v.

Finch frowned at his screen, sliding his glasses up to rub at his eyes with tense fingers. The footage sequence stretched across his monitor, mostly clear up to the key moments at the end. The video captured the uneventful drive toward the ambush site, covered the initial strike—and then cut off. The Humvee must have taken a direct hit at that point. It was apparent the package hadn't been opened or breached before being destroyed, and there was no clue as to what it contained. Finch clenched his teeth and rose on stiff legs. He started to pace, to loosen up and stretch his spine. But his frustration wouldn't let him relax.

He'd hoped the video would provide more answers than this. The clear indication that the attack was in fact an ambush was helpful, granted. But it fell far short of Finch's expectations. It seemed a personal visit to ASI was in the cards for Reese and Mr. Whalen after all, despite his best efforts.

He stalked in and out of the dusty shafts of morning sun, tried to drain the tension out of his shoulders the way various physical therapists had instructed him. But he knew it wouldn't ease until he finished the last few seconds of corrupted footage. It probably wouldn't provide any new information. But Finch knew he wouldn't be able to let it go until he had done all he could.

He settled back at the desk, sweeping three empty paper teacups aside. He considered calling Reese, checking in with their morning progress. They'd left the hotel hours earlier to conduct recon, losing the last of Mr. Whalen's pursuit with the particular brand of brutal efficiency they appeared to share. Perhaps it would be best not to disturb them after all. The plan was for them to proceed to ASI unless Finch was able to turn anything else up. It wasn't looking like that would come to pass.

Frame after frame failed the decryption, still corrupted beyond recognition. He parsed through each again, hoping he could find the right element to focus on and use as a template. He passed over failed stills until he hit upon one final usable candidate. Something about the overall shot looked off, but it had the best remaining samples of tone and grade. It wasn't like he had anything to lose.

Finch plugged it in to the algorithm and let the reconstruction start over one more time. As it processed, he studied the chosen image carefully. By now, he was familiar with the placements of the five man escort detail, the location and bulk of the package. The looming figures of the ambushers. But something still raised his hackles. The position Whalen held now looked…wrong. Had he moved out of place as the attack got into full swing? Had he panicked? Finch wished for Reese's military eye. This couldn't be right. It almost looked, to his untrained glance, like Whalen faced the wrong way. Had his weapon pointed—no. No.

The reconstruction completed and popped an alert over the fuzzy screenshot. It appeared to have actually worked this time. Finch scrambled for the mouse and pulled up the last few seconds of video with a pounding heart.

And there it was. The ambush in full swing, attackers coming in hot. The other four men were still in position as before. But just after the rebels crested the ridge Whalen turned and fired on one of his own men with cold calculation. He gestured sharply to some of the rebels and they moved in, weapons down, to speak to him. The video cut out.

Cold horror made Finch's hands tremble. They'd done so much worse than fail to save a victim—they'd failed to identify a perpetrator.

His earpiece chirped and Reese gave it one short tap. "Finch, now's not a good time."

"Mr. Reese," Finch's voice was full of urgency, uncharacteristic panic. Reese's stomach filled with ice. "You must—"

The rest of his sentence didn't register, lost to the sudden boom far above their heads. Reese blanked for a split second, at once back in the field with shells falling like deadly rain. He snapped himself back to the present through long practice, refocusing on the streets of New York and the fading cloud of smoke over the Stark Tower roof. He blinked hard when a shaft of light pierced the clouds and everything stopped making sense.

It was like a window opened in the bright morning sky. Reese could see stars, thousands twinkling in a dark expanse of night. And through that window came a flurry of…tiny ships? Whatever they were, they flew without wings or rotors. They swept down the Tower and flooded the city, bringing their own deluge of blue fire and destruction. The lunatic billionaire Stark buzzed around them in that flashy sci-fi suit, shooting several down. But despite all his fancy tricks he was just one man. The things just kept coming.

When a few came within a couple blocks, Reese got a good look at the pilots. Barring some kind of advanced bodysuits, there was no other word for it. They looked alien.

The thought flashed through Reese's mind: I've finally snapped.

But even sudden insanity couldn't drown out his instincts. They screamed at him to grab Whalen, go to ground. Get a defensible position. He forced his attention back to Finch's frantic barks in his ear. "I'm here, but we have a problem. Do you believe in aliens?"

"Now is hardly the time," Finch snapped. "Are you still with Mr. Whalen?"

Reese spun on his heel and was met with the empty spot Whalen had occupied moments before. He shook off the new shock, scanning the street with focused intent. The kid might have panicked, followed similar instincts to get to safety without thinking. "About that."

"John!" Finch's voice regained its urgency. "We've made a terrible error. Whalen is not what he—"

Finch's warning washed out with a sudden, staggering blow to the back of Reese's head. He fell forward with the momentum, rolling into a defensive stance. But Whalen followed. Reese managed to grab the sloppy punch aimed for his face before realizing, too late through lingering dizziness, that it was a set up. Whalen used his grip as leverage to spin, foot arching in a perfect roundhouse before—

Black.

