A/N: A warning to Shoot fans before we go any further: sorry, my muse has sent Root off on an extended vacation. I'm not too sure what she's up to - something on behalf of The Machine, I imagine. Who knows what other fish She might be frying? I'll let you know if I ever find out. But anyway, if you're a rabid Shooter I'm afraid you'll be disappointed in this fic, so I thought I'd better warn you before you go any further. Full disclosure, and all that. Anyway, on with the parade...
"Whew." Shaw whistled as she leaned back in her chair.
"It leaves us with a real quandary. How do we tell John? Should we tell John?" Finch spread his hands in frustration.
"I think we have to tell him," argued Joss. "How can we not? This concerns his family, and there's no way we can keep it a secret from him much longer. The longer we delay, the harder it becomes to tell him."
"Damn straight," said Shaw. "He's gonna be pissed as hell with us already, even as things stand."
"There's something else we're forgetting," said Joss. "There's a ninety-seven year old man out in Queens who's also looking to catch a bullet from this British guy. What about him? Just from the position of manpower alone we need John on this one."
"All right, all right," said Finch. "We'll tell him-"
"Tell him what, Harold?"
All three of them started like guilty teenagers as John's soft tones cut through their discussion.
Xxxx
Reese stared at the three people in front of him, all of them looking uncomfortably back at him.
"Tell me what?" he repeated.
"Sit down, John," said Finch heavily. "As you have probably guessed, we have two Numbers." He gestured at the window. Reese's eyes followed the gesture, and he caught his breath.
"I...we...I...didn't want to tell you until we'd gathered more information..." but Finch's voice seemed to fade away. Reese closed his eyes, remembering…
xxxxx
Puyallup, WA. August 1987.
A wall of beer fumes and noise hit him as he entered: laughter, shouts, a roar as a football player made a touchdown on the screen of the big TV up in the corner. Patrick was sitting with some of his friends at a table right in front of that TV, his back to John. None of the group noticed his approach until the moment he grabbed the back of Pat's head and smashed his face into the table. And did it again. And again. And again until his own arm hurt from the repeated impacts and Pat was limp and unconscious in a welter of blood, spilled beer and broken glass. The rage, and the catharsis of the violence, left him panting but he paused to breathe: a couple of deep breaths so he could speak clearly. He bent and whispered into his cousin's ear, then turned to leave amid a shocked babble.
"Jesus, did you see that?"
"Someone call 911-"
"Oh my God, lookit him-"
He let the noise of it wash over him as he walked back out through the bar room door. Then he made a left, walked fifty yards along the street to the Sheriff's office, and turned himself in.
xxxx
Reese opened his eyes again. Silence had fallen in the subway car, and he hadn't heard a word Harold had said.
"We were wondering if you could fill us in on anything else about Patrick McKay or Henry Harris," prompted Joss gently.
Reese said nothing for a moment, then gave a minute shrug. "Nothing recent. I beat the shit out of Pat because he deserved it, which I see you already know about." He glanced at the newspaper report taped to the window by McKay's photo. "Grandpa, well, I thought he must've died years ago."
There was more silence, but Reese stubbornly refused to break it. Finally Shaw cleared her throat. "About time I was heading out. McKay seems to go out clubbing most nights, I better get out there so I can throw myself in front of an MI6 bullet to save him." She got up and walked towards the exit.
"I'll be in touch, Ms Shaw," called Harold hurriedly after her.
Shaw didn't reply or even look back, just waved a hand in their general direction.
After she had gone Reese continued to stand there in silence. At last Joss said quietly, "John. I know you've chosen not to share your past with us. And I respect your decision. But if there's anything you know which can help us out here, you need to tell us."
Reese met her eyes. "Joss, if I knew anything I would. But after I beat that sonofabitch up I walked away from my family and they walked away from me. I can tell you that twenty-some years ago Pat was a drunken bully and he probably hasn't changed much. Grandpa was… a decent man, but tired and getting old. And I don't really want to remember."
Again the silence stretched.
"Mr Reese," said Finch at last, "I can understand your reluctance to become involved on your cousin's behalf. But your grandfather is a defenceless old man with a very dangerous operative after him. Detective Fusco has been with him most of the day, but he'll need to sleep sometime."
