Chapter 43: A standoff, then; like a tomb; There it was again


Safe-house, Midtown Manhattan, January, 2015

"This is what I need," she'd said, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

"Let's go back – before this." Root grabbed for the sides of Harold's laptop screen and stared into the pale white pupil above it.

"I wanna know what happened to me," she urged the silent eye.

A flash of blue, then, and Root caught sight of something there on her wrist. She brushed at it, but the blue stubbornly stuck. A closer look, then, and Root could see this fine thin loop, robin's egg blue, poking up out of the skin of her left wrist. And like an exclamation mark, a long, shiny pink line ran the width of her wrist, dotted at the end with the loop. She cranked her wrist back the other way and spied a tiny blue knot buried in the skin at the end.

Root knew what this was. Someone had expertly stitched her wrist, hiding the main length of stitching under the slash in her skin: invisible – except for the telltale blue at the ends. She switched hands quickly, searching for more. None on the other wrist, but the back of her hand was crowded with red-purple bruising and scrapes. She yanked her sleeves up next: more scrapes and scabs and wide, swollen bruises covered her arms. Over veins at the crook in her elbows: small, round healing holes.

"What the – ?" Root shot a glance over to Harold, trapped there, standing between his desk and the wall. He knew he was a stranger to her. Or worse, with that look. Then, with both hands, she reached for the spot behind each ear where thin skin stretched over bone. He could see the focus in her eyes as fingers searched her skin – smooth on the right, rough on the left – where the sprawl of scar was. A frown formed, and Harold watched her eyes squint, searching for memories to match.

He sensed his time slipping away.

Quickly and silently, Harold turned a bit to eye her weapon. She'd left it there, parked on its side near his laptop, an arm's reach away. It was one of the black Glocks, he noticed; the kind most of his Team seemed to favor. Sleek, substantial, unnerving; like all guns he'd ever seen up this close.

Harold had made it a point never to handle guns himself. He'd always left that for the experts. Even now, he hesitated to reach for it. But then something else: as his eyes swept the contours of the gun, he noticed a space, an opening in the handle where the magazine should go. No magazine. No cartridges then – unless there'd been one left behind in the chamber. He'd be taking a chance.

Harold consciously blanked his face and swung his eyes slowly to Miss Groves, hoping she wouldn't read him and guess his plan. He'd trapped himself there at the side of his desk: behind him, the nook, a short L of wall flanking a long run of glass with its view of the park. In front, his desk, and a good dozen feet more to the hallway door. Regardless of which path he chose to make his escape, he couldn't avoid Miss Groves.

Harold glanced at the white pupil atop his laptop screen. Strange that the screen had gone dark. It seemed his Machine had disengaged, when what he needed most right now was a little help. He knew it was watching; so it knew his dilemma. Why not act? Why not engage and draw her in, like before? It seemed that something had interfered, something the Machine wouldn't share. But he'd run out of time to ponder more. Its silence left him little choice: to prevent the next bad thing from happening, he'd need to act on his own.

Harold carefully blanked his face again and kept his eyes on his desk this time. He stole a breath, then shoved mightily at his desk, hard enough to form a small space. He squeezed himself through and limped for the door. As he passed the startled Miss Groves, Harold was aware of her hand, reaching.

"Stop!" she ordered. And he did.

He watched her scramble for the gun on his desk and point it to his chest as he turned to face her. Harold hadn't wanted to look, but he found himself staring at the dark hole in the end of the barrel.

This can't be how this ends, he thought to himself. Harold lifted his eyes to hers, and in a voice that sounded steadier than he felt inside:

"Miss Groves, as I said before, we help people. You help people, as part of our Team," he said, shifting one small step closer to the door.

"You can see you were badly injured, Miss Groves. We brought you here to save your life." Another small step.

She shook her head and thrust the gun forward, closer to the center of his chest.

"Not another step!"

Harold glanced at the gun again, then at her eyes. Simply no way to know. Seconds ticked and he readied himself to move for the door. A sound made them both flinch.

"Put the gun down, Root!"

And Shaw stepped in, her own Glock held high, pointed at Root. No one moved or breathed until Harold slowly lifted his hands, one toward Root and one toward Shaw, to stop them both.

