The Metaphorical Cover of Darkness

Chapter 1

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John Reese stumbled out of the library for the final time, closing his eyes against the blinding sunlight and his own unspeakable actions. Tourists and harried commuters brushed by him, the shrill sound of taxi horns filled the air, and he walked on in mute wonder that the world around him continued unaltered after he had so irreparably ripped apart his own life.

Four hours earlier…

He walked briskly towards the library, enjoying the warm morning air and looking forward to whatever the day might bring. It was Harold's turn to pick up breakfast, and John wondered if it would be muffins, donuts or something more interesting. One day his partner had turned up with petit fours, but the little cakes were so sweet that they were both on a sugar high for the rest of the morning. It was a small, silly memory, but not one that he would ever part with. Even when it came to pastries, his friend still surprised him. John checked his pocket - which held new treats for Bear - and quickened his pace. His loft was extremely comfortable, but in every real way the library was home.

He was nearly there when he was approached by four profoundly serious-looking men who calmly and effectively surrounded him. He prepared to defend himself, but they made no attempt to harm him and for a moment John thought they were at a stand-off. Then one of the men silently handed him a cell phone.

"Hello again, John."

He instantly recognized the refined yet menacing voice of Alistair Wesley.

"Let's have a drink and a chat, shall we? You'll want to hear what I have to say. And should you have any other ideas, kindly look around. My snipers will have you in their sights at all times."

John scanned the surrounding buildings. Gunmen with long-range high power rifles revealed themselves in upper-floor windows at strategic locations along the street. His British counterpart certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Annoyed but hardly alarmed, he allowed himself to be escorted to Wesley's suite at the Plaza Athenee Hotel.

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Wesley was sitting at a large desk which held a collection of laptops and monitors, while more of his highly-trained operatives guarded the luxurious room. His host appeared every bit as urbane and confident as John remembered.

"It's a little early for a drink."

"There you are, Reese. Welcome to the party."

"What do you want with me, Wesley?"

"You never were one for the social niceties, were you? Very well then."

Wesley tapped the screen of one of the laptops, and John felt his breath leave his body as surely as if he had been punched in the gut.

"As you can see, I've uncovered your little clubhouse."

John stared at the screen. He was looking at a live feed of Harold at work in the library.

"Here you go, Bear."

They watched together as Harold threw the ball, and the dog skidded across the floor in happy pursuit.

How? How had Wesley gotten eyes and ears in their private lair?

John kept his eyes locked on his partner as all the implications of the situation began to sink in. He struggled to maintain his composure, and to keep his face an impassive mask. Wesley was having none of it. The Brit's mouth pulled back in a cold, thin smile.

"Would you like to know what made you so memorable to me in Istanbul? You had no vulnerabilities. It made you incorruptible and fearless. You were the single most effective operative I had ever come across. But now…"

Wesley nodded toward the laptop.

"He makes you an ideal candidate to assist me in my next project. You and I are going to take a little trip. Do you remember the rules, John? Fail to successfully carry out any part of your mission, he dies. Contact the authorities - or your detective friends - and he dies. And Reese - if he tries to follow you, he dies. Make no mistake here. Your friend will die an excruciating, lingering death - while you watch him beg for the end to come. Don't underestimate me. I won't hesitate to follow through on my side of the game if you disappoint me in any way."

"He'll never stop looking for me," John said quietly. It was the one absolute certainty of his life.

"Well that is a real pity. But it wouldn't be very sporting if I didn't give you a chance to play from a level field."

With one smooth move, Wesley grabbed John's wrist, twisting it outward and plunging a syringe into his arm. It was over and done before he could react.

"Subcutaneous GPS tracking chip. It sits rather nicely between the epidermal and dermal layers of skin, don't you think?"

John watched as Wesley turned to another laptop. A few key strokes and a new blip appeared on the screen - him.

"You have one hour to make sure your friend doesn't interfere with our adventure. And do not alert him to our little game. I believe you understand the consequences."

"And just how am I supposed to do that?"

His voice was low with stone-cold rage. Wesley met his eyes with a malevolent grin, and with a sick feeling John understood exactly what the other man expected him to do.

"I'm sure you'll think of something. The clock is ticking, John. Remember - I'll be tracking you, and my people are all over this city. And Reese -"

He gestured towards the image of the library still streaming on the laptop screen.

"I'll be watching, so do try and put on a good show."

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His mind reeling and his heart pounding, John tried to recall any detail about Wesley that would help him now.

"Our paths have crossed before - in Istanbul at the market by the Bosphorus."

In the spring of 2007, the CIA had a significant presence in Istanbul following a series of unsolved - and escalating - terrorist attacks. In addition to investigating the bombings, the United States had a vital interest in protecting the Strait of Bosphorus - the only sea route connecting the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, and conduit for much of the world's oil supply. But the attacks had left the local economy jittery, and Istanbul - the financial center of Turkey - was on edge.

