Chapter 11: men in black; unruly step-child; They just had to get there;
Manhattan, 24-hour diner a few blocks from Harold, late December, 2016
"That was fun," Root said, smiling over to Sameen. Sameen shook her head – as if to a child who was misbehaving.
"You need to work on your accent, Root. Your Southern drawl isn't convincing,"
Root looked away, smiling. Sameen had no sense of humor sometimes. It was fun messing around with the waitress. Talk about no sense of humor – Russians, and especially Russian women, could be so cold and hard. Root looked back at Sameen.
"Really? Spent mah childhood in Texas, born an' raised," she drawled.
Sameen stared for a second, like this was news, and started to ask something, but Root grabbed her arm. She was listening to something Sameen couldn't hear and then looked up to the front of the diner, where the cash register was located. Usually, someone was standing there all the time, one of the Greek owners who kept watch over all his customers and the waitstaff. But the spot was empty. Just like the little hallway near the kitchen, where the waiters always congregated. No one was there, either. Even the early-bird customers at the counter were gone.
Something wasn't right – too quiet all of a sudden. The diner was empty now other than the two of them, when minutes ago a dozen people were up there at the front.
"Gotta go," Root whispered, pointing to her left ear. The Machine. It must have said something into Root's ear, Sameen thought. Root stood up, shifting her eyes to the corner of the ceiling where a security camera blinked.
She motioned to Sameen, then turned quickly toward an archway at the side of the dining room. There was a hall in there with restrooms and an exit. She reached under her jacket as she moved and pulled her gun, but kept it hidden.
Sameen was up, too, following her with her hand under her jacket in the back. They could hear footsteps then, lots of them, coming fast through the front door of the diner. And men's voices.
The two sprinted through the archway and down the hallway toward the exit. They could hear chair legs scraping on the floor behind them and then chairs flying everywhere as the men chased after them through the diner.
"This way," Root said, running ahead to the exit at the end of the hall. The metal door flew open, banging on the brick wall outside, and Root ran through, then turned back, holstering her gun and looking for something in the alleyway. She caught sight of men in black running into the hall towards her. Sameen was ahead, turning back to tell Root to keep running.
She slammed the door closed, and slid a thick wooden mop handle, stringy gray mop still hanging from the end, through the door handles.
Seconds later, a burst of gunfire blasted through the metal next to her, and she could hear men on the other side shouldering the door, rattling the wooden mop handle with each heave. Root turned then and sprinted after Sameen. They raced together down the alleyway to the street, and then rounded the corner, slowing to a walk for a moment, watching for any more of them coming. Normal street so far.
They crossed over, weaving through traffic to the other side, and Sameen could see Root's face, serious, as though listening intently again. The Machine. Then her head snapped up and she was searching for something down the street.
"There," she said, pointing, and she took off jogging. Root thought Sameen was right behind, but a little way down the sidewalk there was sound in her left ear again, and she stopped to look back. Sameen. She was doubled over, holding her left arm in close to her body. She was trying to catch up, but Root could see she was hit.
"Sameen!" Root ran back for her – looking up at roof lines, and watching over Sameen's head across the street. Any second she expected men dressed in black to come flying around the corner from the alleyway. Root wrapped her arm around Sameen, helping her hold her left arm against her body. They'd escaped without any winter coats. Sameen's black jacket hid the evidence of a wound.
"Where are you hit?"
"Back," she whispered.
"We need to get there, Sameen," pointing ahead. "Let's go!" Root half-lifted her, and heard her moan with the pressure. Couldn't be helped. Root ducked in close to the storefronts with her, under the overhangs to hide them from the rooftops. She kept looking back over their shoulders for men in black. The two passed a dozen storefronts, all closed this early on a Sunday morning.
They made their way to the next opening, another narrow alley. Root pulled her into it and they broke into a faster walk toward the end of the alley. Root scanned back and forth for something, then saw what she was looking for – a padlock on a rusty latch.
"Stand back," she said, and pulled her gun from her jacket. She grabbed the barrel and used the handle like a hammer, striking blow after blow on the lock.
"My turn," Sameen said, and she shoved Root away to one side. Her right hand came out from under the back of her jacket, and she aimed her gun at the lock. The sound of the shot rang out and the lock wobbled violently on the latch, a hole through its center. Root reached out and tapped the lock with her gun, and the parts separated. She used the gun to lift the lock off the latch, and it fell on the ground at the bottom of the door. She pulled the latch and slid the door open a crack.
"Diversion. Come on, this way," Root said. She led Sameen away from the door, along the back of the alley. An old gray metal dumpster, taller than their shoulders, sat there.
"Up there. Think you can make it?" Root pointed above the dumpster to a rusty metal ladder on the side of the brick wall. The bottom rung was high above them, and they'd have to use the dumpster to reach it. Sameen nodded.
