Chapter 34: wobbly; Big Dope; Lamb; A few steps away;

Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...

Safe-house, Manhattan, 7 a.m., late December, 2016

Morning - and Shaw made her way along the hallway, through the kitchen, then toward the light coming from the living room. Maybe someone else was awake, too, she thought. Her walking was a little wobbly this morning and the top of her shoulder complained, but Shaw knew things could have been worse. Way worse.

When she rounded the corner, Reese was there in front of her, stretched out on the couch, asleep. The table lamp at his head was just barely lit, and she could see his whiskey glass still in his hand, snugged up close to the side of his thigh. For a second she wasn't sure she was fully awake.

This felt surreal. Just like when they were here in the safe-house two years ago:

Safe-house, Manhattan, November, 2014

Shaw walked softly from room to room, shutting off lights as she went – padding quietly along on thick carpeting under bare feet. Since her shower, the real toll of the last two days was clear now. She felt battered, everywhere, as the bathroom mirror confirmed. Not for the first time.

Darkness helped, as each room went dark behind her. Up ahead, there was one last room still lit, the living room. When she rounded the corner, Reese was there, stretched out full-length on the couch. His eyes were closed and a stout, heavy whiskey glass sat there in his hand, pulled up close, half-empty. His swollen, purple knee confronted her first, jack-knifed over a stack of rolled blankets. When Reese had showered before and could only find sweats to fit over the swollen knee, she'd cut the pantleg off above it to stop the pressure. Then he'd come in here to rest it, while she showered up next.

Looking at him now, and seeing her own body in the mirror, she couldn't avoid the obvious: they were both down this time, hiding out in the safe-house away from the rest of the Team. Like predators, they'd escaped and hunkered down, tending to their own wounds.

Shaw reached over the top of him to dim the light. Much better. Then she pulled the cotton throw down from the back of the couch and covered him with it. In his hand, his long fingers wrapped his glass and she reached down to lift it, gently, so he didn't startle. She'd already given him enough pain med before to knock him flat. No need for him to suffer through the night.

Shaw'd been watching him since Carter bought it – more than a year now. Reese had taken it harder than anyone else on the team. She was special to him; they'd had something together and Reese wasn't the same after – Shaw could see it in his eyes. Something worse than the bullets that almost killed him; it was gnawing at him, tearing him up inside so the wound wouldn't heal. The hurt.

She brought his glass – clear, heavy cut glass half-full of whiskey, back with her to the chair. Sitting down was going to be tricky. There weren't too many of her parts that went along with the idea. But, once down, she could lean back and raise her legs up to stop the throbbing. The backs of them were where the baton strikes had hit the hardest, and the weight of them resting on fabric just made them hurt all the more. Bastards. They'd left nothing else untouched, either. Shaw lifted the glass and took a first sip, feeling the burn in her mouth and down her throat. Good burn.

For a while she just watched him, lying there.

Here they were again – always shoveling him out of some god-forsaken situation; he was always wrecked in one way or another, so she had to put him back together again. She wondered why Reese kept coming back. A smart man would have walked away.

The two men she'd ever cared for, as partners, were made from the same cloth. It turned out that neither one knew when to walk away. The one was dead, stepping in to shield her from gunshots through a door. He'd died in her arms on the floor.

If she could have felt something, Shaw wondered what it would have been. Maybe that same thing Reese had in his eyes, for Carter...

She moved next to him at the side of the couch and pulled the cotton throw down to cover him. Her hand reached out for the rim of the heavy glass. Gently, she lifted the glass from his fingers, watching his face for any signs of waking. Reese stirred a bit; she held for a moment.

When he didn't wake, Shaw backed away with his glass and went to sit in that same chair nearby. Her shoulder hurt. The weight of her arm pulling down made it ache, sharp like a toothache. She half-remembered a sling she'd worn – somewhere recently. Couldn't quite pull in the details, but it seemed right. And that's what she could do to make it better today – wear a sling to take the weight off her shoulder. She was sure they had one in a box down the hall.

The clock ticked on the wall nearby. She'd never noticed how loud it was. Staring at the glass in her hand, Shaw noticed how pink her fingers looked this morning. Root had told her how bad she'd looked the other day. White as a ghost, Root had told her – she'd thought Shaw was going to die from all the blood loss. And then she'd said that Reese had figured out a way to save her.

Shaw looked over at him again. How could a big dope like Reese figure out how to give her his blood? Her eyes softened.

She raised her glass to him.

Big Dope.

She brought the glass to her lips and drank.

Crimean Peninsula, 2014

It was still an hour before sunrise, and their squad was resting on a couple of logs in the woods at the edge of the grassy knoll. They ate a little something, bread and cheese, some coffee. And then each wandered off to take care of business before they had to move. It would be a long wait, camouflaged, in heavy grass – with mosquitoes flying, red ants crawling, and mist hanging in the air – before the sun rose, hotter and hotter on their skin.

