Root didn't have a hard time figuring out who she was supposed to be watching, although she didn't hear anything more from Her. Not even when she stood outside the building across the street from their number. She'd been doing this long enough that it wasn't a problem; it didn't take help from Her to catch the glint of headlights on the sniper rifle in one of the windows, but Root had a feeling that it was going to be a long, lonely night.
There was no hint inside the building as to which apartment the gunman was sitting in, but Root knew which floor to go to, so she started by climbing the stairs purposefully. Once she was on the third floor she waited a minute, trying to choose between apartment thirty five and thirty six.
From thirty five, a woman exited, chattering animatedly on her cellphone about a guy that she was supposed to be meeting up with. Root pretended to be searching for her keys while the woman walked down the hall in her high heels and skintight pleather leggings. After the door to the elevator had closed, Root picked the lock of the apartment the woman had left from, the 9mm John had let her borrow weighing heavy in her hand. It was immediately obvious that the partier was not involved with sniper rifles, so Root silently closed the apartment door again.
So it was apartment thirty six. Root did not hesitate, going to the door and picking the lock as quietly as she could.
As soon as she started to open the door, it swung inward hard and a punch was thrown at her head. She ducked but was still clipped on her temple by the fist, her head bouncing backwards into the doorframe before she regained her balance and shoved the barrel of her gun into the face of her assailant.
There was already a gun pointed back at her from the second man in the room, the one by the window with the sniper rifle and, apparently, a pistol. Root's head was spinning, and the man who'd punched her drew a pistol with a silencer attached.
Quickly, she grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm, using his silenced weapon to shoot the second man in the knees, then hit him in the neck with the butt of her own gun so he crumpled. Root crossed unsteadily to the man at the window whose kneecap had been shot and pulled the gun from his hand. She shoved him from the chair and knocked him out as well, then leaned against the wall, reaching blindly for the chair the sniper had been sitting it. She couldn't reach it, so she turned, letting the side of her head press against the wall. It felt cool against her forehead, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady herself for a moment.
After a minute she could tell she wasn't going to pass out, and because she'd ducked the contact hadn't been as direct as it would have been otherwise, so she was fairly sure she would get away with bruising but no black eye or fractured jaw.
That didn't mean it didn't hurt.
It hurt like hell.
The back of her head where she'd hit the doorframe was throbbing. She touched the spot gingerly and then gently prodded at her temple, then walked carefully to the kitchenette. She wrapped some ice in a dishtowel towel and pressed it against her temple as she went back to the seat by the window, looking through the scope of the sniper rifle to the apartment across the street, where their number was sitting at his laptop in the dark.
She settled in to watch for other possible threats, pulling the Russian semi-automatic sniper rifle back a little so that lights from down below couldn't reflect off the metal and give her position away.
She'd spent the rest of the night there, only leaving her position twice. First, just long enough to get more ice, alternating between her temple and the back of her head. Then, she'd drug the men into the elevator for their friends to find. The groaning as they started to come around was tedious. Their pockets were empty but for some ammo, which she'd taken. She wasn't sure who they were, or why they were there. The Machine was silent.
Eventually their number had fallen asleep on the couch, the blue light of the laptop shining on his sleeping face until his computer went to sleep as well, and the room was completely dark.
Now the sun was just beginning to make the streets of New York glow, and she watched through the sniper's scope as John showed up outside the number's apartment building. She flicked on her earpiece.
"I was wondering when you'd turn up, John," she said playfully, and watched Reese look around himself three stories below her.
"Have you been here all night?" he asked.
"Fifth window from the east end of the building across the street from you. Third floor," she said, and watched as Reese looked around and found her window.
"Any problems?" he asked, looking where she was seated. She knew he couldn't see her- she had no lights on in the room and with the street lights flipping off there was nothing illuminating her. But Reese wouldn't let that stop him from pretending they were face to face having a conversation.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," she said, prodding at the lump on the back of her head. "No one has come or gone for hours. But I imagine our man will need to go to work sooner or later."
"I'll take it from here. I'm tailing him to work, we'll see what turns up," he said. Root looked across at the number's apartment, where the light in the living room had just turned on.
"He's just waking up. If you need somewhere to keep an eye on him, I'd recommend thirty six. There's already a sniper set up," Root said, moving away from the window and picking up the SIG Pro pistol she'd taken from Reese at the subway station, wondering if she should take the pistol with the silencer as well.