Finch stared at his phone as 'call lost' flashed across the screen. He wrenched himself out of the paralyzing shock with effort and fumbled for the redial button.

"You have reached the voice mailbox of—"

Finch killed the call, pulse pounding in his ears. A second redial yielded the same.

He stood abruptly and his chair hit the floor behind him with a bone-jarring thump. Whalen. It had to be Whalen. Finch replayed every step of their mission, lightning-quick. Reese had told him about the video reconstruction. He must have been biding his time, waiting for Finch's call.

No, not just waiting. Using Reese to help him clear out his opponents.

And the very moment he thought he'd been found out…

Finch paced to the glass board, yanking off the page that summarized ASI and its business. This changed everything; they'd been wrong again. At least the stakes this time were lower than letting a powerful mob boss loose on the streets. But it might not matter at all if Reese had been caught unawares—

Finch gave himself a sharp shake. It did no good to dwell on conjectures without data. He had to approach this new development with a level head. The only thing he could do now was try a different angle; perhaps his next best move would be to contact ASI itself if he couldn't reach Reese. He might be able to salvage the situation if he alerted them, give Reese some breathing room. Provided he was still alive…

Stop. Deep breath. It wouldn't be the first time a phone was damaged beyond functionality. Besides, Reese had a track record of defying the odds—plenty of others had prematurely written him off with far more proof than this.

Finch snatched up his phone just as the floor rumbled beneath his feet. He paused and glanced toward the clouded windows, for once cursing that they were difficult to see through. He focused on the distant sounds he'd ignored earlier in favor of panic. Explosions? And were they…increasing in intensity?

The floor shuddered again. Deep thunder-like booms resonated through the high bookshelves. Finch blinked away his shock for the second time and scrambled for his computer. Nothing official from any major news outlets, but New York centered social media was flooding with insane messages and pictures. Small planes bombing the city? But…how on earth could any attack have gotten this far with no forewarning? How could anything like that slip by the Machine?

Finch scanned the images and amateur reports. It certainly sounded like an invasion. But the one way the Machine could have missed it was an element of surprise. How could something this major, this widespread—the floor rumbled again—be kept quiet enough to manage it? There was no way…

Finch stilled over a lucky close up of one of the planes, the pilot in clear view. Mouth dry, he zoomed in until the visage filled his screen. For a split second, the sounds of the explosions faded in his ears. His chest felt tight. This couldn't be real. It wasn't possible.

The pilot was not human. And no mask or suit could account for it. Could it really be…?

Finch's mind flashed to his brief exchange with Reese. 'Do you believe in aliens?' Finch had scoffed, dismissing it at the time. But now it seemed his partner had been quite serious. He must have seen them, identified these invaders as extra-terrestrials. By now Finch was in the habit of trusting Reese's judgment, particularly in a combat situation. To all appearances, that's what this was. Perhaps it would be best to focus on that and try to ignore the potential…alien aspect.

Finch nodded to himself. He could do that. A situation in downtown Manhattan, that the Machine had failed to prevent. Finch clamped his hands on the desk's edge and felt the rumbling tremors through the wood, the noise crashing back into his ears.

Combat situation, he reminded himself. That Reese was—of course—in the middle of. That was hardly a new development.

Finch dialed ASI's office line with quick taps. It rang and rang until a message service came over the line and Finch pursed his lips. He thumbed the call once more, pacing with a stilted gait. The muffled explosions echoed closer, accompanied by a strange whistling whine outside the windows.

He paused mid-step, eyes flickering to the alien still looming on the monitor. But his focus snapped back to the phone when the call cut off. Finch frowned and redialed, but this time the out-of-service message poured into his ear yet again.

Finch stalked back to his desk and shoved his phone into his pocket. He stared at the image, considering his options. One: he could hunker down in the lower levels of the library, try connecting to the internet and hope he could monitor the situation. Perhaps try contacting ASI through other means on the chance Whalen could still be a problem for them, in the face of an apparent alien invasion. Two: he could try to reach them in person.

Getting to safety and staying out of the way was probably the right choice. He was well aware the most he could offer in combat was to present an easy target. But the idea didn't sit right with him. Reese was still out in the danger zone. While that might be his natural habitat, Finch couldn't do much to help him from here. Reese and Whalen had been heading for ASI so perhaps it was his best bet after all.

He straightened and began limping resolutely to the broad staircase, back stiff and shoulders tight. He pulled up the address on his phone; at least ASI was in the opposite direction from where social media suggested the main invasion was centered. But—Finch gauged the now-constant background rumbles—it may not make much of a difference.

A quick check out the library's entrance yielded clear streets for now. But the mechanical whines of those bizarre little planes sounded no more than a block away, growing and receding as the aliens zipped through the city. He could make this work if he stuck to narrow alleys and kept both caution and extreme luck on his side. Maybe.

Finch sighed, squared his shoulders and stepped out into the street.