Harold Finch's Halfway Home for Ex-Assassins
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"You know, I was going to go with you anyway." Mark complained as he limped up the stairs to the roof.
With his left arm, he braced himself against the stairwell's handrail. Reese supported him on his right. Behind them was a trail of blood from Mark's brand new bullet wound.
"You should be thanking me, Mark. I could've shot you in the knees. I'm good at that."
Mark huffed out a laugh, which turned into a groan as he put weight on his wounded leg. The bullet had gone clean through, not hitting bone or his femoral artery. Mark supposed that John was right about his knees, but it didn't really matter. They were both already dead, the countdown on their chests approaching the 10 minute mark. It had been nice of Kara to give them enough time to really absorb the fact that they were about to die.
Cold air hit Mark in the face as Reese let him go in order to open the door. Mark followed him out
'It's not the worst way to go,' Mark thought.
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