Finally…the tea is done steeping! He pours the aromatic brew into the old cup, watching with satisfaction as the flavored steam curls into the air, creating its own version of swirl art in space. Pretty. He has to resist the urge to just stand there inhaling those lovely vapors.

Most of the time he's had to make do with Sencha in a vendor's paper cup…which never seems to be hot enough to even steam except on the coldest days. Making an occasion such as this even more pleasurable: nothing can really compare to tea prepared properly and served in a china cup!

Now if he could only convince Mr. Reese of that fact, perhaps he could switch the ex-op from drinking that horribly strong coffee.

It's early still and so far no Number has been forthcoming. With his employee currently giving Bear a well deserved run in the park, it leaves him with quiet time alone in the big library. Cradling the cup in his hands – its companion saucer long ago having disappeared – he limps slowly around the large chamber, wandering up and down the stacks. He lightly touches his various treasured tomes, unconsciously confirming to himself they are still there, still all properly indexed. And so he progresses slowly down the aisles.

Until reaching an adjoining alcove.

Here the walls beckon him. Walls covered with paper, but not according to some decorator's scheme. No, these walls don't exhibit some fanciful pattern or texture, but are covered with information pertaining to Numbers the Machine has given him over these past many months.

"This is your list…the List ?"
"Yes."
"And all these numbers represent…?"
"Lost chances…"

He stands now, gazing at that wall with its photos, and documents, and clippings…all relating to crimes and varying degrees of atrocities. So many…so many. All layered one above the next, connected by the colored strings he had employed in early days to organize the data in his mind.

Each Number is meticulously collated with information indicating the original event, and its eventual sad conclusion. But even with the help of the various hired muscle he had employed in the beginning, there were still many failures he's had to tack to that wall.

Too many.

He stares at the last photos added: Richard Nelson, the doctor who died of poisoning, and the social media CEO, Wayne Kruger, shot by an enraged parent. And takes some comfort in the fact that with the addition of Mr. Reese he's become far more successful in saving the Irrelevants than previously.

Still…it's a long, sad list.

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

There had been a time when he'd just thrown his belongings into a duffle bag. All except his weapons - these he'd kept with him as part of the uniform. He'd made no effort to pack carefully, knowing that his would be just one of many bags crammed into any available space on the aircraft. No way to keep clothing from wrinkling, thus requiring extra hours later to make everything presentable for inspections. Folding and precision packing was a waste of time.

As for his guns and knives, when the army moved personnel it was in large enough numbers that the entire aircraft was taken up by military, each soldier being responsible for his own carry-on weapon. So they were just fine on his person. Not so if he took a trip as an individual of course; it had become very difficult to travel with firearms now, even for active military.

But once employed by the CIA, his wardrobe became more extensive, his weapons more sophisticated. Gone was the duffle, and in its place indestructible luggage, large enough to hold the various outfits required for the job. His weapons had their own storage containers then, their transport assured by the Company. The cases dutifully ignored by airport security personnel.

Cases like this one.

He pulls the oversized box out from under the shelving. This was the weapon that had so often been his only companion and sometimes all that stood between him and death. It was also the specialty tool of his trade, one used to help fulfill his assignments. It prevented his destruction, but also almost caused it.

The Pelican case, meticulously crafted to hold and protect the large sniper rifle, was lined with egg-crate foam and offered convenient partitions for various attachments, ammunition and cleaning supplies. It had of course a TSA approved lock, but was never accessed; the Company knew how to transport all its tools under the radar. Including the hardware kind.

He runs his hands over the rifle now, its various modules reduced to innocuous, useless pieces of polished metal…useless that is, until put together to create a weapon of death. The image and tactile sensation of the well oiled components triggers memories of past assignments.

"I need you to dispose of this…and them. No teeth. No fingertips."

How many had there been? He was aware that as a team, he and Kara garnered a reputation for more "eliminations" than any other operative pair in the CIA. They were phenomenally successful…though he found it to be a rather inappropriate term to describe the destruction of so many lives. The separation of so many souls from their earthly shells…

And what about those who didn't deserve death?

