Phoenix, Leverage, PG-13

[phantisma]

Fandom: Leverage
Title: Phoenix
Characters/Pairings: Eliot, Nate, Sophie, Parker, Hardison
Word Count: 5779
Rating: PG-13, for violence and language
Summary: When a mark scares Eliot Spencer, it's a good bet that the team should be afraid.

A/Ns & Warnings: This began as just the opening paragraph, something I thought of in passing...but then it fermented and bubbled and percolated until I couldn't let it go. This is not the most linear story telling. It's a bit disjointed. I think it fits the story though.



There are them that say he died that day. Betrayed. Alone. Bleeding into the sand. Others will tell you he was born anew. And god help any who stood against him.

Something isn't right. He can taste it in the acrid burn of oil, in the static silence on his radio. Something isn't right.

He waited, barely breathing, listening to the sounds of feet running toward him, shouts of the men chasing. His hand shot out, his fingers fisting in a sweaty t-shirt and he yanked, earning a surprised sound and a tall body crashing toward him. He pushed, pressing them into the dark of the alley, deep into the shadows.

The body under his struggled until he hissed in an ear. "Damn it Hardison."

He went still then. Still and quiet aside from the wicked beating of his heart thumping against Eliot's chest and the panting that he was fighting desperately to control.

The pursuing men ran past the opening into the alley. There was shouting and they circled back. "Where did he go?"

"Try back that way."

They waited, listening for a full five minutes, bodies pressed tight together as Hardison slowly calmed and Eliot waited to be sure. When he figured they were clear, Eliot stood back with a smirk and held up Hardison's ear piece.

"Nate, we're clear." Eliot said, interrupting Nate's instructions to Parker. "I meant what I said. We need to talk."

"Okay, Eliot, you and Hardison get back to the apartment. Parker?"

"On my way."

Eliot nodded. "We'll be there in ten minutes." He grabbed Hardison's shirt again and dragged him away toward the street, stopping long enough to double check. "My truck is right there. Get in, get down. Those men are still in the area."

He shoved Hardison out onto the sidewalk and followed, getting the truck started almost before he was sitting down. He pulled out into traffic, pushing Hardison's face into the seat. "Stay down."

"I am down."

He was fuming, but he did his best to control it. It wasn't Nate's fault. It wasn't Hardison's fault. They didn't know.

No one did.

There are them that should have known, the ones who saw and did nothing. The ones who left him. The ones who killed him. The ones that should have buried him.

The bullet in his side is bleeding him, the heat of the blood soaks that whole left side. He moves, self preservation pushing him past the pain into action, into movement away from the destruction he hears calling his name.

"You want to tell me what this is all about?" Nate asked as Eliot closed the door to the back room.

"No." Eliot growled, turning to look at him. "I told you from the beginning I wanted no part of this."

"Yes, you did." Nate agreed. "But you didn't give me a reason. You just told me no."

"It should be enough." Eliot pulled the hair out of his face and exhaled. "It isn't like I say no often."

"These are bad guys, Eliot. And they're hurting people."

"You think I don't know that?" Eliot punched the door. "These guys are…dangerous Nate."

"We've handled dangerous before."

"Not like this." Eliot shook his head. "Believe me." He knew first hand. "Look, Nate. They kill they're own. They-" He closed his eyes and turned away so that Nate couldn't see his face. Nate didn't need the details. No one did. "The reason they're so hard to pin down is that membership changes rapidly. Only the highest levels stay the same. They shuffle people around, they turn on each other and tear each other apart."

They were his first team. And the reason he'd worked alone until Nate came along.

"They're organized, methodical, good at what they do." He didn't want to say it, but it was true. "They're better than us."

Nate was quiet and when Eliot turned he could tell the man was at least thinking about what Eliot had said. "I say we cut out losses and bail on this one." Eliot said quietly.

"And what do I tell our client?" Nate asked after a long silence.

Eliot looked away. He didn't want to know about the client. He didn't want to care. "Tell her…we tried."

"Did we?" Nate asked, the words pointed.

