She's always just that little bit too far out of reach. Part of him knows that its a dream, but it doesn't stop it from seeming real. The trees rise high as church steeples on either side of a dusty path. He's barefoot, bare chested – he feels like he could run forever. Just a turn on the path infront of him, hidden by the woodland but he can hear her laughter and runs faster. The woman with the black hair and white dress falls back against a tree and holds her arms out. He takes her hand and pulls her down onto a pile of soft leaves, cushioning her fall with his body. She tastes like cinnamon and sweet coffee, her lips demanding, her legs straddling his hips and rocking against him. He can feel the heat of her core against his cock, the weight of one heavy breast in his palm. When she sits up to smile down at him he can barely murmur her name.
Joss..
John wakes up with a start. He's no stranger to disturbing dreams – a hundred times he fought for Jessica, saved her, only to feel her dissolve into smoke and be thrust into the waking world with tears in his eyes. Lately though it was Joss that had supplanted the nightmares. The dreams were still disturbing but in a completely different way. Taking a moment to take a deep breath he ignores the erection tenting his jeans and tries not to remember how wide her eyes were, or the way her pink tongue had peeked out to touch her lower lip when he had licked her finger in the park. She'd probably been one second away from slapping his face at his audacity. Glancing at his watch he checks the time – almost six am. Struggling out of the well cushioned chair that he had finally fallen asleep in, he stretches, wincing as a couple of his joints crack. In shape he might be, but he's not getting any younger he thinks ruefully. Going to the bathroom he relieves himself and splashes some water on his face to wake himself up. The library is eerily silent, only the dust motes dancing in the faint sunbeams and the blinking lights of Finch's computer equipment showing any signs of life. Harold himself had retreated to the small bedroom down the corridor shortly after midnight, John couldn't be bothered to make the trip back to his apartment and chose to crash out in the office instead. After reading the files he had taken from the Starlight Motel if he was honest with himself he didn't really want to go back to his empty place. Staying close to Harold and the machine made him feel a bit like he was doing something even if he was just close enough to respond if a stroke of genius struck Harold or the machine spat out new information.
Rubbing a hand through his tousled hair, he remembers Jacey's comment about him looking like a hedgehog with a pang of sadness. In the folders sat on Finch's desk are photographs of girls around her age. Along with receipts and invoices, names of men who had bought their services or the girls that had been used to blackmail them. Pictures of a girl who looked around fourteen performing oral sex on well known judge. A senator in bed with two teenagers that looked alike enough to be sisters. He'd made himself go through them all despite his distaste. When he'd come to Jacey's picture, bright eyed, a little bewildered but still hopeful, unaware of what the future held, he'd switched to checking the bank accounts. There was enough proof in the files to bring down the whole prostitution ring, bar one problem. Nothing within them implicated Grayson Kent. Finch had managed to unravel the spiders web of accounts and shell companies that the money was laundered through, but all the profits essentially ended up in offshore bank accounts in countries that would laugh at any attempt to put a name to the bank balances.
The only real hope they had was with information on the two container ships that were arriving at Red Hook later that morning. There was no way of knowing which of the two, if either, of them contained smuggled girls, but given the fact that Kent apparently liked to try the merchandise himself first it made sense that he might show up to look over what he'd bought and perhaps select a girl or two for his own personal use. At the very least running surveillance would give him something useful to do.
Yawning, John grabs his leather jacket and the keys to his bike. Riding the motorcycle always clears his head, and the traffic would be quiet this early. He doesn't bother leaving a note for Finch; if he's needed then Harold will ring him. Jogging out into the new dawn he heads towards the underground garage where he keeps the bike.
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Joss yawns and stretches, still half asleep as she opens one bleary eye and looks at the clock. Seven thirty. For a brief moment she panics before relaxing back onto the pillows. She's not late, she doesn't have to go into work. She could probably spend the day in bed watching Frasier re-runs if she wanted to.