Toward the end of his tenure with the CIA he had begun to question that blind obedience to obey the order to "eliminate the target". What a euphemism for "assassinate that person"! But what made it difficult to rationalize his reluctance was that his partner seemingly had no problem with those orders at all.

In fact, the longer they worked together, the more Kara seemed to relish the killing…and the more he came to hate it.

"What did they do?
"Who cares? Orders are orders."
"Just making sure we have the right target. They just look like two people in love."
"Maybe they are. Or maybe they're just better at playing their cover than you!"

Kara truly didn't care about the individuals they targeted. But he'd kept a running tally in his head - a list - finding it imperative that someone at least remember how these people died. It was true that many, probably most, had deserved death. But was it fair that even the memory of their very existence was wiped out completely?

No one enters this world alone; even a murderer is mourned by someone…everyone is relative to someone.

It was a long list of individuals that grew longer over time and eventually he'd had trouble recalling them all. And perhaps that was just as well. Each person on his list represented an assignment he would dearly like to forget, scenes that still parade through his nightmares against every effort to prevent it. He'd hoped at some point in his life he would no longer revisit these events, finally forget these people.

But it's a long, sad list…

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

Well, the guy is certainly slipping! One would think the CIA would teach its spooks better than this! That lock was just way too easy to bypass, though to give credit where credit is due, she really is very good at B & E. Considered the best in The Program.

She closes the door quietly behind her, scanning the open areas, the kitchen beyond the living space, the door to what she assumes is the bathroom beyond. The condo is sparsely furnished, but that's not unexpected. Their line of work discouraged any nesting urges. Waste of time and money.

Home is where you store your favorite weapon…

The floors are shiny clean, as is the kitchen counter top. The large bed is neatly made - also not a surprise, given his military background. What is a bit unsettling are the huge windows along one wall. So not a good idea! Way too convenient for a sniper…and to not even hang curtains or blinds? Unbelievable!

She moves carefully to stay as far away from that expanse of glass as possible. Neither her place nor her concern if he wants to leave himself that vulnerable! She's just here to check up on some hardware for future reference. Do a little research. It's always wise to know as much as possible about the people you work around.

So where would his weapons cache be? She knows it's not in the library, Finch being the nervous kind around guns. Besides, she checked. It would have to be well hidden of course, especially if someone is coming in on a regular basis to clean house. Or if he's having an occasional bed-bunny spend the night. So where would he hide it?

Well. Start with the obvious first…

Beginning with the wall next to the entry she runs her fingers along the flat surface, feeling for any anomaly that would indicate a hidden panel. Making her way slowly around the perimeter of the room - but finding nothing - she moves to the bathroom, then the kitchen.

No secret panel, so the cache is not hidden inside the walls. Then maybe behind something, in something. But not behind any wall hangings: too small an area. And nothing so lame as in a kitchen cabinet, though just to be certain she opens them all and checks for hidden compartments.

Next is the fridge. She pulls on the large appliance, and fortunately the top-of-the-line brand is on easy-to-clean-behind rollers and glides smoothly over the tiled floor. Though apparently whoever cleans the place hadn't read the brochures about how easy it moves; the floor space behind the giant box is home to several dust bunny litters and what looks like…hair?

Oh, yeah. Bear.

So. Finch's muscle is defying the condo rules and bringing the pup home occasionally. She smiles to herself. Good to know. If she wants the dogs company she now knows where to find the pooch if not at the library. And won't that just annoy Finch's errand boy!

But back to business. There's nothing behind the fridge…

She searches through all the possible hidey holes, including under the bed…though that is such an amateurish stash area it embarrasses her to even look. But she does, confirming the dust bunnies have also commandeered that space as the cleaning person apparently concentrates only on the easily accessible, more visible areas.

