Three and a half city blocks, silently woven. The night heavy and still.
In the distance, the sound of bus or truck coughing out exhaust, the hiss of breaks.
Root stopped mid-stride, an abrupt standstill in the middle of the sidewalk.
"We need a car."
Behind her, Finch came to an awkward halt. Pivoting his stance with the pause, he ignored the flicker of a spasm down his spine. Looking back in the direction they had come, his eyes lingering in the empty space.
The street was still, the corner quiet.
No unusual foot traffic.
He glanced up at a camera on the nearest utility pole. Shifting the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder, the weight of the laptop feeling heavy.
He hesitated, his gaze falling back to the end of the street.
"He'll call."
Finch felt the weight of Shaw's eyes on him; he pivoted back stiffly when she spoke.
Met with the back of her ponytail: any reassurances had passed. She was scanning the street. It was quiet this time of night, a flickering street lamp buzzing above their heads. He watched as she stepped close to a older model Civic, raising her arm.
"Oh, sweetie."
At Root's voice, Shaw's elbow hung an inch away from the driver's side window of the car.
Root's slender fingers were pressing a five-digit code into the keypad entry of a Ford SUV.
Shaw dropped her arm, looking irritated.
"Thank you," Root said after the audible unlocking sound. Glancing at Shaw. A smile, the gentle tucking of a strand of hair behind her hair.
"Whatever." Shaw's words came through gritted teeth. Brushing past the taller woman and slipping behind the wheel, her face a stony mask. She snapped the panel off the steering column, fingers deftly finding the two wires she needed. "I'm driving."
The elevator dinged as Reese stepped out. Moving down the carpeted hallway, scanning the length of it.
He questioned what he was doing.
He had followed directions to a private floor, nearly getting shot in the process. Keycard access required, overridden by a code in his ear.
Room 1392.
He checked the hallway and started working the lock.
Seventeen seconds, far from a personal record. He heard the sound of the mechanism unlocking. Tipped the handle down.
The door opened. Reese pulled his gun from his waistband before slowly stepping through.
The main room was clear. He lowered his weapon. Listening.
Nothing. Then-
A grunting noise led him to the bathroom.
Pulling back the shower curtain.
The man's eyes were bulging, his face reddened from strain.
Erik Ivanov.
Reese rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then squatted down in front of the tub.
"Bad room service?"
The man argued something emphatically from behind the gag.
"Mm," Reese agreed mildly.
He undid the gag, sitting back on his heels. Ivanov was still fully restrained, ankles and wrists bound together like a cattle roping competition.
"Untie me," Ivanov ordered, his dark eyes shooting daggers.
Reese blinked, expression passive.
Sometimes, you really wanted to save a number.
Other times, you wondered why you didn't let the fates play out.
For Ivanov, the library's glass board had been riddled with faces of potential threats. The man was as ruthless as they came. His rise to the head of the mob wasn't without bloodshed or bribes, nor was his position in NT&T. He had killed his own and probably would again.
Reese motioned to the restraints with a wave of his gun. "With family like this," he said, "who needs enemies."
It had taken two days, but they had narrowed the board down to one face.
Ivanov's eyes tracked the weapon.
"I always wanted a brother," Reese continued, and the man glared at him, his gaze bloodshot.
"Who are the hell are you?"
"A concerned cable customer."
Ivanov growled. "Alek doesn't know what he started," he spat. His accent thickened with his anger.
Reese raised his eyebrows. Silent.
"Untie me."
It was spoken like a threat but Reese rocked back on his heels in an unaffected manner. Giving the heavyset man a patient look.
"I have all night," he said evenly.
It was a lie: he could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance.
In the quiet of a safe house, the muffled thrum of traffic. Flipping light switches on in ordered succession, a fan humming to life overhead.
Sitting, finally. Staring at a blinking cursor.
"The Machine alerts us to the numbers," Finch said slowly, "but it has never had a part in the outcome."
The slow-burn of heat in his leg, his hip. Root was silent beside him.
He turned his head. "The end result has always been human. For better or for worse."
He looked down at his phone, a tiny pinprick of a dot mapping the GPS location from Reese's phone.
"This is different, Harry."
Finch looked up; his eyes found hers.
"Is it?"
The apartment had an understated luxury to it. Crown moldings, a warm glow to the lighting. Original paintings in thick, ornate frames.
Shaw had pulled close the heavy drapes on their arrival, cataloging the rooms and exits as the other two set themselves up at the heavy oak dining table.
She hadn't been here before, but it was clear Reese had: one of the kitchen cabinets was dedicated solely to first aid, another to arsenal. She used it to restock her supply, shaking her head at some of his choices.
Old school, Reese.
You stubborn SOB.
Finished with her survey, her restock, she re-entered the main room.
"She's desperate," Root was saying.
The table was a mess of cords and laptops. Why they needed three, Shaw didn't know.
Didn't care.
Finch was giving Root a disapproving look.
She held his stare.
"It's about survival, Harold. The world is changing."
Shaw looked between them. Kicking off her heels, she landed her own disapproving eye to Finch.
"If you guys are done talking about the apocalypse...?"
They looked to her.
The typing paused.
"Our number is a ticking time bomb," Shaw said bluntly. She crossed her arms over her chest. "We sit back here and he's gonna be Russian soufflé."
Finch opened his mouth and then closed it.
Shaw raised her eyebrows. She knew the answer from the pinched look on his face but she asked it anyway.
