"His wife must be the dumbest woman alive," Sam said as they reached the front porch.
"Or she may just be turning a blind eye," Finch said.
"Well, that's worse!"
"You take the front, I'll head toward the back," John said.
"John!" Sam snapped quietly at him as he disappeared around the house.
"Can I watch TV, Daddy?"
"Sure, sweetheart," Mr. Kits said sickeningly.
Sam turned off the speaker on her phone and the audio went directly to her earpiece again.
"But, don't you want to be with Daddy first?"
Sam had to fight back her gag reflex. The poor girl was a helpless three-year-old! Sam couldn't think of a word that applied to the evil Mr. Kits was.
"Daddy, no," Ellie said in a quiet, little voice. "Please, I don't want to."
"Just don't fight me. You remember what happened last time? Don't you love me, Ellie? I love you so much."
"I love you, Daddy."
The transmission went quiet for a few seconds. Sam tried the front door. It was open. She opened it quietly, pointing her weapon into the front room.
"No!" Ellie squeaked and started to cry.
Sam heard a loud smack and Ellie cried even louder. She panicked, went back to the front door and banged hard on it.
"Hello? Miranda, are you home?" She said, calling Mrs. Kits in what she hoped was a nice, neighborly voice. Sam ran back into the front room, down the hallway and heard Ellie scream again.
The scream was followed by a grunt and a loud thud. Sam got to the end of the hallway to see little Ellie, half dressed and her lip bleeding, run out from a bedroom.
"Ellie? My name is Sam," Sam squatted down in front of the little girl. "Are you okay?"
"Daddy – "
"I know, I know sweetie. He won't hurt you again."
A sharp yell came from inside the bedroom, gaining Sam's attention. She pushed Ellie protectively behind her and moved into the doorway just as John was flung across the room onto the bed.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Mr. Kits growled as he stormed at him, going for another round.
John's face was coated in sweat and he was breathing heavily. He winced in pain as Mr. Kits picked him up by the collar and balled up his fist. "Bit off a little more than you could chew, eh? Say goodbye to that pretty face."
Sam raised her weapon. "Stop! Touch his pretty face, and I'll blow yours off. Put him down. Now." She stepped into the room, her gun trained on Mr. Kits' forehead.
Mr. Kits was about the same height as John, but John was a lot leaner and was still recovering from the world record holder of illegal interrogations. The advantage was very evident, and Mr. Kits saw it. Instead of doing as Sam said, Mr. Kits took John by the throat and the hair on top of his head, and held John in front of him. John's body covered most of Sam's target.
"Or what, sweetheart?"
Sam's anger flared. He had called her sweetheart, the same thing he called his daughter who trusted him. Now, he held John in front of him like a human shield. The world would be better she just killed this man here and now.
"Give me an excuse," Sam said quietly.
"What?"
"Give me an excuse to kill you. Go on, do it. I desperately want you to," Sam said truthfully, moving forward slowly. "You torture your little girl just to satisfy your own diseased head. The lowest part of hell is reserved for men just like you. I wouldn't mind sending you there. I will kill you. Just give me an excuse. Do it." Her voice raised in volume and her body began to tremble. "Make a move. Come on, I haven't got all day. Give it to me. Do it!" she screamed.
She must have looked at least a little frightening because Mr. Kits didn't move at all. Her sincerity must have kept him there. John kept very still. He wasn't giving her a signal for any kind of action. Why? He was waiting for her to shoot.
"I'll kill him before you get a shot off," Mr. Kitts bluffed, tightening his grip on John.
Sam glared nastily at him as she went over which exposed body part she could hit without risking John any further. It's already gone on too long. Don't let it drag out. Get it done. "You're not that fast." Sam fired as John elbowed Mr. Kits in the ribs.
Mr. Kits hit the floor as John reached for Sam. She grabbed onto him and helped keep him upright as Mr. Kits groaned on the floor.
"Daddy?" Ellie stood next to Sam, her little hands tugging her shirt down over her legs.
"Ellie, are you hurt?" Sam looked down as Ellie looked up and met her eyes. She shook her head as sirens were heard, approaching the house.
"Daddy's hurt."
"He'll be okay," Sam helped John over to the bed and he sat down, taking deep breaths to get through the pain. Sam stepped on the bullet wound in Mr. Kits' shoulder as she walked back over to Ellie. Mr. Kits screamed and cursed at her.
"Ellie, listen to me," Sam took the little girl's hand. "What your Daddy was doing to you is wrong. Do you understand? He shouldn't be hurting you like that. The police are coming, and I want you to tell them what he was doing to you. Do you promise?"
Ellie looked at her father, then back at Sam. She nodded her head.