No weapons there of course. And not behind the dresser, water heater, air ducts, or ceiling tiles. Not in a floor space, in an armoire compartment, behind a tub panel, or under a window sill.

Systematically she searches the entire condo, leaving only a storage closet between the living and sleeping areas untouched…but that's such an obvious spot. Almost as bad as under the bed! Still, if she's going to do this right every potential hidey hole must be inspected. She opens the louvered doors and almost gasps.

Of all the stupid…!

But the collection is so awesome that genuine admiration for the extensive weapons supply replaces any disparaging thoughts she might have about the location of this cache. Pistols, rifles, grenades, flash bombs, knives, even a rocket launcher! And all that ammunition. It's just drool worthy!

Ha! The condo association obviously has no idea. If they object to a dog on the premises, this would really get their collective panties in a wad! Running her hands appreciatively over a Glock, she has to forcibly remind herself she's on a time line and zeros in on a rifle with which she's familiar.

She pulls it off the wall pegs to check the mechanism, nodding her approval at its seamless operation. At least Finch's poorly socialized guard dog knows how to take care of these weapons. Returning the firearm to its place on the wall, she then pockets a box of ammunition, backs out of the closet and wonders why some cleaning person hasn't reported this cache. It's certainly not hidden.

Well…of course! Harold.

He would have his own cleaning people take care of this condo. Probably owns the building in addition to an entire cleaning company. But whatever - she's going to make note of this collection for a time when she might need one of these items. Or several.

She grabs a pen and sheet of paper from the nearby desk and returning to the closet, starts scribbling.

Glock 17 Glock 19
Smith & Wesson 5946
SIG SG 553
M79 grenade launcher
Heckler & Koch G36C
Colt Gold Cup Trophy
SIG-Sauer P226
Heckler & Koch MP5K-PDW
M4A1 Carbine
Taurus PT92
Coharie Arms CA-415
KRISS Vector
Barrett M107
Def Tech 1315
Walther PPK
Remington 870 Police Magnum
Jericho 941 RSPL
Heckler & Koch MP7
Heckler & Koch SP89
Welrod Pistol
Model 7290 flashbang grenade
Remington AICS 2.0

She smiles to herself as she pockets the paper and makes her way to the door. She can make use of this information.

It's a nice, long list...!

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

Jeez! Are they ever going to leave him alone?

…Fusco, can you look at this?

…Detective, what do you think of these?

…Can you help me, Lionel?

He moves back to his desk and opens a file. Not that he needs to look at it, but he needs something to make it seem he's really busy…so those idiots won't keep coming at him! And now the phone rings and for a moment he's fumbling through his coat pockets for the cell, but then with an irritated intake of breath realizes it's the one on the desk. He reaches for the handset.

"Detective Fusco! Can you assist me with that case?"

Right. Another rookie needing help. "Yeah. Be there in ten."

Of course it's nice to be appreciated! And it feels damn good to be considered the go-to guy after all those years just being a gopher for HR. But part of him feels like he doesn't really deserve it, knows that the big, dark secret is he made more than one shady deal with Simmons, with that last one keeping the dirty cop and his boss out of jail during the first go around with the FBI.

"Just do this one thing for us Lionel, and then if you want out, you're out."

He'd folded, compromised evidence…tampered with the list.

That was the beginning of the end, events rolling onward, unfolding until it put him in that chair facing the HR goon who broke his fingers. Who threatened to kill Lee and then himself…which he knows for certain they would have done had Shaw not intervened! Had he not managed to get the drop on his captor.

And he knows something else. In the end, his going after Simmons was not so much about him being a cop, as it was about being a Dad. No one, but no one gets to threaten his son without consequences!

Opening the drawer he pulls out his notes on the rookie's case and is in the process of closing it when he stops, stills for several seconds, then reaches into the drawer space, feeling for the bottom of the desk top.

Yeah, it's still there - still taped out of sight. He'd saved this evidence as a precaution, telling himself for when he might have to prove just how low on the HR totem pole he'd been. But he knew the truth. It was really there to remind him how far he had fallen at one time…and how far he'd come to this point in his life.

