Aftermath- Part 4
Title: Aftermath
Category:Drama, H/C
Rating:PG-13 to R (For violence)
Characters: John Reese, Harold Finch
Disclaimer: POI belongs to Bad Robot Productions and it's creators. I make no profit from this and no copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: Spoilers for "Number Crunch"
Summary: The aftermath of Reese being shot
Author's Notes: This chapter is mostly a flashback to Reese's past. (There will be a Finch flashback in a later chapter.) I apologize if the spacing is all messed up on this. It looks fine when I'm posting but LJ somehow lumps the text all together on the page.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
Reese sat on the sofa in Finch's study holding a glass of brandy in shaking hands. He looked deeply at the amber liquid but did not take a drink. Before he met Finch he had been more than familiar with the bottle. He wasn't sure he wanted to renew that friendship now.
It was now several hours since the men had broken in and he had taken care of them. Finch's men had arrived and been sent to stand guard. Finch had then called the police and claimed there had been an attempted robbery. Reese was still surprised with the ease that the computer genius had convinced the detectives that the men had been killed in self defense and that it was a home invasion gone wrong.
Now the house was quiet again. Reese looked at Finch who was sitting in a wing chair across from him. “Have you ever killed anyone?”he asked. Finch looked a little surprised. “Not directly,” he replied. He sipped his own brandy and thought about Ingram and the numbers he had been unable to help. He hadn't had anything to do with their deaths but he felt responsible just the same.
Reese raised an eyebrow but didn't question that. “I hope you never have to.” He took a small sip of his drink. “It never gets any easier, believe me.” It was especially difficult when you had killed someone with your bare hands. Admittedly, he hadn't intended to kill Red when he shoved him back at the nightstand. It didn't change the fact that he had done it though. He sighed and swirled the liquid in his glass. Part of him was glad it was this hard. He never wanted to become a monster who could kill without blinking an eye or feeling any remorse.
“I'll refrain from asking how many people you've killed,” Finch said. Reese gave him a tired smile. “That's good. I'm not sure I remember right now.” Was it that or did he not want to remember? Regardless, there were some he would never forget.
1999
John Reese walked down the street in Phuket's "Entertainment district". It was early evening and the heat was still oppressive. The collar of his lightweight shirt was damp with sweat and his dark hair lay heavily against his forehead. Reese had been in Thailand for several weeks now on this, one of his first undercover assignments. His identity was that of Jim Mangione, an art and antiques specialist in the employ of Talbot-Black import/export. His target was J.S. Lee, the head of one of the largest worldwide smuggling rings. Since he had been in Thailand, Reese had succeeded in meeting Lee and getting him to agree to do business. They had a meeting set up for the following morning.
Reese finally approached his destination; a bar/brothel whose name translated to something like "The Jade Orchid". He stepped inside it's welcome coolness. A young Thai woman wearing a red dress slit to the thigh approached him. "Good evening Mr. Mangione. Are you here for a little fun?" she said in heavily accented English. Reese shrugged her off. "Not tonight, Mai. I'm just here to unwind with a drink." He made his way to the bar. Once there he ordered a bourbon on the rocks then went to a large oval table in the corner of the room where a poker game was about to get underway. "Mr. Mangione. So glad you are able to join us." Mr. Lee said in greeting. "My pleasure." Reese took a seat at the table. As Lee shuffled and dealt he took a look at the other players.
There were several of Lee's "associates" and a couple of Thai men he didn't recognize. Reese was most interested in the two Americans at the table. (Perhaps non-Asians would be a better description. He was pretty sure that at least one of them was American though.) One was a bald, slightly heavy middle aged businessman in a tan suit. He was probably in Thailand on business and more than likely had an expense account he was using to the fullest. He also likely partook of the various "entertainments" offered here. The other was a dark haired young man who looked to be in his early twenties. A recent college graduate here on vacation Reese guessed. From his designer polo shirt and expensive haircut Reese read that he was upper middle class. His father was probably a doctor or a lawyer.
