By mid-afternoon, they are back at the ranch. While Steve busies himself with properly fixing the bullet and RPG holes left by the attack on the house, Catherine sets up shop in the back room, where they slept. She pulls the chest of drawers from the wall, lays her laptop on it and busies herself with what she does best: Intel gathering. From what Tani was able to find, Kamal Hassan's son, Omar, a 26-year old shipping company CEO, is the man behind the attacks. But apparently, they were all orchestrated by his savvy lawyer, in Copenhagen: Gregers Thomsen. So naturally, not only is Catherine very curious about him, but she also knows that he's their best bet to get to Hassan.
A few hours later, Catherine has managed to find some information on the lawyer: criminal record, work and home addresses, personal and work relationships, financial records, recent call log and text transcripts. She orders the extraction of more information on the target, namely background checks, preferences and habits, surveillance, and the monitoring of his emails and phone calls, from that moment on. She also requests equipment interference, so they can covertly access the lawyer's computers or other devices and the extraction of any and all information contained in CCTV cameras, routers and servers belonging to his office. Suddenly, she closes her eyes, leaning her head backwards, neck stiff from the hours attentively facing the computer and hears Steve coming her way.
"Any luck? I'm done in the living room, going to move to the corridor."
"Yes, got a lot of intel, but now I have to sift through it", she says, rubbing the back of her head. "I also requested some more stuff, so we'll have to wait for it to come in."
Suddenly, she spots a red stain on Steve's cargo pants, realising it must be one of the injuries he sustained during the attack. Catherine hesitates for a millisecond, not knowing how this will go, but aware that the wound must be checked out.
"You're bleeding from your wound. Come here, let me check it out."
"What, this?" He says flippantly, dismissing her concern with a flick of the hand.
"Did you get it checked out? As in, at a hospital?"
"No, I took care of it myself. I managed fine."
"Clearly. Can I have a look, please?" Catherine insists, wanting to make sure. She gets up and collects the first aid kit from the gun room.
Steve tries not to look directly at her computer; he feels as though everything that comes from the CIA is tainted, and he stubbornly wants nothing to do with it. His heart constricts, knowing that Catherine works for them and he tries hard to dismiss that thought from his mind, choosing to view her still as his Navy colleague, or better, 5-0. Maybe just friend.
"Fine, if you insist. But it's really no big deal," Steve says, as he pulls his pants down for her to have a look.
"Let me be the judge of that, OK? Maybe you just need a stitch or two, but the wound may become infected, so we don't want that, right?" Catherine says, as she removes the higgledy-piggledy dressing Steve had applied to the wound, that is, indeed, bleeding again.
"Pfft, please! You're exaggerating!" he says, but lets her tend to it. He knows there's nothing to be gained by putting on a show of toughness. "Remember the last time I did this for you? Billy had just died…," he says, melancholy invading him at yet another loss.
"I remember," Catherine says, looking down, halting her movements at the memory. "I've still got the scar to prove it," she continues, smiling sweetly at him, deciding to move away from the pain. "Billy was a good man, much like Joe. We avenged Billy's death, we'll do the same here," she says, determined. "Any other wounds?"
"Huh?", Steve asks, brought back to reality.
"Cuts, gashes, bruises, bullet holes, blunt force trauma…?" Catherine continues, patiently. She knows he hates to feel vulnerable, but she simply can't have him bleed to near death on her.
"Yeah, one on my left arm and chest area and this one on my wrist. But they're healing fine," Steve enumerates, pulling his pants up.
"Plus, the bump on the head?" she says, suspiciously.
"Plus the bump on the head", he says, touching his forehead and wincing. "But I'm fine, no concussion."
A second later he's gone, with a shy "thanks" thrown her way. With a sad smile, she turns to her laptop again.