Chapter 22: the choices he'd made (rated T, for adult situations);
Mid-town Manhattan safe house, same day
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...
Root walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Breakfast smells beckoned, and she heard men's voices from the kitchen. Joey, Logan and Reese were there, sitting at the table downing egg and ham sandwiches, juice and coffee. She noticed Reese seemed a little quieter than usual, but the other two made up for it with their chatter. She had a little headache starting, and instead of going for a cup of tea, she pulled down another mug and drew off some coffee from the urn. It tasted strong, black, so she splashed in a little milk to tame it down.
"There's more food in the pan over there," Joey called, pointing to the stove. Root lifted the covers on the pans. Not bad for a bunch of guys left on their own in the kitchen, she thought. There was a lone cold piece of toast on a plate, and she piled some scrambled eggs and ham from the pans on top, then went around to the table and sat down. They slid the salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of ketchup down her way, but she'd already taken a bite without. She was hungry.
"How's Shaw?"Joey asked. Her eyes narrowed and she looked down toward the table.
"About the same. Holding her own," she said. There were dark circles under her eyes, and they could see she looked exhausted. The toll of everything was starting to show on her.
"Why don't you catch some sleep while you can? Harper can keep an eye on her," Logan said. She nodded as though she would, but nobody at the table believed it.
Down the hall in the last bedroom at the end, Finch sat at his desk, an overhead lamp shining on the middle. He was fiddling with a cellphone. Attached to it was a little black unit about the size of three postage stamps side-by-side. It was half-an-inch thick, with a heavy black wire protruding from either end. One of them was attached to the cellphone, the other to his laptop. He clicked the keyboard, making some final changes to a table entry on the screen and then, satisfied, disconnected the cellphone. That was the last one. He could distribute them all to the others a little later. The last thing he had to do was to disable the one Reese had given him.
As if on cue, the cell started to buzz on his desk. He stared at it for a moment. It kept on buzzing, and he connected it to the black unit. Data began scrolling on his screen. He was looking for the telltale sign of someone searching for Reese through his phone signal. But instead of someone pinging him through a local cell tower, he could tell it was someone calling from far away. Almost immediately, Harold's thoughts turned to Bellingham, the city where Reese's brother lived. It was nearly Christmas. Only logical, Harold thought, for family to reach out.
Harold put the phone down on the desk. It buzzed one more time, then stopped. He waited to see if there would be a message, or a follow up text. Nothing. It made him think about something he'd pushed from his mind. Again and again through the years. About Mr. Reese.
There were decisions he'd had to make along the way – regarding each of his operatives. In truth, a number of them at the beginning had failed to work out at all, and he'd banished them from the Team. Things were beginning to look quite desperate, then. Cases were coming in, with no one to intervene, no one with the right mix of skills, temperament, and invisibility. Harold had even tried to intervene himself back then. But he quickly realized his clumsy attempts were folly. He had no skill in surveillance beyond the electronic kind. And with his gimpy leg, his neck permanently stiffened with metal plates, and his vow not to handle weapons, Harold was clearly not the right one.
The operative he needed likely did not exist: someone with superior surveillance and weapons skills; someone who could function beyond the boundaries of the law; who was single-minded, self-motivated; someone who might come to dedicate himself to their cause one day. And one final nagging issue: someone who wouldn't appear on anyone's radar – perhaps one already thought missing or dead. Harold realized he was asking too much.
Still, the early ones had looked promising. But as he soon found, brash and arrogant didn't work. Deceptive and too inquisitive was risky. Headstrong and violent felt uncontrollable. On and on, his choices failed. Harold's situation was fast becoming excruciating.
Until along came one who looked like a gift – at least, on paper. Ex-Army Ranger, special ops; ex-CIA, black ops; newly missing in action, presumed killed overseas on a mission. It took him days, and sleepless nights to track him down. Elusive, smart, Harold recalled looking forward to their first encounter. Their paths crossed, not by chance, in a small hospital in a wealthy suburb near Manhattan. Harold had disguised himself as an invalid, not so far from the truth in those days, and not unexpected on the floor of a hospital wing. Tall, dark-haired, square-jawed, with piercing blue eyes. Harold was prepared for someone who looked like a war hero.
In person, Mr. Reese looked more like a washout.
Harold leaned back in his chair, his face in shadow now. The lamp lit up his keyboard and the stacks of phones nearby. How could he have known then? How could he have known how all this would unfold? He'd had to make decisions. And he'd had to live with the choices he'd made.