The game began and Reese kept his eye on the young man, deciding the businessman was of no concern. As usual Mr. Lee won most of the hands. The "college boy" as Reese had come to think of him didn't like this one bit. He'd better watch himself or he'd be in more trouble than he could handle, he thought. He was familiar with Lee's gambling habits and knew not to bet money he couldn't afford to lose. When everyone took a break Reese went to the bar and got another drink. The bartender was Alex Kwan, his CIA contact. He was about to say something about the assignment when the college boy walked up.
He ordered a drink then turned to Reese. "Can you believe the bloody bad luck I'm having?" he asked. "I've never gotten beat like this before." He looked disgusted. "There's something sodding wrong here." He had a British accent, East London from the sound of it. Reese looked at him. He knew that Lee did in fact cheat at cards and how he did it. That information was however classified so he couldn't say anything. "You're just having a bad night. It's happened to me too." he said. "It still pisses me off." the young man said. "I'd watch myself if I were you. Some of the people at that table take cards very seriously." Reese cautioned him. The young man looked at him. " You seem to know a lot about cards. Mr...?"
"Mangione. Jim Mangione." Reese answered. "And I don't know that much about cards but I do know how to avoid getting my ass handed to me." He held out his hand. "I'm Owen Harper," the young man said. They shook hands. "What brings you to Thailand?" Reese asked Owen. "I'm on holiday. You?"
"I'm here on business." Reese replied. "I work for an import/ export company." They went back to the table and the game began again. Owen continued to have bad luck. Eventually he got disgusted and threw his cards down. "I've had enough of this rigged game." He stood. "This isn't over, mate." he said to Lee, then stormed out. Reese hoped he hadn't gotten himself in deeper than he could handle. Lee appeared nonplussed by this outburst quietly whispering something to one of his associates then turning back to the game.
Several hours later Reese walked out of the club into the still humid night. The neighboring bars and brothels were still doing a brisk business even at this late hour. A sound from the alleyway made him stop and come to full attention. He glanced all around him cursing the fact that his Walther PPK pistol was tucked away in his hotel room. (he hadn't thought he'd need it that night and hadn't wanted to take the chance of being caught with it by Lee) Slipping his hand into his pocket he found two large coins which he put between his fingers as makeshift brass knuckles. He felt the reassuring weight of the Mad dog knife in it's holster against his ankle. Taking a deep breath Reese stepped into the alleyway. Owen Harper lay crumpled in a heap on the stone pavement. There didn't seem to be any sign of an assailant. Reese slipped the coins back in his pocket and went over to him.
The young man's lip was split and bleeding and one eye was swollen shut. His face and hands were bruised but he didn't look seriously hurt. He was lucky, Reese thought, remembering what happened to the last person who accused Mr. Lee of cheating. Owen slowly sat up and looked around. "Are you okay?" Reese asked. "I think so." Owen probed his bruised jaw thoughtfully. "Doesn't appear to be broken." Reese raised an eyebrow. "You a doctor or something?" Owen nodded. "Almost. I'm in medical school." Reese nodded. He had been correct in his first assessment of Owen. "What happened here?" Owen slowly got to his feet. "A couple of blokes jumped me as I was leaving the club. They just came out of nowhere." He stood a little unsteadily and looked at Reese. "You're lucky they didn't do anything worse to you." Reese reached out his hand to steady Owen. “Where are you staying?” Reese asked. Owen told him. “That's where I'm staying too. I'll walk back with you if you want.” Owen nodded and they made their way slowly to the street. They had only gone a short distance when they were approached by a Thai man wearing a black leather coat over dark jeans and a white t-shirt. “You looking for a good time?” He asked Reese and Owen in broken English. “Topless massage? Exotic Asian lay?” Reese shook his head. “No thanks.”
