Day 21 . Playing For Blood . Person of Interest x Riddick
Title: Playing For Blood
Author: jedibuttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not
Rating: T/gen
Prompt/Prompter: xlade, who asked for: "There's a new number. Only it's not attached to the person it originally belonged to. Is the silver eyed identity thief the victim or the perpetrator? (Or both?)"
Spoilers: Person of Interest/Riddick fusion; general POI canon
Notes: Very little actual blood makes an appearance in this fic.
Summary: This would be an opponent to take down with a sniper rifle, from a distance; John wasn't keen on bleeding out before he could set up that shot. 1600 words.
John paused at the doorway that led out onto the roof, checking the tracker map on his phone screen again. They'd just missed the Number at the airport that morning, lost in a crowd after flying back into the country from a trip to the Middle East, but Finch had managed to capture the identifier information from the RFID chip in his passport and had tracked it through the city. John had cleared every other floor of the building it had stopped at already; the target pretty much had to be on the roof. But something just didn't feel right about the situation.
The software was reading the passport chip almost directly in front of him, about where the railing around the roof should be. As if someone had stepped out for a look over the neighborhood after an extended trip abroad. But there were better vistas on other sides of the building... and then there was the fact that the chip was still readable at all. Many Americans, particularly those who for one reason or another were leery of potential government surveillance, kept their passports in sleeves designed to block RFID signals when not in use. And rightly or wrongly, a man named Abu al-Walid who had very little online presence and had just returned from a religious pilgrimage seemed a likely candidate for that level of concern.
Was the man just that innocent? Or was there some deeper game already at work? John frowned, watching the steady signal, then thumbed out of the app and placed a call.
"Finch. Get a clear image from the video yet?" he rasped.
"I'm afraid not," Finch replied, grimly. "Between the robes and the path he chose through the airport, no camera got a better look at his face than we did; that is to say, none at all. The clearest visuals we have are of his hands, and his boots; though that was enough to tell me at least one thing of importance. The man carrying that passport is not actually Abu al-Walid. At least, not the imam who filled out the application. I believe this is another case of identity theft."
John sighed, reaching out to rest a hand flat against the door. "The biometrics don't match?"
"No. The information embedded on the chip describes a man about two inches taller, several shades darker, and many pounds lighter than our mystery guest."
"Too much change to be natural, then. Any idea where the other al-Walid is?"
"I'm afraid not. I'll continue searching; but I rather suspect the man you're tracking encountered him overseas and lifted his identification. Charges were made to al-Walid's credit cards in Saudi Arabia as recently as a week ago; he's probably still in that country, arranging for alternate ID."
If he was lucky. "Then our al-Walid probably isn't where the passport's showing up. Why would he go to that much trouble to get into the country, only to drop the ball at the last minute?"
"I'll assume that question is rhetorical," Finch replied, dryly. "Do be careful, John."
"I'll assume that statement is also rhetorical," John replied with a wry smile. Then he ended the call, secured the phone, and eased his handgun out of its holster before reaching for the handle.
The door opened outward onto the rooftop; John eased it open carefully, keeping the heavy steel between his body and the probable location of the passport while he scoped out the space. His first, quick look showed him a small blue book resting innocently against the half-height wall edging the roof; nothing else of note came immediately to view. After another few breaths of careful double-checking and listening, John judged the risk minimal and stepped out to get a better look.
He'd met very few people in the years since he'd left the army for the CIA who could beat him at his game. It was hard to keep that edge; working with Finch on the Numbers had sharpened his skills again, but had also unavoidably conditioned him to expect certain scenarios more than others. His instincts clamored again as he stepped away from the door... but he looked up at the other rooftops, not behind him.