"Miss Groves, we don't want to harm you," he said to her, softly. Harold's eyes moved from her to Shaw and back again, with his hands still raised.

"And I believe you don't mean to hurt us, either. There's no magazine in your gun, Miss Groves," and he looked pointedly to Shaw to be sure she understood.

"You never meant to harm anyone," he said, for both their sakes. But Shaw kept her eyes and her gun locked on Root. And Root kept hers on Harold. A standoff, then.

"If I'm one of you," Root said, smiling, "then you're not gonna shoot."

"Don't be too sure," Shaw said. "You haven't exactly been yourself, lately."

"And why is that!" Root snarled.

"Put the gun down and we'll talk about it!" Shaw snapped back. Harold looked from one to the other.

"Miss Shaw – we need to show Miss Groves that we can trust her."

"That's not how this works, Finch," Shaw said, and kept the Glock steady at Root's chest. Harold frowned.

"Miss Groves – her training – you know she won't stop until the threat is removed." He turned his hands palm-up. "Won't you show her you mean no harm?"

Moments passed. Root flicked her eyes to Shaw. Whose eyes never changed. Cold. Empty of feeling. And without knowing why, she remembered that look. Root could see it, even as she hoped for something else.

Time to end this.

Root half-smiled – abruptly. Shaw stiffened her stance, uncertain.

"Alright, then," Root said, and slowly lowered the Glock; "since you asked so nicely." She placed the gun down gently on the top of Harold's desk.

They could both hear him exhale.

"Step back," Shaw said, and motioned Root away from the desk. As Root backed up, Shaw went for the gun on the desk and pushed it into the empty holster at her back; she never broke her stride, never lowered her gun. So she was on Root quickly, then, pushing her back with a forearm. Root stumbled, off-balance, and Shaw expertly grabbed a wrist, spinning her around.

"So rough," Root whispered, smiling. But Shaw's face never changed in response: all business, even now.

"Keep your hands up," Shaw said, and ran her hands down Root's body, checking for any more hidden surprises. When she was done, Root had a thought. She turned her left wrist where Shaw could see it.

"This your handiwork?" and she pointed to the pink scar and the blue loop.

Shaw ignored her and nodded to Harold instead. He moved quickly to the desk, spinning his laptop to face him. The Machine had already restored his screens: three thumbnail windows on the lower half, Team One through Team Three; above them, an icon of a silver jet with destination time, speed and altitude displayed. At the left of the jet, a coastline drawn in a fine white line, with a small white star blinking on its southern shore. Based on the animation, their jet was rapidly closing on its destination. Harold glanced at Shaw.

"I'll need some time to catch up," he said, and she nodded.

"I'll take care of this," Shaw said, motioning toward Root. She slipped a white plastic zip-tie around Root's wrists in back and pulled it snug. Then she aimed Root to the hallway door and gave her a push.

"You're not going to hurt her, Miss Shaw," he said, looking up from the laptop. It was more of a statement than a question. Shaw shrugged her shoulders.

"Depends," she answered, and pushed Root ahead into the hallway.


At first, Root said nothing. Shaw aimed her down the hall, past the kitchen, and into the living room at the other end of the apartment. In each room, Shaw noticed Root eyeing the layout. Her eyes glanced around each, absorbing the details. When they stopped in the living room, Root focused on their formidable security door.

She watched as Shaw stretched to a small raised circle on the wall near the door. A light glowed from the circle, illuminating her eye. Then Shaw reached down to a corner of the raised paneling that ringed the living room. She pressed something there on the corner and a narrow, vertical hidden door snapped open in the panel. Thick, shiny metal lined the compartment inside. Shaw knelt down and reached in. When she had what she wanted, she snapped the panel door closed again, bounced up to her feet, and walked Root the rest of the way to the security door.

Shaw blocked the bottom of the door with the side of her boot, so it couldn't easily be forced by someone on the other side. She cracked the door. With the Glock in her right hand, she scanned to the left, first. The main hallway ended just past their door on the left, so it was quick work to check for any problems there. Shaw adjusted her feet and opened the door a little wider. She swung through the arc of the doorway with her weapon. Out in the hallway, Shaw swung right, where the long hall ran past the elevator bank and down to a stairway door at the far end. The hallway was deserted and silent.

