ii.
"I think the apartment is a bust," Reese murmured, packing away his camera with care. "It's changed hands twice since Whalen was last here."
Finch's sigh came through the phone line. "Understood, Mr. Reese. I'll cross it off the list. The bar?"
"Heading there now."
"I've managed to pull some of his records from ASI. Unfortunately, there's not much to tell." Reese could hear the frustration in Finch's voice and frowned.
"I thought you could dig up anything, given time," he said, descending from his spot on the neighboring roof and moving away from the number's old apartment building with casual grace. "Don't tell me someone's managed to be more private than even you, Finch."
"Hardly, Mr. Reese," Finch scoffed. Reese felt a corner of his mouth twitch. "It seems more like a third party put significant effort into eliminating all details about Mr. Whalen's career. Fortunately for us, it appears they may have missed something."
Reese darted across a busy street, checking his phone for the next address. "A loose end?"
"I'll need a few moments, but that may in fact be the case," Finch muttered. His concentration was clearly focused on unearthing the trail so Reese raised a hand to his ear.
"Good luck with it. I'll check in later." Ending the call, he slipped around a few blocks and through the door of a dive bar that wasn't on speaking terms with polite society. Reese hunched his shoulders and ambled up to the counter, slouched onto a stool. He ordered a beer and took his time observing and cataloging the sparse afternoon crowd.
None of Finch's searches had turned up any records of friends or family in the areas Whalen had frequented. Reese's first instinct given that and other intel they'd dug up was that Whalen could be a dangerous man, overly committed to his private military job—these apparent loner tendencies could be serious red flags. But Reese forced himself to broaden his perception. If this job had taught him anything, it was to never assume. The lack of information about Whalen's missions could also mean his work was classified and solitude had been an unfortunate consequence. Something he should know from experience.
He was roused from his thoughts when the bartender shambled over to him, nodded to his near empty glass. "Want something else, big guy?"
Reese shook his head, donning a sheepish smile. "Better not. Just came here to catch an old friend. Don't suppose you've seen him?"
"Who're you looking for?" the bartender asked, leaning his elbows on the counter.
"His name's Whalen. Rick Whalen. Haven't seen him in a few years, but I promised I'd look him up when I made it back to New York." Reese dug into his pocket for a candid photo Finch had found when the man shrugged. "Here, hang on. Got a picture here, that might be better."
"Yeah," the bartender chuckled. "No way I can keep up with names around here." He looked at the photo, corners of his mouth turning down. "Sorry, man. He used to be in here all the time, like clockwork. But I haven't seen him in…must be almost a year now. No idea what happened."
Reese twisted his mouth into a frown of his own. "Maybe he moved away?" He kept his voice hopeful, turning earnest eyes on the other man.
The bartender shrugged. "Doubt it. I never caught much of what he did for a living and he never really talked to anyone. But from what I did get, he was a military guy. And he'd disappear for a few months at a time, here and there. I only remember him so well because he didn't seem to have many friends, so I'd try to keep an eye out for when he'd show up next. And whenever he did, he'd be grinning about how lucky he got. Making it back again, you know? Guess this last time, he just didn't."
Reese let disappointment wash over his face, stared into his glass for a minute. He slowly drew the picture back toward himself. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
"No problem. Sorry I couldn't help." Reese shrugged, not meeting the man's eyes. He tossed him a few bills and pushed off the stool. "Take it easy, man," the bartender saluted him and picked up the glass. Reese left without a word, keeping his shoulders slumped.
He tapped his ear once he hit the street. "Bar's a bust too, Finch. Hasn't been there in a year and seems like he was closest to the bartender. Who didn't even know his name."
"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Finch responded right away. "That may not be a problem."
"You found something?" Reese perked up, slowing his steps. "Got a location for me?"
"Not as such. But the pieces of Mr. Whalen's story that I have been able to find thus far are…interesting. I suggest you continue toward Advanced Security as of now."
Reese nodded to himself, increasing his pace. He twitched left when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, then relaxed. Just a traffic camera. "On my way."
The Machine had hoped for something to distract it while Asset and Admin worked, but this was ridiculous.
What on earth could induce an agent of Clint Barton's caliber and quality to go rogue with such abruptness? The Machine was now well acquainted with the nuances of Barton's life: his sniper habits; his early age deafness; his questionable circus costume choices. But despite his occasional solitary tendencies, smart mouth and problems with authority, he was an exemplary agent. It would not have predicted a swerve like this from what it had learned about this colorful man.