Memories of that time came flooding back to him now. The market at Bosphorus was a sensuous place, with its stalls of brightly colored textiles and exotic local delicacies, and the seductive melodies of street musicians floating on the warm breeze. He had wandered through the crush of merchants and tourists, inhaling the mingled aromas of spices and aphrodisiacs. It had been an intoxicating experience.

But those memories soon gave way to dark, horrific ones - of the market destroyed by explosions and fire, of screams and heartrending wails. Of men, women and children blown apart.

"After that elaborate plan, you're no more than a common thief."

"You know I'm much more than that."

The economic disruption had been catastrophic. And in the ensuing financial chaos several prominent bank and telecommunication stocks had been churned through the Turkish Stock Exchange for a fantastic sum. The firm in question was eventually revealed to be a shell corporation, but by the time the fraud was discovered the funds had been transferred to an untraceable offshore account. The perpetrators had never been caught, but the mastermind behind the scheme was believed to be Ian Collyer, a rogue MI6 agent who had gone missing the year before.

"I remember the market. I don't remember you."

"That's the point…"

The devastation at Bosphorus was so notorious that Collyer was rumored to have undergone extensive plastic surgery and assumed a new identity.

John shivered in the hot sun as he recalled the final details. Three witnesses to the market bombing had come forward, and each had been slain before they could give their statements. The victims had been tortured first, and the murders were so gruesome that the full details were never released to the public. But as rumors of the brutal crimes began to swirl throughout Istanbul, Collyer became known in Turkey as "karanlik iblis" - the dark demon.

"He will die a lingering, excruciating death."

Wesley was Collyer, and John knew that he would do anything - pay any price - to keep Harold safe from him.

He had been walking blindly toward the library but he stopped now to search his mind for another way - any other way - out of his dilemma.

"We're walking in the dark here."

That had been true for so much of his life. Yet during these last months - with Harold and their work with the numbers - he had allowed himself to believe that he could walk towards the light again, that redemption was possible even for him.

Harold…

John's mind turned back to that day when his partner had fully admitted his involvement with the Ordos fiasco. He would never forget the unmasked vulnerability on Harold's face as his friend had searched his face, prepared to accept whatever judgment John saw fit to pronounce. And he had seen a fleeting glimpse of fear in his partner's eyes - the fear that he would not be forgiven - even as John already knew that there was nothing to forgive.

In many ways it was their best moment, and John had never felt closer to the other man than he had on that day. Harold had spoken of unintended consequences, but the real unintended consequence was the unbreakable bond that had been forged between them.

And in that moment of trust and vulnerability his partner had given him the power and the means to undo it all.

John arrived at his destination, trembling in disbelief at what he was about to do.

"He will die an excruciating and lingering death."

He set his heart aside and entered the library.

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"You're rather late today, Mr. Reese," Harold began, setting him up for their normal banter.

"I'm not late, Finch. I'm leaving."

His partner looked at him quizzically, but with such absolute faith that John thought his heart would truly break. For a moment he choked on his words, and Harold continued watching him curiously, as if John was making some odd joke that he just wasn't getting.

"I can't do this anymore. I thought I could get passed Ordos but I can't. I trusted you, but every day you kept the truth from me was a lie."

He watched as the color drained from his partner's face.

"John, what is this about? I thought you understood. The Machine…"

He continued - despising himself more with every word - and somehow all the helplessness and rage he felt towards Wesley was channeled into his voice.

"You said you wanted to help people, but this was always about your delusional need to play god. You're obsessed with power, and you used me, Finch. I see that now and I'm through being your toy."

Harold staggered backwards as if struck by the casual cruelty of the words. Instinctively John began to reach out for him, but he stopped himself and reset his face into a hard mask. Harold grabbed on to the desk and lowered himself into the swivel chair.

"I appreciate everything you did for me. But hey, all good things come to an end."

The sarcasm hung in the air.

Confused by the unfamiliar harshness in his master's voice, Bear looked at John curiously - head cocked to one side - and gave his tail a cautious, hopeful wag.

For one insane moment John wondered if he could communicate telepathically with the dog.

"It's up to you now, Bear. Take care of him for me."

Harold was staring at him, naked hurt and confusion etched on his face, but with obvious effort he collected himself.

"Since you've so clearly made up your mind, all that remains is to say goodbye. Good luck, John. I wish nothing but the best for you."

Harold rose unsteadily and extended his hand. John turned away without shaking it, before the other man could see the anguish on his face. Bear rose to follow him.

"Bear, blijven." He said the words roughly, shouting them at the dog more loudly than he intended.

Then he turned and walked back into the darkness.

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A/N: I'm sorry so about all this. Please keep the faith and the next chapter will be up very soon.