She decided she might as well and tucked John's pistol into the waistband of her jeans, which sagged with the weight of the gun. She'd forgotten her belt at the subway station, and the memory of Shaw biting her own arm, her hands bound above her head, made Root smile a little to herself despite her nagging headache.
She opened the closet and grabbed a hooded sweatshirt from a hook. It was the only thing there, so it would have to do. She paused to pull it over her head, then left the apartment with the silenced pistol and knelt by the welcome mat. To John, she said, "Key's under the mat."
With that, Root headed down the stairs, her gun drawn at her side just in case. When she got to the lobby there were police officers just pulling up with lights flashing, entering purposefully, stopping everyone from leaving. There were five or six residents standing in the lobby anxiously. Root touched her ear piece again.
"On second thought, you might want to wait until things here cool down," Root said playfully, turning back into the stairwell. She could hear John sigh. "I'm going to need an alternate route out of here."
"Just a moment," Finch's voice intruded.
"Harriet the spy, are you eavesdropping?" Root asked good-naturedly. Finch didn't respond to her comment.
"Alright, at the bottom of the stairwell, there should be a service door. If it's open, you should be able to exit through the superintendent's apartment to the alley," Finch said after a beat. Before he had finished speaking, Root had tried the door and found it locked. With the butt of the handgun she smashed the doorknob and bullied the door open. "It would be best if you didn't make so much noise. You're attracting attention."
"Those cops look like they mean business, Root," it was Shaw's voice that Root was hearing now.
"Aren't you supposed to be letting Finch work?" Root asked, trying to keep her tone light despite the adrenaline that was beginning to pump through her veins.
"I would if you weren't getting the whole NYPD's attention. One of them heard the noise, he's headed your way," Shaw said, and even through the ear piece Root could tell that Shaw was more worried than mad. Root entered the disheveled apartment. There were dirty dishes stacked on the counter in the kitchenette and a pile of unfolded clothes beside the bed.
"You worried about me, Sameen?" Root asked with a smirk.
"Miss Groves, you need to hurry," Finch said, his voice urgent. Then, panicked, he added, "Mr. Reese, what are you doing?"
"Detective Riley, homicide," John's voice was back. Root couldn't hear if someone was replying to him. "I'll check it out, you boys can go."
Root tried the back door to the apartment only to find it locked.
"Another locked door," she said. She turned to the window above the sofa and tried that as well. It was painted shut. "Window won't budge either. I'm breaking it."
"No, let John intervene," Finch said sternly.
"It's too late for that. Go, now," Shaw commanded. And she was right. It was too late for John to stop the cop from following the noises Root had made.
"Freeze! Hands up!" The officer yelled. Root smashed the butt of the 9mm into the glass, shattering it, and turned to smile at the young guy who looked like he probably didn't even shave yet. He had his gun drawn, but his eyes were wide, like he hadn't actually expected to find something when he followed the crashing sound in the stairwell.
Root pointed her gun back at him, still smiling as she swung her legs over the sill. He fired a shot before she dropped to the ground. Root had intended to run immediately, but his shot had grazed her left hip and she'd fallen, breaking her fall in the scattered shards of glass with her gun hand.
He reached the window and fired four more shots.
Three missed.
One did not.
Root gave a strangled yelp.
"Root, what happened?" Shaw was loud in her ear, anxiety clear in her raised voice. It felt like her left elbow had been torn open.
"Miss Groves, are you alright? We can't see the alley." Finch's voice was higher than Shaw's, panicked and shrill. But she didn't have time to stop, and she was gritting her teeth so hard that she couldn't speak.
She rounded the corner onto the street and pulled the hood of the over-sized sweatshirt over her head with her right hand, her left tucked into the pocket to hide the gun and hopefully, the wound in her arm. Without looking back, Root darted into the steady flow of foot-traffic on the sidewalk.
"Help Reese. I'm out," Root said, and before anyone could protest, she had turned off the earpiece and was speed walking from the scene, the gun held tight in her burning right hand in the large front pocket of the sweatshirt, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. She felt hot liquid on her left forearm, and swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.
The crosswalk ahead of her changed to 'Don't Walk', and she wondered which direction she should turn. She was afraid to look back in case the young cop was still following her, and right when she was about to turn left and cross the street, a sign on the building across the street started to flicker, catching her attention.
It usually read 'Right On Time!' in neon letters, but the words 'On Time' fluttered for a moment and then went off completely. Then the word 'Right' began to blink steadily, and Root smiled and turned to the right.
