Chapter 7: The Test
POV: Thomas Carter
The evening carries the weight of false security, that dangerous comfort that comes from six days without violence. Tom sits at his workstation reviewing case files while coffee grows cold at his elbow, the Library's atmosphere settled into something almost domestic around him.
Then Reese goes rigid.
The change is instant, absolute—muscle memory from combat zones where relaxation meant death. His hand moves toward his concealed weapon with the fluid precision of someone who's survived too many ambushes to ignore the warning signals his nervous system provides.
"We've got company."
The words cut through the Library's peace like a blade through silk. Tom's stomach drops as he watches Reese move to the window, his movements economical and deadly.
"Four vehicles. Coordinated approach."
Finch's coffee mug hits the desk harder than intended, ceramic clicking against wood with the sharp sound of panic barely controlled.
"They found us. How?"
Tom's mind races through possibilities—digital tracking, physical surveillance, the hundred ways professional killers locate their targets. But academic speculation becomes irrelevant when violence arrives with shaped charges and automatic weapons.
"Finch, back exit. Now."
Reese is already moving, checking weapons with the methodical efficiency of someone who's made peace with the possibility of dying for strangers. But before they can reach the rear door, explosions blossom against metal and wood, shaped charges detonating with the precise timing that speaks of military training.
Trapped.
Tom's vision fills with tactical displays courtesy of cameras positioned throughout the building—eight men visible through multiple angles, professional hit squad equipped with gear that costs more than most people make in a year.
"Heavy weapons, tactical formation, ex-military. Someone paid serious money."
Reese's assessment carries the calm certainty of someone who's learned to evaluate threats while bullets fly.
"The executives?"
"Or their employers. Mr. Reese?"
But Reese is already in motion, checking sightlines and ammunition with the poetry of violence made manifest. He takes position near the main window, and Tom watches him work—precise shots through glass that drop two attackers with non-lethal precision, each bullet placed to disable rather than kill.
[RECOMMEND SPEED ENHANCEMENT. HOST SURVIVAL PROBABILITY WITHOUT INTERVENTION: 34%.]
Nano's assessment scrolls across Tom's vision like a digital death sentence, but he forces himself to stillness.
"Not yet. Let John work."
This is where people die. This is where the fiction of his favorite television show collides with reality's sharp edges, where dramatic tension becomes actual terror. But this is also where he proves himself—not through superhuman abilities, but through trust in the people who've chosen to protect him.
Finch makes frantic phone calls—police, anonymous tips, emergency services—but response time stretches like an eternity: eight to twelve minutes. They don't have that long.
More attackers visible through the surveillance feeds, repositioning for final assault. Reese holds his ground, but even John Reese has limits when facing professional killers with superior numbers and equipment.
The firefight intensifies, muzzle flashes strobing through broken windows while Reese returns fire with calculated precision. Tom finds himself at the secondary window, unable to resist the tactical analysis that years of watching this world has burned into his brain.
Movement across the street catches his enhanced perception—a reflection that doesn't belong, angle wrong for sunlight but perfect for a telescopic sight. Third floor window, specific position that offers clear shots at Reese's location.
Time dilates as Tom processes the geometry of death: sniper positioned to kill John Reese the moment he becomes visible, finger already tightening on trigger, bullet traveling toward a man who saved Tom's life.
"John!"
The shout explodes from Tom's throat with desperate urgency.
"Sniper, three o'clock, building across street, third floor!"
Reese moves without hesitation, trusting Tom's warning enough to dive away from the window just as the sniper's bullet explodes glass exactly where his head had been positioned microseconds before.
"How did you—"
But there's no time for questions. Reese returns fire from his new position, suppressing the sniper while Tom's heart hammers against his ribs with the knowledge that he just saved John Reese's life.
"Good eyes."
"Got lucky."
The excuse slides out automatically, but Tom catches Finch staring at him with analytical intensity that suggests luck isn't a sufficient explanation for spotting reflected scope glint at that distance in combat conditions.
