On the Fourth of July, shortly before noon, John Reese got shot.

The bullet grazed the outside of his left thigh just above the knee. It took away some skin and maybe a bit of muscle, but it was minor. "This should probably be stitched by a doctor," Finch complained in the library.

"The ER will be packed today," Reese argued. "Besides, you do such nice work."

Harold grumbled, but he got his suture kit. "I have lidocaine spray," he offered.

"Sure." Normally Reese would have refused on principle. But he hated the way Harold flinched with every stitch, as if the needle was going into his own flesh instead of John's.

Christine's acupuncture needles were better. But she was an ocean away now. Pain relief in a spray can would have to do.

"I hope you're not still planning to attend the fireworks tonight," Harold fussed as he set out the supplies.

John shrugged. "I'll see how it feels later."

They were silent for a time. Smokey, the huge gray cat who had been a newborn kitten when Reese and Bear found her, came and sat on Reese's good leg to watch the proceedings. "You're not helping," Finch told her.

Reese stroked the cat thoughtfully. "Christine hates fireworks."

"Do you blame her?"

"No." John tried to remember exactly what she'd said on that subject. Something about big crowds and overhead explosions. She'd been close to Ground Zero on 9/11. She would never enjoy fireworks again. "They don't bother you, Finch?"

"I was in an office with no windows. I didn't learn about it until that evening."

"Right. I forgot."

Finch cocked one eyebrow. He knew perfectly well that Reese hadn't forgotten. John shrugged, then winced as Harold tugged a stitch tight.

"When I was a boy," Finch said unexpectedly, "our town set off fireworks at the football field. My friends and I would sit on the fence at the back of my yard, and every time there was a really loud blast we'd clutch our chests and fall dramatically to the ground. Pretending we'd been shot." He shook his head over John's fresh gunshot wound. "It was great fun," he added sadly.

"I played the same game," Reese assured him.

"And here we are."

"Here we are."

Finch snipped the ends off the last stitch and sat back. "That should hold."

Reese glanced down. "Looks good, Finch."

Harold slathered some antibiotic cream over the area, then applied a gauze pad.

"Do you think she'll come back now?" Reese asked quietly. "Christine? After the fireworks are over?"

Finch's hands hesitated. Then he reached for the tape. "I'll admit that I had the same thought, Mr. Reese. She has always made a point of being out of the country on this particular day." He finished the bandage and began to pack up the first aid supplies. "I simply don't know."

"Maybe we should just call and ask her."

Harold looked at him. His face was thoughtful, indecisive. "It's tempting. But …"

"She'll say yes," Reese completed. "Whether she's ready or not."

"Yes."

John ran his hands through his hair. "We could use the help."

"I would be reluctant to involve her any further in our endeavors," Finch answered. "Of course, my reluctance would almost certainly be entirely disregarded."

"Entirely."

Harold stood and gathered the refuse from the minor operation. "I'm supposed to have lunch with Will and Julie."

"Again?"

"For the first time. Last week I had to reschedule," Finch reminded him. "And the week before."

"I missed that," Reese admitted.

"I don't expect you to keep up with my social calendar, Mr. Reese."

"I probably couldn't if I tried."

Finch picked up Reese's suit pants. He examined the tear in the leg critically. "These are not salvageable," he pronounced.

"You could cut them off and make me dress shorts."

Harold regarded him with some amusement. "I think not. Get some rest, Mr. Reese."

"Have a good lunch, Harold."

Samantha Groves cocked her head and listened intently. No, she wasn't imagining things. Somewhere beyond the thick walls of her prison, there were explosions. Artillery was being fired. The compound was under attack.

Only she didn't hear any panicked voices. No shouting or running. No cell doors opening or slamming. No vehicles squealing away. No phones ringing. There was no sign that anyone was concerned.

That was disappointing.

At her window she saw flashes of light that interrupted the darkness of the night sky.

The bombardment continued, at irregular but very brief intervals. It got no closer. The building barely vibrated under it, so it wasn't taking any direct hits. Or else the compound was much larger than she thought.

She considered asking the camera what was going on. It would be informative to see how long it took them to respond, and whether their voices betrayed any concern.