"Step up here, Sameen." Root knelt down a bit and offered her a thigh. She helped Sameen stand up on it, and then held her steady while she turned to face the dumpster. Near the top was a large metal bracket sticking out from the side – where a truck would slide its long metal arms in to lift and dump the trash into its open top.
Root gave her a boost up while Sameen pulled herself up with her right arm. She slid one foot into the front of the bracket and pushed off while Root lifted her higher with her other foot, up to the top of the dumpster. Sameen slid onto the cover at the top, and she laid there for a moment, sprawled out, breathing hard. She looked pale when she turned back to reach down for Root.
They clasped wrists, and Root grabbed the top of the bracket with her other hand to pull herself up. Sameen helped to lift her. Root's feet pushed off the wall of the dumpster. It was slippery under her shoes, and they didn't hold for long, but she managed to clear the top of the dumpster and then push herself over the edge with her knee on the top of the bracket. They were both breathing hard then, sitting on the top of the dumpster. Root pointed to the ladder.
"Again. Almost there," she said to Sameen, who was bent forward, grimacing. Root stood up and helped Sameen stand, then positioned herself on the far side of the dumpster, as close as she could get below the ladder. It was going to be a stretch. The ladder was off to one side, and high above them, but the dumpster would help them get over to it. Root could just reach it herself by standing on the edge, but with Sameen struggling like this, she wouldn't make it on her own. She'd need to go first.
Root offered her a thigh, and Sameen straightened herself, with her left hand on Root's shoulder. She stood on Root's thigh, shaky, and reached out with her right hand to the bottom of the ladder. It squealed as Sameen pulled at the lower half, rolling it down toward the ground. When it stopped rolling, Root lifted Sameen out to the bottom rung, and she started climbing toward the roof.
Root grabbed on and pulled herself over then, bracing herself with her feet on the brick until she could swing a foot to the bottom rung. Sameen was nearly to the top. Root looked back down the alley for the men in black. She couldn't see past the end of the alley to the street. They must be coming by now.
Manhattan, late December, 2016
When it really counted, Logan Pierce had shown himself to be quite talented. In the same way that Harold was skilled with computers, so too was Mr. Pierce. His success in birthing a certain social media platform had helped to launch him as a world-class entrepreneur; it had made him a multi-billionaire – and that had made him a target. That, and his own personal style; Logan was brash, unpredictable, reckless, irritating, narcissistic – the list went on.
When his number showed up on Harold's board, Mr. Reese intervened and saved his life – not once, but again, and again. Mr. Pierce had had little interest in following advice in those days, even to save his own neck. So, he'd dragged Mr. Reese along on one reckless adventure after another, only to play into the hands of the killer. He wasn't winning any points with Mr. Reese, who came close in the end to letting Nature take its course with Mr. Pierce. You can't help those who are unwilling to be helped. Mr. Reese walked away.
But in the end, Mr. Pierce submitted, face-to-face finally with his killer. Perhaps he'd learned a lesson that day. It changed him – made him face his deficits. He rattled around in his empty house for a long while. Then he got the impulse to sell everything – his businesses, his properties, everything that reminded him of his past. He settled into a high rise, overlooking the East River, and sat back waiting for the next big idea. But Mr. Pierce was not a patient man.
So, later, when Miss Groves brought him to Washington for an interview, Pierce seemed to be ready. He'd done some soul-searching. He needed something new, something bigger than himself – a project that could absorb him and perhaps even give him a sense of purpose. Mr. Pierce would be the last one to admit it, but this job as head of Harold's DC Team had saved his life again.
The three of them, Miss Groves, Mr. Pierce and Harold had put egos aside, and focused on one mission – to design and build the first step in their plan to stop Samaritan. They'd fashioned a weapon – in keeping with their skill-set. They designed a computer game and a well-advertised competition with big money prizes – slick cover for what was really an Internet of Things Attack on Samaritan. The game had worked flawlessly, and the splash of cash had kept the competition intense. Their success with the game had granted them the time they needed to ratchet control over Samaritan, and to punish John Greer.
Let there be no mistake – Samaritan was still out there. It still had a heartbeat, but fainter now. It was falling more and more under the control of Harold's Machine. Each day, the Machine was reeling it in, bending it to the will of Harold and his Team. No longer could it dispatch soldiers, or give the command to "retire" a human being.
They had subdued the mighty Samaritan without a bloodbath. And Harold was personally grateful. He'd seen too many fall already, victims of Samaritan, victims ultimately of his drive to right things after they'd gone so horribly wrong on 9/11.
Never again. So many on that day had made that promise. So many had rolled up their sleeves to make it so: Nathan Ingraham, Arthur Claypool, Finch himself. Not to mention those who'd deployed to find those responsible – Joss Carter to Iraq, John Reese to Afghanistan, and Lionel Fusco to the streets of Manhattan.