"Nate." Eliot growled the name, every fiber of his being trying to warn Nate off this case. "You don't understand."

"So make me understand, Eliot."

There are moments that destroy a man. Small, even miniscule mistakes, that eat into the core of a person until there is nothing left. There are events so devastating that there is no recovery imaginable. And there are them that only wish that to be true.

The sand is hot beneath him, slick with blood, even as the cool night air settles over him like a blanket, calling him to sleep…to close his eyes and let the sand hold him forever. He rolls to his back, stares up at the wide open sky, at the stars staring coldly down at him. If he stays, if he lets his wounds pull him under, he won't ever wake up again.

He knew it was already too late. These weren't the kind of men who would let a thing go, even something as small as this. Hardison had been seen. Even the minimal incursion his hack had made on their system was enough to label him a threat.

"Hardison, you need to shut everything down." Eliot said, turning his back to Nate. "Hard. Like you got a world class bloodhound on your ass."

"But I just-"

"No buts, Hardison. Do it." He looked at Nate for backup.

"Do it, Hardison."

"The rest of you, get out. Burn whatever aliases you've used local in the last two weeks and go to ground somewhere that isn't one of your safe houses. I'll find us a location to meet up and let you know when it's clear to get there." He pointed at Nate. "That includes you. I figure we've got an hour tops before they find this place."

Nate headed out the door and Eliot paced the room. "Hardison, as soon as everyone's out, cut the comms and do the same. Don't bring the comms up again for an hour. If you don't hear from me within five minutes of turning them on, turn them off again for another hour. Do you get me?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay. What if I don't hear from you the second time?"

Eliot exhaled slowly. "Run like hell."

He pulled the earpiece out and put it in his pocket before exiting the back room. He made a sweep of the bar, noting the familiar faces and those that weren't quite as familiar, marking who was watching the door, who was holding space.

So far they seemed to be okay. He let himself out the front door and found a place to watch. He would wait until he knew his team was out, just in case.

He saw Parker leave first. She moved fast and furtive, all feline grace as she avoided the cameras and blended into the shadows. Sophie was next, big hat and large sunglasses obscuring her even though she made no attempt to hide.

Hardison was fidgety and fumbling, muttering to himself as he zig zagged across the street and down to the corner. Nate was last, a bag slung over one shoulder, looking casual and relaxed, though his eyes darted to where Eliot was hiding and there was the tightest of nods before Nate got into the cab he'd hailed.

Once they were gone, Eliot let himself back inside, up to the apartment that he knew the rest of the team thought was secure enough now that they weren't there. He had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to scrub the place and get gone. He started with the security system, wiping the hard drive of all of the saved footage.

He headed for Hardison's back ups as he dialed his phone. "Yeah, I need a clean up." He was never going to get all of the fingerprints and DNA evidence out of the place in time, but if he called in a cleaning crew, they might…or at least come close. "Now." He gave the man the address as he ran a magnet over the back up server in the closet in Nate's bedroom. "Door's open, let yourself in."

Eliot grabbed his stash bag from the crawl space and headed back downstairs. A quick check out the windows showed him only the cleaning crew arriving. They would come up the front steps. Eliot would slip out the back.

There are moments that define a man, carve away what is no longer needed and reveal the true nature that lies beneath. Cut to the bone, and strip away everything else. There are them that know that man won't ever be the same.

”Good job, soldier.”

“Thank you, sir.” He looks up at the man who ran the team, his silver hair a mark of the years he’d served his country.

“Don’t sir me, Son. I’m not army anymore.” The older man smiles, claps a hand onto his shoulder. “And if I have my way, you won’t be either. How would you feel about coming to work for me?”

Eliot circled back around the block for the third time, stopping in the doorway of the diner across the street from his destination. Hardison wouldn’t like it much, but it did have internet, electricity and running water.

He waited another few minutes before stepping out of the shadows and crossing the street, his pace even, his eyes watching the spaces around him. He was pretty sure he was in the clear, but sometimes it was difficult to tell. Especially with Seaver’s men.

