spring of concentrated energy. Then, launching himself from the shadows to attack. Even after working with the Reese for over a year, Finch is still amazed at how quickly the tall man can move when he wants to—and by how anxious he still feels for his friend's safety with each new mission.

Which is why Finch's heart seems to stop for a moment when he hears the sound of one blow followed by another, then a muffled squawk of protest before a grunt and a third, harder impact. Then the reassuring sound of Reese's voice, his breathing slightly quicker. "Took care of the two guards. Now let's see what Mr. Lee is up to."

"Good luck, Mr. Reese," Finch responds automatically.

Reese knocks out the light on the side nearest himself to provide some shadow, then waits beside the door, his gun ready, waiting for whoever might have heard him disposing of the guards. Nothing. He tries the doorknob, then back his hand as if it is red-hot. The door is unlocked. Someone's been expecting him.

Reese's head whips around to survey his surroundings just as he hears the sound of running feet crunching on the gravel drive. Several armed men appear from around the corner where Reese had been hiding; one raises a rifle and aims. Even as the man's superior is shouting reprimands and swatting the weapon down, Reese opens the door at the last second and uses it as a shield while he picks off the man with a single shot. Having deduced that they've been ordered to bring him in alive, he fires off two more warning shots, trying to make clear that he doesn't have the same orders. They hang back, but Reese can hear the chatter of two-way radios.

At the sound, Finch's voice squawks in his ear: "Mr. Reese! Are you alright? I heard gunfire!"

"Not now, Finch," Reese says under his breath, "I'm kind of busy." Through the open doorway, he hears the thunder of more booted feet pounding up the stairs. His heart seems to drop into the pit of his stomach as he scans the area, assessing his options for escape; none of them are promising. He decides to hold his ground.

Silently, he counts in his head, timing his next move, waiting. Then, as the group of armed men bursts through the doorway, Reese falls back a few steps from his shelter behind the door, and fires into the crowd until his gun is empty. He takes down a few, but then the rest are on him in a rush, with both groups closing in now, cornering him beside the doorway.

As the crowd surrounds him with angry shouts, wielding nightsticks and rifle butts, Reese kicks and punches and blocks, disabling as many as he can before they take him down. Despite the chaos, he feels a preternatural calm. Every action becomes instinct, a choreography of moves that has become second nature. He feels nothing.

Finch, on the other hand, is in a panic at what he hears: voices shouting in Korean, the dull smack of knuckles and rubber against flesh, the crack of bone against bone, the cries and grunts as blows connect. "Mr. Reese! What's happening?" he pleads.

Finch's voice again—a mosquito buzzing in his ear. "Not . . . now," Reese growls, knocking one surprised attacker into another with a hard jab. The crush of men is pressing him toward the doorway; perhaps his exit strategy will turn out to be an entrance strategy as well.

Then, abruptly, Finch hears an ugly crunch too close at hand, followed by a grunt; static blurs the sounds of the invisible melee. "Mr. Reese?! Are you alright?"

So far, Reese has felt little pain in the adrenaline rush of the fight, despite the hits he has taken. But this time, a rifle butt connects with his head hard enough to make his vision swim, and he feels a trickle of warm blood start down the back of his neck. A grim determination settles over him. Despite his best efforts, his opponents have the advantage of numbers, and he's not sure how much longer he can fend them off.

A fist slips past his defenses and connects with his mouth, driving him a step backwards into the open doorway. As Reese kicks the assailant in the middle, his peripheral vision catches another rifle butt flying towards his head, and he blocks the descending blow with his left arm.

Damn. His injured arm. The impact delivers a shocking jolt of pain, and fresh blood from the cut begins to soak his sleeve above the wound. That doesn't stop him, though, from grabbing hold of the rifle and swinging its barrel with a satisfying crack against the head of his attacker before another one snatches it away.

Bleeding, bruised, exhausted but still on his feet, Reese calculates that maybe—just maybe—he has a chance if he can get inside and pull the door shut. But as he dives for the handle, something slams into his right shoulder from behind like a blast of thunder and lightning combined. Before he can recover, a second blow blinds him with a white flash of pain.

He stumbles, and his next step meets only air. He is falling: the world is inverted, the air knocked from his lungs, his body thudding helplessly down a cascade of concrete. Through a haze of confusion and pain, he recognizes a voice in his ear.

"Mr. Reese! What's happening? Are you alright?" Finch has heard the whole battle through Reese's ears. Even as he hopes, wills—perhaps even prays— that Reese will recover his feet in time, the noise of triumphant shouts near at hand confirm the worst.

Reese's voice, gasping. "Finch. Need backup. Tell Car—. . ." But a breathy sound of pain cuts off his words, as if he's been kicked in the stomach. Then a cacophony of kicks and blows follows, nearly drowning out his gasps and groans.

Finch cringes, feeling like a fly on the wall of the Hindenburg. "John, hold on! I'll send help!" Rising from his chair, he stands with both hands on his desk, poised for action yet powerless to intervene.

Instead of a reply, Finch hears only an ear-splitting crunch followed by the crackle of static. He staggers back a step, realizing with horror that Reese's earpiece has been damaged. Something has gone terribly wrong. "Mr. Reese, can you hear me?" Finch pleads, touching his own ear as if he might somehow reach his friend. "John, are you there?" Then the connection goes dead.