Each one had set out on his own path, one that would lead each forward to this moment in history. There was a way now that they could all do better. There was a way they could search the world, find them hiding in their safe-houses – find those who planned harm – and then stop them before the carnage was unleashed.
Technology was the answer. It could sift the data, find the clues, analyze, extrapolate. It had the power and precision to point out the bad guys before they pulled the trigger. So that men and women in black ops – like Mr. Reese and Miss Shaw – could deploy and neutralize the threat.
But who knew that the same technology could expose threats closer to home – those planning harm to ordinary people? The Machine caught those up in the same nets sweeping for bigger fish. Harold had had no choice in the end. He couldn't let bad things happen, once he knew. And he couldn't stop it by himself. He needed the right man to help him. Someone no one would suspect, because he was already dead to the rest of the world. John Reese. A man with nothing to lose.
Harold had reached him when he was at his lowest. Dark, disillusioned, haunted by his past. This was a gamble. A man like Reese was a loaded weapon, a trained killer, and no one knew what he might do. Would he break all the way? Could he recover? Could he find himself in all the wreckage, pull himself up out of his past? Harold held his breath. Watching with the Machine.
Proof of concept followed quickly. This could work. Mr. Reese proved he was as skilled as he was deadly.
At first, it was just Harold and Mr. Reese working together, but in short order, Mr. Reese recruited others like himself, more people with nothing to lose: Detective Fusco, who had made some poor choices along the way. And then Detective Carter. She could have taken down everything if she'd succeeded. She was after Mr. Reese. But, leave it to Mr. Reese to pull her in. His was an odd kind of humanity. It spoke to her somehow, by deed more than word, and Detective Carter soon followed, too. Perhaps she was the exception to the rule, however. She was the one who had everything to lose.
With Detective Carter on their side, they'd started piling up the wins. Every case they touched – success at first. And more people drifted to the Team. It seemed to self-assemble. Miss Shaw, Miss Groves. The DC Team in Washington. It wasn't the cases, though, that put them in the most danger. It was the street gangs, mafiosi, Russian mobsters, and even some of their own: dirty cops, renegades from the CIA.
Things got complicated. Old baggage, new players, all of them looking for a fight. Day after day, tucked in amongst their cases, they learned to pick their way – around the gangsters, bad cops, influence peddlers – who would take them out just as easily as make them friends.
Trust no one, they learned. Greed and power, corruption, murder – all of it trained onto their Team. And then a force more powerful than they knew. A rival to their own Machine, rising up, reaching out – to crush them. And with a willing human cheering it on, John Greer.
For all their successes, the saves, a high price was exacted. Too many sacrificed for the gains. Samaritan and its minions ravaged the Team, nearly destroyed them all. If it hadn't been for Arthur Claypool, no scenario could have ended with Harold's Team alive.
Claypool himself had given them the way. The back door that only he, as father, designer and code writer could know – and Harold went on to exploit every bit. Step after step, Harold's Team and his Machine tightened their grip. Until today, Samaritan was just the unruly step-child rather than the Master many had feared it would be.
Manhattan, a few blocks from Harold, late December, 2016
It was cold on the rooftop, sunlight weak and gray. Root clambered over the roof ledge and saw Sameen leaning over the edge, looking back down the alleyway.
"They're coming," she said. Root joined her, and the two knelt down, leaning on the inside wall of the ledge, listening for footsteps. The men were running, but the whole squad wasn't down there. Some of them must have split off to search another way.
They waited, and the footsteps below were moving back and forth, looking for them in any nook or cranny. And then they could hear voices and the footsteps stopped at the blind end of the alley. Just below them. Moments later, there was a sliding sound of the door Root had left ajar, and then silence a few moments later. Root bet they had gone into the warehouse behind the sliding door. She took a chance and straightened herself enough to peek over the ledge. There were two of them at the doorway, peering in after the others who had entered in the darkness. Root had no idea how long they'd be in there.
"We need to move. Can you make it?" Root looked at her, and then down at her feet. Drips of blood had started to pool below her left side. Sameen looked down when she saw Root's face.
"Let's go. We can find a place to hide and take care of this," Sameen said. She started to push herself up from kneeling and then wobbled to one side, so Root had to catch her. Root wrapped an arm around her shoulders and lifted her, but they had to stay low near the ledge in case the men below them happened to look up.
Root was thinking of the ladder they'd climbed. She wished now that she had thought to pull it back up, so it wouldn't look like someone had just climbed it to the roof. The men below could follow, and if they were any good at all, they'd find the blood. Sameen read her expression and made a small nod with her head.
"We can't call Harold. And we can't go back to the office. That's just what these guys will be looking for. They'll try to follow us. We need to stay as far away from Harold and the Team as we can," Sameen said.
"Safe-house," they both said together. If they could get there. There was one safe-house that Sameen had provisioned with everything medical she could imagine needing.
Only this time, she was going to be the patient. Someone would have to take care of her, this time. Root could handle it, she knew. They just had to get there.