Avoiding the crowd at the scene of the accident, where Trask was still telling and retelling his adventures to an eager audience - Lily Thorpton being the most avid of them - Harold Finch had reached the safe apartment,
Finch put the kettle on to get a good cup of Sencha Green Tea ready.
His thoughts wandered away, back to his friend Nathan Ingram and the time when they had built the machine. Much earlier than himself Nathan had understood the importance of the "irrelevant" numbers. If only Harold had listened to him…
He didn't even notice how much time had passed, and that John Reese should have been back with his sandwiches by now.
Reese was in Ordos, China. Kara Stanton had shot him, as she had been advised to do by their superiors. He'd had the same order, but hadn't pulled it through. Kara had hit his gut. Still he was able to stumble away, realizing that the CIA had sent helicopters to bomb the building complex where he and Kara had found the laptop they had been looking for. Kara had died in the flames**. Thus he was all alone in a deserted town…
No, he wasn't alone. He heard distinct voices near by. American voices, not Chinese ones, as he noted stunned. Definitely American.
"Let's make some coffee. We need a clear head…"
CIA agents in China didn't make any coffee to clear their heads. This wasn't China.
What the heck had he gotten himself into this time?
He didn't open his eyes. His long career had taught him that it was often safer not to reveal that one was awake. At least as long as one was only halfway awake and oblivious to the big picture of what was going on around oneself.
He remembered now that he had been hit by a car – in New York.
By and by he understood that the people in this room were the ones who had been in that car. They had taken drugs, cocaine. The driver's name was Kevin. He was on probation. If the cocaine they had hidden in the trunk would be discovered by the police, he would be in deep trouble. The group figured that if they took the victim of the accident with them, the eye-witness, the woman in the brown coat, would assume that they took him to a hospital – which they had no intention of doing - and would abstain from reporting the accident to the police.
They were at a loss about what to do with him now. They didn't openly talk about killing him, but it was doubtlessly an option. Dumping him on a dark backroad as long as he was unconscious was another one. It was the reason why they were about to brew some coffee – to clear their heads, hoping for enlightenment.
Carefully Reese opened his eyes. He was lying on a concrete floor of what seemed to be a cellar with a kitchen corner. On a small table he saw four huge mugs, a bag of potato chips and a box of what looked like donuts. He noticed three persons – just teenagers, the kind with skulls and crossbones on their jackets, and definitely upset. A fourth one, a man about John's age, was just leaving. "I have to hide the car before the cops start asking questions about the dented bumper."
"Bye, Kevin," said one of the youngsters.
While the kids were absorbed in their coffee business, Reese secretly started to fumble in his pockets. He needed to call Finch. Where was his cell phone? He must have lost it during the accident.
A cry caught his attention. One of the teens, a curly-haired Mediterranean type, was jumping around the table, shaking his hand and swearing his head off.
"Hank, Ivan, help me! Please! It hurts!"
Reese realized that the kid had scalded his hand with the boiling water. Hank had to be the skinhead who looked far too young for this look. He even looked too young to be called Hank.
He was approaching with a bottle of salad oil.
"Mario, let's put some oil on your hand. It may sooth the burn!"
"No!" shouted Reese.
Everyone froze, even Mario stopped in his tracks.
"No oil. Just cold water," managed John.
The kids were stunned to hear his voice – and even more, to get some advice. Could this man be trusted?
"He might be right," said the third boy slowly, a stocky, dark-haired fellow.
"When we were kids, my friend hurt his leg like this. My grandmother rinsed it with cold water."
"Ten minutes," added Reese, "or longer. Until it doesn't feel hot anymore."
He pressed his hand onto his reopened gunshot wound but couldn't stop the bleeding. The teenagers didn't even seem to notice it.
While the skinhead – Hank Forrester, as Reese overheard – cooled Mario's wound, the dark-haired one tried to dry a letter. Obviously the boiling water had been spilt over it as well.
"Cool stamps," remarked Hank. "Where are they from?"
"From Russia, from somebody who is very important to me. It's written in Russian. My grandmother, who knew some Russian, died last month. Now I have nobody to translate it for me."
John's strength seemed to seep out of his body. He felt that he would not stay conscious much longer.
But these kids wouldn't decide anything without Kevin, the driver, and it was highly questionable that this one would be ready to help him, out of fear of being reported to the police. Reese would have to win the boys' trust as fast as possible, if he didn't want to end up dead in a backyard.
"Gimme the letter," he breathed.
Surprised the boy complied. "Do you know any Russian?"
Of course Reese did. He had worked for the CIA in Russian-controlled areas long enough.
"It says that someone called Lara will come back to New York with her parents in July. She asks Ivan to please wait for her. Love, Lara."
It was considerably shortened, but it was the essence, and he simply wasn't up to more.