When the mist burned off they'd have a clear look down the break, tree-less, to the camp below. Nothing fancy. Just a meeting point on a map, really. There was an old farmhouse down there, abandoned for years, with a few wooden posts from a corral still standing. If the wind stayed down, the dust would, too, and they'd have clear shots to the targets below. 1800 meters.

This was his final mission here. Six months of this, after he'd been sent without warning to this little piece of wasteland. Once this was done, he'd be heading back to Moscow. Home. Where he could sleep in a bed, eat hot food, have a drink if he wanted. And he did want it.

He shouldn't complain - he had a good life back there. But these sudden, unexpected deployments were taking a toll. He was tired to his bones, sick of life in occupied land. Nothing worked, everything was hard or impossible to get. Promises made were soon forgotten. It was time to be done and headed back home.

When he thought about it, he'd had it easier than most. He'd made his way through the ranks, and then caught a lucky break. His Lieutenant-commander knew his father, even recited the same legend he'd heard growing up. Back in the 80's, his father was one of the Thirty-Nine. Thirty-nine soldiers in a Spetsnaz airborne unit held off a bloody attack by hundreds of Mujaheddin. His father was there, deep in Afghanistan up near the border with Pakistan. More than 200 Mujaheddin died then, trying and failing to take Hill 3234 - thanks to the courage of the Thirty-Nine. His father survived the assault, but not the war. When Russia finally came home, his father didn't; buried in a mass grave, they say, not far from Hill 3234.

The squad was ready to take their positions. Third row. They'd be firing first in a burst of precision shooting. Then the two rows closer would pin the rest down with sniper fire and call in an air attack from rocket launchers waiting nearby. Everything was set. All they needed were their targets to show. He felt like their intelligence was good this time. The targets were meeting at the farm, according to their best sources. It would be quick, due to the danger of a meeting like that, and then they'd scatter to other locations.

If the squad intended to take out resistance leaders, it was going to have to be today. And there was one key leader they'd wanted above the rest, but he'd been really lucky so far. On their list for the last five months, every time they thought they had him, he'd got wind of something, and didn't show. Meanwhile, he'd managed to cause havoc with their Russian troops. Trucks loaded with bodies made the trip back home across the border every day. The pressure was on for someone in the squad to nail this guy.

Gregor, their squad leader, sat on the log handing out their assignments. Each of the targets had a designation. They called the lucky one Lamb. Made him seem meek. But they all knew whoever got assigned to Lamb was considered top shot among them. He thought Gregor was sure to pick him this time; after all, it was his last mission after six months in. He sat there watching Gregor's face.

Target by target, he went down the list, assigning each to one of the squad. As he got to the last few, the interest picked up. They were looking around at who was left. He watched Gregor looking up from his list, searching; their eyes met for just a moment and broke. Gregor was looking for someone else. In his gravelly voice, he announced:

"Yana - Lamb." She smiled and picked up her rifle, heading out alone for the grassy knoll. Lamb was hers.

Safe-house, Mid-town Manhattan, 8 a.m.

At the end of the hall, morning light glowed through the window. Harold stirred in his chair and the photo fluttered from his hand to the floor. Perhaps the sight of bruising on a woman's face last night, and her frailty, reminded him of another time. Another woman.

Bethesda, September, 2014

"Harold, we've got her," Shaw said.

She waited - and at first there was no response from him. She was confused, expecting he'd be pounding her with a dozen questions, but nothing. What did that mean? After a long awkward silence:

"Miss Shaw, is she unharmed?" he finally asked. His voice sounded strange to her.

"She's drugged, Harold. Out of it right now, but otherwise okay. She looks – uh – " Shaw stopped when she saw Reese shaking his head, telling her not to say any more. Then Harold spoke up again.

"Miss Shaw, Mr. Reese, she cannot be allowed to see me."

Reese and Shaw looked at each other. They didn't know what to say. With everything that had happened, how could that be the right thing to do? What was she supposed to believe had happened to her, and why? What'd she been told by Greer and his people?

"We're on our way back, Harold. Fifteen minutes." Shaw disconnected and looked back to Reese, who was shaking his head, not certain what Finch was thinking.

When they got to the building, Reese swung the back door of the SUV open while Shaw, Root and Joey stood by. He slid Grace off the back seat and carried her from the car into the back of their hideout. On one side of the hallway there was a small room that looked like a break room for staff. Inside was a rectangular table where someone had spread a folded blanket. Reese lowered Grace down to the blanket, the only bit of comfort they could offer. There was little else left inside this empty building.

Harold had withdrawn down the hall to another room. He heard them carry her in and bring her to the table where he'd placed the blanket. Then it went quiet again. He listened at the door, hoping to hear her voice. But only silence now. She was just down the hall. A few steps away.

Harold paced the floor. He couldn't stop, pacing in his room: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She was just down the hall. A few steps away.