She'd pulled Root along while she cleared the doorway, but now rather than turn to the right toward the elevator bank, she walked them straight across the hall to a wide blank door. She inched Root face-first against the door, and switched hands with her Glock. Root could feel the hard end of the barrel held high against her back.

In her right hand, Shaw produced the key she'd borrowed from the hidden panel, and a moment later they entered a high, wide hall, dimly lit, on the other side. Root glanced around her at the walls and floor. It had the look of an older era, with scroll work along the walls and old marble tiles on the floor. Shaw swung the door closed behind them and locked it. Then she marched Root forward along the hall. Their footsteps echoed on the marble.

"Where are we going?" Root asked.

"Somewhere you're not gonna get into any more trouble," she answered.

Ahead, inset in the wall on the right, was a wide, old, metal double-door, painted in a glossy dark green. Shaw felt for a raised black button on the frame. A low rumble sounded, a long way below. They stood there, waiting, until a light slowly passed, bottom to top, through a slit in the painted door. Rumbling finally stopped.

The green door rattled apart, revealing the cavern of a large freight elevator, walls padded with thick gray mats. Root tried to pull away, but Shaw pushed her inside. She motioned with her gun to face the corner. The barrel pressed high again on Root's back. She stood there, braced with her forehead pressed against the wall and her feet planted wide-apart to steady herself. She'd suddenly felt trembly inside.

After its plodding ascent in the shaft, they could smell a heavy scent of machine oil inside the old elevator. Shaw pressed a green-lit button on the panel marked SB, for the sub-basement. Keys dangled, jingling in her hand while the door rattled closed. For three floors they rumbled down in near-darkness, until they lurched to a stop and the door slowly rattled open.

It felt cool down there, and the faint smell of cement drifted in. A violent shiver shook Root's body and she turned her head to see where they were. Her eyes widened and her knees started to fail.

"I'm not going any further!" she said, shrinking back into the corner.

Shaw moved away a step and swung her Glock up even with Root's chest, with a warning: "Move!"

"You're not gonna shoot me," Root whispered. "He told you not to hurt me." Shaw could hear the shake in her voice.

"I'll drag you if I have to. Now, move!" There was nowhere near enough light to see her face, but Root could guess how she'd look – those cold, empty eyes.

"You don't need to do this," she whispered, shivering, and then added a single word, "Sameen."

It didn't matter. Shaw grabbed her arm and dragged her out to the darkened space. On the floor just outside the door, she found a stack of old quilted blankets, the kind they used for wrapping freight. She grabbed two off the top and tucked them under an arm. With the other, she motioned with the Glock. They made their way along the floor, flanked on both sides by high metal cages. Each was numbered on its door, and inside were neat stacks of shapes: tools, equipment, furniture and the like. This looked like storage space for the tenants who lived on the floors above.

They moved along, passing cage after cage. Root swung her head left to right, staring into the darkness of each cage they passed. At the end, they stopped at the door of the last cage, the biggest one. Shaw shoved a key in the lock. When the door swung open, she pushed Root inside, and tossed the blankets in behind her. Root heard the sound of the key turning in the lock. She stepped forward and pressed herself against the cage. Shaw saw the look on her face.

"No time to explain, now. We're in the middle of something, Root. When it's over, I'll come back for you."

Root just stood there, her face frozen. She heard the scuff as Sameen turned around, and the sound of her footsteps, softer and softer in the distance. Then the rattle of doors closing and the rumble of the elevator, leaving.

In minutes, the silence and darkness engulfed her. She shivered violently again, pressed against the cage.

"Don't go," she whispered, but the sound disappeared, absorbed by the darkness around her, like a tomb.


On her floor, Shaw retraced her steps down the empty marble hallway, to the heavy door at the end. She let herself out and locked the door behind her, then scanned her retina at their security door. Inside, she returned the keys to their compartment in the wall panel.

As she snapped the panel closed, she thought she heard a sound. Something like a low moan. Harold? She spun around and took off for the hallway.

There it was again. And a rustling, too.