Chapter 41: that's right...Sameen (rated T for violence - may be triggering for some); "And you are one of us."
Safe-house, Midtown Manhattan, January, 2015
Dripping...
A first sense of anything as awareness returned; sounds of dripping nearby. And the cold. So cold. Lying there on a cold, hard floor, she'd started shivering. Root drew her legs in closer to warm herself. Instead, the sounds of chain dragging; heavy chains dragging over concrete floor, stopping her. Root pulled harder to free herself but it didn't give, just rattled a little more. She pulled harder. Didn't give. Rage flared inside. She yanked as hard as she could then, forcing herself up in the same motion.
That was a mistake.
Space flopped over and over in front of her, like the room tumbling all around her. Root groaned and lowered herself down under waves of intense spinning in her head. Squeezing her eyes closed didn't help at all. Her stomach leaped to her throat and all she could do was flatten herself, hug the floor, while the room tumbled and flopped in her head.
Lying flat seemed to help. Her spinning slowed, and the sense of tumbling dropped away, leaving a buzzing in her ears and queasiness behind. It wasn't long until the spinning finally stopped and she could breathe again.
Root made a note to her stubborn self: go slow or suffer the consequences.
Lying there in the dark she let her sense of awareness shift. In the cold, everything hurt. Her face twisted in a grimace and that made a pulling sensation, like traction, on the skin of her face. Root managed to reach up with one free hand to explore. It hurt there on the side of her head, like a painful swollen lump and the hair felt stiff there, caked with something dried in her hair. And Root's face, too, below it, seemed caked with the same dried stuff.
Her body hurt all over and shivering made it worse, lying there on the floor wherever she was. Root needed to warm herself, but when she tried pulling her legs and arms in closer, chain rattled again. One leg and an arm obeyed, but not the other two. They stretched out straight and no amount of yanking would pull them free.
It started to dawn on Root that someone had put her here, left her here like this alone in the dark and the cold. For the first time, fear started to grip her. What if no one came? How would anyone find her? Her head started to spin again and Root clenched her hands, angry. No way she'd let herself give up like this! Think! Think!
Vague memories then; dark, shadowy fragments. A room. And someone there with her. Who? Couldn't quite get there when she tried to roll it back. But at least the effort of remembering gave her something, took her mind off the rest. Encouraged, Root opened an eye, slowly this time, without moving her head. Darkness all around, no spinning this time. A dim white haze hung in front of her. And as her eyes focused a little better, Root remembered what this was – a bed sheet – wrapped around, tied at her feet and above her head.
They'd left an arm sticking out – her left, and that one seemed caught on something hard. Root could feel a wide metal band, like a shackle, pulling at her wrist. It stretched her arm out taut, chained on something strong that she couldn't see. Her right leg wouldn't budge, either, and Root felt something metal clamped on her ankle, cutting in. Another chain stretched the leg out taut on that side, too.
Crap. Now, she remembered.
The bar. The woman in the bar. The hotel. Damn.
The whole thing was a setup. And she'd walked right into it. Damn it!
Who were they, the ones who had her now? Root pushed herself to remember, ignore the shivering.
There were only a few shadowy memories: lifted in the air by three goons holding her, thrashing around in their arms, and then slammed with something hard – a few times.
Oh, and firing her gun, too. She remembered firing her gun at someone. No, that must have been before they grabbed her. Crap. Her brain felt like molasses. She'd better get it together if she wanted to get herself out of this.
Without warning, a door opened nearby. It let in a little light that penetrated through the sheet. Footsteps approached. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Maybe ten short steps in from the light.
Boots. With heels. Quick gait, and light steps. This was a woman coming.
Root could see the outline of her form through the sheet; and then her perfume caught up. That scent. Root closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling. It sparked another memory – that scent was there last night – the woman who'd breezed into the restroom in the bar. And later, the same woman, in the hotel. It was her, Fan, from the hotel.
Her shadow skidded to a stop next to Root and squatted down near her head. Root felt a hand reaching out, sliding on the contours of her face through the sheet; then again, another time, like Fan petting a cat on her lap. For a moment Root wanted to fling the hand off her face with a toss of her head, but she stopped herself. Go slow, instead.