The motel was old and run down, but clean and provided them all the cover they would need. It was also empty of guests and staff, and had been for at least as long as Eliot had been in Boston. He fired up the security cameras and slipped the earpiece out of his pocket, turning it on too and settling it in his ear.

“Hardison?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Did everyone get clear?” He moved back out of the office area and into the hallway that led to the laundry room and vending machines.

“Everyone checked in an hour ago, other than you.”

He could hear a little fear in Hardison’s voice. He was starting to get it now. How serious this was. “Good. I need at least another three hours, but I have us a place to work from. You got cash?”

“Yeah, we all hit up our emergency cash.”

“Good. Get clean equipment. New phones. No names, avoid cameras. Use a disguise if you can pull it off without being ridiculous.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Hardison, these are the men who created the tech that you use, do you understand me? Those cameras and the security grids? They can search them faster than you, and they’ve seen you.”

He moved into the laundry room and pulled one of the machines away from the wall, reaching behind it for a bundle of cables so that he could get the rest of the place up and running.

“Three hours. You first, then Parker, then Nate and Sophie.”

“Fine. Where?”

Eliot inhaled slowly. He had to trust that the comms hadn’t been compromised. “Daystar Motel, on Franklin. Come in the office door. Stay off the comms as much as possible.”

There are times when a man faces the darkness inside him, when he stands toe to toe with the demon he knows best and he chooses. No one can make that choice for him.

”From this day on, who you were no longer exists. You are only who we have made you to be, a member of this team, a secret fighter in the war on terror. Your name is a memory to be forgotten, your identity wiped clean.”

He stands with two other new team members in uniforms devoid of markings of rank or name, nervous, but ready for the challenge.

“Your first assignment will be to create your new identity, air tight and untraceable. You have twenty four hours. Begin.”

Hardison was mostly on time, lugging in two big bags full of equipment. Eliot was waiting at the counter, dirty and dusty and sweaty, but convinced that for the moment they had a cover that would hold.

“What is that smell?” Hardison asked as he put one of the bags on the counter.

"There was a dead cat." Eliot responded. "What's this?"

"New gear. Took me the last three hours to put together. All cash, ten different stores, all on foot or by public transportation. It wasn't easy."

"Well, it should help keep us off radar a while longer."

Hardison pulled a phone out of his bag and tossed it to Eliot. "Pre-programmed it with all our numbers."

Eliot nodded and responded by handing him a room key. "I cleared it out and set up an office. Go get started."

"What about you?"

Eliot looked up, his eyes scanning the road outside the windows before coming back to Hardison. "I'll be right here, watching for the others."

There are times that no matter how noble the cause, a man is tempted to stray, when men line their pockets with gold stained in the blood of those they were sent to save, look the other way…or worse, actively destroy that which they set out to protect. Then there are them that only pay lip service to the cause, meaning only ever to destroy.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, sir." He pushes the button to bring up the camera again, not sure why it had faltered. "Bravo team, hold your position. Alpha team, report."

"Alpha team in position. Target acquired. Advise."

"Roger that alpha team, hold for orders." He looks up at his commander. "Bravo team reports that there are friendlies inside, sir. If we go straight in there will be casualties."

The commander nods. "Give the order."

"Sir?"

"Acceptable losses, soldier. Give the order."

Parker looked a little spooked as she slipped in off the street, her eyes darting around before coming to stop on Eliot. She nodded once. "I like what you've done with the place."

Eliot smirks, for the first time since he'd realized what they were up against feeling some small measure of okay. Out of the four of them, Parker was probably the only one who might make it through this without him.

"Cameras covering the office, full exterior, internal corridors and the room Hardison is setting up for us." Eliot nodded at the monitors he was just finishing up.

"Building?"

It was the one small weakness of this plan. It was buried pretty damn deep though. "Mine. Bought it years ago, when it was still an actual motel." Of course if anyone could trace the ownership it would Seaver, but he'd have to work for it, and he'd have to know who he was looking for. So far, Eliot was fairly certain he didn't. "What's in the bag?"

She shrugged and shook her head a little. "Everything. You didn't say how long."

