Warning – lousy chapter ahead :/
I had to hurry with this one, and I moved all important doings into the next, because I didn't want to mess anything up due the lack of time and concentration. In this chapter practically nothing happens, and it should, Facebook things are waiting :D It has, though, a few important explanations.
I didn't have time to answer your reviews ( sorry about that), so I pushed Nate to explain the 'staying in the apartment' issue. He can do it better than me :D
But why did I let them stay in the place the mobsters knew about? Because it would be too complicated to move them. Not only describing some new place – and there's no place like the Boston apartment – but it would mess my plot entirely. They are good, the best – when they go to hide themselves, who the hell would find them? Surely not some pathetic mobsters. I can't diminish the characters at will, one thing they do perfectly, and the other, when I need it, they do sloppy. It doesn't work that way.
If I did that, if I moved them, I would have to find a way for the mobsters to find them – if I wanted any damn action scene, and not only chirping around the sofa, table and bed. Frankly, I'm not THAT smart :/
Another thing – the reason I made this in a hurry. :D Now do exactly what I say ( except Facebook People, you don't have to, you've seen it already):
Step one: open new tab or window
Step two: Go on You Tube and in "search" type: The Occam's Razor Job, or full length title: Leverage Movie Trailer 2014 The Occam's Razor Job.
Step three: guess what you have to do with it :/
Step four: return here and just then read the chapter. You may tell me if you liked the movie – optional.
That thing consumed me for days, I haven't touched the chapter since the last Friday – and when I finally came back, sucked up in TORJ again, I had no idea where the hell I am, and who is that strange new woman in my apartment :/
This rambling is going to be longer than the chapter – but I'm still high on adrenaline and I can't stop. No wonder – 77 episodes, 24/7 – I barely slept at all.
If you can, and want, share the video around.
I promise, the next chapter will be normal :P If my luck holds, maybe I will follow :D
PS: The video was made as a birthday present for a dear, dear friend, Nina Dvorak ( yep, the REAL head of the Dvorak Security :D )
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Chapter 36
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It took forty five minutes in the bathroom – locked, with the key turned twice – to tend to the wound, clean it, stitch it again and wrap it up. After the first five minutes he was wishing he was dead already. That shit wasn't just a small entry hole, Dr. Sciortino had to dig for the bullet in the first operation, making a solid cut. He had no means to check the state of the inner stitches, except the feeling that those might be okay. However, when it came to stitches, every surgeon had his own handwriting, and there wasn't any way he could copy the exact pattern. Betsy would see the difference, and go berserk.
One shit at the time. He had worse problems than Betsy's wrath.
Wrapping the bandages, which had to go across the chest, over the shoulder and around his back, reminded him of dressing up in the hospital when buttons were impenetrable barriers, and the tie became an octopus trying to strangle him. He ran out of curses before the first ten minutes passed.
Good thing he remembered to wash his hair before he started it, to make an excuse for being in the bathroom in the first place. There was no way he could do it after this torture.
And he had to hurry, to finish it before Nate and the rest of the team arrived. Avoiding any suspicion was the key. Hurrying only made things worse; it took three tries for every bandage to wrap.
The pain was so absurdly strong that he became almost dumb. There was a certain level to which a human body could endure pain, just one small step before losing consciousness and shutting all systems down, and he had learned how to find it and keep himself right on the edge.
When he finally finished he was a trembling wreck. Unable to stand, think, breathe, to do anything except sit on the floor to avoid falling, and staring at the locked door.
Stress levels, right. He couldn't decide if he should laugh, or cry, so he did neither.
How the fuck was he supposed to get up now?
Avoiding any suspicion would be hard indeed if they had to break in the bathroom to get him out.
Maybe it was time for another list: How to screw every damn thing that could be screwed.