But no. This wasn't a typical day off. This was Thanksgiving and she had a hell of a lot to prepare. Sliding out from under the covers Joss catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair is a mess and there's two lines imprinted on her cheek where she'd squashed it against the pillow. When she tries to rub them away they refuse to shift. Not exactly a femme fatale, she thinks. She wonders what John would look like tousled and half asleep, or after... Nope. No. Not going there. John was coming over for a nice meal with her and her son. That was all – it was a thank-you for what he had done for her and Taylor. Yeah right. Keep telling yourself that. She can almost hear her subconscious laughing at her. You practically orgasmed from him licking your finger. With a huff of irritation she stomps off towards the bathroom, putting the kettle on as she passes the kitchen.
Taylor is up by the time she's showered and dressed in her running gear, sat at the kitchen table he's pouring milk over his Wheeto's and listening to the radio.
"Mornin'." Joss tousles his hair and he bats her hand away half heartedly.
"Hey." She doesn't bother trying for more than that – she's taciturn before her coffee in the morning, Taylor's practically mute.
"I'm goin' for a run and then I figured you could help me with the cooking later?" Dumping two teaspoons of instant coffee into her mug, she tops it up and adds milk.
Her son nods and gives her a smile. "John's coming right?"
"That's what he said."
"Cool." He takes a gulp of orange juice. " I could start peeling stuff while you run."
Joss drains the last of her coffee and kisses him on the cheek on the way out. "Who are you and what have you done with my son?" Taylor makes a face and pretends to wipe the kiss off.
"The peeler's in the drawer, it's that oval thing," She yells back as she heads out.
"Ha, Ha." Taylor's voice is cut off as she shuts the door behind her bounds down the stairs.
When she returns Taylor has managed to make a complete mess of the kitchen and peel three carrots. Joss surveys the wreckage and decides not to protest, instead joining in and hopefully providing a few tips that might mean that he'd be able to cook a decent meal for himself before he started drawing his pension.
When the cellphone rings her first thought is that it's John ringing to cancel and feels her heart plummet, especially when Taylor gives her a worried look. It's not his low voice at the other end though when she answers. Harold Finch has a clipped enunciation that never sounds particularly friendly, but the fear in his voice makes him sound even sharper.
"Detective Carter? Mr Reese needs your help."
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After a quick shower at his place and an even quicker breakfast, John changes into an old pair of jeans, an even older sweater and tucks a woollen cap into the pocket of his waxed jacket along with his Glock, ammo a couple of smoke grenades and a pair of lightweight but powerful binoculars. The container terminal where Kent's ship might or might not be coming in was a working port with dozens of transient staff from the boats coming and going; so long as he kept his head down and didn't call attention to himself he should be able to mingle amongst them fairly easily. After texting Harold he puts his ear-piece in.
"Finch."
There's a faint crackle of static before Harold's voice comes through.
"Good morning Mr Reese, up bright and early I see."
"One of us has to be an early bird," Reese replies with a smile.
"Very droll." Harold does not sound amused. "I take it you are on your way to Red Hook. The "Juno" is set to dock at ten, the "Regent" at eleven, although from what I've gathered from their locations the "Juno" is running a little late. Both of them are due to dock at the northern terminal. I would advise you not to engage until Kent is sighted."
"I'm on it Finch," John sighs. "I'll call for back-up if I need it."
"Very wise, Mr Reese," Harold says approvingly. "Keep in contact, and good luck."
"Thanks." Grabbing his keys and his helmet he locks up and swings a leg over the saddle of the bike. A glance at his watch puts the time at nine-fifteen. If he was lucky he could crack the case, deliver Grayson Kent to Fusco and be back in time to clean up before going over to Carter's place. Maybe she'd like the lawyer trussed up as gift rather than the pumpkin pie... The thought makes him smile.