After several minutes of observation, Root realized that some of the flashes of light were blue and green, mixed in with more common orange, yellow, red and white.

It took her a few more minutes to realize that it must be Independence Day.

She grinned, pleased that she hadn't made a fool or herself or betrayed that she didn't know what day it was. Plus this gave her a certain calendar date. She could keep track going forward.

That was something.

She flopped down on her bunk and enjoyed her little glimpses of the light show.

After another ten or so minutes, the fireworks finale began. The explosions were much more frequent, the lights at her window much brighter. It built to a very loud extended explosion. And then it was over.

Root picked up her comb and ran it through her hair. She examined the ends critically. Her natural curl remained, but her split ends seriously needed a trim.

One of the strands was definitely silver.

Root frowned fiercely. She rubbed her fingers together, releasing strands of hair until she held only the offending silver one. Then she wrapped it around her fingertip and yanked it out.

She moved over to the window to examine the strand better in the light. She still wasn't certain. It couldn't be gray, could it? She moved to the mirror over her sink, but it was only polished stainless and gave her a terrible reflection.

She ran her hands up into her hair again and pulled a lock in front of her face. She didn't see any more silver strands. But she kept looking for more than an hour, just to be sure.

"How's your leg, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked the next morning.

"I'll get by," Reese answered curtly. "What's our Number's story?"

"Mr. Repczinski has contacted a person on Craig's List with the intent of purchasing an unregistered handgun."

"Who's he planning to kill?" Reese looked at the photo on his phone, then scanned the area. He didn't see him yet. He leaned against the corner of the building and eased the weight off his leg. The bullet wound hurt. About a five out of ten. It itched a little, too. But it wouldn't slow him down.

"I don't know." Over the comm, Reese could hear the comforting click of his partner's keyboard. "I suppose that his purchase of the weapon was what triggered our warning. I'm looking into his background now, but I'm not seeing anything obvious."

"Any lead on the seller?"

"According to our friends at the NYPD, TheDeliveryMan is an actual delivery man in real life. He's a UPS driver named Ronald Reins, and he's suspect in a number of smuggling cases."

Reese turned his head casually and looked at the trademark brown truck parked at the curb. "Got a picture of him?"

"On its way."

John glanced at the photo, then back at the truck. The driver was not in sight. He pushed away from the wall and walked across the street. He paused next to the vehicle and looked around. He guessed that even while he was running a side job, the driver wouldn't be far from the truck.

He spotted him at the counter of the corner shop, buying cigarettes. Reese waited outside the door. When the driver came out, he said, casually, "Got a smoke?"

"No, man." The man tried to brush past him.

Reese took his arm firmly. "You've got a smoke," he said. "You should give me one."

"Get off me!" He tried to swing at Reese with his free hand. That cleared his belt enough for John to grab the cheap gun he had tucked into his waistband.

He brought it up between the bodies and aimed it at the driver's chin. "Pretty sure this wasn't on your delivery route."

The driver jerked away from him. "It's not loaded," he sneered.

Reese used his free hand to draw his own weapon. "This one is."

The driver looked up and down the street, then retreated a couple steps into a doorway. "What the fuck do you want, man?"

"I want you to stop selling unregistered firearms in my city. Man."

"Mind your own business."

Reese twitched his jacket back to reveal Detective Still's badge. "It is my business."

The delivery driver went pale. "Shit, man."

"Here's how this works," Reese said quietly. "You're going to get in your truck and go back to work. If you ever try to sell an unregistered weapon again – and believe me, I'll know it's you, whatever handle you use – you will lose your job and you will go to jail. Clear?"

"Clear."

"Go."

The driver scampered away.

Reese tucked both weapons away under his jacket.

"Well," Finch said in his ear, "that's part of the problem solved."

"Part of it," Reese agreed. He leaned back and waited.

"Would you look at that," Fusco said.

"What?" Carter answered.

He gestured. "There was actually a desk under all that paperwork."

She grinned. They'd had a nice quiet week, and both of them had gotten a ton of paperwork done. They'd even gotten to take the Fourth off without interruption. They'd also had time to close three old cases. She had a pretty good idea she had the Machine to thank for the lack of homicides. She was glad to take the help.