"Ah, you awake now," she heard Fan say through the sheet, that same deep voice with the heavy Chinese accent. Root didn't answer right away. Moments passed, and then:
"Nothing to say?"
Root heard her laugh then, loud and long, her hand stroking Root's face again. A slow burn started inside her. Lucky for her Root was shackled like this because some of her favorite tools of the trade sprang to mind: electric wires, knives, hot steam iron and the like. Root was sure she could find something that would get Fan's undivided attention when the tables turned. And the tables would turn.
In the meantime, she'd just have to figure out what the game was and play her hand.
Fan stood up and turned back for the door. Root could see the shadow retreating but it didn't feel like this was over yet. Whatever they'd come to do, things were still unwinding. At the door, Fan paused and turned to face her again. Root heard something heavy dragging on the floor; like down a long hallway by the sound of it. Then people were talking, all Chinese – she couldn't tell what they were saying. In the faint light from the doorway Root could see three, maybe four figures there blocking the light. Fan backed up and then two of the others stepped through, dragging something long and thick between them. In Chinese, she gave a quick command.
Root heard a sound then, like a rusty metal valve creaking at the far end of the hall. Followed quickly by another sound, like rushing – something coming her way, fast. Then spurting – and a blast of water hit her full force in the chest. Cold, cold water!
It swept her off the floor and slapped her back against the concrete wall. Root's head slammed the wall, hard. And the water pounded, pinning her on the wall, thudding on her chest and down her body. The frigid force drenched her with the harsh pounding power of a fire hose.
Splayed out on the chains, Root couldn't protect herself. Up and down her body the force spun and battered her, skidding her all over the rough wall behind her. One free arm and a leg were no match. The sheer force of its blast punished her skin, her body, and pummeled the breath from her lungs. Root couldn't catch her breath!
It went on and on until she was fading, limp and breathless in the pulse of water. No air. They must have guessed. The jet stopped, suddenly. But with nothing to hold her there, Root slid off the wall, landing hard on the floor. She laid there gasping, numb, mummified in cold, wet, bloody-white sheeting that clung to her like a second skin. Hard to breathe inside, but Root hadn't the strength to resist. Wet sheet strangled her. The contours of her gasping face showed through the sheet, like some alien membrane smothering her.
From the doorway, Fan approached slowly, an arm bent back toward her face, aiming a small boxy camera at Root.
"Ah, this good," she said, reveling in the drama she'd captured for their first little session together. Perfect for the intended audience. More than satisfied, Fan cut the filming and lowered her camera. Frowning at Root's dilemma, she reached over to yank the sheet from her strangling prisoner.
"Careful now," she said, as Root flopped over on the floor, choking. Fan backed away then and handed the camera off to the waiting men. They carried it with them as they dragged the hose back to the hallway – for next time.
"Make sure her friend see this," Fan called after them, in English, so Root could hear. She barely did, lying there choking and coughing on the floor. Her mind clamped onto the one thought, though: so that's the game – I'm bait.
There was loud jabbering back and forth in Chinese after that and the light in the room suddenly plunged to nothing as the door swung closed. Root could hear their footsteps retreating in the hallway – softer and softer, until only silence and total darkness remained.
Lifting her head, Root pushed hard against the wet clingy sheet, listening for any sounds out there.
Dripping...
The sounds of water dripping – all around her now.
Root laid there in the darkness on a bare concrete floor – shackled by her wrist and an ankle, bound in a thin, wet cotton sheet. In winter.
Desperate didn't begin to describe her thoughts. Root pulled at her chains. They didn't give. A violent shiver shook her.
Cold. So cold now. And Sameen so far away.
Oh, that's right...Sameen.
Safe-house, Midtown Manhattan, January, 2015
From his office at the end of the hall, Finch could hear the sounds of his Team readying for their mission. The low hum of their voices mingled with the sounds of footsteps back and forth in the hallway and zippers sliding on long black bags staged there. In the living room there were weapons checks and safety checks: the outbound Team all wore vests under their clothing by his directive. And one final time, Miss Shaw ran logistics with them.
Two were experienced in missions like this, but the other two were still learning. Shaw watched their eyes to see if they were clear on her instructions. There'd be no room for confusion or errors. And if things went south, they'd need to be alert to switch plans. She'd paired one of the experienced team members with one less so for this. Harper could handle a weapon and Pierce, logistics. Like Finch, weapons were not for him. These two would pair with the two more experienced members of the Team.