It doesn't take long to get to the docks. Unwilling to park too close, he stashes the bike in the lot of a big, busy drugstore and walks the few hundred meters to the dock. It's a big place. Several huge cranes tower against the skyline, the sound of metal against metal as cargo crates are swung down from ships to be deposited in massive warehouses making it hard to think. When he cuts a hole in the chain-link fence and slides through, he puts on the woollen cap in his pocket, pulling it down over his nose. Passing through a group of workmen he recognises their language and says a brief "hello" in Polish. They nod vaguely and don't give him a second glance. The northern terminal is a lot less populated than the southern one, although it is far from quiet. The clanging of steel as a crane unloads its cargo much further away reminds John uneasily of gunfire. A ship has obviously departed, along with its crew, and the big empty storage container that is waiting to be re-filled provides excellent cover. Tucking himself behind a pile of wooden pallets propped against the wall, Reese gets out his binoculars and settles down to wait.
His knees are cramping and his arms are stiff by the time he catches sight of his quarry, but such petty trifles are swiftly forgotten. As "The Juno", a huge imposing metal monstrosity is towed into the bay, a car rolls up to the dock. The Bentley is instantly recognisable, as is the man who exits it. Grayson Kent's silver blond hair ruffles in the breeze, but he is otherwise immaculate. A few moments later a big black minivan pulls up behind him and three men get out. They are heavy-set, dressed casually, but from the bulges in their clothing John can see at a glance that they are all armed. He snaps a couple of pictures and sends them on to Finch.
Once the ship has dropped anchor and the gangway has been secured, John watches as two middleaged men descend and walk over to Kent. Both of them seem to be deferring to the lawyer, the older of the two accepting a duffel bag after opening it briefly to check the contents. Presumably the transportation fee for the nine girls who were herded down the ramp a few minutes later by three burly but indifferent looking men. John snaps another couple of pictures and sends them on, withdrawing his Glock and unzipping his pocket. Waiting until the girls had been handed over to Kent and his men, he makes sure that the boat crew have headed back on board before making his move. The girls aged between perhaps thirteen and eighteen stay huddled together, a couple of the older ones a little defiant but obviously terrified when Kent looks them over, touching their breasts and making them open their mouths so that he could check their teeth. Once they have been herded into the back of the minivan, John makes his move. Tossing a flash bang towards the car he ducks back and covers his ears, bounding to his feet and raising his gun. Kent is cowering on the floor, obviously stunned, but his chauffeur recovers quickly and pulls a pistol from a shoulder holster, letting off a couple of shots. John takes him down quickly and turns his attention to the three men by the mini van. Dropping one with a shot to the knee, and slamming the still open door into the smallest's face as he runs around the vehicle, knocking him out cold, the larger of the three is on John before he has time to dodge. The impact of his body slams him against the van, a big hand squeezing his wrist until he has to let go of the gun. Bucking backwards when a meaty arm clamps around his neck, Reese struggles to breathe, his feet scrambling for purchase. Finally bracing a boot on the wing mirror he gets enough purchase to throw them both backwards, rolling sideways and out of the thug's grip. Grabbing a handful of hair he slams the man's head down and finishes him off with an uppercut. He can hear a couple of the young women whimpering but there isn't time to worry about that. Getting up John retrieves his gun and strides over to Grayson Kent who is struggling to his knees, his eyes wide, his pristine suit stained with oil.
"Kent.." His words are cut off when something slams into his thigh, sending him crashing to the ground. Slightly winded, Reese glances down at the steadily darkening stain on his jeans. I didn't hear a gunshot so that must mean a sniper rifle...The thought has barely flashed through his mind before another bullet whizzes past so close that the concrete chips thrown up cut his cheek. Rolling sideways he returns fire in the general direction the gunfire was coming from before half running, half limping back towards the warehouse. Collapsing inside, dizzy with pain and adrenaline, he chances a quick look back towards the boat. The two men that had met Grayson Kent are on deck, each with sleek, top of the range rifles. Obviously women weren't the only thing being smuggled on The Juno, John realizes, his heart sinking. There's only one entrance to this storage hold and no-where to run.
"Finch?" The utter silence at his query speaks volumes. Touching his ear, he realizes that the earpiece had been knocked out in the fight. Thankfully his cellphone is intact when he pulls it out of his pocket.
Harold answers it after only one ring, obviously worried. John interrupts him before he can say anything.
"Harold, I've got a slight situation here."
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