Root walked as quickly as she could, keeping an eye out for more messages from Her. At the next intersection, a pay phone rang across the street and Root walked towards it. As soon as she got close it stopped ringing.
She was being led by the Machine to wherever she needed to be next.
Root followed the hints for a few blocks and then couldn't find any more. Worried, Root looked around herself, and realized that she'd been paying so much attention to clues and the people around her, as well as the pain radiating from her elbow, that she hadn't been paying attention to where she was being taken.
She was at Shaw's alias' apartment again. Glancing around once, Root made her way inside, and when she didn't receive any further instructions once she was in the entryway, she headed up the steps to the apartment. Her head felt foggy as her headache raged, and she thought to herself with a smile that she could see what sort of beer or hard alcohol Shaw liked to buy for herself. And if Shaw drank coffee. Any clues about what she could bring the woman trapped in the subway station would be useful.
And then the thought of resting for a bit in Shaw's bed occurred to her, and that was incredibly appealing. Everything was taking its toll on her. She was exhausted.
When she tried the handle to Shaw's apartment, she almost didn't think to be surprised to find that it was unlocked. But she did catch herself before she just strolled inside.
Immediately, she pulled the gun from the hoodie's pocket, opening the door slowly, not sure what she'd find on the inside.
Shaw's apartment had been ransacked.
Every drawer in the living room was open, the limited contents thrown onto the floor. The couch cushions had been cut open with a knife and thrown aside, the filling strewn about the living room. Root walked cautiously towards the kitchen.
The cupboards were all open. Root was surprised, and realized quickly that she shouldn't have been, that there were only a few mismatched forks, spoons, and knives. Shaw had almost nothing in her kitchen. One cutting board, a couple of sharp knives, four matching tumblers, a fifth of a different style, three pint glasses, three plates, one bowl. A fourth plate was shattered in pieces on the floor.
Since there was no one in the kitchen Root moved on to the bedroom. Here, again, clothes were dumped on the floor, the sheets had been torn from the mattress, which had been hacked open like the cushions in the living room. The pillows had been sliced open too. Root put her hand on the ruined pillow case and thought that she should have brought one of them to Shaw.
And now it was too late.
She pulled her hand away from the pillow and saw that she'd left blood behind.
Root felt her boot step on something solid and lifted her foot. It was a small medal that looked vaguely familiar, but Root couldn't put her finger on where she would have seen it before. It was gold with red accents, with a man's face, cyrillic letters, a star, and a hammer and sickle. She bent and picked it up, turning it over in her bloody hand, looking for a clue as to why this of all things was an object that Shaw had deemed appropriate to keep. Or maybe it belonged to the intruders. It wasn't unthinkable that Russians had gotten roped into doing dirty work for Samaritan. The sniper rifle had, after all, been a Russian model. Root put the medal into the pocket of her jeans and was reminded again that she'd left her belt behind at the station. She wondered if she should try to find a belt in Shaw's closet to make a tourniquet. She wasn't sure if that would help.
There was only one room left to check. The bathroom.
As soon as she'd pushed the door open, Root knew that there was no one in the apartment anymore. And, as she could have predicted, there were few personal effects in Shaw's bathroom.
Rubbing alcohol, gauze, medical tape of varying widths and strengths, other bandages, scissors, a scalpel, long thin tweezers. It was practically an ER. Which was perfect. Aside from those things littering the floor, the medicine cabinet held only a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, and a stack of hair ties. Shaw wasn't exactly high maintenance.
Root winced and gasped as she tried to pull the hooded sweatshirt off and her wounded arm was jostled and pulled. A harsh sob racked her body as she lifted her arm, tugging the bloody fleece off over her head.
She started to pull off her shirt and had to pause, carefully lowering herself to the ground, grabbing desperately at the sink with her right hand to keep from falling, but her palm was slick with blood and she half-fell against the wall, sliding down to the floor. She struggled with her shirt again and finally took the scissors and cut her shirt off of herself.
The pain from her elbow was radiating up her arm into her shoulder and back, and down into her wrist and hand.
She closed her eyes, screwing them shut and inhaling deeply, slowly, then letting the air out. She needed steady hands.
She opened her eyes again and looked down at her gun hand. There were pieces of glass embedded in her knuckles from catching herself with a closed fist. There was blood on both of her hands. And her other arm, the one that had been shot, didn't look good. The bullet had not actually hit her elbow. Instead, it was an inch or so above the joint, and it looked as though it hadn't hit bone, just soft tissue. Root didn't know if that was good or bad, she just knew that it hurt and that it was bleeding. A lot.
