Part 5:
Chapter 37: scrape (rated T); world without oil (rated T); need u (rated T)
Manhattan, December, 2014
Root slid the taser deftly into her shoulder bag, as the elevator rolled down to the first floor. She would slip out the front and cross the street to the office building where Harold was keeping watch. His call had warned her. Something had worried him about the third floor suite where they had spotted Greer. He hadn't said what it was, but she trusted him when he'd said to leave right away.
And the fake delivery man who'd pushed his way into her elevator had paid the price when he tried to attack her. Thanks to Harold, she was ready with the taser. She'd tossed him out like so much trash, on the floor above, when the doors opened.
Once she rejoined Harold, she'd take him back to his office, and they could sit together over tea. There were things to consider. This tip from Leon, to look here for Greer, had gone bust. But she didn't know if Leon had planned it that way, to trap them, or if something else had interfered. She'd have to talk with Harold first, to hear what had spooked him up there.
The elevator jarred a bit at the bottom, finding the right spot to open, and then the doors began to slide to the sides, the half-door on the right scraping hard and loud against its frame. Root looked up at it, and could see the long dull streak on the shiny metal, where the door was rubbing, over and over, each time it opened and each time it closed. The shine was gone on the metal door there and the long scrape reminded her of a scar.
Then the doors stopped, open now – and she started forward to leave. A stampede of footsteps came running, the crowd at the doors rushing in. No place to go. Slammed backwards to the wall, a forearm on her throat, and hands on her arms.
They pulled her forward, hands holding down her arms on both sides. Strong hands, squeezing, pinning them.
The shoulder bag was yanked, and pulled away.
More hands were on her, everywhere, searching. Her gun. The taser. Gone.
She stumbled forward, with a heavy push from behind, and the crowd parted in front of her.
Root looked up to see familiar eyes.
Someone was standing there, outside the doors, on the phone, speaking.
"We've got her, Mr. Greer. No problem." Her voice was flat, unemotional, like her eyes. Then she listened for a moment, nodding, "yes, sir," looking Root's way. She pocketed the phone.
"Groves," she said, without so much as a smile.
Root smiled her mischievous smile – she never thought she had much personality, this one.
"Martine," Root said. And they pushed Root forward from the elevator, toward her.
Manhattan, December, 2014
Greer ended his call with Martine, smiling, sliding the phone into the breast pocket of his suit. It was hot in here, under the bright white lights overhead.
He had almost forgotten what it was like, the heat from these old incandescent bulbs. The new modern lights in his buildings were cool to touch. They didn't throw heat like these above them. But perhaps the heat would hasten the outcome he wanted.
He slid his jacket off, and draped it over the back of his chair, and then he unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the white shirtsleeves up to the elbows on both sides.
His face was blank, but his eyes were piercing, like staring at quarry coming near. Apt perhaps.
He knew the feel of that rush – before the pursuit, that old familiar feeling, like the tiger's in the bush, or the shark's in bloody water. Alerted, stealthy, roused by the thought of a desperate chase and the smell of fear and blood. Leaning forward:
"So, let's try this again. We have all night."
In a chair with metal arms, a figure slumped forward, head hanging down to his chest. The shirt was ripped apart, blood spattered all over the front. Above his left eye, an open cut through the dark hairs of his brow – blood trailing down the hollow, down the cheek and then following the curve of his jaw to the shirt collar.
His hair hung down – long, straight, black – long-escaped from the band that held it neatly at the back. His hair hung free, the ends shaking in the air with his pain.
"Doctor Bruzzese, we know everything about you. Everything. The work you published in Italy – it caught the attention of our friends in the Middle East. I'm afraid they don't share your enthusiasm for a world without oil." Greer stepped forward, slowly approaching the man slumped forward in the chair. He could see the muscles straining under the bloody shirt, and the hair shaking a bit more as he spoke. Good. Progress.
"That was a rather clumsy attempt in the Park the other night. Not our people, of course. But not a total loss, either." Greer had reached his chair, speaking slowly, walking slowly, stepping behind him in the chair. Greer could see his body tense. Perhaps he thought more pain was coming his way, more encouragement to speak, from Greer's men standing by.
Greer reached out with his hands and dropped them down on his shoulders from behind. They jerked, and his prisoner groaned, his breath sharp and sudden.
Greer smiled with his face, but the eyes remained cold. He patted the straining shoulders with his hands, smiling again with his face.
"Come, come, Dr. Bruzzese. This can all stop right now. We are both reasonable men. Tell us what we want to know, and you can rest. Perhaps some food?"
Nothing.
The smile disappeared.
"Have it your way, then."
Midtown Manhattan, December, 2014
He was sleeping and she had everything she could do to keep from reaching out again, running her hands over him, softly, slowly – not to wake him, but to reassure him she was there.
No, let him sleep, she told herself. He looked so peaceful now.
The furrow at his brow was gone, and the lines around his eyes had smoothed.
She started to reach out to touch his face again, drawn to him, but stopped herself.
Let him rest. He needed it.
In the dim light, she could see the raised lines on his face, healing cuts from something that must have happened days ago, she thought. And the bruises on his ribs. Maybe that's why he hadn't come for Bear that evening when she was waiting.
She looked at his face again, and found her hand already there, touching the rough spots, softly.
Stop. Let him be.
So hard to do, with him just lying there, so close.
She took a deep breath and decided something. Rolling quietly, she lifted the quilt and slid out on her side. She walked softly back to the shower room, and picked up the clothes off the floor. In the night-light, she could see his slacks were ruined, shredded on the left side at the seam.
And then, something heavy in her hands. The holster, and the gun. She wrapped them in his suit, and then brought them to the upholstered chair near the bed. At the door, his vest, and his shirt. She folded the shirt on the back of the chair, and put the vest on top of the slacks on the seat. The suit jacket was shredded, too, on the sleeve and down near the pocket. The dark rich fabric had shredded in a long dirty strip where the elbow would be. What had happened to make this kind of damage? She folded the jacket and laid it down over the vest on the chair.
His breathing was quiet, even, and slow.
She'd let him sleep for a while and she'd take a quick shower to freshen, then dress and go back out with Colin. It was time to do rounds, and then she'd let Col' get some shut-eye, too, while she kept watch at the front during the night.
"Is it time to go?" he asked, in a soft voice.
"No, it's still early. Why don't you sleep?" she asked, and walked back to her side of the bed.
He reached up with his hand out to her, and she reached out with hers. He pulled her back down to him.
"I couldn't keep my hands off you. Didn't want to wake you. So I was going to go back out front for rounds. You can stay here and sleep 'til I come back."
"Bad idea," he whispered, pulling her closer. "Stay here, with me." His voice was just a whisper, and she could feel his breath on her neck. She smiled, leaning closer.
She slid the quilt down underneath her, and then the sheet, and then swung them over the top of her.
Now, she was next to him in her bed, and she could stretch out full-length on his left side again.
She folded her arm around him and held him, skin to skin.
And he rested his head at her heart. He could hear the steady thump of her heartbeat at his ear.
Her lips were on his hair, then on his brow, marching softly to his mouth.
In his jacket pocket on the chair, a soft vibration, and a light, unnoticed.
On the screen, a message: need u - H.