Chapter 12

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The guards closed in on the bed without sparing the doctor another glance as he left. Silently efficient, one of the men pulled out a gun and pointed it at John's head, while the other unstrapped his arms. There were no words needed. One wrong twitch of a muscle and that would be it.

Reese's arms were only free for a few seconds as the man proceeded to re-tie them with a white, plastic zip-tie. Next he freed the ex-op's legs. They waited until their prisoner had swung his legs over the edge of the bed before they grabbed him by his upper arms and non-too-gently pulled him to his feet.

John grunted in pain as his knee protested against carrying his weight, and he probably would have taken an undignified tumble if it hadn't been for the vise-like grips around his biceps. At least the drug the doctor had given him seemed to have kept its promise - his headache had definitely decreased to a more tolerable level.

Biting down the pain, Reese did his best to keep up with his two lovely chaperons. They forcefully escorted him out of the room, and the gun pressed into his side reminded him that compliance was his best option at the moment. So much for being deferential to his condition, John thought and swallowed down a remark that had been on the tip of his tongue. So far he was still able to walk more or less on his own, and he certainly wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

They were crossing the foyer of what looked like a sizeable mansion, which lead Reese to suspect that he was not within the city limits of New York anymore. The glimpses of vast gardens framed with high-grown broad-leafed trees that he managed to catch through the entrance door's glass panes seemed to confirm his suspicions. Interesting.

They walked past the grand-stairway and entered an elevator that seemed to have only rather recently been installed. They rode to the second floor with the smell of new machinery and fresh paint heavy in the air inside the car. Following the carpeted hallway down all the way, they stopped in front of a dark and heavy wooden door and the man to Reese's left - the one without the gun - knocked on it.

After a brief moment a gruff voice answered, "Enter."

Within a couple of steps John found himself inside the mansion's study. Three of the four walls were once more covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Despite the dark wood covering the walls and ceiling the room was bright. A giant panoramic window set in the fourth wall allowed the late morning sun to bathe the room in light and offered an unencumbered view of the well-kept gardens outside.

At the end of the room stood an old and massive mahogany desk, and John could only guess how many generations of mansion owners it had seen. The one currently sitting behind the desk didn't seem to be paying any attention to them. Instead he had angled his chair at 90° and stared out of the window. He seemed miles away.

John took in the man's profile. He sat slightly hunched over, the skin on his face sickly grey and heavily wrinkled. His eyes were sunken into their sockets. He looked frail and ancient - all signs that sickness had been waging war on his body.

Reese's chaperons dragged him deeper into the room and stopped a good six feet in front of the desk. "Sir, your guest," one of the guards said. It was the same who had spoken with the doctor before, and John started wondering if the other could even speak.

With an electrical hum his host moved his wheelchair back a few paces from the window, then turned to face the three men. It was clear from the moment the man laid his grey eyes on John Reese that while his body might have been failing him, his mind was certainly not. Those eyes, that were now openly inspecting his 'guest', were clear as crystals and John doubted that they would miss even the tiniest of details. The pair of white eyebrows above the eyes rose just ever so slightly as they took in the man in front of him.

John hadn't seen himself in a mirror lately but he could easily imagine that he must be a pretty pitiful sight. His face ashen, cut, bruised and swollen. His scrubs, while not the most fashionable clothing choice to begin with, now torn, bloodied and dirty. At the moment he resembled more the bum he used to be than anything else. When the man was done scrutinizing Reese from head to toe, he nodded at one of the leather covered chairs in front of his desk. "Sit."

The guards let go of John's arms. The imprints of their fingers were probably going to stay with him for a while. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the chair. The grey eyes followed his every move.

"My doctor told me that you were lucky." It was a statement given in a tone devoid of any emotion that the man might have had about the fact that Reese was still walking, while some of his men were ... not. Reese didn't reply. Instead he waited, his bound hands resting on his thighs, while he could feel the guards lurking behind him.

The man steepled his long fingers. He said, "You are probably wondering why you're here, aren't you, John?" A small smile crept across his lips. Reese was a master of the blank expression, but the mention of his name had taken him by surprise until he remembered that he was still wearing a name tag on his chest. There must have been only the slightest signs of confusion on his face - a minute raise of his brow, a quick twitch of his eyelids. John knew the man was assessing his poker face - and he had seen his tells. Clearly he had to be on his toes with this one.

With the smile still pulling at his lips, the man said, "I know who you are." Again he watched for a reaction. This time Reese deliberately raised an eyebrow and the man's smile widened. "I must say I am a little disappointed at your appearance. Nevertheless it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Man In A Suit."

The second eyebrow joined the first on John's forehead. "I thought he was just an Urban Legend," he said softly. "A dead one, the last I heard."

The man scoffed. "Please. I'm not the FBI. I'm not stupid." Leaning back in his chair the smile on the man's face had been replaced with a stern expression. "I make a point of knowing every player in my city." He opened a file in front of him - a good inch thick, tossing a shiny print-out of a surveillance camera still. "That is you, isn't it?"