"Good," Sam smiled and brushed Ellie's hair away from her face. "My friend and I have to go now. Remember your promise, okay?"
"Okay," Ellie nodded again.
Sam got to her feet, and saw John standing next to her. "Are you going to make it?" she asked.
"I'm fine. We need to go."
"Just one more thing," Sam went up to Mr. Kits and stamped down hard on his groin before she turned and joined John in the doorway.
Wireless call: Wednesday, Sept. 12 3:49am
It would be so good for us.
I know it.
Well, what do you think?
It's not a matter of what I think. It's a matter of what's right and wrong. She's done good by us. All of us.
Yeah, right.
It's true.
Whatever you say.
Threat Detected…
After taking a closer look at Ellie Kits' injuries, past and present, Mr. Elliot Kits was arrested and charged with child molestation, abuse, child endangerment and, after they searched his work and home computers, possession of child pornography. Sam would have preferred just to shoot him a few times. But, this time at least, the system seemed to work.
Back in her studio apartment a couple days later, Sam slid in her socks on the hardwood floor from the bathroom into the main room. The entire place blasted with the sound of The Killers. Holding a broom, Sam danced in cut off sweats and a t-shirt to the thudding bass as she sang along:
There was an open chair
We sat down in
the open chair
I said if destiny's kind
I've got the rest on my mind
But my heart
it don't beat
it don't beat the way –
Sam froze in mid chorus and stared at the person who was looking too amused for his own good. John sat on the arm of the couch, his arms folded, and looked thoroughly entertained. Sam's eyes darted around for just a second before she started dancing and singing again. She danced past John into the kitchen.
And my eyes, they don't see you no more
and my lips, they don't kiss
they don't kiss the way they used to
and my eyes
don't recognize you at all
Sam continued with the rest of the song. Once it ended, she shut off the player.
"Hey, how's the cripple?" She said as she stood in front of him.
All that did was get her a sharp look.
"Oh yeah, and stop sneaking into my apartment," she added.
"I have to keep my skills sharp, Sam."
"Well, sneak into Finch's apartment."
"I probably would if I knew where it was."
Sam gaped at him. "You don't know where Finch – well, 'lives' is kind of a strong word –" that got a little smile "– dwells? Or sleeps. Sleeps works. Wow, he's more paranoid than I thought."
John let out a soft laugh. "What were you doing?"
"Cleaning. I haven't been here in a while, everything was a mess, and I think something exploded in the refrigerator," Sam gestured to the kitchen were a couple of fans were blowing.
"A new number came up early this morning," John said casually.
"Yes?" Sam eyed him suspiciously.
"Numbers, actually, two of them. A husband and wife."
"They're going to kill each other."
"While that is always a possibility, we need to get some evidence either way."
"We." Sam felt her hesitation well up again. Before she left, she would have insisted on helping with the case. Now, she was afraid. The frustrating part was that she didn't know exactly what she was afraid of.
"Finch always complained about being my fake wife while you were gone," John smiled.
Sam laughed loudly. "Is that what you need? Are we going somewhere as Mr. as Mrs. Rooney?"
"Not just yet." John pulled a couple of papers from his suit jacket and handed them to Sam. They were photographs of a man and woman. The man was dark with brown eyes, and a large build. The woman was fair, blonde and blue eyed. "Mr. and Mrs. Powell. Mr. Powell works as a private body guard. His wife is a homemaker – "
"Excuse me," Sam said seriously. "I believe the term is Household Engineer, thank you very much."
"She gives piano lessons a few days a week."
"Kids?"
"None."
"Are you back to one hundred percent?"
John sized her up. "I'd say more around seventy five, eighty."
Sam and John looked at each other for a long time after she finished with the photos. "Oh all right," she caved.
John took the photos and put them back in his jacket. "I wanted to ask you about what happened at that house."
Sam looked away from him. "What about it?"
"'Give me an excuse'?" He lifted his eyebrows.
Sam shrugged. "What? Was it too Rambo for you?"
"You saved that scared little girl – "
"So did you," Sam interrupted, fearing where he was going with that train of thought. "In fact, I wanted to ask you something too. John, you –" she stopped, watching his expectant face… and chickened out. "Never mind."
"You were going to kill him, weren't you? I was convinced, and I think he was as well."
Sam paused and met his eyes. "I wanted to, so, so badly. He hurt that sweet little girl, and he was holding you by the hair. What would you have done?"
"Exactly what you did," John said with certainty. "I would have thought about killing him. I might have done it, too. That's the monster," he looked away and smiled a little, but Sam knew it made him feel horrible.
