Chapter 29: waking up wounded; "Take it easy, Big Guy"; "Coffee, Mr. Reese?"

Safe-house, Manhattan, 2016, 36 hours after Shaw was hit

It was as though Reese sensed something from her room; he felt drawn to it, over and over, from down the hall. He'd left Harold there in the middle of their conversation and made his way silently back to her room. At the door, he'd peered into darkness; something was different. The air had an odd feel to it, like rich dark earth, opened and disturbed. There was a coldness Reese felt now that hadn't been there before.

Root was still in the same place, curled up next to Shaw on her bed. A sliver of light from the hallway slanted across Root's face and he could see tracks from the tears she'd been crying in her sleep. He spun to Shaw then, but her face was deep in shadow; he couldn't see any more than her form, and he'd thrust out a hand to touch her.

For a moment, hesitation. His fingers stopped above her skin.

The thought came that everything they'd done for Shaw had failed, that she'd bled inside again where they couldn't see, and she'd be cold now to his touch. In the darkness, his fingers hesitated.

He steeled himself inside, in case. And then he'd reached the rest of the way to her skin.

Warmth. Relief.

And he flinched as she'd opened her eyes.

"My gun," hoarsely, as she began to raise herself up. He could tell she didn't know where she was.

"Shaw," he whispered, a hand on her shoulder to push her back.

This could go either way. She could stop and listen to him, or she could fight like a wildcat wakened from sleep. Reese thought of consequences – bleeding inside if she fought. No easy answer here.

"Sameen, we're here." Root rose up next to her, half-asleep herself.

The sound of their voices penetrated, held her back from lashing out – that, and the shock of sudden pain. She reached for her shoulder instead, grimacing, rolling up to sitting to take the stress off.

The sudden motion and pain triggered nausea next. The logic of her brain understood – this was going to be a hard landing. Shaw ripped the blanket off and swung her legs over the side, leaning forward, retching. Reese slid a waste can over to her, but there was nothing to catch. Shaw was wracked with dry-heaving.

Then Root slid next to her, slipping a blanket up over her bare skin. Shaw was shivering once she'd stopped retching. Root could hear her talking to herself – "...bad a few hours, then it'll get better... gonna get better...better." Root heard her say it a few times. Like a mantra. Shaw had been there before, waking up wounded, and knew what she'd be facing. The fastest way through it was not to fight it. Just go with it.

Go. Another urgency came to mind and Shaw tried to stand and walk on her own.

Reese grabbed her as she careened to his side. "Whoa – where you headed?" he said in his whisper-voice.

"Down the hall," she whispered back, hoarsely.

He lifted her, blanket and all, in his arms and turned to the doorway. Everyone was there, clustered at the opening, looking in. He could see the looks in their faces as they parted and made way for the two of them with Root right behind. He carried her down the hall and turned into the white-tiled bathroom. Root had him stand her in a safe spot where she could take over, and then he backed away to let them have some time.

Harper passed him with some towels and clothing, heading into the bathroom next. He closed the door behind them and leaned against a wall, thinking. Lifting Shaw like that had brought back a painful memory.

Flushing, Queens, New York, November 2014

There it was. A hair salon in Flushing, Queens. Reese's cellphone signal had brought Fusco here in the darkness. This was territory for one of the City's violent Chinese street gangs. A Task Force made up of NYPD, the FBI and IRS, was working the area to pick the gang apart, arrest it's leader and all the key players. The Zheng were involved for years in illegal gambling, trafficking drugs, prostitution, extortion, and assault-for-hire.

Fusco didn't know the particulars about this location, but it looked deserted at the moment. No one was visible on the street driving in, either. Reese had made him promise not to call in anyone else. He'd said that two of them were hurt, down in the basement of the building, and couldn't get themselves out. No cops, Reese kept saying – just him.

Fusco got out of the car, flashlight in one hand, and his gun in the other. The front door of the salon was locked. He leaned on it, and it gave just enough under his weight so he could tell it wasn't dead-bolted. He stood back away from the door and then kicked it open with one strike near the lock.

The door flung open and smacked the wall inside, then bounced back at him. He reached out fast to stop it before it slammed shut again; then he stepped forward, his flashlight pointing inside and his gun held just below the light.

No sounds. No alarm. No voices or footsteps. Just eerie quiet in the darkness.

Fusco stepped forward and could see the mirrors, the counters and the salon swivel chairs ahead of him. He kept moving, searching for a corridor or a doorway to lead him downstairs. He stopped to pull out his phone and texted Reese he was inside the salon upstairs. A few moments later he heard a tapping sound coming from inside. He swung his light around the darkened salon.

