A painful silence filled the car as Finch intently replayed every possible detail, desperate to reach a new conclusion and hoping he'd missed something that could point to where John and the other's were being taken. He knew what he needed to do.
"Finch? My cruiser's back the other way. Where are we going? Finch!?"
He'd been be so focused on his thoughts, she almost startled him. He looked her direction. "I know Detective..," She waited, unmoving and tense with her hands fisted in her lap, wearing a questioning frown.
He'd made a very hard decision. "...I need my other equipment and we don't have time to waste. I'm going to have to ask for your utmost discretion and secrecy." He didn't wait for her response as he hooked a quick left onto the freeway.
Caught off guard, her emotions welled to the surface; anger was tinged with hurt and surprise when she finally spoke. "After everything we've been through? I think you know you have it. Have had it! I need to be working on getting John back as much as you do, Finch."
The truth was, trust was not something that came easily to Finch. His whole life was a road map of twists and turns built around avoiding situations where he had to trust another human being. But every moment that passed meant Mr. Reese and their numbers were that much farther away and closer to this unconscionable fate.
From the very start, Reese had been adamant about Detective Carter being special, a good moral cop, extremely honest, intuitive and adept at her job. He'd said 'some people the world could not afford to lose.' Harold would be remiss to dismiss John's poignant statement and assessment of her - he so rarely shared his intimate opinions. Not to mention, she had proven herself time and time again as not just an asset, but as an invaluable ally.
Resigned, he edged the lincoln through the last few turns and into the camouflaged jungle of the ignored scaffolding, taking them deep into the underground parking garage of the old library building. Their headquarters.
Carter felt like she was entering a secret lair - the well-kept secret hidden in plain sight and cloaked in mundanities. "I can't tell you how often I've passed by this place, never even looking up."
"That Detective, is what we count on." Finch led the way, watching Carter as she absorbed and cataloged every detail of the garage, halls and stairs.
"With your limp, wouldn't the elevator be easier?"
He gave her a sad smile. It struck him how similar she and Mr. Reese really were.
Finally, and with a deep breath, he unlocked the cage door, exposing the last coveted vestiges of his private sanctum.
"Damn Finch, this is your command central?" An approaching skittering and scrapping echoed from an adjacent room. Carter reached for her gun, until the familiar, pouncing-ball of energy came into view.
"Hello Bear!" Finch knelt to one knee, hugging the dog in mutually needed affection.
"So you live here?"
"By definition.., no." Letting Carter in this far was a huge step for him; he didn't feel comfortable elaborating. He stood, stiffly moving toward his array of computers, intent on beginning the difficult system hack, he knew would be their only hope.
Bear closely followed Carter, loving the added company and idle scratches, while she moved around the room to study the wall of photos. She leaned in, scrutinizing the faces and wondering if she recognized any. "Wow, these all the people you and John helped?"
"That wall, yes... "
"And this one?" Raising her eyebrows in question.
"A failed past. A reminder why we do what we do." Finch allowed this admission and his eyes to travel over the lost faces that would forever link him to his haunting regret. He would not let their latest numbers, or Mr. Reese, join that wall.
Carter approached him. "So what's your plan?"
"I'm afraid you're not going to like it." Finch had returned to a furious pace of typing, switching from one computer to the next, and filling all the screens with multiple fields of streaming data.
Carter moved to stand beside him, peering over his shoulder. "Oh my God! Is that what I think it is?" She couldn't help her unchecked shock. Every moral fiber of her being was screaming that she should not be a part of this. But she knew full well, what coming here meant. It meant she was willing to do whatever it took to get John and the others back.
Finch swallowed. "It is Detective... The CIA's satellite surveillance system, specifically the Kennan KH-11. I'll find earlier images of the shuttles to establish where they disappeared, then task the Kennan to that area. With any luck, we'll be able to see activity leaving the site, and hope it's them."
"How long can you maintain control of the satellite?"
"You mean until they realize they've been hacked? And come looking for us?"
She nodded in worry.
"I apologize for any misgivings you my have Joss, but I didn't see and alternative. Besides, they won't. I've rerouted the origins of the hack to fifty different, red-flagged, locations around the world. They'll be quite busy before they ever got to us, and we'll be well off and long gone by then."
She tried to find comfort in the reassurance when something caught her eye. "There!" Carter excitedly pointed to the line of three shuttles entering the suspected lot and watched, as frame by frame, they disappeared into the small shed. "That's it Finch! Or one hell of a magic trick!"
"Now let's put the satellite over the area and switch it to thermal imagery."
Carter cringed... Using a national defense satellite for personal reasons? Now that topped the list of her wrongdoings. And she didn't see that list shrinking anytime soon... she swallowed.
They could now clearly see the slight thermal definition of something larger underground. Finch spun to the his far right computer and began entering information faster than Carter could read it. "They must have built it without the city knowing. I'll pull up the 2008 proposed plans and see if any alternate entrances and exits are listed."
Finch's phone rang, "Yes Detective Fusco, what did you find out?" He never stopped typing.
Fusco jumped right to the point. "Nothing we didn't already know. He confirmed that the Event is a secret trade show of basically anything that gives the big-time weapons dealers a hard-on. Sounds like they're selling some pretty sensitive stuff."
"Did he have any idea who they are?"
"No. But found out what W.A.R. stands for, Weapons Armament Resources Inc. Said they host this show at different locations, in New York, every year. He's been to five of em. Have you heard from our mutual friend or Carter?"
"Working on it, and Carter is here with me. Thank you Detective, please stay close, we may need you quickly. I'll be in touch."
"Wait! What do you want me to do with this guy?"
"I believe the FBI would be quite thrilled to relieve you of him, Mr. Fusco." Finch hung up and immediately initiated a new search.
Carter leaned in reading over his shoulder. 'Weapons Armament Resources Inc...' "They the ones behind this?"
"Possibly." Finch's attention was suddenly riveted to the satellite feed. "Detective look! Five ambulances..!" Finch met Carter with hopeful desperation.
"You got weapons here?"
Finch smiled...
They were moving a good clip, judging by the frequency of hit potholes. Reese was still strapped down and miserable, but bided his time, waiting for the right moment to make a move.
There were two Mercenaries, one drove the other was seated to his left. He listened to their conversation, pulling out any relevant details, but until he knew where they were going, he didn't want to reveal his faked incapacitation.
Reese had to be extremely careful; waiting carried its own set of risks. As it was, he'd barely managed to avoid a full dose of whatever drug the Mercs used.
He could still feel the slight amount he'd gotten, but luckily - if he should call it luck - his screaming ribs kept just enough adrenaline going to override most of it. But if they dosed him again, and he couldn't stop them, they'd all be on the chopping block. Literally.
It wasn't just about saving their numbers anymore... it was about finding and stopping this God-complexed monster, doling out fates worse than death.
A shutter ran up his spin, wondering about the number of previous victims they hadn't known to save.