Chapter 16: better sleep; for a price; Location confirmed
Rome, Italy, late December, 2014
Shaw could see that Reese was enjoying this – slouching in an overstuffed chair, nursing a glass of beer, listening to their stories about guys they'd all known, years ago, in the Rangers. His men took particular delight in making him laugh, twisting the stories in just such a way so he couldn't guess what was coming. Shaw hadn't seen him like this – loud, unreserved, like a different man. She watched him from her chair in the back.
He knew where she'd pick to sit, from the layout of the room – and so there she was, facing the door, at his back. He could sense her roaming eyes behind him. From her training, her mantra: sit in the back, facing the door: watch everything. With her on duty like this he could allow himself a little downtime with his men.
Someone had gone for food, eventually. By then, Shaw was starving. When they'd come back with food – pasta, meat, salad and bread, they'd laid it all out in the kitchen. Shaw went first, lifting covers, spooning food, while the rest lined up behind her. They'd watched her piling food on her plate, elbowing each other and smiling at Reese, who nodded like this was her usual.
The men ate their fill, and then night watch took off to relieve day watch near Grace's school, and they hustled back to eat and relax. When they'd piled through the back door, noisy, calling his name, they all took turns bear-hugging Reese, meeting Shaw, filling plates, then settling down on the couches near Reese. More beers were opened. Reese noticed the bottles here in Rome were giant, meant to be opened and shared among friends – and it wasn't long before the stories started all over again.
The more the men talked, she noticed, the more Reese relaxed. She could see the look in his eyes, softer, remembering. He was smiling more, and his eyes had a certain softness around them, too, like the stress had left for a little bit. His voice was louder, too, not that terse whisper he usually had. It was interesting watching the transformation. She tried not to stare, but it was hard not to notice the change in his face. And that he'd allowed her to see it. He'd let his guard down in front of her. Always such a private man.
She was curious how he'd be with his men. So much history together. Nothing like bullets flying, people dying, and things blowing up all around you to show what you're made of. These were the kind of friendships that lasted, a brotherhood forged in the grip of war. And from a different chapter in his life, earlier, before things had started to go so sideways.
Harold had bowed out early from the gathering and disappeared down the hall. One of the soldiers had given him his room, so Harold could work into the night without waking the others. Before he left, Harold had told Shaw about their wounded man, and she'd left the story-telling in the living room to check on him. He was having some pain, Harold said, and she could see why.
Someone had wrapped a narrow roll of gauze around his arm - without taking up the slack. The edges were curled and they were catching on everything, pulling them out of place. The tighter ones strangled his arm and cut into skin. And his arm was swelling even more now, the bandage cutting in deeper. She could see staining from the wounds on the top of the bandage, on both sides. Sloppy job. This needed work.
She sat down next to him on his bed and unwound the layers. Near the end, the last layers were stuck down hard, the narrow strips of gauze stiff and dried with ooze from his wounds. She tried to lift them but the pads underneath were stuck down to his skin. The soldier, Denny, pulled back away from her. He was sweating and a little pale from her trying, so she stopped. It was too painful this way. Shaw asked him if they had any supplies around.
"In the van," he said, and hollered out to one of the other men to bring it in for her. Harold was back at the door now, watching her, and he recognized the battered box he'd seen, in the van, after Denny was hit. Harold watched her open the top, and rummage through the kit to see what was there.
"Any sterile saline?" she asked.
"Bottom left, ma'am" Denny said. Shaw dug down deeper into it, below the top tray, and found one of the squat plastic bottles.
"Okay. I'm gonna pour some of this on the dressing and let it sit. It'll soften things up, so we don't have to rip this off." Harold winced. No emotion in Shaw's voice. No attempt to soften her words. Denny was nodding, eyes wide, imagining the worst. He didn't want her to try again, not until the gauze was ready to fall off on its own.
"No need to hurry, ma'am," he said, trying to catch her eye.
She twisted the cover off the bottle, cracking the seal, and then drizzled the saline over the dressing. He held his arm out over a trash can near his bed, catching the watery runoff in the can. They waited.
It took a long time for the dressing to soften. Shaw kept trying to lift a corner, but Denny would grimace and stiffen his shoulders. She drizzled more saline, and after half an hour, the runoff finally went red as the dressing softened and saturated.
"When was this changed last?" Shaw asked him.
"Same one from the beginning, ma'am," he said. She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"You're fired," she said, unemotional, and at first he'd started to laugh, but then when she didn't, he stopped himself. He looked over at Harold with a shrug. But then he yelped as Shaw pulled the dressing in one yank.
"Serves you right," she said, emotionless, looking up at his eyes. Then she pushed his arm back down over the trash, where she could see it better in the light.
"Hold still," she said. Denny looked up at Harold again, who was trying not to look at the hole in his arm.
"Carry on here, Miss Shaw. I have some things to do before I retire this evening." He turned quickly away, averting his eyes, and she could hear his gimpy footsteps in the hallway.