In the room with Grace, Reese and Shaw stood next to each other at the door, their eyes fixed on her. Then hands softly moved them aside. Harold's face appeared between them. His hands were trembling. They stayed there with him, waiting for him to step forward. He hadn't seen her face yet, just the contour, and as he moved in closer, then a little closer, it flooded him with a memory:

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of someone standing at the end of the sidewalk where it curved back away from the water. Someone was standing at an easel, holding a brush – looking out as he had, at the same sunset, captivated, forgetting to paint.

Harold stepped a little closer, then a little closer, until he could see the lines drawn on the canvas, and the work in progress. He leaned forward, then said out loud, "the sunsets are beautiful here."

In his memory, the artist turned in slow-motion, smiling, ready to agree. He saw it in her expression. He saw the gentle smile, the soft eyes, her auburn hair. His heart skipped. This is where he'd first laid eyes on her, radiant, with that majestic sunset behind her. Grace.

Harold reached for the corner of the table to steady himself, and limped forward to her side. Soft eyes, auburn hair, but his heart sank when he saw her. Thin, with tattered clothes splashed with blood, her hair hanging limply over her face. All of a sudden he felt weak in the knees.

Reese appeared behind him with a chair, and Harold's knees buckled. He leaned forward in the chair, hands shaking, reaching to brush the hair from Grace's face. Tears welled in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Grace," he said, a whisper near her ear.

"I'm so sorry. Look what I've done to you." He could see the blood on her face and soaked through her clothes as she lay there, helpless.

Harold lifted her hand in his, saw the damage on her wrist, from rope, or cuffs.

Then raised it to his cheek, pausing there, her touch once again on his skin. Down to his lips like long ago, pressing, pressing her hand against them. His heart burst with emotion, tears overflowing.

In a whisper, "I love you, Grace."

Safe-house, Mid-town Manhattan, late December, 2016

A soft moan escaped and his eyes opened. Things looked blurry all around him, and when he raised himself in his chair, tears slid down his cheeks. Harold wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and reached for his glasses on the desk. Once he could see, a small dot blinking in front of him caught his eye. It was a light blinking on his laptop - the Machine was signaling to take a look. When he started to move, cracking noises sounded from his neck, stiff from sleeping in the chair. It seemed to be frozen in place, and he reached with his hands to rub it out, unseize it.

Something glossy caught his eye next, on the floor beneath his seat. Ah, the picture he'd had in his hand last night - the last thing he recalled before falling asleep. Harold retrieved it, propping the photo on a stack of books where he could see it better. And then the light blinking insistently on his screen caught his eye again - a message for him.

Harold had to log in before he could click on the message. A dog-faced man appeared, way too close to his cellphone screen, and with a loud, craggy voice. He seemed to be wearing camouflage fatigues. The picture jiggled as he tried to walk and talk at the same time. Harold vaguely recognized the man – one of the ex-Rangers Mr. Reese had recruited in Italy. He stiffened again. Had something happened to Grace?

"...so we thought you might like a better view of things we're keepin' an eye on over here today." Dog-face started to pull the cellphone away, to aim it in the other direction. Harold felt dizzy for a second as it whipped around the other way.

"You might remember this from your old haunt, Mr. Four-eyes, sir." He could almost hear the soldier smiling from ear to ear.

He pushed the phone up against the glass and the image swam for a moment while the picture focused. Then the scene resolved - it was her street, the one that ran along the building where Grace and the refugee children lived. Harold sat up straighter and leaned toward the screen. The phone moved again, sliding to the right to fix on the courtyard at the back of their building.

There in the shadows, were children playing in the courtyard, racing back and forth in the afternoon sun. Others, a little older, were seated reading in small groups under the trees. Harold could see them talking and laughing, but the video was silent. They were too far away, on the far side of the glass. His eyes searched the scene, hoping against hope that he would see her.

And then, there, at the edge of the shadows, Harold found her.

His heart skipped, and he heard himself saying her name out loud, "Grace!"

Hearing it, his chest tightened and his eyes began to fill again, hand at his heart, resting there as he watched. She was so beautiful; the light at the edge of sun and shadow played with her features, teasing with little bits of view and shade. As if responding to his wishes, the camera zoomed in, and he could see her soft eyes then, the gentle smile, her auburn hair tied in a bun on top. Just as he remembered her. As real as though he could walk in and be there with her.

Harold wiped his eyes again, pushed his feelings aside, just so he could hold himself together. He didn't want to miss a moment of it. A pressure grew inside as the moments passed - imagining Grace could somehow look up and find him, too.

If only she could know how desperate he was to make things right.

If only she could feel again what she'd felt for him before.

The video stopped too soon; Harold leaned back in his seat, overcome. From its camera eye at the top of the screen, the Machine had silently watched it all. His face, his emotion, that expression. There it was again.

And the Machine was beginning to understand.