He swallowed and nodded. He had no reason to believe they'd be able to stay in Boston after this. "Good. If we run, we run." He handed her the key to the room Hardison was setting up. "Get out of sight."

She started for the door, but Eliot stopped her, grabbing her hand. He left a slip of paper behind as he pulled away. She opened it, her eyes narrowing. "Thomas Holmes? Who is he?"

Eliot licked his lips. "Just have Hardison run the name. He should be ready by now."

There are them that wrap themselves up in pretty words that mean little but hide devious and dangerous deeds, that parade themselves around with flash and style, though underneath they are empty and heartless. Then there are them who move invisibly through the shadows, unseen, unknown, ruthless, devoid of name or substance because they have emptied themselves out.

He looks to his left, nods once to the lead of the other team. They have a half hour to get into the compound, save the lives of five US civilians and two marines, and get clear.

His team is in charge of holding the perimeter, the other team is inserting and recovering. "We have a go."

"Roger." He makes the motion and the other team starts to move. "Clock starts now."

Sophie and Nate arrived together, flirting and playing a loving couple as they entered the building. Eliot flipped the switch to send the security feeds to Hardison, leaving the front monitors blank before he took the last key to the room.

Nate stopped him with a hand on his arm. "We talk first."

Eliot wanted to tell him no, push him away and just get them through this…if he could. "Look, I know you have questions, and I can give you some of the answers, but I don't want to repeat myself. Hardison is ready for us."

"Tell me what you're afraid of."

Eliot looked him in the eye. "Do you remember when I told you that the worst thing I had ever done, I did for Damien Moureu?"

Nate nodded tightly once.

Eliot licked his lips. "Yeah, well…what these men did makes that look a teenager playing with fire crackers."

He led them out of the office, down the side of the building and into the room where Hardison has been working for the last few hours. The room is big, once billed as a "family" room, now filled with a giant TV screen on one wall, and four smaller screens on another, currently showing the security camera feeds.

Hardison has a desk set up in the center of the room, three computer monitors and keyboards. Eliot can see he's been busy working on the name he'd given them. Parker emerged from the bathroom and Eliot nodded to Hardison.

"Run it."

Hardison's fingers flew over one of the keyboards and the big screen came to life. "Eliot provided the name 'Thomas Holmes'…and it took a lot of digging, but I found that Thomas Holmes was a soldier, recruited out of the US army to work for a shadowy, psuedo-government agency tasked to carry out wet operations that the US and Britain could not lay claim to. He was a weapons specialist with a good head for planning and executing complex missions and his file, such as it is, is filled with commendations for valor and service."

The television screen was filled with paperwork with thick black lines, redacted reports of missions and briefings. Eliot didn't need to look at them. He knew exactly what they all said. "Hardison."

He nodded, pressed a finger and the screen went blank. "According to reports, Thomas Holmes died during a mission that went very wrong in Afghanistan. There were civilian casualties, including three US reporters. Two marines also died and over a million dollars in US funds disappeared. Holmes was reported dead, along with two thirds of the team that inserted for the rescue op. His body was never reclaimed."

The room was quiet for a minute. Then Nate cleared his throat. "Eliot, what does this have to do with our current situation?"

Eliot inhaled and let it out slowly. He had never told anyone. No one knew. There was no paper trail. It was now or never.

There are missions that go according to plan, them that slide a little sideways, and there are them that go so spectacularly wrong that no amount of planning can save them. Then there are missions that were only ever a cover for something else, and the actual plan leaves a blood trail a mile wide.

Something isn't right. He can taste it in the acrid burn of oil, in the static silence on his radio. Something isn't right.

The gun fire has stopped for the moment, the yelling gone still. "Alpha team, what the hell is going on?"

His team is scattered around him, most of them dead, or unlikely to live to see home again. His arm is bleeding, and if not for the Kevlar he'd probably be dead too.

He finishes tying off the wound and picks up his gun and radio again. "Alpha team, come in."

"Holmes, is that you?"

He breathes a sigh of relief that someone other than him is still alive. "Yeah, what's your situation?"

