Death of Innocence
Day 13
Library Office, start of November, 2013
When they'd finally traced Reese to the motel where Alonzo Quinn had landed, he'd already steamrollered the site – cleared any meddling U.S. Marshalls in their way. Finch and Shaw had burst right in on the two of them. Fusco right behind them.
John was standing, nearly standing, with his gun in his hand. Quinn cowered a few feet away, eyes on the gun. Reese didn't look so good. Maybe there'd be a chance to take it away. Could see it in his eyes – and now that he'd written the words on the page, where Simmons would be found – not much use for him anymore. Needed to act before it's too late.
All according to plan – John's plan.
John raised his gun. Harold blanched. Would he shoot Quinn – in cold blood, like that?
Fate intervened just then. John dropped to the floor, sitting, leaning against the wall. Dazed in his eyes. Didn't have much left anymore.
Finch bent on a knee next to his ear. Had to keep him from making this mistake – this was a human being in front of them. A living, breathing human being. Can't just execute the man like this.
"John." He made it soft in his ear. Fatherly.
"This is not what we do." He'd emphasized the not.
Honestly couldn't tell if John had heard. Still looked dazed. Pale and dazed. His lifeblood slowly leaking away. Blood in a trail down his arm. His own blood on his hand. Now he'd wanted to add some more.
Fierce in his eyes, all of a sudden. Remembered his mission. This was for Carter! Lifted the gun again – steadied it in his hand.
And when it was over, when John had tried and failed with his gun, Quinn just stood there, defiant.
Power – power was fickle, he'd said. Comes and goes to those who knew how to wield it. He'd raised his fist, then, as Shaw and Fusco were raising John. Had to get him home. Away from here.
"Power," he'd said, fist raised. "It comes and it goes, like the strength in your bones. And mine are strong now."
Fusco snickered and started to turn away. Saw the paper there and picked it up.
Simmons. Leave that one for him.
In the car, on the way back to the Library Office, Finch had been in rare form – organizing an urgent response to John's condition. Shaw did what she could on the way. Pulled his clothes away from the bloody sites, to check. He'd already done what he could in the field. Duct-taped over the wounds to slow it down. Reese wasn't saying much in the car. Fusco drove and he hadn't spared any speed to get there.
Finch had his old wheelchair handy down at the doors. Got John up in the elevator on the chair. He was just staring by then, in and out, pale.
Finch exchanged looks with Shaw. Was this as bad as it looked?
He'd turned away. Got a look at his bloody sites and turned away. His fault, surely, for all this. He'd put his Team in harm's way – John, Joss, Nathan. Where's that doctor?
He felt the buzz in his pocket. The surgeon was here, downstairs. Good.
They'd been in there for a while.
No news yet. Finch paced in front of his desk, the laptop open, but nothing to say to the Machine. They just had to wait.
And, frankly, he didn't want to know – stats neatly displayed – for this procedure, done in these conditions, after losing blood for this long. What were his chances? Finch really didn't want to know.
Walked rather stiffly to his sink. Let the water run 'til it was cold. A cloth from somewhere. Squeezed the extra out in the sink.
"I don't feel so well," he mumbled.
They found him, later. There on the couch, stretched out with the rag on his head.
"Finch?"
He hadn't moved.
"You okay?" Miss Shaw, out of surgery. A grab in his chest.
"How is he, Miss Shaw?" Dreading and hoping. Pulse pounding, suddenly, in his chest.
"He made it, Finch." The words he'd wanted to hear.
Relief for the moment. Then a pause. This was John, after all. Wouldn't be this easy. There'd be tougher times ahead, for sure.
She was standing over him, then, dark eyes like calm pools. Felt the rag.
"Need a tune-up," she said, and lifted the rag off his head.
Came back a little later with a cold compress for him, and a cup of coffee for herself. Dropped into the seat nearby, exhaling, then sipping. Finch stayed where he was. Stretched on the couch.
"What's happening, Miss Shaw. In there," he said, tipping his head toward the room.
"He's a lotta work – for one man," she said, softly. Her eyes focused in the air over his head.
"Will he live, Miss Shaw?" His voice cracked when he said it. Almost couldn't bear the thoughts.
She ran through her lists in her head: blood loss; stress on his heart from the hunt; dispatching those Marshalls, more stress, more blood loss; pressuring Quinn; all the delays in tending his wounds; infection – for sure. She turned to Finch, her eyes dark, calm pools.
"Without a doubt."