John didn't move at first. Instead he relaxed into the chair and just looked straight ahead at his 'host'. Eventually he leaned forward - slowly. The black and white picture was grainy, but clear enough for him to identify the two persons captured in its frame. It was him in his customary suit, pulling a distraught looking Caroline Turing along with him. He remembered that case just all too well. The FBI had been hot on his heels, getting far too close. As had HR. And their Number had turned out to be a brilliant, yet more than slightly deranged hacker who had used him to get to Harold. Not one of his fondest memories. He leaned back and relaxed in his chair again. He didn't confirm the man's theory. He also didn't deny it.

"I've been following and studying your case since you first showed up. I know that you help people when nobody else will by using ... let's say, your own interpretation of the law. I must say, once upon a time I would have hunted you down and tossed you in with the rest of the criminal lot. I was a firm believer in the righteousness of the law, and that it belonged in the hands of the judicial system and not to some vigilante. However I was forced to come to the realization that the system is flawed. But I guess I don't have to tell you that," the man said, picking up the photo to look at it. He huffed, "Whatever idiot thought this man looked anything like the guy the FBI eventually declared was the Man In A Suit must have been blinder than a mole. Well, as entertaining as following the FBI's and NYPD's dilettantish efforts to apprehend you is, we are not here to talk about you.

"Tell me John, what do you know about the man you helped last night?"

Reese hesitated. He was more than aware that he knew precious little about the man who claimed to be hunted by the mob for witnessing a murder more than thirty years ago. Basically, the Machine had given them Candrall's Number, but they hadn't yet figured out why. He knew he couldn't admit that. Even if he could tell the man about the Machine, it still would make him sound naive and gullible. Instead he said, "Mr. Candrall looked like he needed help. So I helped."

"I bet you are already regretting that decision," the man said dryly and John smirked. Touché.

"Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?"

Reese shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. David, would you fetch me a Scotch, please?"

The man at John's left shoulder hesitated at first, but then walked to the sidetable behind the desk to get his boss's drink. "You know, Mr. Candrall and I go back a long time," the old man continued. David set a glass of water on the desk and the old man paused to glare at him before taking a few sips of the cool liquid.

"Of course his name wasn't Candrall back then." He picked up another file. It was thicker than the one he had about the Man in A Suit and looked decidedly older. The color of the folder had started to fade and the edges looked worn, as if it had been leaved through hundreds of times over the years, which probably wasn't that far from the truth. Pulling out a mug shot, he placed it on the desktop for John to see. It was an old black and white picture of a man around his forties. It didn't look like Candrall. But then plastic surgery and age could easily do the trick. It was the eyes. The man in the picture was defiantly staring back at John with the same ice cold eyes. "His name is Michael Giardino. A slick son of a bitch. Everybody knew that he cleaned up for Gambino, but there just wasn't a shred of evidence tying him to any crimes... or bodies for that matter. I would bet my fortune that quite a few buildings all over the city have been built upon the bones of those who got in the way of the mob's dealings." John took another look at the face on the mug shot, thinking that the real Douglas Mitchell probably was one of them.

"I was an Assistant District Attorney for the City of New York back then." His eyes grew distant as his mind played back memories of a time long past. "I was young, successful and ambitious. Maybe too ambitious. I won't bore you with a lecture about the history of the mob. All you need to know is that I tried to get my hands on Giardino - tried to take him off the streets and maybe turn him State's evidence against the family. Gambino had been the most powerful leader of the "Five Families" at that time - his influence even reached to the control of other families. I was confident that with Giardino's cooperation we'd be able to deliver a serious blow to the entire Mafia organization in New York."

He paused to take another sip of water. "It took me a while, but I eventually found Giardino's weak spot. His son." He smiled at John. A small, sad smile. "Certainly not the brightest blub in the chandelier, but his daddy thought the world of him. He tried to follow in his father's footsteps, but luckily he lacked his old man's talents. I got him for Kidnapping and Possession of a firearm with criminal intent, and I was planning on using him ... let's say as an incentive for his old man to volunteer his vast knowledge of the organization.

"But I hadn't been the only one to figure out how to get to Giardino. Before I could even reach out to him, his son got shivved. The stupid idiot died on his second day in prison. And instead of blaming whoever ordered his son's death, Giardino blamed me."

He slipped another picture out of his file. It was a professionally taken portrait of a happily smiling three-person family. The father was unmistakably a younger and healthy version of the old and sick man in front of Reese. Next to him sat his wife - a blonde beauty with an easy, charming smile. She was resting a hand on the shoulder of her daughter. John estimated the girl to be around seven years old. The resemblance to her parents was undeniable - the same charming smile and blonde hair as her mother, with the intelligent grey eyes of her father. John studied the smiling faces and a bad feeling started growing in the pit of his stomach.

