Finch caught sight of Reese exiting the building with one of the exterior security cameras. There was no hesitation in his step as he headed straight for the heavy-duty truck parked in the service ally a few feet out.
The whipping winds forced the icy rain against him; John almost felt sorry for what their Numbers must have gone through, trapped on the rickety lift, but then remembered their righteous indignation with a trumping shrug.
The truck's locks posed little problem for John, who slim-jimmed in just as fast as if he'd had a key, and had the large power plant sparking to life with the same hot-wiring efficiency.
He kept a steady fix on the mob cars in his rearview mirror, catching no movement through their darkly tinted windows as he disabled his airbag.
But Reese knew they were watching, watching and questioning the validity of a guy-in-a-suit getting into a work truck at this hour. It won't matter. Whatever they thought wouldn't change their plans. They were here for one reason and wouldn't act or risk their perceived advantage until their targets were well in position.
John smiled at the predictability of the criminal mind. They were going to wait until the Wrights pulled out, then trap the limo between the two, gun-wielding cars in a kill-box. Simple and unimaginative, but messily effective none-the-less, he mused no longer able to ignore the blasting rain hitting the cab roof. "Might want to turn your volume down for this, Harold."
"John..." Finch's question hung, unasked with the skittering scuff of tires and revving roar of the truck now accelerating down the rain slicked ally. Mr. Reese had the metal beast hurling backwards at breakneck speed, while Harold cringed with dread at the very notion.
Bellowing plums of steam spewed from the cold exhaust, swallowing the truck in an obscured charge as John aimed it straight at the vehicle lurking across the street.
Finch held his breath, watching the scene unfold. What would come next, already had his body bracing with bone snapping expectancy. Reese however, knew what repercussions befell a tense, bowstrung body and exhaled, willing himself to relax while counting on the exact opposite from his targets.
Finch jumped, whether by the physically felt crack at hearing it or a visual response by seeing the truck deeply embedded into the side of the mob car, he'd never know. But the impact clearly rippled through both vehicles with the destructive conviction of the piling tonnage before stopping with a final bounce.
Reese used his arms to shield his face against the shattering spray of razored glass that now coated the cab. Pieces fell from his arms as he unbuckled his belt and shook off the ringing haze and stepped from the truck. That was all the time he had.
Bullets swept across the truck, stealing any luxury of recuperation and forced him into immediate action. Shed debris crunched under his feet as he ducked behind the motor, narrowly avoiding the hail of bullets starting at the grill and working their way over and along the truck, mercilessly traveling along the entire wreckage as the second mob car streaked its escape in the pinning vail of automatic fire.
Bracing over his hood, Reese worked to blink away the numbing rain and lingering effects of the crash and fired into the lowered windows of the speeding car.
The car erratically swerved, clipping a mailbox and confirming some internal damage, yet still manage to hang the corner in a final getaway.
"Mr. Reese! Are you alright?" After the drive-by, he'd lost Mr. Reese from any of the camera views.
"I'm fine Harold." Reese coughed the reply.
"Well I must say, subtlety is surely not your strong suit, Mr. Reese."
"You didn't hire me to be gentle, Finch."
"Point well taken. How have our additions fared?"
"They were ok before their buddies turned the car into a cheese grater. Guess they prefer silent partners." Reese looked over the smoldering wreck while cautiously approaching the T-boned four-door. He squinted against the rain and spewing fluids hemorrhaging from the twisted vehicle, while bent sheet-metal popped and groaned in complaint over the newly forced shape, but could still pick up a faint moan from the shredded interior.
"Looks like someone's still alive."
One out of three perps moved, stupidly pulling up his weapon. "Bad idea, and you've had enough of those for one night." Reese calmly explain from behind his pointed 45 and relieved the thug of the uzi.
John tiled he head, looking passed the surviving man. The trigger man in the front seat slumped against the door frozen in open-eyed shock after a row of bullet holes cut across his upper body. The driver, he doubted, was any better off judging by the missing chunk of forehead. "The other two no longer posed a threat."