Soon, they'd all scatter to assigned locations, each surveiling their routes to the airport – ahead of the jet landing at Kennedy. Since the Team was down two people, Finch had a plan to help them. Kennedy is a giant, complex site; dozens of buildings and miles of roads crisscrossing among them. As Reese had said, Greer wouldn't have taken it well when Finch's jet took off from Abuja with the rescued Nigerian aboard. They should all be expecting trouble; the sprawling lowlands around Kennedy could hide a myriad of dangers for the Team and their refugee passenger. What they needed were more eyes in the sky.
Finch heard footsteps coming down the hall toward his room. He looked up expectantly and Miss Shaw poked her head around the door.
"We're ready, Finch. Anything more from Reese yet?" There were still more than two hours to go before they expected his flight to land.
"No, Miss Shaw. As soon as he makes contact, I'll let you know." Finch glanced at his clock.
He expected Mr. Reese would call within the hour. Their plans had come together well with Miss Shaw at the lead. He felt confident they could extract the two men from the plane and bring them to Manhattan with minimal risk. Miss Shaw nodded and turned to leave without another word. He heard her bootsteps in the hallway heading back where the Team had gathered.
Finch felt he should make an appearance as the Team made their exit. He thought he should check on Miss Groves as well. She'd stay behind, of course, while the rest of the Team headed out. Miss Groves had yet to recover from her kidnapping and near-fatal run-in with the Zheng in Queens. He shuddered inside at the thought of what she'd endured. No wonder they still weren't clear if she'd fully recover. Her life had been saved, yes, but not the memories of what had happened or who her Team members were. Better that Miss Groves stay here, safe, with him. Finch planned for Bear to keep watch over her, while he kept watch over the Team.
They were about to leave, so Finch hurried from his desk and limped along in the hallway. On the right, he noticed Miss Groves' door still closed as he passed. With all the distractions about to take place, this seemed like a fortunate turn. He hurried through the kitchen and into the living room. The Team had assembled there with all their gear, ready to leave in pairs, except for Miss Shaw. She'd work alone.
Joey Durban and Harper Rose were Team One, Logan Pierce and Detective Fusco, Team Two. Each team carried a black bag filled with a small squadron of drones inside – more eyes for the sky. Finch had programmed the drones to follow a pattern over the lowlands, freeing the Team for their main duties. Once humans had surveiled the routes themselves, they'd stop to deploy the drones. Finch and the Machine would stay behind, monitoring the Teams, the drones, and DOT camera feed for the routes in and out, all the way to Manhattan. That way, they'd provide overlapping layers of protection for Mr. Reese and their guest.
As Finch arrived, Shaw gave the thumbs-up for Team One to leave. The pair hoisted their long black bags over their shoulders and walked to the door. Harper swung it open and scanned the hallway outside while Joey turned to the second team.
"Meet you here, later," Joey said and the two nodded back. Then he saluted to Shaw and Finch; Harper swung the door closed behind them. Team Two lifted their bags next, turning to echo the same theme.
"Later, here," Pierce said with a grin.
"Leave the lights on for us," Fusco smirked, and the two headed for the door.
"I'll be handing over to you once Mr. Reese and our guest are on their way," Finch said and Pierce acknowledged. Shaw watched them go and glanced at her watch.
"Later, Finch," she said, and hoisted her own bag from the floor.
She carried a different kind of bag than the others – a long, thin padded rectangle instead. Finch could only imagine some kind of long, thin weapon inside, a rifle perhaps. She slid the heavy webbed strap over a shoulder. Finch felt a chill run through his body, watching her. Miss Shaw, for all her diminutive size, could make one quake with fear. On a mission like this, her eyes were a warning to all. Deadly calm, emotionless. No wonder she worked alone.
Bear stood and perked up his ears, ready to join her. She raised her hand between them, giving the Dutch command to stay, "blijf." Bear looked at Shaw, then at Finch and walked around in a circle to sit down at Finch's side. Sensing the action and a new mission, Bear watched them for more commands. Shaw backed away and headed for the door.
