Chapter 13

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It had been hours since Harold Finch had lost contact with John Reese and he was not just worried anymore - he was getting desperate. Despite their Number telling him more than once that John's chances of still being alive were next to nothing, Harold refused to give up on his employee. He knew part of his stubbornness had something to do with the irrational thought that Mr. Reese had been in tight spots many times since the beginning of their partnership - and most likely even before that. He had always managed to come out on top, just like he would this time as well.

But as the hours passed without a word or any leads on his partner's whereabouts, Harold had to concede that his confidence in his irrational thoughts was waning. He had told John right at the beginning that they'd both most likely wind up dead. Would this be the day that part of his prophecy came true?

He had Detective Carter hunt down one known associate of Silvio Taldore after another, trying to figure out where he might have taken John for private questioning. All seemed to have been puzzled by the detective's line of questioning, and he trusted Carter's instincts when she confirmed that they didn't know anything. John hadn't trusted the Number, and Harold knew that Detective Fusco shared his sentiment. The hacker had to admit that in some way - and he couldn't put his finger on why - Candrall made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The more leads that led to nowhere the more Finch was convinced the man was lying. But he doubted that unless they resorted to torture Candrall would change his story any time soon.

Harold had hacked the city's hospitals' computer networks in order to keep an eye on their admittance records, but so far no one matching Reese's description had been admitted. Just to be sure, he went through the data again. But he hadn't missed anything the first 15 times.

He stared at his screen. There was one more database that he could hack.

Finch knew it would take him no more than a few minutes, but so far he had refused to even think about it. His fingers lay still on his keyboard, and the cup of tea Fusco had placed beside him on the table had grown cold untouched. Slowly, his fingers began to move again, reluctantly initiating the protocols needed for this hack. By the time he'd cracked the system, his stomach had turned into tight knots. His eyes skimmed over the records and for the first time since John had gone missing Harold Finch actually prayed not to find anything.

It had been a busy night for the city morgue - several gunshot victims, a few overdoses, and one stabbing. And none matched John's description. Harold let go of the breath he'd been holding and leaned back in his chair. His back was sending one painful spasm after another down his spine, reminding him that he'd been sitting for far too long. He took off his glasses and rubbed his burning, tired eyes. Where the hell are you, John?

The sliding door separating the conference room from the living room area slid back enough for Fusco to pass through. "Anything?" he asked after pulling the door shut behind him.

"No," Finch replied, sounding tired and dejected. He donned his glasses and found his worry for Mr. Reese mirrored in Lionel Fusco's face. He realized that he shouldn't have been surprised. The time when the detective's cooperation had solely been based on Mr. Reese's admirable intimidation techniques was long past.

"How is our guest?"

"Snoring on the sofa. Bear's watching him." Fusco stepped up to the table, leaning against the backrest of one of the lavishly cushioned chairs opposite Finch. "What are we gonna do?"

Yes, indeed. What were they going to do? Harold studied the detective's face as he pondered that question, and mentally cringed at the look of expectation directed at him. He knew that he was supposed to be the one with all the answers. And Lionel Fusco had proven himself to be eager to follow without asking too many questions - a characteristic that had at first led Finch to peg the detective as not overly smart. But now, looking at the worried, yet eager look on the man's face, all Harold Finch saw was trust. Trust in him knowing what to do.

Yet, he didn't.

The logical part of his brain told him that he had already wasted too much time on the search for Mr. Reese - that he had already violated his own rule. The one he kept reminding John of every time he let his protectiveness over his employer show through: the Numbers came first.

However this Number had frustratingly proven to be anything but straightforward. He averted his gaze, knowing that what he was about to say would seal the fact that Mr. Reese was on his own - wherever he was. "I think it's time that Mr. Candrall and I discuss his options."

There was a pause and Finch felt Fusco's gaze upon him, but he refused to meet the other man's eyes. "I know you don't really care for my opinion, Finch," the detective eventually said, his tone quiet and grave. "But something is not kosher about the guy and I think you should just let him go and stay very clear of him."

Oh, how Harold wished he could do that.

Just then a window popped up on his screen, its flashing drawing his attention. "Oh, thank God," he whispered under his breath as he looked at the contact alert in relief. Someone had used a pay phone in Queens to initiate his contact re-establishment protocols and the codes used confirmed that it was Mr. Reese calling, and that he - thankfully - was not under duress.

"What is it?" Fusco asked, but Finch ignored him. His fingers flew over his keyboard, establishing a return call within seconds. The phone was picked up on the first ring and Harold literally blurted out, "Mr. Reese? Are you okay?"

"Yes Finch, I'm fine." John's soft, raspy voice came over the loudspeakers of Finch's laptop and he actually shared a small, happy smile with the detective. "I'm so glad to hear that."

