Chapter 23: bait (rated T); "take a look at this" (rated T)
Rome, Italy, January, 2015
Harold motioned for Reese and Shaw to come in, then he sat down at his laptop, tapping keys to restart the video. Reese sat down behind him, and Shaw leaned in close over his shoulder to watch. There on the screen was the grainy picture of an SUV pulling up, and a chubby man clambering up the bumper to the roof. They watched him turn a cellphone to the camera and the movie of Root's abduction played for them all over again.
They watched the flash of gunfire inside the room as its door opened. A woman's hand reached inside and the light blinked on in the darkness. It looked like the inside of a hotel room. They could see a body in the foreground, apparently hit by the gunfire, lying motionless across a bed. Then the video shifted upward to four people struggling in a corner, three men trying to subdue a thrashing woman with a gun.
They could see one of the men grab her arm and yank it up toward the ceiling, then wrench her hand backwards in a joint lock. The gun slid from her open hand. They could see the woman kicking, twisting her body, so the men could barely hold on. They tried to wrap her with a sheet then, to cinch her arms and legs, but she managed to reach one of them, biting down on his bare arm. He pulled away, bleeding, and then the violence really ratcheted. He swung his fist in against the side of her head, snapping it backwards. But she struggled harder, swinging her body, twisting and turning violently, kicking out with both legs inside the sheet.
They could hear a woman's muffled voice saying something on the video; and then they could see a wood baton come out, and one of the men striking the struggling woman – until her body sagged in the sheet. The last thing they saw on the video was the woman's head falling forward toward the camera. The assailants wanted her face to be clearly seen. There could be no mistake who it was in the video.
"Root," Shaw said, standing up. She watched as the cellphone lowered and the man holding it turned his face to the lens – smiling at them, taunting them. Shaw didn't see him climb down from the roof and jump in before the SUV drove off.
That face – that smiling, taunting face – banged into her memory like a hammer-hit. It was him. The one from the basement of the hair salon in Queens. The one who'd used a wood baton, just like the one from the video, on Reese and her. Her body tensed, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Reese.
Shaw stopped herself from going back to that night in her memory – too raw, too much to distract her right now. Reese was right. She needed to keep her mind clear and sharp. The time for payback would come. She was certain of it. And when it did, there would be no holding her back.
Harold tapped on the keyboard and a map of Manhattan flashed up in front of them, with a red line flashing in its center. A red dot showed progress toward the Midtown Tunnel.
"The Machine is tracking the SUV right now," Harold said.
"They may be heading back out to Queens," Shaw said. "We're half a day away – we'll never get there in time." She started pacing back and forth in Harold's room.
Reese stood up and in his whisper-voice said, "They're using her as bait. To get to us. They aren't done with her yet, Shaw." He looked Shaw squarely in the eyes.
"I know. They've gotta know by now Greer's team in Rome is gone and we were the ones who took them out. They don't need Samaritan up and running to know what happened to their team." Shaw looked around at the other two.
"Miss Shaw, Mr. Reese, I have my private jet here. We can fly out any time you are ready. I'll make arrangements and, in the meantime, the Machine will track Miss Grove's location. When we get back, we'll be ready."
Abuja, Nigeria, January, 2015
Kara watched the young men's faces, to see if one might try to be a hero. The sounds from the other room, the slaps and thuds of punches landing like body-blows on the old man, made the younger ones wince, hunch their shoulders and look to the floor. But one man was different, Kara noticed. He held his head higher, watching the door, running the calculus in his head for an attack. She sensed his body tensing, rehearsing himself rushing the door – bursting through and tackling Greer. That wasn't going to happen, Kara whispered to herself.
"Don't!"
Startled, the men flinched and looked up from the floor, "Don't even think about it," she said out loud, staring at the back of that one young man. He hadn't turned her way, but continued to look toward the door.
"You! Look at me!" she commanded, but he barely acknowledged.
Then the sounds from the other room stopped. They could hear footsteps coming quickly toward the door. It started to swing back into the room where Greer had Olawale. Kara raised her weapon.
"I'll shoot if you – " but too late. The young man bolted up from the floor, bull-rushing the door where Greer was standing on the other side.
He never made it.
The sounds of her gun going off made the young men flinch and cower, with their hands over their ears. They felt the floor heave underneath them as his body hit the floor, skidding just short of the door, red stains spreading fast on the back of his white shirt. The men swung their eyes to him, then back to Kara, who stood with her gun trained on the rest of them.
"Anyone else?" she said, looking each man in the eyes.
Greer swung the door open, and the men turned back to get a glimpse of Olawale, but he was hidden by Greer and the door. Greer looked down at the body first, then at the men on the floor, and then up to Kara. They could see the icy blue of his eyes. No mercy, no hint of regret. He tipped his head toward the room, and Kara started to move toward him.
"Take a look at this," he said to her.
She scanned the young man on the floor, kneeling next to him, with the muzzle of her gun resting on the back of his neck while she checked for his pulse. Weak and thready, he was still alive. Kara looked up to Greer and nodded, yes.
"Never mind him," Greer said, impatient.
Kara frowned and stepped over the young man's body to the half-opened door, peering in. Olawale sat in the chair, facing the door, with his head leaning back. Kara could see something not right with his head. As she got closer, she could see that the gray hair at the sides of his head was lifting up from his skin, and short black hair was showing underneath. She pulled the hair, and it peeled away, lifting from his head. She pulled at a gray eyebrow, and after several strong tugs, the one closest to her pulled away, too, revealing dark black hair underneath.
