Pulling a set of small instruments from his pocket he inserts them into the flimsy lock and within seconds hears the audible click of the tumblers. He smiles to himself. Mr. Reese would be proud! With just a slight push the door swings open revealing a small room as depressing as the building's hallway.
And opposite the door, sitting at a 50's era dinette set, two men engrossed in a card game.
Their attention however, turns quickly to Finch and the dog as both men rise, cards still in hand. His brief survey of the room confirms their loot is still with them; a large plastic bag, now empty, lies on the floor in front of the kitchen counter. On the counter are a laptop, two small speakers, a jewelry box, and a sketch pad. And next to the stash is what Grace values more than the all the rest: her box of art supplies.
"Hey, old man! You're in the wrong apartment…" rasps the larger of the two, his ample chin shaking like the jowls on a pig.
Well, it's now or never.
He limps into the room and pulls the Walther from his pocket. Bear, standing beside him, impatiently waits for the command to engage, the canine's entire body a stretched wire singing with tension. One word from the human and he'll have an arm for lunch!
But Finch is concentrating on the gun in his hand, pointing it at a space between the two men while desperately envisioning Reese's grip and stance in similar situations. One hand on the pistol the other on…the wrist?
"Well now, Gramps. Just what do you think you're doing?" Pig Face asks, a very large black pistol suddenly appearing in his hand, as his partner drops his cards on the table and reaches around to his back, ostensibly to also retrieve a gun.
Finch blinks. Apparently he should have chosen the Glock after all. These thugs don't seem at all intimidated by having the Walther pointed at them.
"I don't want any trouble. I've just come for those items you took from a condo last night," he says calmly, his insides shaking like jello.
"Oh, really? And if I'm not inclined to give them to you? What are you going to do…shoot me?" Pig Face gives a derisive snort, sounding much like the animal Finch has labeled him in his thoughts. "Not likely old man…you can't even hold that gun still!"
Oh, God. The thug is right. His hands have palsy, the gun shaking back and forth like an aspen leaf in a breeze. He concentrates on locking his arms, holding the gun rigid. But it's of little use. And now both men are pointing their weapons at him...and their hands don't shake!
Bear adds the increasing tension in the room to his own, rumbling in his throat while lifting his lips to reveal razor sharp teeth. For the first time since their encounter, Finch sees genuine fear in the faces of both criminals.
Apparently on the scale of intimidation, a growling dog still trumps a gun.
"Shoot the dog! I'll take care of the gimp here…!" Pig Face orders.
And then a most extraordinary phenomenon unfolds: he can suddenly follow every action in the room as though watching a film in slow-motion! He casually observes the second gunman raise his weapon and point it at Bear. Sees clearly the dog bunching thigh muscles in readiness for an attack. Notes his hands become steady…
Closing his eyes, he squeezes the trigger.
There is a loud gunshot - followed by another, and then a scream. Reverberations bounce off the grimy walls, merging with the sounds of a furious dog, and all this overlaid with sobs, and groans, and whimpers.
The pistol had seemed to take on a life of its own at the moment it fired, slamming back into his hand hard enough to feel all the way to his elbow. He'd of course read about the "kick" in his research, but never, ever,expected it to be that powerful. He opens his eyes and wishes immediately that he hadn't, because the scene before him is violent…and bloody.
Bear stands growling in front of the men, one with a very jagged bite showing through a bloody sleeve, which while ghastly enough, is still not as stomach-turning a sight as that of the thug's partner in crime. Pig Face lies on the floor, clutching his leg with both hands, all the while groaning curses as blood seeps from a bullet wound in his thigh. Finch blanches in horror.
Oh God, oh God! He shot someone! Oh, Merciful God!
He stares at the gun still clutched in his hand, his stomach lurching at the sight of the weapon and he's very much afraid he's going to lose his breakfast here and now. The blood is bad enough, but that he may have been the cause…it doesn't bear thinking about!
And then a long arm reaches around him, warm fingers closing gently over his hand as they remove the offensive piece of metal from his grip. He swivels a half turn and stumbles into the much larger body of his employee.
"Mr. Reese…John!" He backs away and forces himself to look at the groaning man across the room. "I shot him, John! I shot him…"
"Bear! Bewaken!" the ex-agent orders, firmly grabbing Finch by the arm while moving himself into the smaller man's line of sight, effectively blocking the bloody scene from his boss. The dog stations himself equal distance between his two charges, still growling, vigilant and ready to attack should either man attempt to escape.