Without another word or even a glance at them the former Assistant DA pulled out two more pictures and laid them on each side of the portrait. Although John had had a feeling that the man's story was going into a very dark direction he hadn't really been prepared for the images. He had seen a lot of horrible and cruel things in his career - some of which he had been part of causing himself. He had never been proud of killing people. True, it was something he was good at, but he only did it because - when it came right down to it - it was his job. However what had always set John Reese apart from his CIA colleagues was that he actually valued life - a characteristic the Agency did not really look for in its operatives and which he had kept an extremely well-guarded secret while working with the CIA. What constituted collateral damage for his partners, John viewed as an innocent life he couldn't save. And wasn't that why they were doing the job in the first place? To save innocent lives?

And no life was more innocent than that of a child.

Both mother and daughter had been tied to a chair. Their faces were tear-streaked and unnaturally white, and their eyes stared sightless into the distance. Their throats had been cut from ear-to-ear, leaving deep gashes that resembled grotesque, bloody smiles on both bodies. Their deaths had been messy - everything was covered in dark red, congealed blood. Reese's features hardened at the sight.

Barely containing his fury, he looked up and asked with a low rasp, "He did this?"

There were tremors on the old man's face as he struggled to rein in his emotions. His eyes - which had been staring straight at Reese the entire time - were unfocused and gleamed with unshed tears. It was clear that the loss still heavily affected him - even after all this time. John didn't blame him.

"He made me watch," he said, his voice only a mere whisper. Tears began rolling down his cheeks, but he did not seem to notice. He was stuck in his memories. "I can still hear their screams."

He averted his gaze. A trembling hand reached up to wipe away the tears while he mumbled an apology. Having seen enough, Reese reached out with his bound hands, stacked the photographs into a small, neat pile and turned them face-down. Although he doubted that the former Assistant DA would ever be able to erase the horrendous memories from his mind, there was no need for him to see his family like that again.

"I'm sorry," the man apologized again. With his gaze still averted, he smoothed out the papers in the file before him. When he looked up again the tears were gone, replaced by a cold, hard stare. "The bastard broke into my house. Took away everything I held dear. And he let me live so I knew what it felt like." He barked a laugh that sounded more like a feral growl. "That son of a bitch didn't even bat an eye at his own son's funeral. I doubt he has any idea what it feels like." His gnarled fingers had clenched into tight fists and it took some conscious effort to loosen them again.

"After that night," he continued - calmer now - "Giardino disappeared. There were rumors that Gambino had taken care of his bloodhound himself, since he had acted without the sanction of the Commission. But I knew he was still out there, and the only thing that kept me from putting a gun to my head was my desire to put that bastard down. I put all my energy and resources into finding him, and even came close a couple of times over the last forty years, but never close enough.

"Why he came back to New York, I don't know. Nor do I particularly care. I like to think of it as a gift to a dying, old man. Tonight was supposed to be the night. My last chance at getting even." He paused and tilted his head to the side. "But then you showed up."

John almost squirmed under the man's reproachful glare. If what he had seen and heard was true, Harold and he had royally screwed up. This was one of those moments where he wished that the Machine's instructions came with subtitles.

Hiding his thoughts behind his careful blank face and having a fairly good idea where the former Assistant District Attorney was going with this, John said, "You want me to tell you where he is."

The old man's lips formed a thin smile and he held his hands over the table in an accepting gesture.

"I can't tell you," Reese said. The smile on the man's face disappeared. "At least not without verifying what you have just told me." And not without a lengthy discussion with one Harold Finch. If it were up to John he'd hand over their Number in a heartbeat, but he doubted that Finch would so readily agree with his sentiment.

"Of course." The man tried to hide his disappointment behind a big smile. "I guess you wouldn't want to help the wrong person. Again."

"Something like that. Yes."

The man fixed John with another long hard stare. Eventually he said, "Alright. From what I've read about you I think I know I can trust your judgment." He waved at the men still standing guard behind John. "David, free the man's hands, for God's sake." David stepped forward, his knife slicing through the plastic around Reese's wrists like it was cutting through butter.

Rubbing his wrists to get the circulation in his hands flowing again, John looked at the man across from him. As much as he wanted to get back to the city as fast as he could - he had after all apparently left his friends alone in the presence of a ruthless killer without them knowing about it - he knew he owed him the truth. "You know I can't promise you."

"I know. And I appreciate your honesty." He looked down at the file, thinking, then picking it up. "Here. Take my file. It contains everything you need to know. And how to reach me when you have come to a decision." John reached out to take the file, yet the man wouldn't let go. The ice was back in his stare. "I want you to understand that this probably is my last chance at getting the justice for my family that Giardino deserves. And while we are being honest here, I want you to know that I want no trials, no lawyers, no appeals and no prison. I want him dead."

Reese held his gaze. There was no doubt that the old man would keep his promise. He nodded and the man let go of the file.

"David. Take our guest back to the city."

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To be continued...