Dan Erinson sat, still a bit dazed and certainly confused. He'd come-to, with his wrists cuffed to a table and his hands pressed flat in front of him as if he could somehow stabilize this out of control situation.
What the hell happened? Who was the man who cold cocked him? He wasn't a cop, not a FED either. He was pissed he'd let his guard down, assuming the guy was a W.A.R. guest like some wet behind the ears rookie!
He looked around, evaluating his options for escape. The room was claustrophobically small, with only a door and what must be a one way mirror. Interrogation room.
Fusco took a deep breath, preparing to do this, as his earlier conversation with Finch replayed in his head.
"Why the hell you have this place?"
"Not me, John. And I'm not the one you need to be asking the questions Mr. Fusco." Finch was more clipped than usual. "Just quickly get anything you can out of him Detective, then join us at the address I sent you. Lets hope he knows something that might help Mr. Reese."
"Ok, ok, see what I can do." He'd learned quickly it was futile to do other than they asked, despite his discomforts on the subject.
With a swallow, Fusco entered the small room. "So here's how this is gonna work. You're gonna tell me everything you know about the WAR Event and what your plans are. Or so help me, I'm gonna polish this table with your stupid face. After that, I'm sure the Feds are gonna enjoy hearing all about your illegal weapons shipping activities..."
"You're not going to do shit. I can smell cop all over you - you have rules."
Fusco couldn't help the broad smile stretching across his face. "On most days you're right, but funny how complications change things. Lines can blur. Rules get fuzzy." Fusco did a slow pace in front of Erinson. "You met my partner; might remember him as the one that handed you your ass earlier. Well, he's the nice one..." Fusco stopped and leaned on the table watching the beads of sweat collecting at the scumbag's hairline.
He could really getting into this vigilante stuff.
Every hair on Reese's body bristled with the static hum of electricity as a very large and muscular opponent materialized right before his eyes. The guy looked like any one of a hundred thugs Reese had dispatched over the years.., but this one wasn't flesh and blood.
With a growl, the man struck at John. Instinct over road any doubt as he ducked the blow and came up with a fist to his jaw. The contact felt absolutely real! The smacking contact, the sting of skin, even the force it took to stagger the man backwards.
The program seemed to adapt with Reese's every move; the thug attacked with more advance style, jumping into successive, spinning kicks. John easily blocked the first few, landing a hard kidney punch as the man caught his balance, but the second wave of kicks were that much better, managing a nasty hit to his hip.
Dammit. Real or not, it felt like every boot he'd ever been kicked with!
Reese let loose, firing off a blur of snapping punches - stomach, throat and a closing temple blow on the way down. He disappeared as soon as he hit the ground. Round one, Reese.
John looked out, finding the others engaging in various, contorted combat moves. Trent and Stark still held their own, but Boyd and Sinclair had apparently not fared as well, judging by the way one slammed against the wall of his booth and the other slumped on the floor.
Reese only had a split-second before two classic gang members solidified and angrily stalked toward him. The program with escalating. One carried a large knife, the other twirled a bat.
The first hood swung the bat, but Reese quickly step in, rendering the momentum useless as he caught and hooked his arm around the man's and forcefully wrench up while kicking backwards at the approaching knife-man. Both men staggered back. John marveled at how real this whole was, while delivering a finishing kick to the bat-wielding hood. He vanished.
The second gangster took a couple of swipes at Reese's midsection. John jumped back, baiting the man in. It worked; the hood lunged blade first. John deflected the knife hand, letting the man's own momentum carry him in just as Reese thrust out his palm, forcing the idiots nose bones to shatter into his cyber-brain.
Reese rarely used that kill move anymore, but he didn't need to play by his rules here. This wasn't real.
Apparently the program didn't think so either, so John didn't anticipated the attacker not hitting the ground, dead. He wasn't prepared for the man to continue, unfazed and spin, burying the knife deeply into in his side with an added twist to punctuate the impossibility.
Reese clutched his side, staggered a few steps in shocked anger. The pain increasing to a blinding level, searing every nerve ending. He could feel the thickness of his vest, but it had been useless against the virtual attack.
John moved to the edge of his booth, trying to catch a glimpse of their numbers. Not one remained standing as the soldiers moved toward them.
He glared at the two moving his way, preparing to resist, but his lungs burned to the point they refused to continue the battle. Finally his legs gave out and Reese hit the floor.
His brain knew this wasn't real, that he hadn't just been fatally stabbed, but his body offered him no chance to acknowledge reality. All he could do was fight to stay consciousness and figure out what was happening.
"That was interesting. Have you ever had to ramp up the level that high before?"
"Never. They don't usually last passed the second, this one made it into three. Had to cheap the fight-laws to put him down."
"That was underhanded, Jack..."
"Okay guys, quite screwing around. Tranq him and let's get em loaded up. Boss wants them there on time."
Reese listened to the exchange between the three Mercs, trying to make sense of their ramblings through his half conscious state.
One of the soldiers approached, kneeling beside him.
John summoned ever ounce of strength he had left; the timing had to be perfect.
At the exact moment he felt the needle prick his neck, Reese plunged a pen into man's thigh. The infuriated soldier reared back, clutching at his wounded leg with both hands releasing a blood curdling scream.
Reese quickly pulled the syringe from his skin, sprayed out the contents and stabbed it back into his neck before the large Merc could refocus on him.
John couldn't move, he needed to sell his pretended unconsciousness, and hell, it hurt to damn much anyway. The combination of searing nerves coupled with cracked ribs from the day before, had him close to his limit. It took all his concentration not to really pass out, so when the wounded Mercenary came at him for payback, it nearly did him in.
The heavy boot, of his good leg, landed with repeated brutality before an angry command stopped the onslaught.
"What the fuck are you doing!" The man grabbed and spun the soldier with acknowledged authority.
"Lieutenant Mathison, Sir! I... I'm sorry, but the bastard stabbed me with a pen! With a fucking pen!"
"Are insane?! If you kill or damage him... it'll be you taking his place! Get that out of your leg, and let's move it!" Mathison leaned in, taking a closer look at Reese. "Holy shit! He's not one of the targets, that's the guy that killed Wilson and Bowman! Oh fuck me... the Major's gonna lose it."
The hobbling soldier took a couple ragged breaths before yanking the pen from is leg and bouncing it off the floor next to Reese's head. John didn't twitch. "Bastard just bought himself a one way ticket to hell. He deserves every bit of what that psycho, Death Dealer's gonna do to him."
Reese tried to wrap his head around their meaning, but the cryptic conversation only raised more questions. Some puzzles just need more pieces before you could see the big picture, he coached himself.
He would wait, listen and learn, calm his breathing and compartmentalise the pain as his years of first hand experience and training had taught him. Now wasn't the time to make another move.
He relaxed his body when he felt them lift and place him on a gurney, and forced himself not to react as straps were mercilessly cinched down over his ribs.
He endured the rough trip down a long corridor, allowing himself to drift in and out, until the surfaced changed. With the smoothness came familiar surroundings and Reese could make out the parking area from earlier.
There were ten Mercenaries, two per gurney, pushing them down passed the shuttles and rows of delivery trucks. Now John knew the reason for the five ambulances.