"I'll contact you as soon as I hear from Mr. Reese," Finch called, and Shaw acknowledged with a wave of her hand as she left. He waited quietly in the living room for a long moment, listening for any sounds of chatter in his earbud, but there were none. It meant that each pair had gotten off to their mission cleanly. Miss Shaw would join in after to watch their flank. Finch looked at Bear, then, peering up at him with his bright eyes.
"Hier," he said softly, and the two turned back to the hallway. Bear jingled along next to him until they reached Miss Groves' room. They stopped there and Finch pointed to her door.
"Bewaken," he said, and Bear picked a spot to sit down in his guard stance. Finch needed his own attention fully on the work ahead and Bear would alert him to any change in Miss Groves' status. Eyes bright and head cocked to one side, he watched Finch limp away down the hall. At the end, Finch saw a small red light blinking on the wall behind his desk. A secure message had come in while he'd been absent. He crossed quickly to his desk and opened his laptop. The Machine had intercepted a video message from Mr. Reese. But before he opened the message, Finch stared at the camera eye above his screen. He spoke directly to the Machine.
"Open communications with Teams One, Two, and Three."
Small thumbnail windows opened on his screen and filled with live-streaming video from each pair of agents, as well as one for Miss Shaw. Right now, it was just their faces, but the screens could show whatever they were seeing as they moved. Whatever they saw in the terrain, he and the Machine would see it, too.
Finch noticed the first team had already made it to an office building a few blocks away. They'd gone there to exchange vehicles for one more fitting with the plan. The lower levels of the building were private parking levels, some for businesses inside the building and then a main floor garage where Finch kept a supply of vehicles for use on their missions.
The plan had Mr. Durban and Miss Rose riding together. Mr. Logan and Detective Fusco had already departed from the safe-house in a black SUV. Each team drove a separate route in toward the airport and then they'd meet together on the airport grounds. Along the way, in a predetermined hidden spot, they'd release their small swarm of drones for Finch and the Machine to wrangle from his desk.
And the Machine had already set itself to analyzing DOT camera feed for days back, processing for any suspicious traffic, truck movement patterns, repeating license plates, unusual taxi traffic, and even employing facial recognition software, hunting through all the millions of details per second visible to its eyes.
As for its ears, the Machine had been monitoring Greer's trusted assistants for weeks – in Nigeria, Senegal, England and France, as well as communications between certain phone numbers in the States. In the time since Samaritan had been forced offline, Greer and his army were reduced to using older methods to communicate. And that was very, very good for Finch and the Machine.
He turned to his waiting message next, and it opened to Mr. Reese sitting in the guest bedroom on his jet, a private place where they could talk. He recognized the two small oval windows behind him. Perhaps it was just the dim lighting there, but Finch noticed how worn Mr. Reese appeared on the video. Little sleep in the past few days, he imagined, and it couldn't have been easy getting up to that cave high in Zuma Rock. Not to mention finding and rescuing their guest in the middle of an enemy camp. Mr. Reese stared straight at him, through the camera eye.
"Finch, we're a little ahead of schedule. I'm sure you know we're landing at twelve-hundred hours, your time. Call me back when you get this message. We'll need to sync up with the plan."
Finch heard a knock at a door, then, and Mr. Reese stood up to get it. Finch could see him limping. He recalled there'd been a problem with his knee and Finch wondered whether he'd aggravated the injury on the trip. He wouldn't expect Mr. Reese to mention something like that. He'd keep it to himself. Before Finch could see who was there at the door, the video clip ended and closed on his screen.
Another opened in its place. It showed the shape of a silver jet flying on a black background, data scrolling below the icon indicating altitude, speed, distance and time of arrival for his jet. He'd need to put in a call to Miss Shaw now. Her face appeared on his screen in the thumbnail window marked Team Three.
"I'll be at the Mid-Town Tunnel in ten, Finch," she said.
"Mr. Reese left a message while I was seeing you off, Miss Shaw. They're landing ahead of schedule, at noon." She waited for more but Finch seemed to be hesitating.
"Finch?"
"Yes, Miss Shaw. I was just thinking. It appears that Mr. Reese is limping."
"Not surprised," he heard her say under her breath. She was staring at him on the screen.
"This could work to our advantage, Miss Shaw." But, she'd already figured it out: "understood."
"I'll make the arrangements, then," Finch said and he saw her acknowledge.
