Chapter Text
Life is a bullet
It's tearing through you and me
He is “number one” among the century’s top three most notorious criminals according to Interpol; MI6’s wet dream is to string him up for the “The Shard Incident”, and the CIA can’t wait to lock him up at one of their black sites in the middle of the Pacific ocean.
Arm a guerrilla group? Trace an unscrupulous associate? Be gone in twenty-four hours? Lay your hands on classified intel?
Raymond “Red” Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, at your service.
Brussels, May 2008
Biding goodbye to another client of his, Reddington gets in a car. Contemplating how to distribute the percentage of the successfully closed deal, he uncorks a bottle of Cheval Blanc.
The cork jumps out of the bottle’s neck with a gentle pop.
He brings the glass to his mouth. Inhales the subtle hint of menthol and takes a sip—the aroma drifts off, and a tart blueberry taste with a delicate touch of caramel sweetness rolls across his tongue. Savoring the wine, Reddington looks down onto the bustling street.
Brussels Central Station is a stone’s throw from here, but the heavy traffic forces him waiting at the traffic lights. Watching the crowds through the tinted glass, Red smirks. One more hour—and he’ll be resting on his jet while these poor unfortunate souls are crowding in the tickets line.
The car takes off, but a couple of intersections after it halts, trapped in a traffic jam again. Reddington pours himself more wine. ...How many? Ten years ago? Seven? He’s only begun dipping his fingers into luxury: a wine cellar at his villa in Majorca, a VIP-carriage ticket, a few of thousands splurged on a Zegna tie.
Shipping arms to Yemen through one of the logistic companies he controls. Financing the two lesser-known, yet talented virologists. Smuggling cocaine from Miami to Caracas, and from there—to Spain. A front for cleaning up cash, disguised as the hotel for cats, not far from Wall Street. Investing in the start-up run by two students, expelled from MIT.
Before, it has been physical copies of classified NOFORN documents. Now—a few taps on the keyboard are enough. Many would give a handsome sum of money for the information hidden in the meaningless sequences of zeroes and ones. Demand creates supply, and he’s ready to satisfy any of his customers’—same crooks and outlaws he is—whims. For a generous fee, of course.
The car halts at another Chocolatier shop-window. Viscous chocolate spirals down the fountain, curling in loops. Chocolate figures, in various shapes and sizes, lying on a rainbow candies and caramels pillow: soldiers, cars, animals… Couques de dinant biscuits hang on numerous thin threads, reflecting on the glass.
Reddington pours more wine. Once, he has bitten into a couques de dinant, almost breaking his tooth. In a few years, he’s mastered the art of eating it: break it into pieces, pop a small piece into the mouth—not swallowing it just yet—and let it soften on your tongue while simultaneously admiring the view of the night Grand-Place from the rooftop of The Palace of Justice. Add a glass of an off-dry white wine and a taste of woman’s lips, sweetened by the honeyed aftertaste—and you’ve been to Brussels.
Someone in a uniform and a white apron approaches the shop window from the inside of the sweet shop. Male hands arrange the figures, sorting those out by flavor: white chocolate with nuts, dark chocolate with raisins, bitter chocolate… It’s not possible to see the man’s face—he’s too tall, and his face is indiscernible behind the chocolate fountain.
Reddington, taking a sip, grins at the memory. His first time here, he has been sitting at a patisserie, waiting for a client. Out of boredom, he watches a pâtissier—a quiet boy with fair hair—stirring chocolate.
“I want to buy this patisserie.”
“Sorry, it’s n-not on s-sale.”
“But you don't even know what you’re missing.”
“I’m s-sorry, b-but—”
“Ten minutes after closing, it’s all I ask.”
Ten minutes after closing extend into a delightful couple of hours at one of JW Marriott's luxurious suites.
Reddington finishes his wine.
Smoothly, the car starts off the road. The Central Station looms up in front—a monumental celebration of architectural thought in glassed monotony. Rolling the tinted window up, Red breathes the street in—the smell of the wet asphalt, burnt rubber, and crunchy Belgian waffles sold on every corner.
When he passes the pastry cafe, another memory pops into his head—the time he almost misses his train, waiting in a line to buy Belgian truffles. Of course, he could have left this trivia to someone else, but sometimes, just for a couple of moments, he wishes to be an ordinary passenger who hurries to catch his train. It turns out—he shouldn't have hurried at all. At the station, back from the last walk around the downtown, he buys a giant, twice as his two palms size, cinnamon-flavored pretzel.
After all these years, he remembers this scent—the scent of home.
Home, he lost many years ago.
The station is left behind, but Reddington asks the driver to do a U-turn. A few instants after he lifts his hand to catch the closing door and enters the building. He shudders from the stinging wind and then looks up. It has completely slipped his mind that the station is under the open sky. It indeed is; nothing has changed since his first visit—one can spot the clouds at the center of the ceiling.
Space is humming, stomping, clinking, clapping—and he lets this organized chaos to swallow himself up. At least, for the time being, until he gets to the shop he needs. In front of him, an old man chooses the sweets, asking a young woman behind the counter, which flavor is the best. Reddington cast glances at his watch, guessing, how much a delay would cost him. It’s on you, his inner voice grunts.
Finally, the man leaves Red and the young woman alone. He has already decided what to buy: a bar of dark chocolate, a bar of white, and one pretzel.
“Gift wrap?”
He stares at the box with a crimson ribbon, reminding him of the past.
“Mom, it ties not!”
“A magic word first, sweetheart.”
Reddington doesn't get to answer the question—a gust of wind blows his fedora off. He dives in to catch it; his eyes skim further and hang onto the shop’s wall... Precisely—onto a neat hole, lesser than an inch.
His body reacts faster than his mind—it darts sideways—and only halfway through the realization strikes him.
Saved by a miracle.
The seller gives him a confused look, her fingers clutching at his purchase.
“Sorry, honey, I’ve changed my mind.”
He tries to run not too fast, instinctively plunging into the crowd and maneuvering among people. He takes a burner out—his driver’s number is on speed dial. Not waiting for an answer, he barks the orders at the driver, telling him to wait at the opposite street—and then breaks the flip-phone in half and tosses it onto rails. Good luck retrieving the data, whoever you are.
Running takes its toll on him—the stabbing pain hits him below the ribs as if someone guts him open with a blunt knife. Red wipes the sweat off his forehead, takes a sharp left into a vacant hallway, and makes a dive for the first wide-open door, catching a glimpse of the sign from the corner of his eye: STAFF ONLY. He has a few minutes until the shooter—or his associates—start sweeping the building to finish him off.
Taking his jacket, shirt, and vest off, Reddington tosses them into a laundry basket. Uniform lockers in his sights, he pulls his gun out of his belt and knocks the wobbly locks off, looking for his size. The uniform is hideously gray—but there’s not much to choose from. He puts on the shirt; fastens the first few buttons; after—checks the mag and then racks the slide.
His gun drawn, he looks down the hallway.
No one.
“DEAR VISITORS, PLEASE STAY WHERE YOU ARE AND KEEP CA...”
Red doesn't listen and breaks into a run. He stops at another intersection to let out a breath—it isn’t much fun at his age. He barely gets to—a hundred feet from him, give or take, he hears voices.
“...not gone far.”
He bolts out, wondering, what are the odds to make it out alive. At the next turn—a life-saving sign with a green arrow.
Hiding his gun, he pulls the door open.