There was a door at the far end and he made his way there silently. Locked. Damn. No choice. He stepped back and kicked it open, ready with his light and gun up in front of him. An empty corridor with doors on both sides; four, he counted, and another one at the far end wall. He stepped into the narrow corridor, trying each door but each was locked.

Fusco could hear the tapping getting louder as he made his way along. The lock on the door at the end clicked, and he pushed it open, aiming his light and gun inside. There was a small landing and then stairs going down into the darkness. The tapping was louder.

He moved in, shining his light down the stairs, then behind him, then down at the room below. Step by step, he moved down, shining the light around him, until he was down at the basement floor. Only one way to go. The place looked deserted. He stepped forward, swinging his light in front of him again.

He caught sight of a rope hanging down – from the ceiling in the middle of the next room; and off on the right, a long table with another rope coiled in a heap. Fusco stepped forward slowly and swung his light inside the room. He must be getting close.

On the floor in a corner on the left, legs. He lifted the light, and saw Reese sitting in the corner, holding Shaw, clutching her against his chest. They had their eyes closed, and Reese lifted a hand to block the beam in his face. He looked bad. Fusco dropped the beam down and moved quickly to the two of them.

"Jeez, what the hell happened?" he said to Reese. With the light scatter from the flashlight, he could see cuts all over Reese's face, like from flying glass. He had blood all over his head and down his neck, and streaks on his white shirt. His pants were covered in dried blood and he had no shoes on his feet.

Reese held Shaw in his arms, and Fusco could see blood all over her head, too, and shiny little shapes of glass in her hair. Reese's jacket covered her body, but Fusco could see wide, long, purple bruises on the bare skin of her legs.

"Gotta get her back to the safe-house," Reese said in his too-quiet voice; he raised his eyes up to Fusco's face. Fusco scowled.

"She needs a doctor – and so do you – " Fusco started to say, but Reese cut him off.

"No! The safe-house. Not the hospital."

"You're crazy!"

"Just do it!" he said in that voice that meant he wouldn't accept less.

Fusco shook his head and cursed.

Reese started to lean forward with Shaw in his arms, grimacing, straining to get up. Fusco tried to grab onto Shaw to help Reese, but he lashed out. "Don't touch her! Don't touch her–" and he was trying to push himself up the corner with one arm and his legs.

"What the hell? I'm trying to help you here." Fusco didn't get this. Reese had called him, but now wouldn't let him help. What had happened here to the two of them?

He backed off and let Reese struggle to get to his feet. Stupid stubborn. Single-minded, stubborn fool! They should be in the ER right now, not screwing around like this. Reese wasn't going to be able to get up the stairs and all the way out to the car with Shaw in his arms like that. And even if he did manage to gut it out, what would they do when they got to the safe-house? Who was going to help them there?

Reese was sliding himself up the corner, his legs shaking underneath him, but holding onto Shaw like a madman. So, Fusco stepped in and lifted Reese's arm, without touching Shaw. Reese let him.

Once he was standing, Reese was swaying back and forth. His eyes were staring straight ahead and Fusco could see that he was just willing himself to keep going. He stepped forward but his bad leg couldn't support them both and started to buckle. Fusco caught Shaw, but Reese went down to the floor on his face. He pushed himself up, looking for her.

"Shaw.. Shaw... Don't touch her – " he said, reaching up, as he tried to get his legs underneath him, up onto his knees. The right one wouldn't bend to support his weight.

Fusco carried Shaw over to the table and laid her down on her side. The jacket slid open as he placed her on the table. He could see her bare skin under the jacket, and he turned back to Reese, who was trying to reach up for her.

"Don't touch her – " he was saying, reaching. And now, Fusco understood. Reese was trying to protect her.

Too late.

He pulled the jacket over her to cover her, and turned back to look at Reese.

This had gone far enough. He grabbed his phone and put in the call to 911. When he was done, Fusco walked over to Reese, who was down on the floor still trying to get his legs underneath him.

"Take it easy, Big Guy. Help is on the way. We're gonna do it the right way. Shaw's hurt bad. She needs help. You've gotta let us take care of her."

Safe-house, Manhattan, 2016

He felt a presence in front of him and looked up to see Harold searching his features. Reese straightened himself and looked away from Harold's eyes, but he'd seemed to guess where his thoughts had gone.

"Coffee, Mr. Reese?" Reese nodded, looking down at the floor, and the two of them walked down the hall together to the kitchen.