"Is he always like that?" Denny asked her.
"Like what?" And Denny yelped again, as she yanked the other dressing on the opposite side. She inspected the wound closely, and then did some cleaning and mopping with supplies from the kit. Denny kept closing his eyes, and his arm was trembling as she worked. She put him through some strength testing with his hand and fingers, and then some prick tests on his skin. Satisfied, she told him the round had passed through his arm without major damage.
Even with the dressing off and its stranglehold released, his arm was still swollen - and there were deep red marks on his skin from the gauze squeezing down. He'd been walking around all day with the arm hanging down by his side. Nowhere for the swelling to go, like that. Shaw told him he needed to elevate his arm or it would throb all day and night from the swelling.
"Keep your arm up on pillows or a folded blanket tonight," she said. "See how swollen it is? That's not gonna get any better until you elevate it. And keep it in a sling during the day. The more you walk around with it down like that, the longer it's gonna take to heal." He was shaking his head that he understood.
And then in the box she found two foil packets, exactly what she wanted, and squeezed the ointment onto two fresh pads. She laid one over each wound and then layered new gauze on top, twisting the roll once on each revolution to take up the slack. She finished with layers from an elastic wrap on top for help with the swelling. Done, it looked clean, neat, professional.
"Any fever?" she asked. He shrugged.
"Wanna lose your arm?" she said, and looked up at him.
"No, ma'am." She pulled out a paper wrapper and ripped it open. Inside was a flat thermometer strip that she put in his mouth. After a few minutes, she pulled it out, and checked it.
"Normal," she said, and re-wrapped it in the paper. "Keep this over here, and check twice a day. Write down the numbers and show them to me." He agreed, and sat up, now that she was done re-wrapping his arm.
"Thank you, ma'am. Looks great!"
"– welcome. Oh – did you take any antibiotics?" He reached over to his table for a small white envelope, and handed it to Shaw. She saw the name of the drug, and instructions.
"Okay, keep taking these until they're gone. The dressing needs to be changed daily. I'll do it myself while I'm here and then you're on your own." He looked her in the eye, and smiled.
"I'll take care of all this," he said, pointing at the debris with his head. Shaw checked the dressing one more time and then got up. He watched her push the paper and plastic wrappings into the trash, and then she nodded to him and left.
She turned right down the hallway to Harold's room and he looked up briefly from his laptop when she leaned in. Hard at work. Then, she headed back toward the boys in the living room, once she'd stopped to wash up at the bathroom sink.
It was after midnight when she'd had her fill of old Army stories and decided she'd head in to bed. Reese heard her stirring, and got up to walk her back to a room.
"You take the bed. I can sleep in the living room on the couch," he said. She was unbuttoning her shirt, and sliding it off. Underneath, there was a heavy black tee. At the plunge of the neckline, he could see three dark circles on her skin, bruising and burns just like the ones he had, left over from the gunshots to her vest. Center of mass hits, three that he could see, over her heart.
She looked up at him. "Not necessary. Sleep over there. It won't bother me," she said, nodding her head toward the second bed.
She pulled a sweatshirt out of her bag and slipped it down over her head. Then she slid her slacks down and folded them together in front of her, onto a hanger. She grabbed sweatpants from the bag and leaned over to pull them on.
Reese could see her back when she bent forward to slide on the sweats. Rod-shaped bruises, long and wide, crisscrossed her back. More were there on the backs of her legs. They didn't seem to cause her any pain, but he winced when he saw them.
He still didn't understand why the Zheng let them live that night, down in the basement. Why? What was the point? Like they were toying with the two of them.
Of course, that was before Harold's computer game had crushed Samaritan. And now, the more people who signed on and played it, the longer Samaritan would stay in its coma. The next time they ran into Greer or his Team, the gloves would be off. No toying. It was war now.
Shaw looked up at Reese again, grabbing her toothbrush from her luggage, and heading for the hall.
"It's okay, Reese. Really," she said, motioning to the bed.
Reese looked over at it. It would be a better sleep than the couch, he thought. He pulled the blanket back, and thwacked the pillow a couple of times with his hand. Good enough. If she didn't care, then when he was ready, he'd come back and sleep there. Maybe in a little while. He just wanted to sit out there a little longer.
He smiled to himself, thinking of Shaw waking up when he came back. Shaw was unarmed. So he didn't have to worry about her shooting him, like an intruder in the middle of the night. She might tackle him, if he woke her up out of sleep, but at least she couldn't shoot him. He smiled again, shaking his head, and limped back down the hall. And tomorrow, he and Harold would have their little heart-to-heart about Harold's Big Adventure. Bonehead.