He fucked up the better part of his recovery; the 'deterioration of progress' speech played in his head in Betsy's voice. With this shit, he probably returned to the 'the first steps' phase – and that one was a joy. He had managed to solve the shaking of his hands, just to become a trembling heap on the floor, unable to stand up. In fact, his hands shook much less than the rest of his body, every muscle shivering from exhaustion.
Florence and Parker were cleansing the apartment, according to the sounds he heard. Still no sign of the others returning. Good. He could even make it on time.
If he moved.
Getting up was a three stages process, with pauses; he counted to ten, calming the thumping in his chest which just increased the pain. Three more countings, in three different languages, and he was standing. Another five minutes to carefully clean the mess he left behind, and fill the trash can with the shirt and bandages. If the girls gathered enough garbage, this trashcan could go with it unnoticed.
He wasn't yet able to go out of the bathroom, but his unease was growing stronger. He did tell them what to do, and what not to do, before he locked himself in. Parker would be careful, but he wasn't sure about Florence. Her behavior was inconsistent even in the good days, and now, suffering from a mild shell shock, she could do anything stupid. Like walking in front of shattered windows. The shooter might not return – but he would, if he was him.
He hurried with everything, not bothering to look at the mirror; he knew what he would see. The few steps he had to make to reach the door gritted his teeth in a permanent lock; breathing, walking, shaking, moving the arm, he simply couldn't control all of that at the same time, and dizziness struck hard.
It'll get better. He had a few hours to recover, and the pain would lessen. He just needed to get to the bed, and rest his arm on something, to ease the pulling from involuntary movement. For now, putting it in his pocket would stop any movement.
When he entered the living room, he knew he shouldn't have bothered with worry; they put heavy blankets over the broken windows, keeping the daylight out. Good. Darkness would help him hide everything. And they did a marvelous job – the floor was clear from rubbish, all destroyed things, books, pieces of shelves and screens were gathered in one big pile in the middle.
"There's nothing we can do with the sofa and chairs, but we covered them with blankets from Nate's room," Florence said, coming from the kitchen with another broken stool. She put it on the pile, just then turning to him. She looked calmer – the somewhat haunted look in her eyes was almost gone. Almost. Good thing she was so stressed in the bathroom, and didn't notice how much it cost him not to kiss her; that would be the most stupid thing he could do.
He was worried about Parker's remark, yet Florence had probably learned to dismiss everything Parker said. It was good that the pain had kept him occupied until now – that was much more productive than thinking about the 'kissing the client' issue. He had to stop with that – just like that – stop. Now. He could do it. He could erase nasty, complicated shit from his mind, this shouldn't be a prob-
"Now is the time when you say: yes, good, or no, don't do that," she continued, watching him. "Unless you changed your mind about Betsy?"
"Didn't." Damn, his voice was unused and raspy; too much of holding breath and silent cursing. "You okay? Your arm?"
"I put a plaster on it," she glanced at her arm, then looked at him again, with brows narrowed in confusion. "Parker poked me."
Damn. He turned around to look at the thief who was busy with… he blinked and looked better, not believing his eyes.
"Fuck, she's…"
"No, everything's fine, I poked her back. At her leg."
That stopped him mid step. Unbelievable. How come he never thought of that, all those years? But then he looked at Parker again. She was using his kitchen knife, sharpened to almost molecular level, to dig out the bullets from the holes in the walls. "Parker, what the hell you're doing? Those knives ain't for digging, stop it!"
"Almost finished," she sang back, not a slight worry in her voice. "Nate called, they'll be here in twenty minutes. Go to bed."
He eyed her suspiciously; he wasn't sure how much she saw – he never could read her completely.
She sent him a grin. "You skipped the cleansing with washing your hair for almost an hour," she pointed to his still wet hair with the knife – he couldn't see abrasions on the blade, but he could feel them. "That surely exhausted you, and you have to rest. Am I right?"
He gave up on reading this, turned around and went to the bed.
George's vase was broken. At least two bullets hit it, going through the soil and roots. And two branches were broken too, hanging sadly from the tree.