"Have you even heard from Reese?"
A clock from the main room ticked.
"It was supposed to mutually beneficial," the Russian had said finally. Reese waited and Ivanov shook his head. "Some private intelligence firm contacted me. But I did not agree with their terms."
"Terms?"
"For control of the lines." A curse under his breath.
Ivanov had been building up fiber optic lines all across the city. He owned the infrastructure for the delivery of any cable, internet, or phone service in the city; digital or not.
"They go to Alek. He tried to back out." Ivanov struggled against his ties and glared at Reese. "But they do not take no as an answer."
Collateral.
"What's on the drive?"
Ivanov narrowed his eyes.
Reese lifted his gaze to the ceiling.
The clock ticked.
A curse. "Everything. Server locations, core codes, satellite channels. A digital backbone. Once they have it..."
Reese looked back to him.
The man glared.
"They don't have it," Reese said, and Ivanov looked confused for a minute.
There was a thud at the door.
Reese rose. "Who else knows you're here?"
Ivanov shook his head. Eyes widening, he struggled against the binds again. "You idiot. Untie me."
Reese hesitated. He didn't have a choice. They had to move.
"Since you asked so nicely-" He procured a knife from somewhere in his suit, flipping it open. Going to work on the rope bindings.
For such a large man, Ivanov moved quickly from the tub, rubbing at his wrists. He swung toward Reese, who blocked the blow.
He should have seen that coming.
"You look," Ivanov hissed, "just like them."
Finch had finished clicking keys and was stunned at what he was seeing before him.
He sat back.
It was an electronic backdoor unlike any he had seen.
Whoever it was had taken electronic DNA fragments from a satellite once leased to the government and used it to disguise themselves in order to infiltrate another satellite.
Ingenious. Whoever it was.
He glanced at Root.
Whatever it was.
The coding itself, its style and form, was all too familiar.
He swallowed.
From behind: "If you guys are done talking about the apocalypse...?"
Finch shifted in his seat, landing Shaw with a tired stare. He knew she was restless. He was used to that by now.
Working with two former operatives had given new meaning to the phrase "down time". Like Reese, she didn't do well caged up while the mission was at large.
Unlike him, she didn't try to hide it in brooding silence and repetitive activities.
In fact, she didn't try to hide it at all.
"Our number is a ticking time bomb. We sit back here and he's gonna be Russian soufflé."
Finch opened his mouth, ready to reel off a response in tune to the scope of this, but then closed it. Uncertain where to begin.
She stared back, unimpressed. He was certain he saw an eye roll as she looked between them.
"Have you even heard from Reese?"
A clipped, "I have not, Ms. Shaw, have you?" barely betrayed his worry.
In return, a stare.
"Don't worry," Root said breezily. "The big lug is fine."
Finch looked to her. What had she-
Shaw scoffed, her eyes flicking upward in annoyance. "I'm not worried."
Root gave a sweet smile.
Shaw fixed her an icy stare in return.
"Ms. Shaw-" Finch started, tone sharper now, but then his words cut off.
He turned away from them brusquely.
"Mr. Reese." He touched his ear com, his hands ready at the keyboard. "Where are you?"
Reese rolled his shoulder.
Three operatives down. Dressed in suits. And not Russians, duly noted.
Something larger was going on, something more than just a number.
He scanned the disarray of the lavish room and tucked his gun away. Glass had sprayed from a shattered mirror and he stepped over it carefully. Squatting down next to one of the downed figures, he frisked the body, ignoring the groan.
Finding nothing.
He disarmed them and sat still a moment, then let out a sigh and rose.
Pushing the bathroom door ajar, he leaned against the doorframe.
Ivanov looked ready to explode.
Mildly. "Can we try this the easy way, Erik?"
The Russian, re-bound in the tub, screamed something behind the gag Reese had placed back around his head. He had gotten him settled only moments before the other operatives had burst into the room.
"As comfortable as you look," Reese continued, "we have to move." He untied the larger man but left his hands bound, helping him out from the tub.
Ivanov hissed his next words in Russian, and Reese stopped, giving him a feigned look of hurt.
"That wasn't very nice."
A glare.
"Let's move."
The hallway was clear. He hesitated, scanning sight lines.
Chose stairs over elevator.
They made it down two levels before the stairwell door flew open. Reese dove toward the figure, his weight grinding them to the floor. There was an elbow to his ribs, his torso.
Ivanov barked a command in Russian.
Reese grit his teeth together and managed to get his attacker in a sleeper hold.
Another figure hit him in the legs and he rolled onto the concrete, head near the stairs. He snapped his legs up, knocking the other man to the floor and and striking him hard in the back of the skull. He hopped to his feet as he heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked.
Reese took the risk. Catching his third assailant's arm as they aimed the pistol. A bullet fired, missing him, ricocheting off the wall. He broke the man's wrist and the younger Russian dropped the weapon, a cry of pain escaping.
Reese knocked him back to the floor as he heard the sound of the stairwell door opening and closing, echoing shut.
He stepped to follow, gun at the ready, and shots flew as he entered the corridor.
Ivanov was gone.
He cursed. Tapped his ear com.
"Finch?" he tried.
Seconds ticked past. C'mon, Finch.
"Could use a little help here."
He needed a way out.
"Mr. Reese."
By the time he found himself staring at the window, he was running out of options.
:: Jump. ::
"John?"
He jumped.
