Collision Course Averted

First real holiday in 10 years, Sgt Greg Parker was excited beyond words. One month. That's four weeks of not thinking of paper work, tactics, staff meetings, training, etc. etc. etc. Four weeks of well-deserved rest. Bliss.

Dean, Marina and himself sat down to work out how they were going to enjoy this long-awaited break taking into account everyone's work and school schedules. The start of his holiday was a week outside of Dean's school break. Marina couldn't get a holiday at the same time his starts. But she could get time off to coincide with the last weeks of his holiday, if that wasn't confusing enough.

Eventually, they came to agree on the most amazing, in his view anyway, holiday plans of all time. On the first week, he would holiday by himself. He chose to go to New York, the city of his boyhood dream. But when Dean asked why New York he said he has no idea. All he could say was that he liked it from the time he saw King Kong atop the Empire State building on late-night TV.

The second week would be just him and Dean. Father and son bonding - to do whatever they fancied doing. The only rule being no cop talk. And to make it interesting, he even let Dean take care of all the details. He wanted to be surprised but in case Dean got out of bounds, he gave him a list of no-go zones. Teenagers aren't known for discretion after all.

The third week would be just him and Marina, sort of a trial honeymoon; to see if they could in fact agree on anything at all. As a trained negotiator though he was finding out quickly that the only peaceable way to live with a woman was to agree she was right, most of the time. In fairness, Marina had been easy-going. In fact, to his surprise she let him do the planning for their holiday. She wanted to be surprised, she said. He wasn't entirely sure if that was good or bad.

The fourth week was to be spent together as a family unit. He settled on a houseboat holiday. What could be better than being in the great outdoors fishing? And besides fishing there would be plenty to do when they're docked.

The week before his holiday, he handed everything to First Officer Ed Lane who looked ghostly pale. "Nothing you can't handle," he reassured his Team Leader. The Team Leader groaned and joked that his PTSD had worsened.

The day came; Marina drove him to the Airport. He and Dean just had time for a warm embrace as the young man hurried to go to school. "I can't be late, finals" he said, adding, "Stay safe."

Marina dropped him off at departure. They kissed and waved. He promised to call her as soon as his feet touched the ground of the Big Apple. New York's practically next door to Toronto, less than an hour flight according to his ticket; not much further than going to Montreal. Going to Vancouver would in fact take four times as long.

American Airline AA4639 from Toronto arrived at La Guardia Airport on schedule and disgorged the passengers that included Sgt Greg Parker. A light traveller, all he had was a hand carry which contained his essentials for a week. He was walking the length of the wide open concourse towards the taxi rank when he felt a presence following him.

Parker didn't slow down. He didn't increase his pace either. But it forced a change of plan. Instead of heading to the taxi rank, he walked towards the car rental's kiosk where behind the service desk was a huge reflective surface. He smiled at the clerk but his eyes were focused on the tall man whose facial expressions he couldn't read. He opened his wallet and handed the clerk his credit card, "Seven days," he said.

He pretended to read some of the holiday brochures but kept one eye on the man who, he observed, was light on his feet and tended to talk to himself, his mouth opening and closing at regular intervals. He sensed, more than heard, that the clerk was asking him a question. "Sedan," he answered with a smile. She handed him a key fob attached to a Chevrolet key ring and pointed in the direction of where the car, a Chevrolet two-door sedan, was parked.

He depressed the key fob, the doors unlocked. The tall man was still on his tail, He hasn't realised I've pinged him. He opened the door on the driver's seat, tossed his hand carry to the back seat. He climbed in, locked all the doors with a single press of a button, swung out of park before he could even belt himself in. Then something odd happened. The tall man jumped in front of his car before he could accelerate, rested his palms on the hood of the car as if to say to get rid of me, you have to run me over. Greg assessed the man: half a foot taller than him, wiry and looked every inch a fighter. He had to calculate his next move carefully.

He's not doing anything remotely threatening but he sure was making a mess of my holiday. He thought about calling 9-11 but say exactly what? That a man has his palms on the hood of my car? Then something odd happened, again!

The man's brows knitted, and if he could lip-read, the man appeared to have said, "Are you sure?"

John Reese was gobsmacked. If he wasn't certain of Detective Joss Carter's integrity, he would be sure she was lying through her teeth. "John, Elias' ass is cooling in prison," she insisted.

Greg scratched his head. There seems to be a short pause on proceedings. Then to his surprise the guy appeared to be speaking to someone again.

Reese's brows unfurrowed; the facial expression changed from perplexed to somewhat indiscernible. Greg thought he appeared to have said, "Are you sure?" again. Bloody oath, what has this guy snorted?

Harold Finch's voice came through Reese's earwig, loud and clear, "He's a police officer from Toronto. Sargent. SWAT."

Then just as suddenly, the tall man, whoever the hell he was, got out of his way. Greg drove off quick smart, he wasn't going to linger around to ask why the "strange" man behaved the way he did. But just to be certain he was going to get back to Toronto alive, safe and well with all limbs intact, he decided to show himself at a New York precinct and report the incident.

Detective Lionel Fusco did a quick about turn when he fronted up at the front desk. Greg Parker stood in the lobby of the NY precinct wondering what on earth just happened. He was instantly surrounded by cops of all shapes and sizes. Luckily, no gun had been drawn - yet.

Detective Joss Carter was called to see to Carl Elias. In frustration, she raised her voice for all to hear, "He's rotting in jail, what's got to you people?" She came out to the lobby and came face-to-face with Elias' dead ringer. Her jaw dropped. Greg Parker raised two hands in a gesture of defeat. She laughed, offered her hand in conciliation and said, "Sgt Greg Parker, I'm Detective Joss Carter."

"How'd you know my name?"

"Long story," she said. "Are you free for lunch?"

In the meantime, the man John Reese was meant to be tailing had slipped through his surveillance. Whatever, Finch will find him again.

For the remainder of the week, Greg Parker wore the Canadian flag everywhere he went in case he gets mistaken for a New York gangster.