How about dirty pictures?” The man didn't seem at all surprised by Owen's bruised and bloody face. He reached inside his coat. “Get back.” Reese hissed at Owen in a voice barely more than a whisper. He had a pretty good idea of what was coming next.
The knife sliced through the air like a cold metal finger. Reese was ready for it and caught the arm wielding it before it had completed it's arc. A well placed forearm blocked the assailant's other arm. It was textbook defense but it was quite effective. The man struggled in Reese's grasp but the CIA agent was bigger and stronger. He twisted the knife arm back and the man howled. “Who sent you?” Reese growled in Thai. “Go to hell.” The man replied, also in Thai. “You first.” Reese dug his thumb into the nerve endings at the base of the man's palm and his hand opened dropping the knife. He struck out with his other hand.
Reese blocked the blow and came back with the side of his hand against the man's Adam's apple. He held his fingers stiff and as he made contact felt the man's windpipe crumple like a piece of paper. The man gurgled and collapsed to the ground. He was dead almost instantly. Owen watched all this agape. “Bloody Hell!” He knelt by the man. Reese stopped him before he could feel for a pulse. “He's already dead. There's nothing you can do for him now, Doc.” Owen stood. “Why did you kill him?” he asked. “He was sent to kill one or both of us.” Reese wrapped a tissue around his hand and reached in the man's pocket and removed his wallet. “He was a paid thug. It's no big loss.” (He wouldn't dignify the man with the term assassin.) Standing, Reese faced Owen. Outwardly he was the picture of calm. Inside he was as shocked as the young Englishman.
He was 31 years old and had killed several times before but never with his bare hands. “What do you want with his wallet?” Owen asked as he watched Reese take the ID from it and put it in his pocket. “I'm sure this guy has a rap sheet a mile long. My people will want to run his ID through the system. Hopefully we can find out who he was working for.” Owen raised an eyebrow. “Your people? You a cop or something?” Reese smiled slightly. “Or something.” He paused. “I'm a CIA agent.” Owen looked suitably impressed. “Was that guy wanted for something?”
“Most likely.” Reese answered. “The people he was working for definitely are.” He stopped himself before he said something he shouldn't. The mission was classified after all. He grabbed Owen by the arm. “We'd better split before the authorities get here.” They started off down the street. “Aren't you working with the authorities?” Owen asked. “Technically yes. They don't always approve of our methodology though.” They arrived at the hotel a few moments later. As they waited for the elevator Reese told Owen. “Try to forget what you saw tonight. It will make things easier for you, believe me.”
A short time later Reese stood under the shower in his room. He closed his eyes, enjoying the refreshing feel of the water after being out in the heat. He turned the shower head to pulsate and let the spray relax his tense muscles. He couldn't get what he had done out of his mind. “Stay detached. It's the only thing that will keep you sane.” His handler had told him. Reese was trying his best to do that but it was difficult. There was something so personal and jarring about killing someone with your own hands. Much more so than shooting or poisoning someone. He stepped out of the shower and dried himself briskly with a towel then walked into the bedroom.
Reese slipped on boxers and a t-shirt and lay down on the bed, this time not even noticing that it was too short for him. (It wasn't designed for average height Americans much less 6'2 ones.) Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of movement on the far wall. A small green lizard was making it's way down the wallpaper. Reese sat up and peered at it. It was a harmless garden lizard, as common in this part of the world as ants or houseflies were in America. (They were also sold roasted on a stick by street vendors all over the country.) Smiling, he got out of bed and picked up the small creature by it's tail. "I think you'll be happier out here." He gently placed it in a potted plant on the balcony then went back inside.
Sitting here now in Finch's study that incident seemed like it had been worlds away. Despite that, Reese thought he would never forget it. He would never forget the brief feeling of power he had and the look on the man's face as he squeezed the life out of him. It would be indelibly etched on his consciousness for the rest of his life, however long that was.
“We're going to have to leave here,” Finch said, bringing Reese out of his reverie. “And the sooner the better.” Outside the first pale light of day was breaking. It was almost 6AM.