The faint noise of grit crunching underfoot corrected him just as the door clicked shut, sounding close enough to reach out and touch. John shifted his stance, ready to turn and draw on the person behind him-- too little, too late; a thin, sharp line of cold materialized at his throat before he could move, and he froze in place, cursing himself for getting caught out like that. Worse, a thick, muscular arm snaked around him, pulling him back against an even more muscular chest, and his reflexive attempt to break the hold resulted in nothing more than a trickle of blood down his neck and a tighter grip.
"Now, now, none of that," his captor murmured, in a voice even lower and rougher than John's habitual rasp. It didn't quite sound like the by-product of a smoker's roughed-up throat; more like he was speaking through a larynx full of gravel. It was a voice that belonged in the dark, not the bright light of day.
"I came here for a reason," the man continued, in thoughtful, matter-of-fact tones. "To catch a certain ex-general. Clearly you ain't innocent, if you followed the bread crumb trail I put down for him. But you don't act much like one of Zhylaw's little army-for-hire gorillas. That's got me curious."
"It's got me curious, too," John managed, standing as still as he could while he waited for an advantage to open up. "About just who this general is, and what he's done, that you felt the need to sneak into the country on a stolen passport."
"Stolen?" The voice in his ear grew sharper with anger. "More like inherited. And my reasons are none of your business. Especially if you ain't a necromonger." The knife at John's throat pulled back, then; but before he could do more than take a surprised breath, he felt the prick of the point in his back instead. Just to the left of his spine, about the right spot to stab through to the abdominal aorta.
"I can respect that," John swallowed. "But I'm not here on behalf of Zhylaw. I'm here because I heard you might need help. I have resources. Connections. One of them alerted me to your arrival."
The man hadn't said much, but a few things had stood out from the details he'd dropped: the owner of the passport was dead; he'd been a friend of the man using it; the death had probably occurred at the hands of a private military contractor; and the man was now hunting down that contractor to take personal revenge. If he'd intended to take down the whole PMC, the Number would probably have been flagged as a terrorism level threat, and marked relevant, not irrelevant; which meant there was probably only a name or two on the death list. And that list probably didn't include John, despite the threatening behavior... as long as John didn't actively get in his way.
This would be an opponent to take down with a sniper rifle, from a distance; John wasn't keen on bleeding out before he could set up that shot.
"Some story, from a man who says he don't know what Zhylaw's done," the gravelly voice replied. "You a government man?"
"No more than you are."
"Hah. Some watchdog group then?" The knifepoint pressed more firmly into his back; it hadn't broken skin yet, but John would definitely have a pinpoint bruise there. Provided he survived the encounter.
"You could call it that," John agreed, still refusing to flinch.
His attacker grunted by way of response... then shoved at John's shoulder, knocking him forward. John stumbled, caught himself, and managed to turn around... right into the personal space of a silver-eyed man wearing cargo pants and a dark-colored muscle shirt. He couldn't tell at first glance whether the silver was natural, the result of some kind of surgical procedure, or a contact lens, but the lack of a visible pupil was extremely noticeable. They shone.
A hand slammed against his chest while he was staring, pushing John back against the hip-height wall; then the knife moved back to his throat.
"You got a name, watchdog?"
"Reese." Face to face, he had a few more options open than before; the cleanest escape, however, still involved a long fall. "And you?"
"They call me Riddick. But you won't." With that last oblique comment, the knife finally pulled away from his throat, replaced by a fist moving at high velocity.
John had been waiting for an opportunity like that; he dropped swiftly, catching his weight on his hands and sweeping his legs out to catch Riddick's.
Riddick seemed to have been expecting that as much as everything else, though; he laughed harshly as he jumped back out of the way, then moved before John could connect.
The sound of a metal door clanging shut again sounded a moment later, followed by scraping sounds from inside. John groaned and climbed hurriedly back to his feet, lunging for the door; but it was too late, Riddick had already blocked it.
Sighing, he brushed himself off, scooping up the passport to slide into his jacket; it might still have something left to tell them. Then he pulled his phone back out of his pocket and placed another call.
"Finch?" he said, rubbing absently at his throat. "This just got a lot more complicated."