"Heavy casualties, civilians all dead. We're coming out extremely hot. Get clear of the gates, we'll pick you up."

"Pick me up?" That's when he hears it, the rumbling sound of a big engine. He looks up to find a truck bearing down on his position. "Roger that."

Eliot nodded to Hardison and an image filled the television screen, a soldier, with close cropped hair and uniform and a face he used to know intimately. "Meet Thomas Holmes."

The room was quiet as they all stared at the image, at the face of a man they all thought they knew, a face out of a dark and murky past, from before Eliot had become Eliot Spencer.

"I thought you said Holmes was dead." Parker said suddenly.

Eliot nodded. "It was the only way to survive. He had to die."

"But he's you." Parker insisted.

Again, Eliot nodded. "He was. Thomas Holmes died in the desert in Afghanistan after a mission to rescue three reporters and two marines was sabotaged by greed and bloodlust."

"The million dollars." Nate supplied.

"Among other things. That compound was a clearing house for money and weapons. That one hit got Seaver and his men gold, guns, cash. It was never about saving anyone. No one but those Seaver hand picked was supposed to survive."

"And yet, here you are."

Eliot's eyes flashed to Nate. "He underestimated me."

There are times when the truth become incontrovertible, when all the lies and platitudes wash away and all that is left is the naked reality of an existence that you never wanted to know.

Gunfire pelts the ground as he races for the truck, catching hold with his good hand and hauling himself up as it starts moving again. Hands haul him in through the open tarp covering the back and he lands heavy and hard on something harder still.

He frowns, slipping as he struggles to right himself on a shifting pile of…something covered in canvas. “What the-“ He’s pulled to the side, pressed down, his earpiece torn away and he lies on the floor of the truck, a gun in his face.

“Target secure.”

“Target?” He struggles, but is kicked in the side for the effort as the truck runs headlong into the night. He stills, waits for an explanation, but he’s starting to see what it is. There’s a pallet filled with what looks like money near his head, and whatever is in the canvas bag is probably priceless. The team around him is not the Alpha team he’d thought was going in.

Eliot closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “I was recruited by Seaver, but I questioned his orders one too many times when his orders unnecessarily endangered lives. So, on that particular mission, he put me in charge of Bravo team. Alpha team was going in after the prisoners, we were supposed to hold the perimeter, cover them, get them out.” He shook his head. “But it all went south. We took heavy fire, Alpha team took heavy fire.”

He paced away, hands fisting at his side. “A lot of very good men died that day.” He turned to look at the picture on the screen. “And they were killed by their own, not insurgents or rebels or whatever the paperwork says. Those men who killed us worked for Seaver, just like the rest of us.”

“Why?” Nate asked softly, rubbing his chin and frowning at Eliot. “What did he gain?”

“Money, guns….Fear.”

There are them who should be held accountable, thieves and murderers, them who were following orders…them who gave the orders…

The truck stops and he’s hauled to his feet, stripped bare of his Kevlar vest, his boots, his helmet and he’s dropped to the sand. The others pile out behind him, attack him with boots and fists. The arm with a bullet it in is broken now, his nose bleeding down into his mouth.

He’s going to die. They’ve been given the order. They laugh as he tries to defend himself, call him names as the knives come out.

He bleeds, staggers, falls.

“Enough already. Kill him so we can get moving. Sun’s going to be up soon.”

The shot rings out, then another and he lies still, listening as they clamber back into the truck and drive away, leaving him to bleed out in the sand.

Nate nodded, but it’s Sophie who speaks. “He kept the governments afraid of what was happening over there, what the so called rebels were capable of, so he could continue to have a free reign.”

Eliot nodded. “Not just there either. He had units in a lot of hot spots. And he got very rich from the governments, plus the plundering of national treasures, drug sales and weapons sales.”

He was hoping they were beginning to see what kind of enemy they had made. “He recruits from the best armies, schools, militia groups…anyone with a skill set he can exploit, he uses them and either they move up the ranks or they burn off, as he calls it.”