She sterilized the wound, sweating from pain, her head screaming at her, and she almost passed out but knew that if she did, things would only get worse, so she took a couple of slow gulps of air and counted to five in her head, willing herself to relax.
After she'd done what she could, pressing gauze hard against the wound and taping it up tight, she moved on to the hand with glass in it. With the tweezers in her non-dominant hand, she pulled pieces of glass from the cuts, gritting her teeth and gasping. Finally, she picked herself up from the floor and washed her shaky hands, sterilized her knuckles, and taped gauze over them as well, clumsy because her arm hurt and her left hand wasn't used to fine motor skills.
There was a bottle of codeine at her feet, and she took two immediately.
Root left the bathroom and found a button-up shirt on the floor of the bedroom. It would have to do. She couldn't bear the thought of pulling another shirt over her head. It was really too short for her, but she was glad that for her size, Shaw didn't have narrow shoulders. She grabbed Shaw's black leather jacket as well, figuring she could use it to cover up her wounds when she left.
Root made her way back to the kitchen, leaving the bloody shirt and hoodie behind, and looked for a bottle of anything strong enough to take the edge off of the pain. There was an almost empty bottle of scotch, which Root finished in two large gulps, and some cheap beer in the fridge. Root took two of the bottles, found a bottle opener on the ground, and went back to the living room, setting the single metal folding chair upright next to the card table that completed what Shaw obviously would have called her dining room set.
Root grunted as she sat down, and opened one of the beers, holding the bottle between her legs and using her bandaged hand to work the opener. She spilled some beer on her pants, and the cap fell to the ground. Root looked at the splash of beer on her thigh, fading from fizz to a large dark spot. It was only a handful of hours ago that she had been tracing the edge of a similar patch on these jeans courtesy of Shaw.
She felt woozy, sleepy, and she wondered if she could have a concussion as she drank a few more gulps of the beer, grimacing when she hiccuped once against the carbonation, sending a sharp pain from her elbow outward.
Looking around the living room, Root was glad she'd gotten rid of all of the weapons that Shaw had hidden there. She realized she should get one of the guns, and finished her first beer while slowly heading back to the bathroom to retrieve the gun with the silencer still attached. She left the empty bottle in the sink and went back to the card table, putting the gun down heavily and then fumbling to open the second beer.
She sat there for a while, drinking swigs of beer, and thinking about the neat stacks of clothing that Shaw had on the floor of the subway station. And this was how her apartment had been left. Turned inside out.
She put the beer bottle on the table and flicked the ear piece on, realizing as she did so that it felt like she was moving in slow motion. Like her brain was churning like a bike with a broken chain, and her body was just drifting through the motions belatedly.
"How's the number doing?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Miss Groves, are you alright?" It was Finch that answered. Root knew that Shaw was probably close by.
"Just peachy. I'm going to have to keep moving soon, I don't think I'm safe here," Root said through clenched teeth, picking the beer up again and taking a heavy swig.
"Where is here? I can send Mr. Reese-" Finch started, but Root cut him off, shifting to try to find a more comfortable way to sit.
"At a friend's place. Near the number's apartment," Root said, hoping Finch would know what that meant. He didn't reply, and she was worried he wouldn't find her. She tried to use her usual casual tone but she had to keep stopping to think about what she was trying to say. Her brain felt fried. "Someone else has been here. But I got rid of all the weapons the last time I was here, so-"
"You're at Miss Shaw's apartment? You're not safe there, you need to keep moving," Finch said in a panic. "This is Samaritan. The officer, the visitor to Miss Shaw's apartment- you need to go."
"I'm not sure I'll be able to get back right now, and," Root said, but had to stop, a dry sob heaving through her because she hurt, and she was scared, and she felt very much alone. And to make things worse, she felt like she was slipping into unconsciousness. She clenched the bottle hard in her hand, pressing her eyes shut hard and then opening them wide to try to clear her head. "Uh… but…"
"I'm contacting John. He's on his way, just stay where you are," she could hear Finch speaking, but it sounded like his voice was on the other side of a wall of water. Her mouth felt dry, and she lifted the bottle again to drink. It took her a few seconds before she realized the beer had slipped from her fingers and was spinning on the floor, a pool of liquid spreading, reaching the sole of her shoe. There was beer soaking into the shirt as well.
"Sam…?" Root said, wanting to speak, but she wasn't even sure what she was trying to ask. She just wanted to know that Shaw was there. If there was a response, she didn't hear it.