"Wait for her. A good woman's worth waiting for." It was more heartfelt than Ivan would ever know. For a second John closed his eyes.
"Thank you, Sir," stuttered Ivan. "This means a lot to me. I can't tell you how much. It means a reason to live… to stop doing drugs and get a job…"
Where in blazes was John?
Finch, you are paranoid, the Billionaire berated himself.
Yes, I'm paranoid. With good reason.
He checked the signal of his employee's cell phone. He found it at the corner between the deli and the apartment. Thus Mr. Reese was on his way home. Just a little late. Nothing to worry about. He was paranoid indeed.
Strangely enough the signal didn't move. Had John met somebody and was now having a tête-à-tête with them? It was rather unlikely.
Finch decided to call him. John didn't answer. Too bad that he wasn't wearing his earpiece.
Should Finch just be patient or…
He felt a little silly. Mr. Reese was a grown man, after all, and more than capable of taking care of himself, even if he wasn't quite at his best tonight…
It only took him a few seconds to find a camera at said corner. There was nobody in sight.
Happily Mario dried his hand. It didn't hurt anymore. Not at all. He was just feeling a little chilly. Fidgeting around the way he did would get the ADHD kid warm soon enough, thought Reese.
Suddenly the siren of a police car started to howl. Terrified the teenagers looked at one another. The siren was very close… actually it was in the cellar.
"It's my smartphone!" exclaimed Hank Forrester, the junior skinhead. He hurried to pull it out of his jacket and turn it off.
"Waitwaitwait!" Mario kept him back. "Sometimes when you press the wrong key you accept something instead of closing it. It's some kind of mean programming. Could be that it connects you immediately to the cops."
The siren was howling on and on, getting on everyone's nerves.
John was no keener on getting caught by the police than the boys. "Let me take care of this."
"Are you a computer crack or something?" Ivan wondered, wanting to believe it.
Or something, thought John, but too lethargic to waste any energy on words, he just nodded. It didn't take an IT genius to handle this problem. Yet he would need Finch for something else, of course.
Hank stretched his trembling hand out and dropped the offending device like a hot potato. He had no idea what else he could do.
By now, John had gained a good deal of trust with them. They didn't even watch closely the screen of the smartphone while he was working on it. They found it safer to retreat to the table, munching nervously on their potato chips.
First thing Reese did was connecting with Finch, while forcing himself to talk to the boys. "You were right, it's a worm." For Finch he added, "Wonder where it came from."
Immediately Finch reacted. He had been sitting at his computer and searching New York for his employee. Now he was happy to get a sign of life from him, even if it was obvious that the latter was in trouble.
At least now he could do something. This was his element.
The worm came from another smartphone. Finch located it and found a road safety camera showing the area in question. He sent a picture to the smartphone Mr. Reese was using right now.
He used the connection to John to follow the events that one was involved in. It became only too obvious that the ex-op would need help. Thus he tried to contact detective Carter, but she was still busy with their last case, Rick Morris who had first stalked and then threatened Lily Thornton.
Finch called detective Fusco. "Detective, I am sorry to disturb you, but I need you." In unsurpassable briefness he informed the corrupt policeman about what he needed him to do.
Fusco had just opened a coke and a box of donuts and was watching a football game with his son. He was less than thrilled, but then – he had to go. He wouldn't have admitted it to anybody, and least of all to himself, but he would never let Wonderboy down when he was in real trouble.
Meanwhile Reese had been working on the worm. He managed to stop the enervating noise.
"Want me to send the worm back to the sender?" asked Reese the kids while glancing at Finch's picture. It showed a blue Fiesta standing in front of a single-family home. It was hard to see in the dark, but rather than not it was the car which had caused the accident earlier tonight.
"Address?" he quickly texted to Finch.
"Yes, feed that bastard his own medicine!" exclaimed Hank.
It only took Reese a few seconds, although the sender had suppressed his address. Of course he was no Harold Finch, but he'd learned to use a computer all right, as he had pointed out to his employer just recently.
After that was done he read the address Finch had sent, together with the name of the inhabitants of the house: Mr. and Mrs. Richard Forrester. This was too good to be an accident! They were most probably Hank's parents.
Thus it was rather obvious what Kevin had in mind: He wanted to frame Hank, creating a wrong track with the car in front of his parents' home. The police would blame Hank for the accident with damage to persons and hit and run, and Kevin's probation was safe. By then he would be somewhere else entirely and have a girl swear that she had spent the entire night with him. John doubted that Ivan and Mario would have the guts to contradict the adult. Maybe he would even leave the drugs in the trunk of the car and land Hank in even deeper trouble.
The door opened and Kevin walked in.
Here goes my theory, thought Reese, leaning back onto the cold floor.
His time was up. He might have got the kids to help him, but he wouldn't get past Kevin, not without having the faintest idea about what was really going on.
** This is an error, but Reese doesn't know that at this point.