So maybe it was time get rid of this now.

Carefully removing the scrap of paper he pulls it out of its hiding place. There is the treacherous writing, the letters and numbers that would have landed him in prison along with Simmons and the rest:

L. Fusco
$5000 3/1/12
$5000 4/1/12
$5000 5/1/12

The numbers mock him. He'd sold his honor, his reputation, his soul for a lousy $15 thou. Put his relationship with his son at risk for a measly sum that wouldn't even buy a decent car! And the thought of what could have happened to Lee still makes his mouth go dry…

But he'd at least gotten the rest of that list to the FBI. And eventually had gotten Simmons too. With that thought, he palms the scrap and makes his way to the copier room. After determining he couldn't be observed by the bull pen, he carefully smooths the creases, straightens the note paper and inserts it into the shredder slot. The machine turns on automatically and munches efficiently through the incriminating evidence while the cop sighs his satisfaction at closing this chapter on a not so respectable past.

It was the last of a long, incriminating list…

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

She takes another sip of the richly colored wine. An excellent vintage, even if she says so herself! But then over the years she's had the opportunity to embark on an extensive education concerning the finer things in life; luxuries that in her younger years she'd never been able to afford.

Now…?

Well, now she has power…and with power comes wealth!

Wealth she uses to surround herself with all those lavish goods and services her family had never been able to afford. Like having an on-call chauffeur, permanent reservations at the finest restaurants, prime seats for any cultural event, and if need be, the most charming arm candy to escort her…or…to just keep her company.

The dinner had been superb - as one could expect from this establishment – the ambiance soothing. A perfect atmosphere in which to review this week's accomplishments. And schedule the next.

Setting the glass down on the pristine white-as-snow table cloth, she reaches for the Gucci and extracts a small notebook from its depths. Non-descript, with a plain blue cover, it looks out of place among the silver and crystal settings, a utilitarian tool among the frivolous trappings of wealth.

It represents her life-line, a practical extension of her brain. In this little book is her list, a summation of her contacts for the week, the remunerations and fees she's collected, favors bought and sold. All this information logged in soft pencil, in her own personal code and easily erased, leaving not a mark on the pages beneath.

She writes the name and all the sensitive, pertinent information pertaining to her assignations in this little note book. And then when the week is done, or the project finished, the page is ripped out and put to a flame to disappear forever, the important details tucked into her gray matter.

She may have the most up-to-date smart phone, but this…? This little book with its perforated pages is far more secure, because she knows anything writ in the digital realm is vulnerable. This is her choice of tool - though of course she can easily afford the very latest in electronic devices to store her data.

After all, when one has enough money, anything can be purchased.

Well, almost anything.

"It's a nice place. Maybe I'll stick around for one more night.
"Well, I heard it was all booked. But then you do know the owner…"
"The penthouse suite. Another round?"

The image of a tall, dark haired individual in a suit comes to mind, and she smiles to herself as she picks up her pencil to make another notation on her pad. One more item: time to make another call.

She adds it to next week's long "to do" list…

.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

.

He bounds up the stairs and pushes through the gate into the large chamber, adrenaline still running high. The cool weather and sunshine had made the day perfect for an outing in the park and just the exercise he had needed after all the time spent just lazing around this morning. Now back home, it is time to relax and later, some supper.

But first, the routine check!

He makes his way to the back of the chamber to the file cabinet near the corner. But it's not quite in the corner, leaving plenty of space to hide certain items. A perfect place for his secret stash.

As he pulls the articles out of the narrow space, he notes the existence of each precious item in his head:

one sock
one glove
one fuzzy toy without squeaker
one long cloth thingy
one rawhide roll
one well chewed ball

All there…his treasures!

Bear sighs, noses the items back into the hidey hole and with a satisfied huff makes his way back to his bed.

The list is complete. Time for a nap…

.

End