"Copy that. Team One is ahead approaching the Tunnel. Team Two is already through."
"Yes, Miss Shaw, I have them on my screen. I'll be in touch."
Finch sat back in his chair, thinking this through, when another blinking light caught his eye. A new window opened silently on his screen, and Finch could see a view down the hallway outside his door. Strange, he thought. Bear was gone. And there was a shadow in the hallway.
Finch looked up and jumped.
"Hands where I can see them," she said. Finch raised his hands slowly above his laptop. He glanced at the camera eye and then raised himself a little higher on his chair. He wished he hadn't then. Miss Groves had a gun in her hand, pointed his way.
"Miss Groves. What are you doing?" he said softly. She stared at him. No recognition in her eyes. She stepped in and peered around his door, then quickly around his room.
"Where is she?" Finch could see the look in her eyes – different. Cool. Calculating. Vengeful.
"I'm not sure who you mean, Miss Groves," he tried, but her eyes flew into a rage, and the gun rose higher toward his chest.
"Where!"
Finch looked down at his keyboard, then back up to Miss Groves. In a soft, even voice, he told her: "here." And his eyes moved to the keyboard again. She looked confused.
"Here," he said, with more conviction. "She's looking for the ones who did this to you." Finch started to point to her wounds.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," she said.
"You're hurt, Miss Groves. Do you remember what happened?" He watched her eyes start to change, as though she did, but then she started forward toward his desk. Alarmed, Finch stood up from his chair and glanced at his screen. The Machine had blanked it, except for Miss Shaw's face in her thumbnail window.
"Never mind about that! Show me!"
She closed in at the side of his desk, holding the gun on him, while she stared at the screen. Her face contorted.
"Sameen," she choked out. Finch backed away a step, and she moved in closer to the screen. Miles away, Shaw's phone lit up with a message from the Machine: ASSET HOLDING PRIMARY HOSTAGE W/GUN...LOOKING FOR YOU.
In a steady voice, with her calm, dark eyes looking right into the camera, "Root," she said.
Root recoiled as if she'd been shot and dropped to Finch's chair.
"You left me!" she cried, tears welling in her eyes.
"Root." Shaw's eyes were deep, dark pools. Root strained toward the screen.
"You left me – alone – to die!" Root pounded the desk with her fist.
Finch stared at the screen. Why wasn't Miss Shaw saying something? Her eyes were blank, no emotion in her face. Now, when emotion was just what was needed. This could go badly, he thought. He should say something.
Before he could, a larger window opened on the screen and video started to roll, as though from a camera high above the street. Root saw a tall man rushing from a building with something dangling in his arms. He ran for the road. In the grass at the edge, he stopped and lowered it down. His face looked grim and he stepped aside. Sameen was there next to him. She knelt down, with sounds of a helicopter circling overhead; louder and louder in the video as it touched down on the street nearby. The blast from the blades ruffled their clothes and hair, and Sameen stared at the face of a body wrapped in a sheet.
Root's body. Root could see herself, dead, in the sheet. She started shaking her head.
"No. No. You're too late," and she laid her head down on Finch's desk. She didn't seem to understand.
"Root. You didn't die," Shaw said. Root raised her head, her eyes unsure. A man rolled a stretcher into view and they lifted her body on top, rushing for the doors of the helicopter. She saw them slide the stretcher inside and Sameen jumped in behind it. Root heard gunfire next, and a moment later, the tall man who'd carried her out of the building climbed in next to Sameen. Trees shook as the blast from the blades hit the branches. The helicopter rose from the road and flew off, out of view. She watched it leave as the video stopped, but there was nothing else after that. The screen went blank, and Root turned to Shaw.
Her eyes were blank, no emotion there at all, Finch noticed. Just like they'd been in the living room when the Team had left. In her cold, factual, unhelpful way: "you weren't dead, Root. Just cold. It took some time, but you lived."
Root shook her head. She didn't remember any of it. Finch could see the questions in her face. He had to speak, before she lost control. He turned to her, just a foot away.
"She saved your life, Miss Groves. In the helicopter and for days after. Did you know that?" Finch said in his softest voice. Root turned his way, pleading.
"What is all this? Who are you?" she demanded. Finch just smiled a small smile.
"The truth is, we help people, Miss Groves. And you are one of us."