He put him behind the bed, promised him he would be avenged, and finally, finally, crawled into the bed.
He didn't dare close his eyes.
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He must have passed out, because when he opened his eyes – which he didn't close at all – Nate was standing by the bed, watching him, and directing the full spectrum light into his eyes.
"Turn it off." The fucking train ran through his head when the light hit him. Nate directed the light to the floor, to George, and blessed half darkness fell again.
Behind Nate's back, Hardison and Parker were putting the new screens on the wall. Florence and Sophie were cooing over the cat.
Nate didn't look pissed off because of the apartment, he looked silent, a much more dangerous thing. That meant his brain was plotting and plotting, and he really didn't want to hear what letter plan he was pondering upon right now.
Nate, just go away. He needed more time to get together, dammit, he wasn't able to talk coherently yet. His chest was pounding with every heartbeat, sending sharp waves of pain directly into his brain. And he had to hide every trace of it before those attentive eyes. "Windows?" he had to ask when Nate sat in Florence's chair, able to talk or not.
"Hardison called his people, they'll be here in an hour. I don't want them to mess around here too long, so they'll just put metal panels over the holes. For now. All repairs will wait until Saturday night and the PVA Ceremony."
He just watched him. He couldn't mean they were staying here. If the shooter would have started the attack earlier, they would have all been here. And Betsy. And they would all be dead. Why were they here at all, why had Nate decided to stay at the place he knew Knudsen knew about? He should've told them they were moving, if not before, then after the last night's dancing in the dark, with dead cameras. Nate's sense of risk was always twisted, though… yet there was something more in that.
"What?" Nate asked when silence spread.
"When you wave a bait in front of someone's nose, you have to consider that he might take it," he said. Slowly. Very slowly, very controlled. "Should I start, again, with the cost-benefit shit, Nate?"
Nate leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs. "Nah, no need to," he shot one smile at him. "I have the hitter to deal with the 'taking the bait' part. After all, you did warn us to keep the blinds down, remember?"
Well, some hitters were able not to take the bait. He disregarded the 'having the hitter' remark. "The hitter's job would be done if he made you leave this place before the sniper attack."
"The five of Knudsen's men we've left in the woods last night maybe haven't even returned to him yet. The hitter's job was done." Nate continued. "The shooter missed – Parker's report was insufficient, and pixie said just a few random words – but that was enough to know how it went. Again, the hitter's job was done, they would be dead now if they had been alone." He put his elbows on the armrests and entangled his fingers. "Btw, is washing the hair a thing that the hitters usually do after sniper attacks, or was it just a moment of brilliant inspiration?" he asked as an afterthought, evenly.
Fuck, that voice. He should decide if he would abandon the cost-benefit speech – which was useless anyway – or concentrate on hiding the mess he was in, and he should choose quickly.
"Not only did I wash my hair," he said slowly, "but I washed it for almost an hour, locked in the bathroom. The two of them were… slightly upset. And with upset, I mean talking without a pause."
"Yep, I would probably do the same," Nate nodded. And smiled.
Only in that moment did he become aware of the mistake he made. He did take the fucking bait, after all – his choice was wrong. The normal Eliot should've ignored the hair washing completely, continuing with the security topic – this way he clearly showed him which was more important and dangerous to him. Fuck. He rubbed his forehead, buying time, but the damage was done. Nate noticed something unusual, and he wouldn't stop. Playing mind games with Nate was exhausting even in the best times and now he wasn't in the shape to even start. "And I'm not as well as you're trying to say," he added, trying to connect two topics again. "I had to retreat from them, to get it together. Keep that in mind when deciding about the next moves. Which, by the way, are…? We should leave this place. They'll come back. I made the mistake, trusting the cameras, sensors and all surveillance. We should-"
"That wasn't the mistake, that was necessity," Nate stopped him. His eyes, however, were steady on him, studying every move. He breathed deeper, cursing silently. "The last two days three of you were recovering. I couldn't risk us being caught outside, vulnerable, three of you almost down, to be caught on the wrong foot – I did calculate all pros and cons. I chose to defend a fortress, rather than to retreat into the wild – and we defended it for now. This proved to be better."
