Chapter 5
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The bright headlights of the approaching car blinded Fusco as he looked in his rear view mirror. He'd been sitting here in his car in this God forsaken part of New Jersey for almost an hour now, waiting for Sameen Shaw to arrive. Lionel had known that he could say goodbye to any thoughts of a restful good night's sleep the moment his cell rang - the display announcing an Unknown Caller - almost two hours ago. However the thought of just ignoring it never crossed his mind.
The car parked behind him, and the headlights switched off. Blinking his eyes a few times in order to adjust to the darkness again, Fusco heard the car's door open, and with another check in the mirror saw the contours of a petite figure exiting the driver's side. Following suit the detective got out from behind his steering wheel. "Now're you gonna tell me what this is about?" he asked, forgoing any greeting. He'd done this secret-midnight-meeting-thing often enough now to know they weren't meeting for coffee. Or donuts.
"Reese and Finch are in trouble," said Shaw in her customary flat tone. She turned and walked towards the trunk of her car.
Fusco's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "Both of them?" That the big guy had a penchant for getting into trouble Fusco had already been all too well aware of. Hell, the first time he met the guy Reese had been in trouble. But what he'd learned about that man since then was that he'd let hell freeze over before he'd willingly put Finch or any civilian in a potentially dangerous situation. Which meant things must have gone pretty wrong ... and what else was new? "What happened?"
"I don't have all the details," Shaw said, busy gearing up." But Reese and Finch went to the offices of a company owned by a Michael Mercer to collect some incriminating data. Reese got caught, Finch hid the files and voluntarily gave himself up to buy time. Now, lucky for them and us," she paused, jammed a clip of ammo into a MP7 and chambered a round, "the guys who grabbed them kept their phones." Which meant that Shaw had most likely been listening in to whatever had been going on - at least to some of it. She turned and handed Lionel a hand gun. "There are five hostiles. Just follow me."
Fusco took the gun and reflexively checked the clip. "What's the plan?"
"The plan is," Sam replied, slinging a black bag over one shoulder and grabbing the MP7 from the trunk, "to shoot anything that moves, grab our guys and get the hell out of there."
"Shoot anything that ...," Fusco repeated slightly dumbfounded. "You do know that I am a cop, right?"
"Yeah, but I've learned to not hold it against you." She flashed him her predatory smile, dropped the trunk lid, and tossed something dark and soft at him. "Let's go."
Fusco took a closer look at the object that he'd caught against his chest, unrolling a black balaclava. He sighed, then made to catch up with Reese's wonder-twin.
The thought of saying no way never crossed his mind.
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Fusco - now wearing the stuffy balaclava - followed Shaw deeper into the industrial area. They were carefully making their way through a maze of shipping containers - painstakingly sticking to the shadows - when Shaw held up her fisted hand. Apparently they had reached the end of the rows upon rows of containers, and a sprawling, open area lay between them and a sad looking office complex. She pulled out her cell phone and Fusco could see over her shoulder that the location of the two red dots on the digital map he assumed depicted Reese and Finch's phones coincided with the building in front of them.
Fusco eyed the open space in front of them with unease. Anyone behind those windows could see them coming, and even though he couldn't see any cameras that didn't mean there weren't any. Or dogs. God, he hoped there weren't any dogs.
However - and he shouldn't really have been surprised - Shaw had come prepared. Out of her bag she pulled a thermographic camera, and Fusco briefly wondered how nice it must be to work for someone who was not dependent on public funds. The sweep with the camera revealed nothing but a few rodents, and Shaw gave the all clear. "It doesn't seem like they're expecting company." She exchanged the MP7 in favor of her SIG, checked the clip one more time and chambered a round. "I can't believe Reese let himself be captured by that bunch of amateurs."
They hurried across the open space, and - after making short work with the lock - practically walked right through the front door. The front room, with its counter and shipping advertisement displayed on the walls, was dark and quiet. However voices could be clearly heard coming from the back. Fusco and Shaw went around the counter and followed the voices down the hall towards a door where light could be seen shining through the cracks. As they took up position in front of the door the voices became clearer, and if it hadn't been for sentences like "Do you think he's dead yet?" or "I hope the gimp puts up a fight." Lionel thought he could have been listening in to a group of friends out having a good time.
Shaw pulled out a flash-bang grenade and silently asked him with a look if he was ready.
"You're gonna give them a chance to surrender, right?" whispered Fusco - gun at the ready. Shaw stared at him for a second, then pulled out the pin of the grenade and said, "Fine."
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Harold Finch had no idea how much time had passed since he'd realized that Mr. Reese had lost consciousness. Ever since he'd been trying to rouse the other man, growing more desperate with each passing minute. "Mr. Reese? John!"
Harold looked down, only too late realizing that it was a mistake. He pressed his eyes closed, but the image of the two bright puddles of blood that had formed underneath John's chair had already burned itself into his retinas. He wasn't sure that John was still breathing.
His breath hitched. It wouldn't be long now before they came for him.
His head snapped up at a loud BOOM! from the other room, and people yelling. This could only mean ... "John! Help is here. You've got to hold on. Please!"
A shot rang out startling Harold, followed by silence - although with his heart thumping in his ears as loud as a jack hammer Finch couldn't be sure the silence was complete. Suddenly the door burst open and a sturdy, masked man, wielding a - in Harold's eyes - large gun appeared in the door frame. Finch had expected to see Ms. Shaw, and for a devastating millisecond he believed that he had been wrong with his assumption that they were about to be rescued. But then their eyes met and Harold could see his shock mirrored in the other man's eyes. "Help him," Finch pleaded. "Please."