"Okay, Finch. Okay." Reese roused himself. "I'll go get eyes on him. Joss, could you-"
"Yes, of course I'll come," she said, rising to her feet. Together, they walked out into the night.
xxxx
Once they had gone, Finch tapped his earpiece to make another call. After all, Lionel deserved some warning.
"Hey Glasses. About time." Fusco sounded tired.
"So tell, me, Detective – how did you manage to get yourself into the hospital?" Finch asked.
"Heh. You'll never believe me," Fusco replied smugly.
"Try me, Detective." Finch was in no mood for games.
"Well, I got to thinking, just for once there's no-one trying to kill you people. No CIA, no mob, no FBI, no mysterious evil guys in black SUVs. So I thought, what the hell. I told them the truth, or pretty close. I said I had a source that told me that someone wanted to kill Mr Harris, and I would appreciate it if they would allow me to mount a discreet guard over him. They were fine with that."
"Oh." Finch tried to think of something to say.
Fusco went on. "Harris is pretty sick, and pretty out of it a lot of the time. But he was lucid enough to ask me who I was at one point. So I told him I was a friend of his grandson, which seemed to satisfy him. But if Mr Happy wants any quality time with his Gramps, he'd better get in quick."
"Well, you'll be pleased to hear he's on his way out to you now, Detective. He knows about his grandfather's predicament. At least, he knows as much as we do right now."
"How did he take it?" Fusco sounded worried.
Finch thought for a moment. "I would say it was a shock to him. It could have been worse, I suppose. Just be careful what you say to him, Detective."
"Ain't I always?"
Finch opened his mouth, thought again, and closed it.
Xxxxx
"Well, we can assume the CIA know we're after something. Whether they've realised who and what we're after is another question," said Martin. "I'm not keen to hang around long enough to find out. Our time line just got tighter, gentlemen."
They were sitting in his room at the Coronet, their surveillance equipment spread out around them and a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door. Bowen shuddered to imagine what the hotel maid would think if she discovered the sniper rifle under the bed.
"There's always his nightlife," said David. "There's plenty of photos on his Facebook account of him partying. He likes that nightclub, Sundowner. Tomorrow's Friday, we can grab the bastard as he comes out."
"I'm still worried about the Company," said Martin.
"No risk, no reward." David shrugged. "Easier to do a snatch at night."
Martin considered a moment longer. "Okay. David, they hopefully don't know your face yet. You get out there now and do a recce. Camera blind spots, escape routes - you know the drill. Kevin, you're the tech man – find a way to send Mr McKay a discount voucher or something to encourage him to show tomorrow night. After today's balls-up we're running out of time."
"What are you going to do, then?" asked Kevin.
"Take a look at Priority Number Three," said Martin. "Remember, Harris is still out there. Not to mention our bloody mystery woman."
xxxx
Mr Reese and Detective Carter had not been gone long when Ms Shaw checked in. "Finch, McKay's heading out. I've got eyes on him, I'll stick close."
"Oh. Be careful, Ms Shaw. Would you like me to call in some back-up? I could get Detective Fusco for you-"
"Nah. Fusco's out riding shotgun on the old man. By the time he got here from Queens it'd be too late anyhow. Besides, I bet MI6 won't try anything flashy in the middle of Manhattan, especially with the CIA on their tails."
"I do hope you're not being overconfident," he said worriedly.
"Seriously, Finch. If it was me I'd spend this evening setting things up. Trust me, the hit will happen tomorrow. Why don't you work some hacker mojo on the SIS while you've got nothing else to do? It might tell us what they're up to."
"Easier said than done, Ms Shaw. But I'll give it a try." He hesitated a moment and added, "Stay safe."
"Safe? That's no fun. I was thinking I might spend some time getting to know our Number. You want me to get close to him, right?"