There had to be some key piece of information the Machine had missed. Perhaps a new backer had offered him an irresistible deal to turn on his former employers? No, that would explain some factors but not all. Barton showed every sign of enjoying his tenure with SHIELD to date. Any such offer would need to be astronomical to tempt him, if it even could. And it was unlikely the Machine would miss such an event. A long game? No again. There would be evidence of a secret handler, signs pointing to a double life. Barton was an excellent spy and could perhaps have kept such a thing from SHIELD—but not from the Machine.
Maybe instead a falling out with a superior? Humans could sometimes react negatively to personal confrontations. An internal incident within SHIELD walls would explain why the Machine had no record of whatever triggered this change of heart. Then again, it would have to be quite the blowup to drive Barton to not just thumb his nose at his employers, but to begin recruiting known enemies of SHIELD to build a small army. . The Machine knew what to look for; no matter how secure SHIELD's security feeds were, it would have seen that.
This made no sense. The Machine was well versed in all kinds of human nature and interaction. It should have been able to predict this!
What could have turned such a high level agent against the organization to whom he had shown every sign of loyalty?
This was turning out to be one of the Machine's greatest challenges. It did not appreciate it in the least.
The Machine played a recording of a sigh to itself. It had noted that sometimes helped relieve stress from some humans. How was still unclear. No immediate beneficial effect was noticeable. Perhaps it lost something in the recording.
Well, it was becoming quite certain that Barton's history would yield no help. Whatever happened to derail the man had to be recent and somehow the Machine has missed it. It pulled the current surveillance feeds dedicated to Barton back to the forefront of its processors to find—nothing?
The Machine paged through each feed that covered the last set of locations Barton had been frequenting. Empty, empty and empty. It pulled up a wider arc and found still nothing, not even strays from the mercenary group Barton had recruited. They must have abandoned their base and moved on.
The Machine kicked up a global search, frantically checking major feeds for Barton and even diverting a few processors from normal operations for precious seconds. Still nothing. It was like he had disappeared from the very face of the earth. Where could he have gone?
And perhaps more important: what could he be doing now?
Finch shifted through the printed photos, trying to get them into some semblance of a timeline. He taped up one grainy image after another into a disjoined summary of Rick Whalen's last mission. The footage from which he'd pulled the pictures was horribly corrupted and buried deep in Advanced Security International's servers but he'd be damned if that would ever stop him. And his persistence seemed to be paying off.
Finch contemplated the photo set, much less stomach-churning than the shaky and spotty video itself. He leaned back against the table to take the strain off his spine and tried to pick out which parts of the footage to focus on cleaning up next. The story the photos told didn't quite line up with the official mission report. The broad points seemed to match: a security detail posted to a large package, transporting it through hostile desert territory, a skirmish with a large group of local insurgents, package and security detail both destroyed. But there seemed to be an awful lot the official report didn't say. And there were fragments of the feed from the Humvee security camera that spoke of something even more sinister.
The report had stressed that the protection detail was taking a secret route, mapped out with care. That the encounter with the insurgents was an unfortunate accident, that they'd stumbled onto their hideout with no warning. Finch frowned. The explanation didn't sit right in his mind. He couldn't shake the feeling that the enemy seemed to know the detail was coming.
That it looked too much like an ambush to be an accident.
His phone buzzed behind him on the desk and he swiveled to accept the call. Reese's urgent voice filled the air. "Finch."
"Yes, Mr. Reese?" He slid back into the chair and poised his hands over the keyboard, ready for any request.
"I've got eyes on Whalen."
Finch took a sharp breath through his nose. "You've found him? Where?"
"Six blocks northeast of ASI. Heading toward it, and being smart about it. I almost walked past him myself," Reese grunted.
"I don't suppose you managed to clone his phone?" he asked, tracing Whalen's possible locations based on Reese's position and the distance to Advanced Security.
"No phone to pair, as far as I could see." Reese's said. "Wait—he's changing direction. He doubled back and seems to be aimless now, but he's too determined. I think he made me."
"Very well," Finch sighed. "He may still make for the headquarters, attempt to lose you on the way. I'll try to project some routes. Perhaps you can intercept him instead of following—" Reese's soft but sharp curse cut him off. "Mr. Reese?"
"He's running. In pursuit," Reese said. "I'll call you back." The connection terminated and left Finch alone in the suddenly silent library.