"For now. Raising the stakes means exactly that, Nate. The next attack will kill us, having the hitter or not."
"Nope, it won't. And we're not leaving, we're staying here." Nate turned in the chair, checking Hardison and Parker. "Are you done?" He asked the hacker.
"Connected the first screen. Calm down, we've just arrived," Hardison said, typing on his tablet as he spoke. "You, people, have no idea how lucky you are to have me – no, seriously, you don't. Not even the slightest… Do you know how long it would take to boot up all new laptops if I bought them, instead of actually having them ready, locked and loaded, with all programs needed to use them right away? Have you ever, ever, installed something on your own? Have you-" he stopped talking, stopped typing, and looked at them. "Why did you ask?"
"Put it on this screen, while you work on the others."
Hardison started talking again, but he did immediately what he was asked and the blond reporter from Channel Six ran over his words. Damn… she was standing right in front of their building.
"Police reports are scarce, but four bodies were confirmed, two male, two female. One victim was found in the corridor, the other three in the apartment. Thorough investigation is in process, but police can't yet confirm the identity of the victims. According to witnesses, more than thousand bullets were fired. Crime scene investigators promise they'll process every bullet, track every trajectory, and though it would occupy them for two days and two nights – what we will pay with our tax money – they will find the perpetrators of this gruesome crime. This is Laura Flynn-Mullins, for Channel Six."
He stared at the screen, stupefied. "This… Nate, this is a fucking huge mistake!"
"You think so?"
"What? You can't just make a false report and raise all flags…That won't go, you just called Boston Police to knock on our door to see why-"
"Nope, no attracting attention, calm down. I arranged everything with Bonnano while we were driving home. He is State Police. He sent an official note to Boston Police about an undercover operation going on, that needed a false report. We're clear."
"Knudsen will be calmed for a while, but he will send people to check – we're not clear! They'll see no crime investigators, no police-
"Go to the window and see for yourself."
Nate could just tell him what was going on – he knew why he sent him to walk. This time he didn't fall into the trap, he stood up in one swift, graceful move, with ease. It was good that he turned his back to all of them while he walked – straight and steady – to the window. It took almost ten seconds, though, for his vision to clear when he peered through the improvised heavy curtains. He studied four police cars parked on the street; buying time, unable to talk, think, do anything. Watching the fifth police car parking in the street hurt. As seconds went by, he managed to ease the claws stuck between his ribs enough to breathe again. If he put his hand in the pocket, Nate would process that along with the other signs he must've noticed already.
"What's this?" he asked when he regained his voice.
"McRory's bar sent a note through old channels – every police officer in Boston can drink free for two days. We don't need more time."
He turned around to look at him. It wasn't possible that Nate was finding all excuses for staying here, no matter how dangerous it was, because he was tied to the bed, because he still needed it? It wasn't as if he wasn't taken for a walk every day at least once. Almost literally.
Maybe, a little. That thing was surely taken into consideration while he was deciding, but probably not as a big part. He simply couldn't let Nate slow anything down, to notice anything – he would be able to stay up those two days, but after that he knew how hard he would crush down.
"How long was I…" Unconscious. "… sleeping?"
"We arrived half an hour ago."
He quickly calculated the time – #TheSeaOfCrimson actions should start very soon. He couldn't, exactly, tell people in the group that he was away because somebody shot at him. Because of the time zones, it would spread far into the night, the night that would put him on a very interesting test. He would, most likely, have to have a fucking tablet with him, to finish everything, while working on the field. Good god, he was becoming Hardison, a typing-walking-posting idiot. "When are we going out?"
"It depends. Maybe around midnight."