"Mr. Carter, how did you see that?"
"Reflection. The angle was wrong."
True enough, but normal human perception wouldn't process that information fast enough to matter. Tom realizes he's just demonstrated capabilities that fall outside standard parameters, and somewhere in the digital realm, The Machine is recording every detail for analysis.
[ENTITY RECORDED OBSERVATION. PROBABILITY OF NATURAL PERCEPTION: 12%. MACHINE IS CALCULATING.]
But Reese is alive. That has to count for something, even if it costs Tom his anonymity.
"Remarkable observation skills, Mr. Carter."
Finch's tone carries layers Tom can't quite decode—appreciation mixed with suspicion, gratitude tempered by questions that don't have comfortable answers.
The attackers regroup for their final push, and Tom realizes they're running out of time and options. Reese assesses their situation with the clinical detachment of someone who's faced impossible odds before.
"We need an exit. Now."
Tom's knowledge of the building layout—gained through careful study of blueprints The Machine provided—offers a solution.
"Fire escape, north side, leads to alley."
"That's exposed."
Finch's concern is valid, but remaining in the Library means certain death when the attackers breach their defenses.
"Less exposed than staying."
Reese nods, recognizing tactical necessity when it presents itself.
They move as a unit—Reese providing cover fire while Tom helps Finch navigate stairs made treacherous by his injured leg. The fire escape's metal grating rings with bullet impacts as they descend, sparks flying from ricochets that miss them by inches.
Tom shields Finch instinctively when gunfire intensifies, his body acting without conscious thought to protect the man whose vision drives their entire operation. If Harold Finch dies, everything changes—not just for Team Machine, but for every life they might have saved.
Police sirens finally cut through the night air, and the attackers scatter like roaches when lights come on. They reach the alley as backup arrives, professional killers melting into New York's shadows to fight another day.
Safe.
In the aftermath, as adrenaline fades into exhaustion, Finch studies Tom with renewed intensity.
"You pulled me down before those shots. How did you know?"
"Saw them taking position. Just reacted."
"Your reactions are unusually fast."
Tom's go-to excuse emerges with practiced ease.
"Adrenaline?"
Finch doesn't look convinced, but operational necessity overrides curiosity. There will be time for questions later, when they're not bleeding in an alley while police search for evidence of violence.
Reese's voice cuts through the moment with simple words that carry enormous weight.
"You saved him. Thank you."
Tom realizes he's earned something more valuable than gratitude—he's earned John Reese's genuine respect. The recognition that when violence came calling, Thomas Carter stepped up instead of hiding behind superhuman abilities he could have used to guarantee his own survival.
[MACHINE ASSESSMENT UPDATE: THREAT PROBABILITY DECREASED TO 8%. ASSET PROBABILITY INCREASED TO 67%. EVALUATION CONTINUING.]
Saving Finch counts for a lot, apparently, even to artificial super-intelligence. But Tom knows the evaluation isn't over. Every choice he makes contributes to calculations that will determine his continued existence in this world.
Three of them sit in the backup safehouse—a different location with different books but the same sense of purpose that makes any place Team Machine operates feel like sanctuary. Reese cleans weapons with methodical precision while Finch reroutes their digital security. Tom sits with hands that still shake from post-adrenaline crash, processing the reality that he just survived his first real firefight.
Finch finally breaks the silence, his voice carrying the weight of unasked questions.
"Mr. Carter, you have good instincts. Remarkably good. I can't help but wonder where you developed them."
Tom meets those intelligent eyes, seeing calculation mixed with genuine curiosity.
"I've always been observant. And maybe I'm motivated—I don't want good people dying because I missed something."
Finch studies him for a long moment, then nods with what might be acceptance.
"Fair enough."
But Tom knows the truth: Finch is suspicious. The Machine is watching. And tonight he took his first step toward exposure, trading anonymity for the lives of people who matter more than his secrets.
The thought should terrify him. Instead, it feels like the first honest choice he's made since waking up in this impossible world.
Some things are worth the risk.
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