Abuja, Nigeria, late December, 2014
Nearly midnight by the time they'd landed in Abuja. The refueling stop in Mali was a long affair – almost as long as the rest of the flight. They couldn't see any other traffic flying in or leaving. It was just the slow pace of work that kept them. But, finally, they were airborne again and a few hours later, they could see the lights on the runway up ahead: a single wide, long runway with buildings clustered at the far end. They'd heard about some giant rock jutting up like a mountain near the airport, but it was too dark to see it as they landed. The steward told them that the rock was famous, enormous, sticking straight up out of the ground, and that in certain light, a human face could be seen on its surface. They could see it from the city. They should be sure to see it while they were here in Abuja.
A car from their hotel was there to meet them, and once they'd cleared through the airport and found their bags, they were on their way. A wide highway brought them east and then south to the city proper. It was greener here and there were more trees along the highway than Kara was expecting. This was a city she'd missed visiting on her travels for the CIA. And Greer had been here just once himself, years back, when Samaritan was just a glimmer in his mind.
There were people here he'd done business with before. A little phishing expedition they'd handled for him in the past. He'd paid them well for their time – and they hadn't forgotten.
Times were leaner now in Abuja. Not many ways for young people to earn a living. Some had turned to the internet, like the Yahoo Boys, cyber criminals who looked for victims overseas - to fleece them like sheep. Child's play.
Greer was looking for something bigger. A master. Someone who could crack through the prison walls around Samaritan. Someone who could free it, wake it from its sleep. Such a man existed here. Fabled to exist, but no one seemed to know who he was. A shadowy figure, someone who protected himself with elaborate rituals, fake disguises, electronic voices. A master hacker-for-hire, in the back streets of Abuja, and on the dark web.
They were going to find him here, and he would take back Samaritan from Harold Finch.
For a price.
Rome, Italy, late December, 2014
All the lights were off, and he walked softly on the floor. Light from the fireplace glowed orange in the room, and he was close enough to feel the heat. Reese's chair faced the fire, and he could see a hand with a stubby glass in it resting on the narrow arm. Closer, he moved closer to the chair and heard breathing. Then, for a moment, it stopped.
"Harold?"
"Yes, Mr. Reese." Finch limped into the light, and to a chair facing back toward Reese. He lowered himself down, stiffly, and raised his bad leg up onto a small stool in front. He settled himself and then raised his eyes to Reese.
Reese raised his glass and took a sip. Whiskey. He was sitting by the fire, alone, sipping whiskey. Harold's face softened. On his cheek, in the light of the fire, a single tear.
It took some time before Reese could speak. In his whisper-voice:
"I miss her, Harold."
Reese raised his glass again, and took a sip.
Finch closed his eyes. Carter.
He thought back to the early days, with all the horror of that day, that brilliant blue-sky day, when the Towers had come down, and hearts had stopped beating. When Nathan had come to tell him. Never again. This could never happen again. And then the work, in earnest, to make it so. The planning, the writing, the testing, and then the teaching, of this being – this electronic being - behind the glassy eyes, who watched him and asked him to explain. So curious, so wise, yet so child-like. It needed rules, and examples. It had to learn how to learn, and once it had, it was off on its own quest - to understand. Fledged, but always looking back to him. Like a father.
But then, when they'd realized their dilemma – to know of but not stop the carnage, it was excruciating. He had to do something.
Harold went looking for the right man, a man with the right skills, who could step in and stop it - someone already dead to the rest of the world. Someone like John Reese.
And when he'd found Mr. Reese, it was complicated. He'd come with baggage, lots of baggage. Detective Carter, for one. She'd had him in her grasp, and then lost him. And she wasn't the type to just let it go. She would find him, arrest him, take him in off the streets.
Then their months of cat-and-mouse, and the evidence each day that Mr. Reese was the right man for this job. Quiet. Skilled. Dangerous. Everything he needed for his plan to work. But hunted. Hunted by the law.
Lesser men might have backed away. But not Mr. Reese. He hadn't given in. He'd pulled her in, closer, instead. Like a fish on a line, he'd baited her. Made her take notice. See that they could work together. Against her better judgment. But there was something about him. Something she could trust. And in a little while, the surprise.
The surprise of Detective Carter changing sides.
Who could have guessed in those first days that this would happen? Mr. Reese, Detective Carter, then Detective Fusco, Miss Shaw, and even Miss Groves. His team had somehow self-assembled. Talented, driven, flawed. No one could have seen this coming.
So many lives saved, so many dangers averted. They were triumphant for a time.
Until.
Until the price came due. Nathan, Grace, Detective Carter, and almost Mr. Reese.
Was it all worth it?
Finch looked up at Mr. Reese again.
Firelight in his eyes.
Shadows on his face.
And a single tear on his cheek.
He wanted to say something, to explain why he had come. Alone. Back to Italy. But Reese spoke up instead.
"You don't need to say it, Finch. We've all had our losses – I know why you came."
And, down the hall, in the darkness, a message flashed on Harold's laptop:
Update... Location confirmed. Abuja, Nigeria...