Although – a nice meaty case would have kept her mind off of other things…

"Here," she said, picking up two files. "Since you're part of the clean desk club now, you can finish these two."

Fusco scowled. But he came and took them. That left Carter with only three. "We need to slow down a little," he muttered.

"We can always go interview witnesses," Carter reminded him.

"What, like out at Coney Island?"

"Must be some movies we want to see."

"Why, Detective Carter, I'm shocked at that suggestion. I do believe I'm corrupting you."

"Well, you can't take all the credit. Our friends are helping, too."

"I hear that." Fusco sat back down at his desk and opened the top file.

Behind him, Simmons glided over to the coffee pot like the snake he was. Carter frowned. One more week and the hammer would fall on that snake and all his co-conspirators. It was already in the works; Moss was keeping her in the loop.

"You know what I'm thinking?" Carter said, with forced cheerfulness. "I'm thinking once I get caught up, I'm going to take a vacation."

Fusco blinked at her. "A what?"

"A vacation," she repeated. "You know, that thing where you don't come to work for a week at a time? Where you go lay on a beach and drink little umbrella drinks?"

"Oh, yeah. I've heard about those. Always figured they were just fairy tales." He shook his head. "I would have pegged you more for tequila shots than umbrella drinks."

"Umbrella drinks for breakfast," Carter amended. "You know, with fruit juice."

"Right, right. Of course." He nodded seriously. "You should, Joss. You deserve it."

"I'll think about it."

"Well, don't think too long," her partner advised. "Cause this clean-desk thing? We both know it ain't gonna last."

"You got that right."

The phone on her desk rang, and the detectives groaned in unison.

Repczinski showed up ten minutes after Reese chased his weapons dealer away. He stood on the sidewalk uncertainly, looking around. Uncomfortable. Lost. He kept one hand in his jacket pocket. That was where he kept his money.

John sidled up behind him. "You looking for the delivery man?" he asked.

The other man spun. "Is that you? Are you him?"

"Obviously."

"I thought you'd be …"

"Wearing brown? Not really my style." He took the man's elbow. "Let's walk."

"Uh … yeah. I never … um … how do we do this?"

"You never bought a gun before?"

Repczinski flushed. "No."

"Good." Reese steered the man to his car. "Get in."

"What? Why?"

John pulled his jacket back to flash his stolen badge. "Because I said so."

"Oh, man." Repczinski crumpled into the front seat. He looked absolutely defeated. "Oh, man."

Reese walked around to the driver's side and got in. As he started the car, he said, "Tell me why you need a gun."

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"Should I?"

"I … please. I can't go to jail. There's nobody to bail me out. And if I … I'll lose my job. Please. I know I broke the law, I was breaking it, but I can't … oh, man, please."

"Why do you need a gun?" Reese repeated.

Repczinski went silent.

At the stop light, John said, "It's your choice, Repczinski. I can turn left and take you to the station and book you. I can turn right and drive you home. You talk, we go right."

The man thought about it until the light changed. "My landlord," he blurted.

Reese turned right. "You're going to kill your landlord."

"No. What? No. I would never … I couldn't. I just … I need to threaten him. Scare him. That's all. I told you … I told the delivery man guy. I don't even need any bullets. Just the gun. So he'll take me seriously."

"He jacking up your rent?"

"He won't fix my air conditioner."

Reese raised an eyebrow. He heard Finch snort in his ear.

"It's not that hot," John said dryly.

"It's not the heat. It's the humidity." Repczinski shook his head. "Not for you or me, it's not too bad. But my daughter. She has asthma. It's already July. You know what it can get like here. They're predicting a heat wave by next weekend. She won't be able to breathe. She's …" He cupped one hand over his mouth and panted into it. "Like that. We went through it last summer. She ended up in the hospital three times. She gets so scared there. She's only four, she doesn't understand. She just wants to go home. And she could, if he'd just fix the A/C …" He stopped, dropped his chin to his chest.

"You need your landlord to fix your air conditioning so your young daughter doesn't get sick," Reese restated.

"I know," Repczinski said miserably. "I know buying a gun was a stupid idea."