"Harold, you didn't shoot anyone…" Reese replies, gently forcing his boss to back-step toward the door.
The geek halts his backward motion and meets the sympathetic gaze of his employee.
"But I did, John! I don't know how it happened but I did! I…I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger!" The last few words drift into an almost inaudible whisper.
"Have you ever shot a pistol before?"
Finch shakes his head, consciously keeping himself from peeking around the body of his employee.
"Even a gun this size has a kick to it, Finch. Unless you've practiced shooting it and learned to compensate for that recoil, your arm is going to pull up the moment it fires. You never even got close to your intended target." He turns slightly, and with a wry smile jerks a thumb in the direction of the dinette. "You did kill the light hanging over the table though..."
Finch stares at the shattered shade, pieces of it's cheap brittle material now decorating the table top, the single light bulb sprayed all over the kitchen.
"See, Harold? Your shot went wild. The bullet in that thug's leg is from my gun."
Sirens sound in the distance; the uni herd coming in for the kill. Reese returns his own gun to the small of his back, pockets the Walther and quickly gathers the thug's weapons from the floor.
"We need to get out of here. Get Grace's things while I check these guys."
He gives his boss a light shove in the direction of the kitchen area. Finch moves hesitantly toward the counter, his anger replacing horror at seeing Grace's possessions laid out like leftovers from a garage sale. He carefully places the items into the bag, only partially aware of the Reese's activities behind him...
"I'll go load these in the car…"
"No!" Reese replies with uncharacteristic force, then gentling his voice, "No…that's alright. Just wait in the hallway…"
"You don't trust me to help…?" Finch grumbles, and watches a slow smile soften the ex-agent's face as Reese tightens Pig Face's own belt around a folded towel on the man's leg wound.
"You are unparalleled in the brain department, Harold. But in this environment, you're a lamb among wolves…" Finished with Pig Face, Reese knots a dish towel around the second man's arm, then efficiently zip ties the thug to the handle of the ancient fridge.
"Hurrumph…!" Finch tries for offence, but the whole event has left him with a burning desire to exit the place. "Come on, Bear. We're done here…"
The dog looks to his Alpha, catches the slight nod and moves to the side of the smaller human, the doggie smile he bestows on the older man clearly conveying that he considered the whole event fun, fun, fun!
…
Epilogue
Finch watches as "Detective Stills" stands on the stoop, paint box in hand, the large plastic bag next to his feet, an easel leaning against the door jam. He has a perfect view now, thanks to the small camera his employee has attached to a nearby tree trunk. A cheap and not very reliable gadget, especially in wet weather, but good enough to capture this particular scene.
Leaning forward he drinks in the sight of his beloved Grace as she appears in the doorway. He can follow the conversation through John's link and listens intently to every word, cataloging every nuance. She is over the moon with joy, especially with the return of her precious art supplies. John follows her inside with the paraphernalia, and the door closes briefly.
He sits and waits. So…after all his bravado and fantasy about being a hero in this scenario - taking care of Grace even if she's unaware of his efforts - it's still Mr. Reese who ends up "doing the deed" and delivering the goods. He's not sure whether to be elated at the outcome or disappointed in the process…but the memory of that thug bleeding on the floor quickly determines which.
We all have a gift, a unique proficiency, he thinks, which is why he hired John Reese in the first place. In this case it was once again mostly his employee's skills rather than his own that brought down the bad guys. So be it then. The end result is the same: Grace has her belongings back, and that's what counts!
He stares at the door patiently and within minutes, Reese appears. Grace follows him to the steps then impulsively throws her arms around the taller man for a hug. It's a sight that should hurt…but doesn't, and mainly because of the surprise and awkwardness he reads in ex-op's body language. The man really doesn't know what to do with his hands and ends up patting the woman impersonally on the shoulder! Finch grins at the sight.
…..
"You were supposed to be watching our Number, remember? In the Tiffany Hotel. So what happened? Did you solve the case?"
"No, not really. But he's not going anywhere 'till I get back. I duck-taped him to the radiator with a 'do not disturb' sign on the door."
"But how did you know…? Oh. You were listening!"
"Always, Harold. Always..."
And at that point in their conversation Reese didn't really think it necessary to mention the tracker he'd reinstalled in Finch's glasses…
.
.
The prompt for this story is:
"What situations would lead Harold to touch and actually use a gun and what would be the consequences (emotionally/physically)? How would John help?"
I deliberately stayed away from a more obvious plotline (Harold saving/rescuing Reese) so hope this meets expectations! :)