Down the hall in the kitchen, Reese sat quietly at the table. The others had left now, and he was enjoying the smell of a fresh pot of coffee brewing. He'd lingered there alone. It felt like he was waiting for the potion he needed – since the transfusion, Reese could feel himself sinking a little lower with his energy, a little drained. He thought of Shaw then, and how she might be feeling.
It wasn't that long ago that she'd pulled him through his own brush with death. She'd stolen blood for him. Back then, the night they'd found him, he was ready to take the shot to end the life of a killer. To Reese, the one who'd given the order was just as guilty as the one who'd pulled the trigger.
That night on the street corner, Reese had taken the first two shots before either of them knew what had happened; and then Carter, right after. He shouldn't have lived through that night. He shouldn't have survived the next few. If it weren't for Shaw and the surgeon that Harold brought, Reese knew he wouldn't have made it. She'd stolen blood for him, to save his life. And once the surgeon was done, they'd worked through those first rocky nights to keep him alive. Shaw had sat with him, next to his bed, for days and nights. He didn't remember much of it. Just a few flashes, hazy memories that could have been true or dreams from a feverish mind. Fighting. He remembered he was always fighting. And it didn't seem like he was winning.
Down the hall, Root sat in her chair, pulled close to Sameen's bed. She leaned forward again, and checked the wound on her left shoulder. Clean and dry with no blood seeping through. She wondered about what was going on inside, deeper, where they couldn't see. Was she losing blood inside? Was she going to die? And leave her, again.
For all of her brilliance, all of her skills, her single-minded pursuit of the mission, Sameen had a glaring flaw. You couldn't trust her with your heart. No one Root could name had soared her higher or crashed her lower than Sameen. She could melt you with those smokey eyes, then tear your heart out the next day. It was all the same to her. Sameen was the quintessential unfaithful lover. And not that it was easy to get her attention. Threatening her with a hot hotel steam iron seemed to do the trick. But just as soon as Root had felt the heat, Sameen cooled and disappeared. Try as she might, Root could not let her go.
She remembered the time on the roof, looking across the street that separated their two buildings. And through the arched window on the other side, she'd seen them together, unclothed. Embracing. His long black hair falling forward as he lowered her from view. Root drove for miles and miles after that, unaware of her path, or her destination. Black and violent thoughts burst into her mind, and even she was afraid. Of herself. This was not the first time she'd had such thoughts. And not even the first time she'd acted on them. But only Sameen could take her this far. She knew she needed to let some of the charge drain off.
She'd pulled to a stop in the middle of the street. One of those tree-lined streets with the old stately homes, and the manicured lawns, and the pricey cars parked in front. Something about the image she had, of families cloistered together inside. It lit her fuse.
She opened her door, grabbing a long black flashlight from her seat. Root walked straight to the first car, and swung the heavy light. Glass shattered from the headlight and skittered across the street, glinting there like precious jewels. And then another, and another, down the street, both sides. Until she couldn't swing anymore. That, and the sound of sirens off in the distance, coming her way.
And the time, soon after, in this very safe house. She'd tracked Sameen and Reese here. Where else would they go? Both were beaten, left for dead in a basement in Queens. When they were found by the Team, they'd gone to a hospital first. She remembered Sameen in her room, Reese next door, and Fusco sitting watch in the hallway outside. She'd climbed in next to Sameen. But when she woke, in the middle of the night, the two were gone.
And that time, right here, in the shower. She'd just wanted Sameen to stay here. But there was Marco, her lover with the long black hair. She was going to Him that same night. She couldn't let it happen. Root had crept down the hall, while Sameen was in the shower. She'd pulled off her clothes in the hallway, and pushed the door open.
"What are you doing?" Sameen had said. And Root hadn't answered. She'd climbed in with her.
"This isn't going to work, Root," she'd said. So cold. She just wanted it to be like it was, before Marco. She tried to hold her, to kiss her, to try to make her understand what she was doing to her.
"Don't," she'd said. But Root wouldn't stop. Sameen had pushed her back.
"Get off me!" she'd said. This couldn't be right. This couldn't be what she meant. Root grabbed her, pushed her back against the wall, and sank her teeth into her lip. Root flew backwards, Sameen shoving her back against the handles so hard, it knocked the wind out of her.
Enraged then, Root swung her fist at Sameen. She'd never seen hands move that fast. Sameen blocked the punch with her left arm, and struck Root in the face with her right hand, open palm. Root remembered the sound of the slap. And she remembered hitting the wall, squarely, behind her again.
That was it. Enough. She couldn't bear to look at Sameen then. She couldn't bear to see the look in her eyes; empty, emotionless. So like Sameen.
Root left the shower and walked herself slowly down the hall, into her room, and into her bed. The wind whistled outside.