"You're wrong," Sam said, equally as certain. "You can never be a monster, John. I know you believe that you are, but you aren't. That guy was evil, he was a monster, preying on his own daughter like that. You could never do that. I swear, John, I'm going to convince you that you're still a good man if it kills me!" Sam stopped herself and realized only after the fact that she had just said all of those things. "I'm sorry."
"Why? It just might kill you."
After a quick shower, and a change of clothes, Sam was in the familiar yet seedy abandoned library that was HQ. She stood next to Finch, who sat in the computer chair, the half a dozen monitors glowing at him with different programs open in each one.
"Camera's up, Finch," John's voice came through the computer speakers.
Finch typed at the keyboard and after a couple of mouse clicks a new window popped up in one of the monitors. Sam leaned forward, squinting at the video feed that just came up. It was a live surveillance video of a large entryway to someone's house. John stood just off to one side and looked up at the camera. He was in a dark suit, wearing a black neck tie.
"Got it?" They heard and saw him as he spoke.
"Well done, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "I don't understand why this angle wasn't the original position of the camera in the first place. This covers much more area."
"Where is he?" Sam asked.
"Mr. Reese is standing in the foyer of the Willman penthouse on Central Park West," Finch explained. "This is his first day on the job as a body guard trainee. Mr. Powell is the usual body guard for Mrs. Angela Willman."
"Nice," Sam said when she understood. "What have you found out so far?" She sat down in a chair next to Finch.
"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Powell are your average couple. They are active in their community, they pay their taxes. It's all very… normal. At least it was until I came across the records of frequent visits to the doctor by Mrs. Powell."
"How many?"
"Many. Since March, actually."
Sam was watching John as she spoke when, into the camera frame, walked an extremely large man. Sam choked a little. "Is that Powell? Look at the size of him!" Sam stammered.
"Mr. Rooney?" Powell was saying over the speakers. Sam watched him shake hands with John.
"That's me," John answered.
"Right on time, man. Come on, I'll show you around." They walked out of the frame together.
"How tall would you say John is, Finch?"
"According to his records, he is six two, if I'm remembering correctly."
Sam stared at Finch for a moment, shook her head and continued. "That guy is at least a head taller than him, maybe more. He's at least twice as big!"
"What's your point?"
"I'm just hoping that he's the victim of whatever is going on here."
Finch nodded once in understanding.
"Did you just move into town?" Powell asked John in a deep, throaty voice.
"No. I've lived here for a while now."
"No place like it, is there?"
"No, not really."
Finch leaned forward. "It would help if you engaged him a little more, Mr. Reese," he said loudly.
"John's never good for small talk," Sam said.
"How long have you been on the job?" John asked.
"Ten years," Powel replied proudly. "It's decent money if you get to the right people. And I can't complain. Mrs. W introduced me to my wife."
"Oh, that's sweet," Sam said automatically. "How long have they been married?"
"How long have you been married?"
"Four years. Have a baby on the way too." Sam could hear the pride practically exploding from Powell as he spoke about the new baby.
She exchanged a look with Finch. "Oh," they said in perfect synchronization. The doctor's visits were now explained.
"Congratulations," John said.
"Now I really hope he's the victim, Finch," Sam said.
"We'll see," Finch said.
"That's kind of funny, Mr. Powell – "
"Hey, call me Tace," Powell said immediately.
"You got it," John agreed. "It's funny because my wife is expecting as well."
"What?" Sam said.
"No kidding!" Powell said happily. "Congratulations, man! Is it your first?"
"First what? John, what are you doing?" Sam leaned over Finch's shoulder, shouting into the microphone.
"Yeah."
"How's she handling it?"
"John!"
"It was a surprise at first, but she's excited," John continued speaking calmly as though there was not a crazed person shouting in his ear.
"It might be helpful, Sam," Finch said reasonably. "We need to get close to Mrs. Powell as well."
"There are other ways of doing that," Sam snapped. "He's doing this on purpose. You're doing this on purpose!" she shouted into the microphone.
"Tace," someone called for Powell.
"Oh, hang on. That's Mrs. W. Wait out here, I'll introduce you in a minute. I kind of have to get her used to the idea that I'm training someone in her house first."
"No problem," John said.
"John, I don't think Finch would look quite right playing your pregnant wife." Sam said, sounding strangely calm.
"Powell seems like a good enough guy," John said. "It might be Mrs. Powell we have to watch out for."
"Yeah, the pregnant woman who's married to what looks like an NFL defensive lineman," Sam said sarcastically.
"Come on, Sam. I need you to be the mother of my child for a little while."
Sam heard the smile in his voice. "Worst. Pickup line. Ever. John, that is probably the least romantic thing you've ever said to me. And that includes, 'Hey, shut up Sam,'" she said in a very convincing imitation of John's voice. "You should at least ask me to dinner first."