"You try talking to him? The landlord?"

"Lots of times. Wrote him letters. Called the city. And that I'll Help You guy on the news. Tried everything I can think of." He shook his head. "They said by next weekend it could be over ninety. I couldn't wait any more."

John nodded.

"I know it was stupid," he said again. "I just don't know what else to do."

"Well," Reese said. "Maybe I could have a talk with him."

Repczinski looked at him. "You'd do that?"

"It would be my pleasure," John said with dark warmth.

Azarov Gusev sat in the back booth of the diner, picking at a massive platter of Salisbury steak and gravy over mashed potatoes. The gravy was too salty. He sipped his wine. It was too sweet. Or maybe just the gravy made it seem that way.

A small dark-haired man came through the front door and looked around. His rat-like face was wrinkled with age. His suit was cheap. Gusev raised one hand and gestured. The man started his way.

Three booths away, Misha stood up and blocked his path. The man started to protest, but looked up at the towering bodyguard and thought better of it. Misha patted him down, then turned and gestured him back to the table.

"You Black?" Gusev asked as the little man sat down.

"Yes," he snarled.

"That's a lie." Gusev took another big bite and chewed thoughtfully.

"Of course it is. You think I'm a fool?"

"Probably." Gusev chuckled. His contact had told him this little man was a pain in the ass, but a legitimate client. Otherwise he wouldn't have gotten through the front door. "You said you had a business proposition for me, Mr. Not Black."

"I want to kill someone."

The mobster dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Twenty-five large. That gets you a nice professional hit that looks like an accident. Or it can look deliberate, if you wish to send a message. Your choice."

The rat-faced man shook his head. "You misheard me. I want to kill someone."

"Personally."

"Yes."

"I see. Some random person, for the thrill of it? Or did you have someone special in mind?"

"Oh, someone special. Someone very special."

"Mmmm." Gusev shook his head. "Personal murders, they're a bad idea. Emotions get involved, amateurs such as yourself are likely to make mistakes …"

"I am not am amateur," Black snarled. "I was killing people when your father was still shoveling shit in Ukraine."

"Then what do you need me for?"

"I need your resources. Your men, your weapons, perhaps a safe house."

Gusev took another bite and considered. "I don't think so, Mr. Black. I don't know you and I don't trust you. It sounds as if you're seeking someone to take the fall for your crime."

"It would be very profitable for you."

"You don't have the resources to make it worth the risk."

"I don't," Black agreed, "but my target does."

The mob boss made a dismissive gesture. "We're done here."

"Listen. Just listen." The little man leaned far over the table. "I know that Yogorov being in jail has screwed your revenue stream. The corrupt police, HR, they've been crippled and cannot help you. I know that you're behind on your payments to the home organization. You don't have much time to make that right."

Gusev looked around. None of his men were close enough to hear what the rat man had just said. "You shut up," he snarled softly. His accent grew heavier with his rage. "You know nothing."

"I know everything, Yuri. I know more than your own lieutenants do. And I can help you."

"You have a million dollars?"

"I have something better."

"I am sure there is nothing better."

"I have information," Black said. "Information that can be used to coerce some very important people in the U.S. government."

"I do not care about politics."

"No. But your people in Moscow do. You give them what I've got, they're likely to forget all about the money you owe them."

Gusev scowled, unconvinced. "Who are these important people?"

The little man reached into his jacket pocket. Gusev glanced sharply at Misha, but of course his bodyguard already had his weapon in his hand. Black slowly drew a folded note out and handed it across the table.

Gusev glanced over the list. Some of the names were familiar. Most were not. "I don't know these people."

"Moscow will," Black said confidently. "You run it by them. Then call me."

"And in exchange for this information …"

"You'll get me the person I want to kill."

"I don't trust you." Gusev tapped the paper against his knuckles.

"I don't trust you, either," the rat-man snarled. "But that doesn't mean we can't work together."

He stood up and walked out of the diner.

Misha watched him out, then came over to the booth. "Boss?"

"I'm not sure," Gusev answered. He glanced at the list again, then tucked it into his pocket and glanced at his watch. "I'll need to make a phone call this evening."

He waved the man away and picked up his fork.