-x-
Author: jedibuttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not
Rating: T/gen
Prompt/Prompter: xlade, who asked for: "There's a new number. Only it's not attached to the person it originally belonged to. Is the silver eyed identity thief the victim or the perpetrator? (Or both?)"
Spoilers: Person of Interest/Riddick fusion; general POI canon
Notes: Very little actual blood makes an appearance in this fic.
Summary: This would be an opponent to take down with a sniper rifle, from a distance; John wasn't keen on bleeding out before he could set up that shot. 1600 words.
John paused at the doorway that led out onto the roof, checking the tracker map on his phone screen again. They'd just missed the Number at the airport that morning, lost in a crowd after flying back into the country from a trip to the Middle East, but Finch had managed to capture the identifier information from the RFID chip in his passport and had tracked it through the city. John had cleared every other floor of the building it had stopped at already; the target pretty much had to be on the roof. But something just didn't feel right about the situation.
The software was reading the passport chip almost directly in front of him, about where the railing around the roof should be. As if someone had stepped out for a look over the neighborhood after an extended trip abroad. But there were better vistas on other sides of the building... and then there was the fact that the chip was still readable at all. Many Americans, particularly those who for one reason or another were leery of potential government surveillance, kept their passports in sleeves designed to block RFID signals when not in use. And rightly or wrongly, a man named Abu al-Walid who had very little online presence and had just returned from a religious pilgrimage seemed a likely candidate for that level of concern.
Was the man just that innocent? Or was there some deeper game already at work? John frowned, watching the steady signal, then thumbed out of the app and placed a call.
"Finch. Get a clear image from the video yet?" he rasped.
"I'm afraid not," Finch replied, grimly. "Between the robes and the path he chose through the airport, no camera got a better look at his face than we did; that is to say, none at all. The clearest visuals we have are of his hands, and his boots; though that was enough to tell me at least one thing of importance. The man carrying that passport is not actually Abu al-Walid. At least, not the imam who filled out the application. I believe this is another case of identity theft."
John sighed, reaching out to rest a hand flat against the door. "The biometrics don't match?"
"No. The information embedded on the chip describes a man about two inches taller, several shades darker, and many pounds lighter than our mystery guest."
"Too much change to be natural, then. Any idea where the other al-Walid is?"
"I'm afraid not. I'll continue searching; but I rather suspect the man you're tracking encountered him overseas and lifted his identification. Charges were made to al-Walid's credit cards in Saudi Arabia as recently as a week ago; he's probably still in that country, arranging for alternate ID."
If he was lucky. "Then our al-Walid probably isn't where the passport's showing up. Why would he go to that much trouble to get into the country, only to drop the ball at the last minute?"
"I'll assume that question is rhetorical," Finch replied, dryly. "Do be careful, John."
"I'll assume that statement is also rhetorical," John replied with a wry smile. Then he ended the call, secured the phone, and eased his handgun out of its holster before reaching for the handle.
The door opened outward onto the rooftop; John eased it open carefully, keeping the heavy steel between his body and the probable location of the passport while he scoped out the space. His first, quick look showed him a small blue book resting innocently against the half-height wall edging the roof; nothing else of note came immediately to view. After another few breaths of careful double-checking and listening, John judged the risk minimal and stepped out to get a better look.
He'd met very few people in the years since he'd left the army for the CIA who could beat him at his game. It was hard to keep that edge; working with Finch on the Numbers had sharpened his skills again, but had also unavoidably conditioned him to expect certain scenarios more than others. His instincts clamored again as he stepped away from the door... but he looked up at the other rooftops, not behind him.
The faint noise of grit crunching underfoot corrected him just as the door clicked shut, sounding close enough to reach out and touch. John shifted his stance, ready to turn and draw on the person behind him-- too little, too late; a thin, sharp line of cold materialized at his throat before he could move, and he froze in place, cursing himself for getting caught out like that. Worse, a thick, muscular arm snaked around him, pulling him back against an even more muscular chest, and his reflexive attempt to break the hold resulted in nothing more than a trickle of blood down his neck and a tighter grip.