"Good," he left the window, taking care to look normal, and went to the kitchen, to the fridge. He could feel Nate's eyes following him. Sophie, at the dining table, greeted him with a smile. Florence avoided his eyes, seemingly occupied with Orion. The cat, spread over the table, had the same expression that Nate had.
He took an ice bag from the freezer and put it on his right elbow. They all knew they were hiding and jumping to avoid bullets, and slamming the elbow somewhere wouldn't look suspicious. With holding the bag on it, he could keep the arm immobilized and avoid any new pulling. It would buy him enough time.
Florence twitched and stopped the rolling of her eyes in the last second.
Sophie looked at her.
Fuck, he should really choose his allies better; Florence's posture screamed about guilt, and the unhappy smile was carved into her face permanently.
He retreated from Sophie to Nate, feeling like a ping pong ball between two rackets.
As expected, Nate's eyes slammed at the bag at the instant he reached the bed.
"Now, everything else can wait, Nate. I have to work, and take care of George."
Nate stood up, glancing at George with that strange look, close to animosity. Bastard. He left the bag on the bed, gritted his teeth, and picked up the vase with both hands, putting it close, on the working table. He didn't know how, precisely, he would pull out the bullets from his roots in this condition, but hell, he had to do it. Lead poisoning, for crying out loud.
"Unless you want to help, leave us alone, okay?" he growled, pretty satisfied with the intonation – it sounded as usual.
"Have fun," Nate waved a hand and left.
"Disrespectful bastard," he told George in a low voice, looking at Nate as he walked across the room, slowly. He stood a moment by the chair, watching the stuffing that hang sadly under the blanket, then proceeded to the dining table.
George looked worried.
He turned the light on him. "Wait a minute here, while I start Facebook shit."
He used the phone until Hardison brought him the new laptop, but it didn't matter – Legion was ready to go.
He really wished he could say the same for himself.
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Florence grabbed Orion to cuddle him as soon as Sophie went to Hardison and Parker.
She watched Nate and Eliot talking, trying to forget how she stuttered before Nate. He didn't ask much, he listened more, and that was frightening. She could only hope he would think she was scared because of the shooting.
She tried not to think about anything else.
Feeling drained to the bone, she didn't even wish to ask him about tonight and all actions that they were preparing. If only all of this could just stop, now, disappear. This time, tears that were threatening to pour weren't angry, just tired.
Nate had the same expressionless face when he talked with Eliot, which he had when he talked to her. It would be the best if he would guess what was going on on his own, that way she wouldn't feel so damn guilty. And scared of everything that might happen if she kept silent. Yet, it seemed that Eliot managed to keep his composure up – and she didn't know how – and managed to deceive him. Why not, after all? They knew each other for years, he could do it.
Though, she didn't know how he could read Nate and his calmness. The only emotion she noticed was a light grimace when he looked at George. That was strange, too.
Well, she changed her mind watching Eliot taking George with a clearly protective move; maybe he wasn't able to read him so thoroughly. He seemed unaware of Nate's subtle manipulation. She was able to see the ways Nate used to push him towards the plant – but she couldn't decipher why.
She knew only that George was important, very important for Eliot, on a level that wasn't for her to understand. It wasn't just because he felt guilty because he almost killed him, if she understood his explanation correctly
They are all crazy.
Broken men, broken plants, broken apartments… and her in the middle of that. She hunched into her shoulders. Make this stop.
There was something un-palpable, almost invisible in the way he interacted with George, she had noticed it before. He was definitely projecting something onto that plant. But what?
Stop thinking about him.
Normal people didn't project their wounds onto other objects.
She hugged Orion and murmured soothing words, to remind herself of something that was hers outside of this lunatic bubble.
He was still scared, though he acted brave, who knew how. He curled on her lap and fell to sleep in a matter of seconds.
He must've felt safe with her arms around him, gently guarding him from everything. Protected.