Kara turned to Greer. This was a much younger man, disguised as the older man Greer knew, Olawale.
"Who is he?" Kara asked. Greer shook his head. He didn't know.
The door flung open behind them, footsteps rushing in. Kara lifted her gun, but too late to get the shot off before the men reached them. The wounded man in the bloody shirt leaped forward with his body like a lineman; tackling, knocking them off their feet, the three of them slamming to the floor together. Kara's gun flew in the air, clattering to the floor and sliding away. One of the students ran after it, picked it up, and aimed at the three on the floor. The rest of the men surrounded Olawale, untying his hands, and sitting him up in his chair. They stared at the peeling wig, and the gray eyebrow drooping down. They looked at one another, not sure what this meant, nor what they should do.
"Let's get out of here," one of the men said.
"We'll take him with us," another said.
"What do we do with them?" the first man asked, motioning to Kara and Greer.
"Kill them."
They looked around from one to another, but no one stepped up to take the gun.
"They shot Akeen down – like a dog in the street." There were murmurs of agreement, and the student with the gun in his hand passed it to the one who had just spoken. He lifted it in his hand.
"I'll do it. Just take Olawale. Get him to the car, and I'll do this." The rest of the students lifted the man in the chair, and carried him from the room. There was a door that lead to the back where his car was parked. They fumbled in his pockets, and found the keys, then slid him in on the seat behind the driver, while another one started his car.
Minutes went by, and the men were getting more and more edgy. "What's taking him so long?" one said. And then, finally, a loud blast, and then another. The men looked around at each other, eyes wide, sweating into their clothes. The last student, the one with the gun, appeared at the back door and hustled to the car. They could smell gunpowder on him as he sat down in his seat, and blood covered his sleeve. The driver lurched forward with the car.
No one said anything for a long time. Then one of them asked about the wounded student.
"Akeen died in my arms," the gunman said. Silence fell on the group, as they drove the road leading away from Abuja, only half-aware of where they were heading. They drove until the sun was high overhead, and then they pulled off on the side of the road, into heavy woods that lined the highway.
Olawale began to stir, hearing the crunch of hardpack under the tires, and rocking back and forth over deep ruts in the dirt. They pulled far up off the highway, so the car wouldn't be seen from the road, and then they got out, leaving the doors wide open. The cooler air under the canopy of trees chased the stifling air from the car. The men stood in a knot outside, looking at the man they had known as Olawale.
He opened his eyes and looked around, then tried to sit up. He felt the hair on his head shift, and reached up with his hand to the gray hair. He could see the men watching him, waiting for an explanation.
"What has happened?" he asked them, in the soft voice of Olawale still.
"We rushed them, and took the gun away. Then we put you in the car and drove away. The man and the woman are dead – they shot Akeen when he tried to free you."
"Is he?" and Olawale stopped, afraid to finish his thought.
"Dead. They killed him."
The man who was Olawale looked up at the young men. They didn't know what to do, what to think.
"Here is what we must do now," he said softly.
"More will come looking for me. You must split up and go yah separate ways. Disappear for a long time. Go away, away from everyone who knows you. Leave everything behind. Otherwise, they will find you, and you'll all end up like Akeen." He could see the look in their eyes. Afraid. Uncertain.
"These people will not stop. You must leave and not come back. Don't try to contact one anothah. It's best if no one knows where you go, and you don't know where the others go. For yah own safety, and everyone else's." He could see their thoughts in their eyes. If one of them were found, could he be forced to tell where the others had gone? The reality of their situation was dawning.
"Take the car. I have some money in a box undah the back seat. Divide it among you, and then drop one off at a time, in different places, fah apart." His voice was soft, almost reassuring. He seemed to know what they should do, but it was hard for them to imagine leaving. Everything had happened so fast. Now their lives were in danger, and they would have to leave to survive.
Olawale lifted his legs and swung them out of the car. He grabbed the frame around the window and pulled himself up, holding his other arm against his body. He grimaced as he stood, and he looked shaky to the students as he moved from the back of the car. He pointed inside it.
"Get the box undah the seat."
Olawale watched as two of the young men leaned in and fiddled with the seat, lifting it and reaching under. They found the box, and brought it out to the grass where they all came together to look inside it. Stacks of bills, bound together in small bundles, filled the box. He could see their eyes widen. They had never seen this much cash in their lives. One of them lifted the stacks, handing them around to the men, and then the last of the money they left in the box for Olawale.
He moved away from them, and pointed back to the car.
"Go, now. I don't want to see any of yah faces again. Do you hear me?" He watched as the men replaced the seat in the back. They climbed in. Their eyes were on him, as the car slowly backed out on the uneven ground. Further and further, until he couldn't see them any longer.
Olawale bent over, grimacing, and picked up the last stacks of bills inside the box, stuffing them in the pockets of his pants. He looked up at the sky, with the hot sun high overhead, hidden for now by the trees. At least it was cooler here. He would hike out near the road, but stay out of sight. Not far from here was a place where he could hide, a place he had often used to ply his trade. He reached up to the gray hair on his head, and pulled off the wig; then the rest of his disguise – graying eyebrows, wrinkled skin under his eyes. He threw the pieces into the woods as he hiked back toward the road. The others would be gone by now. They wouldn't see where he was headed.
He had a plan in mind. A certain card that he would play if he ever suspected that Samaritan was coming for him. He knew that one day they would find him. He'd stayed one step ahead, hiding his tracks in the back streets and the hills of Abuja. It was only a matter of time, though, before Samaritan would find him. And then, only one man could save him. Harold Finch.