"Now, now, none of that," his captor murmured, in a voice even lower and rougher than John's habitual rasp. It didn't quite sound like the by-product of a smoker's roughed-up throat; more like he was speaking through a larynx full of gravel. It was a voice that belonged in the dark, not the bright light of day.
"I came here for a reason," the man continued, in thoughtful, matter-of-fact tones. "To catch a certain ex-general. Clearly you ain't innocent, if you followed the bread crumb trail I put down for him. But you don't act much like one of Zhylaw's little army-for-hire gorillas. That's got me curious."
"It's got me curious, too," John managed, standing as still as he could while he waited for an advantage to open up. "About just who this general is, and what he's done, that you felt the need to sneak into the country on a stolen passport."
"Stolen?" The voice in his ear grew sharper with anger. "More like inherited. And my reasons are none of your business. Especially if you ain't a necromonger." The knife at John's throat pulled back, then; but before he could do more than take a surprised breath, he felt the prick of the point in his back instead. Just to the left of his spine, about the right spot to stab through to the abdominal aorta.
"I can respect that," John swallowed. "But I'm not here on behalf of Zhylaw. I'm here because I heard you might need help. I have resources. Connections. One of them alerted me to your arrival."
The man hadn't said much, but a few things had stood out from the details he'd dropped: the owner of the passport was dead; he'd been a friend of the man using it; the death had probably occurred at the hands of a private military contractor; and the man was now hunting down that contractor to take personal revenge. If he'd intended to take down the whole PMC, the Number would probably have been flagged as a terrorism level threat, and marked relevant, not irrelevant; which meant there was probably only a name or two on the death list. And that list probably didn't include John, despite the threatening behavior... as long as John didn't actively get in his way.
This would be an opponent to take down with a sniper rifle, from a distance; John wasn't keen on bleeding out before he could set up that shot.
"Some story, from a man who says he don't know what Zhylaw's done," the gravelly voice replied. "You a government man?"
"No more than you are."
"Hah. Some watchdog group then?" The knifepoint pressed more firmly into his back; it hadn't broken skin yet, but John would definitely have a pinpoint bruise there. Provided he survived the encounter.
"You could call it that," John agreed, still refusing to flinch.
His attacker grunted by way of response... then shoved at John's shoulder, knocking him forward. John stumbled, caught himself, and managed to turn around... right into the personal space of a silver-eyed man wearing cargo pants and a dark-colored muscle shirt. He couldn't tell at first glance whether the silver was natural, the result of some kind of surgical procedure, or a contact lens, but the lack of a visible pupil was extremely noticeable. They shone.
A hand slammed against his chest while he was staring, pushing John back against the hip-height wall; then the knife moved back to his throat.
"You got a name, watchdog?"
"Reese." Face to face, he had a few more options open than before; the cleanest escape, however, still involved a long fall. "And you?"
"They call me Riddick. But you won't." With that last oblique comment, the knife finally pulled away from his throat, replaced by a fist moving at high velocity.
John had been waiting for an opportunity like that; he dropped swiftly, catching his weight on his hands and sweeping his legs out to catch Riddick's.
Riddick seemed to have been expecting that as much as everything else, though; he laughed harshly as he jumped back out of the way, then moved before John could connect.
The sound of a metal door clanging shut again sounded a moment later, followed by scraping sounds from inside. John groaned and climbed hurriedly back to his feet, lunging for the door; but it was too late, Riddick had already blocked it.
Sighing, he brushed himself off, scooping up the passport to slide into his jacket; it might still have something left to tell them. Then he pulled his phone back out of his pocket and placed another call.
"Finch?" he said, rubbing absently at his throat. "This just got a lot more complicated."
-x-