"I think it would be much better to stay out of sight, Ms Shaw-" but it was too late. Ms Shaw had ended the call, and he knew with a sinking feeling that she wasn't going to listen. Finch rubbed the back of his neck, grimaced at his computer screen, and got back to work.
xxxxx
The journey out to Queens was very quiet. It was as though John had wrapped himself in a cloak of silence. Joss was content to let him just drive, for now. But she mulled his words over: "I beat the shit out of Pat because he deserved it." "After I beat that sonofabitch up I walked away from my family and they walked away from me." Pat was a bully, huh? If eighteen-year-old John was anything like mid-forties John, he wouldn't have let that pass. But why had he chosen that particular time and place to take McKay down? He must have known there was no chance of getting away with it, in fact he turned himself in immediately after the attack and pleaded guilty. If he hadn't done that it would have been prison for sure, given the victim's injuries. It was a mystery, and Joss didn't like mysteries. Though if that's really true you sure picked the wrong guy, sister, she thought to herself.
"British Intelligence are after your grandfather and cousin," she finally said. "I wish I knew what they did to put themselves in the line of fire like that."
John said nothing for a moment. "Grandpa was in the Army during World War Two," he said. "Served in Europe. That was the only time he left the country. Maybe he came across something. I have no idea what Pat's been doing. What did Finch say he did for a living?"
"Advertising executive."
"Figures." He sighed. "So how come Grandpa's here in New York and not back home?"
"Finch said McKay's Mom died a few years ago and he had your grandfather relocated here."
"Grandpa would have hated that," said John unexpectedly.
"Yeah? Why?"
"He was a farmer most of his life. Never much for big cities. And yet here he is," he added quietly. "And here we are, too."
He lapsed back into silence.
As they approached the hospital, Joss put in a call to Fusco. "Lionel? We're here now."
"Great. I haven't eaten since breakfast. There's no cafeteria here." He paused a second and said "How's Mr Sunshine?"
"I'm amazed you care, Lionel," said John over his own earpiece.
Fusco's aggrieved grunt came through clearly. "Yeah, yeah. You just keep the attitude coming, John. It's so endearing. Have a great time, Joss."
Joss gave John a glare; he shrugged unrepentantly. As they pulled into the parking lot at the hospital they saw Fusco's bulky figure at the front doors. He spotted their car, gave a short gesture which might possibly have been a wave, and strode off towards his own vehicle.
"He's offended," said Joss softly.
"He'll get over it," said John indifferently.
She shook her head to herself. Not the time to take him up on it, though. She took a deep breath. "C'mon, John. Let's get this over with."
He grimaced in reply, and they got out of the car.
xxxx
The music at Sundowner was the usual stuff, Shaw thought sourly. Loud, oversynthesised and packing an insistent beat. Not that she cared much. Which music was playing didn't have a lot to do with whether she enjoyed herself – the company and the refreshments were much more important. But the damn strobe lighting was getting to her. If she had to stay here much longer she was going to be highly tempted to shoot some lights out before they gave her a migraine.
What the hell McKay saw in this place was beyond her. For one thing it seemed to cater for a crowd about twenty-five years younger than him. She herself had gone for the slutty aesthetic with her clothes: skin-tight leather pants, black spandex tank top – it seemed to fit right in with what was worn here. There were a couple of other older men, like that guy in the leather jacket over near the doors, but as she watched he obviously decided this wasn't his scene and turned to leave.
She drifted a little closer to McKay where he sat at the bar. Alone, poor darling. She had to admit, his profile was pretty similar to John's, although now she knew to look she could see his nose had been broken. Skilfully put back together, though. He was a little flabbier than John, and the hair was longer and a bit greyer. All in all he looked like a portrait of how John might look in about five years if he slackened off his physical conditioning.
McKay turned his head and smiled at her. Shaw smiled back. Encouraged, McKay slid across to the stool next to her. "So, uh, do you come here often?" he asked.
She laughed. "You're actually using the lamest pick-up line in history?"
He grinned. "It worked though. I got you to laugh, didn't I?"
Shaw lifted an eyebrow. "Okay. I'll give you that much. But you gotta have more tucked away than that."
He leaned over, breathing whiskey in her face. "Oh, I got lots tucked away, I promise."
Ugh, one of that type, she thought. The things I do for you, Finch… "Oh really?" she breathed in return – or at least, shouted quietly over the music - "you better not promise what you can't deliver."
"My apartment's only four blocks away," he said. He tried to look enticing. "Fully stocked bar..."
"Sounds delicious," she said, picking up her purse.
To be continued….