"Is Candrall still with you, Finch?" John asked.

Puzzled at the urgency in Mr. Reese's voice, Finch knitted his eyebrows. "Yes, he is."

"Is he listening?"

"No."

"Good. Is Fusco still there?"

"I'm here," Fusco said, sharing a look with the hacker.

"Listen, I have reasons to believe the man is very dangerous. Don't - under any circumstances - let him out of your sight until I get back. Do you understand, Lionel?"

"John, what's going on?" Harold asked. His employee's low and angry tone was starting to unsettle him.

"Not over the phone. I'll explain later." Reese paused. "Lionel?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going," the detective groused, but Harold could see that Reese's warning had also more than alarmed the man.

"Are you sure you are alright, John?" Harold asked as soon as Fusco had left. The ex-CIA agent certainly sounded like his usual intimidating self, but Finch thought he had detected a slight strain in the man's voice.

"I'm fine," John said. "I need a ride, though."

"Certainly. I will have a car pick you up."

"Thanks." There was another pause, and before Reese hung up he - with the edge to his voice gone - added, "Be careful, Harold."

Finch swallowed. He knew that it took a lot for John Reese to be disconcerted, but something about their latest Number had clearly troubled him. He quickly arranged for John to be picked up. The sooner Mr. Reese was back, the better.

Harold startled. Bear was barking, a continuous high-pitched and agitated bark. Stiffly getting to his feet with his back still protesting, Finch slowly walked over to the sliding door. "Detective Fusco?" he tentatively asked as he stepped into the adjacent room, carefully looking around.

Bear was furiously barking from within the bathroom and madly trying to scratch his way out through the wooden door. Fusco lay in a motionless heap in front of the sofa. Blood was trickling from a nasty cut on his forehead down into the light-colored carpet. An arm snaked around Harold's neck from behind, tightly pulling him against a warm, hard body. The cold metal of a gun pressed against Finch's temple. Probably the detective's weapon, Harold's brain deduced, happier to solve the riddle of how Candrall had gotten a gun than to contemplate what the man was planning on doing with it.

"Alright." Candrall's warm breath tickled the billionaire's ear and a cold shiver ran down his spine. "I'm done asking nicely. Open the goddamn door."

Harold tried to swallow, but his mouth had turned as dry as a desert. "I'm afraid I can't do that," he said with a surprisingly steady voice. He winced as the gun was shoved even harder against his skull.

"Don't try my patience. It's been tested for way too long already."

Candrall forced Finch forward towards the door. Harold's mind was racing, trying to compute all the various outcomes to this situation. John wouldn't be here for at least another hour and he doubted that he could stall their Number that long. His train of thought was interrupted at hearing the gun's hammer being cocked and the click of the safety being disengaged.

"I think I should warn you," Finch said, panic now creeping into his voice after all, "that John is on his way back here. If you kill me, not only will you not get out of here, you will also make my associate very angry. And believe me, you do not want to do that."

Candrall stopped, thinking. "Alright." He brusquely pushed Finch away. Harold stumbled forward, just barely stopping himself from falling by grabbing the sofa's backrest. Keeping the gun leveled at Harold's chest, Candrall walked around the sofa. He stopped at the prone figure of the detective laying on the floor. He smiled coldly at Finch and pointed the muzzle down at Fusco's head.

"If you don't open the door I will start by shooting him. Then the dog. Then you." He stared at Harold with eyes so cold that the hacker had no doubt that he would do exactly that. He continued in the same matter-of-fact voice, "And I'm sure there will be enough bullets left to give your associate a very warm welcome. What shall it be, Harold?"

Finch stood frozen, staring at the gun in the older man's hand. Candrall's trigger finger twitched. "Don't!" Finch yelled, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll open the door."

The gun moved from Fusco towards Finch in an arch, and Harold's heart skipped a few beats as he stared down the muzzle. He briefly wondered if he would be able to see the muzzle flash before the bullet ripped into his skin. The gun in Candrall's grip waggled, indicating for Harold to move over to the door.

With his hands still raised and the uncomfortable feeling of the gun pointing somewhere between his shoulder plates, Finch climbed the stairs leading to the entrance door. He could hear Candrall following him as he punched in the numbers to the electronic lock system. The dead bolts moved into the 'open position' with an audible click.

"Is it open?"

"It's open," Harold confirmed, still staring at the number pad in front of him.

"Turn around."

Harold hesitated, a feeling of trepidation blossoming in the pit of his stomach. He started to turn around. He didn't see the muzzle flash, nor did he hear a gunshot.

There was hot, agonizing pain. And then nothing.

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To be continued...