John reached passed the barely coherent man and collected another assault rifle from across his lap. By some stroke of luck, this guy had escaped most of the bullets, but not the passenger door window.
"Wh-oo-o are you?" The man stammered.
"Parking enforcement. You realize you're parked in a No-Kill Zone." Reese enjoyed the look of baffled bewilderment - icing on the cake - while he kept the guy off-balance and talking."Who are you working for?"
"You're... in..insane!"
"It's been said... Who hired you?"
"Russians... Please, I n-n-eed help..." The injured man pleaded.
"After you answer my questions." Reese leaned closer. "Your buddies just tried to kill you, which means you have something to say." John bore his teeth in a sinister smile. "Guy in the front seat looks like range target, and I can see what your driver's thinking... so unless you want to end up like them, you might wanna try again."
"Rourke... Our co...coordin..ator for Russians..." The man weakly strung together.
"How do I find Rourke?"
The man shook his head with a swallow. "Don't know... no one does."
The man was fading fast, so Reese smacked his cheek. "Hey! How does he contact you?"
"You get a text... then more... instruc...tions." The perp's eyes remained closed this time.
The gunman sagged in silence leaving Reese to mull the information, while he collected anything that might help with the new lead, and gave the men a cursory look for tattoos he knew he won't find. "Finch?"
"I heard Mr. Reese."
"It's not much to go on, but maybe you can find something on their phones about this hit coordinator, Rourke. I grabbed a phone off one of the upstairs guys too." Reese pause. "But I can tell you for sure, these guys aren't Bratva, just more lowlife independents."
"If we can find the broker, he could very well lead us to who's behind this." Finch hopefully remarked.
"You have eyes on our Numbers?"
"Yes. In fact they've all had eyes on you, no doubt admiring your... innovative handy-workfrom the lobby."
"Well, maybe this'll make it easier to convince them to lay low." Reese bore the look of concerned contemplation while heading to the limo. "Finch? Did you pick up any outgoing calls or texts after we changed the meeting?"
"No. Nothing."
"We weren't followed, so someone fed these hit-teams our location almost as fast as we planned it. You're sure the board members checked out?"
"I found nothing on any of them. I can see if perhaps one of the emails was intercepted..."
"Ok, because we're missing something."
"What are your thoughts Mr. Reese?" But Finch already knew.
"Our Numbers may not be the victims."
"Father and son trying to killed each other? I've considered it too, but they've both been nearly killed, together, three times now. We've had them closely monitored and I've hatched their financials, phone records, and all their email and social media accounts, there have been no untoward overtures from either of them, at least not with respect to each other."
"I don't know, something just doesn't add up." Reese shook his head. "What I do know, is we can't take them back home. We need to get them to a safe-house, something close, and before someone else shows up."
"I agree. I just sent you the nearest location."
Reese pulled the limo right up to the front of the building and held the car door for the two frozen, haggard, and drenched Numbers as they beelined to safer teritory. Before either could speak Reese slammed the door.
With the privacy window in place, Reese hooked the limo around toward the safe-house and freely spoke, "one thing still doesn't make sense."
"Only one, Mr. Reese?" Finch ironically laughed.
"The Russians don't use brokers, they have their own people to do their dirty work, and a hell of a lot more skilled than these guys. Why would someone be trying to make it look like the Russians are behind this? There have to be a million less dangerous bears to poke."
"Then you don't believe the Russians are involved?"
"The syndicate is shrewd, calculating and tend to keep things in-house. This was just way to obvious and sloppy. That second car knew it too, that's why they tried to silence their compromised guys."
"Our real killers may be using the higher profile organization to misdirect the spotlight."
"Dangerous spotlight... Soon as the Russians catch wind of it, it won't be just us and the cops hunting them. " John rubbed his neck starting to feel the wet-cold seeping through his coat. "We have to find out how they're getting their info; like this... we're just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Oh, and Finch. I sent you a text of some things I need."
"I've already sent it, along with some dry clothes for our guests." Finch had to admit Reese was right. Thus far they were running neck-and-neck with the attacks, each one displaying a precognition to the event, and never leaving more than scant or disjointed clue that coalesced into nothing.