"Jesus Christ." Fusco ripped the mask off his head, turned towards the open door and yelled, "In here! I need help in here!"
The detective hurried over to where Finch and Reese sat still facing each other, and Harold could literally watch as the previously too bright red face of the detective turned white at the sight in front of him. "Jesus Christ," he repeated as he hovered over the unconscious form of John Reese, unsure of what to do. Before he could make up his mind he was pushed aside by Ms. Shaw. She immediately checked on Reese's pulse. It was there, but just barely and she cursed under her breath. His condition was worse than the last time he'd almost bled out going after Alonzo Quinn. Lucky for him this time she had come prepared.
"Is he dead?" Finch sounded like he expected the worst, and by the way things looked Shaw couldn't really blame him.
"No." Both Finch and Fusco exhaled in relief. "Not yet," Shaw added, then ordered Lionel to help her get Reese out of that chair. "Here." She tossed him a package of gauze. "Wrap this around the cut as tightly as possible.
Finch watched helplessly as the detective and Ms. Shaw bandaged John's arms in an attempt to stop the bleeding. His relief at hearing that Mr. Reese was still alive had quickly disappeared at the clipped tone of Ms. Shaw's voice. He had known her long enough to know that she was still worried. "He's going to be okay, isn't he?"
Shaw looked up at him, her expression not giving anything away. "He's lucky they didn't nick an artery or he'd be dead already." Finch swallowed. That information didn't help to appease his worry at all, but he didn't dare to press for a more definitive answer. Instead he remained silent and watched as Shaw checked Fusco's handiwork, nodding in approval. Then she pulled out a blood transfusion and a bag with clear liquid, which Harold assumed was a saline solution.
"He's lost a lot of blood, and we need to get his blood volume up before we can move him." She turned to Finch again. "You really should consider investing in a blood bank. I can't keep on stealing from the hospitals at this rate." She actually sounded reproachful. "Good thing we still had some leftovers from last time."
While Shaw worked to get the infusions going, Fusco took off his jacket, folded it and placed it underneath the unconscious man's head. It was the first time since John had passed out that Harold had gotten a look at his face. It was completely ashen, and the extreme pallor was set even more in contrast by John's hair - now completely blackened by sweat - and by Fusco's dark jacket his head rested on.
Harold Finch was no stranger to death. He had seen his only friend at the time being blown up; he had witnessed John's predecessor being gunned down. He had also had to endure minutes - hours - of not knowing what had happened to Mr. Reese or now also Ms. Shaw when their connection had been lost on several occasions. And Harold had always felt that the not knowing was the worst. But he had been wrong.
Having to watch your friend suffer through pain and slowly bleed to death while not being able to do anything about it ...
"Did you get the file?" he asked with renewed urgency. If there was anything he could do, it was to make sure that Michael Mercer would not get a chance to do this to anyone else.
Shaw didn't look up. "No."
"Why not? I told you to get it, didn't I?" Fusco - who had been busy untying Finch - stopped what he was doing, surprised by the sudden outburst. But one look at the man - at the almost-as-white-face as Reese's and the wide eyes - and he knew that Glasses was still very much in shock. Hell, who wouldn't be, he thought.
"Well," the female ex-op replied tersely and fixed Harold with a steely glare. "From what I could hear I figured getting to you and Reese in time would be more important. Besides, Mercer doesn't need the file anymore." She took her eyes off Finch and focused on checking Reese's heartbeat. It seemed to be getting stronger.
It took a moment for Harold to comprehend the meaning behind Shaw's words, and that single gun shot he had heard. "Oh." He swallowed. Again.
Finally free of his bonds Finch - with Fusco's help - got to his feet. "You alright?" asked the detective as the man slightly swayed. Putting a steadying hand on the chair's backrest, Harold took a second to breathe. His head was pounding, and the area where Mercer had struck him hurt like a bitch now that the adrenaline rush he'd been on was slowly subsiding. Truth be told he'd be shaking like a leaf if he were to let go of the little self-restraint he had left. Instead he mustered up a small, reassuring smile at the detective. "Yes, I'm alright," he said, but the doubtful look Fusco was giving him told him that he wasn't fooling anyone. He gazed down at John again, the smile disappearing from his features. "I've had better days."
"Alright." Shaw got to her feet. "I think it's time we got going." Thrusting the two bags - now already half empty - into Harold's hands, she and Fusco carefully picked Reese off the ground, and awkwardly managed to balance his tall frame between them. Shaw cursed. "Okay, no more donuts for this guy."
The going was slow, but Finch exhaled a breath of relief when he finally stepped out of that room. Outside he found Mercer's men tied up with duct-tape, blindfolded and unconscious - he hoped. Mercer himself lay on the other side, slumped against the wall with his gun still in his hand. There was blood spatter on the wall above him where Harold approximated their Number's head would have been, and that was more than he wanted to know about the man's death.
It took them a good fifteen minutes to get to the cars. By the time they reached them Fusco was sweating and breathing heavily like he'd just run a marathon. "Tell me again why we didn't park any closer?"
He helped transfer Reese's limp form to the backseat, watched Finch and Shaw get in and drive away without so much as a backwards glance. He stared at the taillights - watching them grow smaller, then disappear - and sighed. "Yeah, you're welcome."
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To be continued...