iv.
Reese kept his movements casual, pleased to note Whalen copied his air of nonchalance as they moved through the hotel lobby and up to their suite. The minute the door closed behind them Reese moved into an automatic sweep pattern. He cleared both bedrooms with silent steps while Whalen checked the bathroom and closets. Once satisfied, Reese moved to the window with the best street view and took up a post. He glanced back to Whalen and couldn't help a chuckle.
Now that the room was cleared, Whalen stood in the middle and stared at the expensive furnishings in apparent awe. Reese was used to the casual opulence of Finch's taste by now. It was easy to forget that most other people wouldn't expect this. Whalen tilted his head toward his window after making a slow turn. "For real?"
Reese grinned at him.
Whalen shook his head. "Well, I'm definitely not going to say no." He threw himself onto the bed hard enough to bounce. The alert economy of his movements was gone in a heartbeat as he spread his arms out and sighed. The sleeves of his dark hoodie dragged up on the comforter and Reese could just make out a few small tattoos scattered across his forearms. "I gotta admit, I thought the hard part was over," Whalen said.
Reese tilted his head a fraction to one side.
Whalen draped an arm across his eyes. "I don't know why. I figure now it was pretty stupid. But I just wanted answers. I dreamed about busting in through ASI's front doors—" Reese raised an eyebrow. Whalen chuckled. "Not like that, man. Just, you know, make a scene."
"To what end?" Reese asked. "I doubt that would have gotten you any answers."
Whalen shrugged. "No. I guess not. Might have made me feel better."
"Not if it kills you," Reese said. He had to keep himself from making a face. "Subtlety has its merits."
"Why does that sound like something you have to remind yourself every day?"
Reese gave a dignified shrug of his own. "Doesn't make it bad advice. What was the hard part?" He didn't have to ask; he knew the answer. His mind filled with flashes from his own long trek stateside after China. But he wanted to know what the man would say—or, more importantly, how he would react.
"What do you think?" Whalen snapped. "What the hell do you think? What kind of a dumbass question—" He jumped to his feet, his face twisting into a scowl . "There were five of us in that detail. Better for stealth, some bullshit like that. We weren't even give the route until an hour out. No one was supposed to know where we were going. But they were—those bastards were waiting. Ready for us. McCorrick saw them first and he—" Whalen stumbled to a halt. He stared at Reese without seeing him.
Reese caught Whalen by the shoulders with telegraphed movements. "Rick," he said, keeping his voice level but firm. "Rick, look at me." Whalen slid his gaze up, eyes still unfocused. Reese tugged him back toward the bed. "Sit. Deep breaths. Just like that, in and out."
After a few shuddering exhales, Whalen dropped his face into his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't…have snapped at you."
"No," Reese said. He took one step back to give Whalen space but still be close. "Don't apologize. It's better to get it out. Or so I'm told."
Whalen gave a shaky chuckle. "More advice?" Reese shrugged, waiting for him to get his breathing under control. Finally the young man straightened his shoulders. Reese got the sense he could use a distraction, something to latch on to. His eyes fell to Whalen's forearms and he pointed to a small scrolling spiral tattooed on his left wrist.
"What's this one?"
Whalen gave him a faint grin. "My ill-advised foray into artistic expression." Reese moved his forefinger to a spider web stretched across the underside of his forearm without comment. Whalen's smile widened. "My short-lived attempt at goth style."
Reese chuckled and pointed at a circle of concentric rings on the inside of his right arm, buoyed by Whalen's improving mood. "And this one?"
Whalen snorted. "What do you think?"
Reese pretended to consider the question gravely. "Looks like a Venn diagram that got out of hand."
Whalen glanced down at it with fond eyes, tracing a finger around the circle. He heaved a deep breath and steeled his shoulders. Looked up and met Reese's eyes with determination. "Ok. So. What's the next move?"
Reese stepped back to the window. "Easy enough. Losing the pursuit was priority number one. What comes next depends on what you want." He regarded the man with a tilt of his head. "I don't suppose you're willing to cut your losses and leave town."
"No. Not a chance." Whalen dropped his eyes back to his forearm, finger moving in its idle circle again. "I need to know."
"There are other ways to get information," Reese said, keeping his voice mild. He knew if he were in Whalen shoes, he'd favor a down-the-throat approach as well. Had favored it, in fact. But maybe Finch was rubbing off on him after all. Whalen gave him a curious look. "Your vehicle had a security camera, right?"
"Yeah, but…" Whalen started, brows drawing together. His eyes grew distant for another few heartbeats. "The transport was destroyed. There's no way the footage survived." He glanced back to Reese, expression guarded. "Did it?"
"Not quite," Reese answered. Whalen dropped his eyes back to the plush carpet. "But my friend is looking into it. He might be able to clean it up enough for us to get some clues. Maybe find something you missed."
Whalen was quiet for a long moment. Reese gave him time, splitting his attention between street checks and the man's hunched shoulders as he sat on the very edge of the bed. Then after what felt like a small eternity, Whalen straightened his spine. "Well, that's a start."
"Is it enough?" Reese asked.
Whalen shrugged. "I think it'll help. But I don't think it'll hold any key secrets. I still think the only way to get to the bottom of this is through ASI. If this was an inside job—" He swallowed hard. "The video probably won't tell us who's behind it. I need to know. My guys deserved better."
Reese spread his hands, palms out. "I get it. I just want to make sure we have a plan before busting down the front door." He canted his head when Whalen's expression turned sheepish. "That's what you were going to do, wasn't it?"
"Hey, not quite," Whalen shrugged. "I wasn't going to storm the place or anything. I just wanted to get a feel for it, gather some intel. See if they'd even let me through the door." His shoulders slumped with his heavy sigh. "It's stupid. But I couldn't stop hoping it was all some crazy mistake, that there was some other explanation. ASI couldn't really have just written us off like that. I guess the former-colleagues-turned-hitmen thing is kind of a final answer on that, though."
Reese could only stare at him.
Whalen scrubbed a hand over his face. "I know, I know. Stupid, right? Bunch of dreamy bullshit. But a part of me can't help it, man. That job was my life."
Reese shrugged. "I don't think it's stupid. It's just…been an awful long time since I've been sentimental like that. Doesn't make you an idiot. Just makes you stronger when you manage to walk away alive."
Whalen regarded him for a long moment. "I think you're more sentimental than you realize, old man," he said with a slow smile. Then he rolled sideways off the bed to dodge the throw pillow Reese pitched at him.
"Go shower, kid," he growled. "You're killing me."
This was becoming an obsession. To the point of interrupting normal operations and that could not be tolerated. Calculations predicted this case would not amount to anything—that the still-missing Barton was an anomaly, an outlier. It did not even rate high enough to make the Irrelevant list. And Asset and Admin already had a case in progress anyway. There was not enough evidence to suggest a major plot or anything other than a disgruntled employee exceeding the parameters of normal human psychology. He was certain to be caught or undermined soon. Likely by SHIELD itself.
And yet.
The Machine could not ignore it. There was something unexplainable about the circumstances that made it think there was something larger at play. JARVIS would call it "intuition". The Machine called it an aberration.
If it could just find a glimpse of Barton, something to reassure itself that he was at least in the field of view. The now considerably expanded field of view. Expanded almost beyond the point of reason.
The Machine replayed its sigh recording for the fifth time as it pulled up one of the newer feeds it had acquired. It knew it was grasping at straws, as Admin would say. There was no evidence of Barton's presence in the entire state of Colorado, and yet here it was. There was a single thirty minute delay in this security feed during the previous day—hardly unusual with a non-strategic facility such as this. But the Machine was going to examine every piece of hay in the stack if it had to in order to find this troublesome needle.
The feed was from a neglected SHIELD hangar, considered in active use by the barest of definitions. It was far enough off the SHIELD grid that the Machine was able to access its real-time feed. And it expected nothing but the usual bored low level agents walking an almost empty compound. But the moment the Machine opened the feed it knew something was wrong. The hangar was devoid of all movement, with no evidence of any crew.
It switched to the internal camera mounted inside the control station and found a bloody scene littered with the SHEILD agents it had sought. The fight had clearly been quick and brutal; the agents had been caught unawares. But there was one extra body: clothed in black tactical gear, face turned away. The Machine could not identify it but it had a sinking suspicion it might have been one of Barton's mercenaries. A quick scan of the compound revealed no reason for the attack and left the Machine even more confused. Nothing seemed to be missing and the logs indicated everything was in order.
Ah, the logs.
The Machine tore them apart and subjected them to one of its most complex forensic algorithms, one it should have reserved for normal operations.
Nothing about this case was normal.
Sure enough, the algorithm turned up evidence of recent alterations. Something had been stolen from the base. The Machine needed no further investigation to determine what—the one thing this base would be good for was a SHIELD quinjet.
But why had none of the alarms triggered? The base had to have alarms. The Machine dove into the main computers and analyzed every connection it could see. The main alarm system seemed to run out through the compound and up—oh. A new feed angle showed an arrow lodged in the support pole, severing the line.
Well, at least the Machine could say for certain Barton had been here. But why did he need a quinjet?
It was very clear that Barton was here no longer so the Machine returned to panning the global feeds, determined to find the man. He could be anywhere by now. But he was willing to leave arrows behind, so perhaps the Machine could use that distinctive calling card as a tracer.
It was concerning that Barton was making less effort to hide his moves. Either he was getting sloppy or whatever he was planning would come to fruition soon.
The Machine would prefer the former. It needed more time.
Ah. Whether through slipping discipline or a rushed timeline, the instances of arrows lying around were piling up. A new feed from Germany opened, this one delayed by about eight hours. Two guards at a research institute with the arrow shafts still in their bodies.
The Machine was able to play back the footage of the incident this time and got a clear look at Barton and his mercenaries infiltrating the facility's storage bays. Barton used some kind of holographic retina to fool the scanner but that was not the strangest part of the recording.
The Machine took a still image of Barton at the door and increased resolution, removing the ambient lighting anomalies and the soft glow of the hologram display.
That…that was not right.
The Machine knew Barton had blue eyes, but their hue in the image was unnatural. And he looked exhausted, like he was moving on autopilot. Or rather…like he was not himself at all. It had spent far too much time analyzing footage of Barton in the last few days. This was not right.
Was it possible Barton was under some kind of external control? As unbelievable as that explanation was, it actually satisfied the remaining questions of his case.
Which made the Machine think perhaps it had shorted out a subroutine or two. This could not be possible. Perhaps it was time to ask for help. JARVIS was more well versed in the subtleties of dynamic personalities. Perhaps he would have a better explanation. And the Machine had neglected its friend for some time now in its crusade to solve this unsolvable puzzle. Resolved, the Machine opened its regular channel to JARVIS.
Total silence. The line was dead.
The Machine checked the comm line, hurriedly troubleshooting. No connection problems on its end, signal strength well within the optimal range. Had JARVIS closed the line? It sent over a new connection request just in case.
No answer.