Hardison changed the screen and Seaver’s picture replaced Thomas Holmes. “Both the US and the UK have disavowed him and his organization now. He has no government contracts anywhere in the world.” He clicked again, bringing up corporate documents and financials. “He’s strictly private security now, specializing in high profile American citizens on foreign soil, particularly in volatile countries. He also handles oil fields in the middle east. At least, that’s the legit side of his business enterprise. Dig a little deeper and-“

“Stop.” Eliot put a hand on Hardison’s arm. “This is how we got into this mess. We don’t need to dig any deeper to know that Seaver is not a man we want to mess with.”

There are moments that devastate a man, reduce him to barely a fragment of who he had been. Betrayal of trust, so absolute and incontrovertible, cut deep, flayed open…left for dead.

He can’t hear the truck anymore, isn’t sure how much time it’s been since they left him. The sun is warming the sand under him, hard and dry and soon it will be too hot. He’s hurt bad, possibly more than he knows.

Broken ribs press in and his breathing is sounding wet. His left arm is broken, shot, stabbed and for the moment lays useless at his side. One eye is swollen shut. The other nearly so. Blood cakes his hair and the side of his face. His right shoulder is dislocated. He can’t count the smaller wounds, the ones that will bleed him into oblivion before he can begin to find a way to save himself.

Somehow, he’s moving though. Crawling. He can’t go back the way they came, can’t follow the truck, so he goes north. Inches at a time.

The room was quiet and for a long time no one moved. Eliot stood beside Hardison, his arms crossed, his head bowed. They didn’t understand.

He couldn’t blame them. So far all he’d given them was words. “Hardison.” He held out his hand for the keyboard in Hardison’s, taking it with a heavy sigh. His fingers sound loud on the keys as he plugs in the thumb drive and unlocks a file.

Images filled the screen, pictures he hadn’t looked at it a very long time. Sophie hid her face in Nate’s shoulder. Hardison shuddered. “Is that…”

“Me?” Eliot asked, nodding. “Yeah, that’s what I looked like when I finally found my way out of the desert, when I finally found someone who could and would help me. This is what they did to me, a member of their team. What the fuck do you think they would do to you, Hardison?”

There are moments that create a man from the bones of all that came before, take away the useless bits, carve and mold the rest, leave behind sentiment and affection, replace them with steel and ice.

Thomas Holmes is dead.

He stands beside the fire where the last vestiges of the man burn, watching the flames eat the uniform and the blood that marks it. He’s thousands of miles from home, from anywhere really, behind enemy lines and living solely on the good graces of a young mother of two who he’d convinced to give him shelter.

He can barely stand on his own, barely function for more than a few minutes at a time.

He knows what he has to do. He has to make sure Holmes stays dead. He has to become someone new. Or he’ll never survive to make it home.

“No one is saying this is going to be easy.” Nate says, easing a little closer.

Eliot could feel the restraint tugging, he was close to losing control of the anger and fear he won’t admit to under his skin. “Nate.” His voice is dark and full of warning.

“If they can do this to you Eliot, what are they doing to normal people who get in their way.” Nate asked.

Eliot closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that…about all the people Seaver had hurt since they’d left Thomas Holmes to die. “I don’t care.” Eliot growled.

Nate’s hand was on his arm, his voice low and soft. “That’s not true. You do care. You’re just afraid.”

Eliot pulled free and stormed away. “You’re damn fucking right I’m afraid. And that should scare the living shit out of you.”

Nate held up both hands. “It does, believe me.” He took two steps closer to Eliot. “But I know something you seem to be forgetting, Eliot.”

Eliot was seething, ready to storm out the door, every instinct inside him telling him this is a situation to run. Run far, run fast. Parker and Hardison moved to flank Nate and Sophie stood.

“What?” Eliot growled at Nate.

“Thomas Holmes is dead.”

There are them that should have known, the ones who saw and did nothing. The ones who left him. The ones who killed him. The ones that should have buried him.

It’s been more than two years since Thomas Holmes died on the sands of Afghanistan. The passport in his hand looks older than that, stamped in half a dozen countries as he’s made his way home.

He smiles at the agent who calls him to the desk, hands over the paperwork. It’s flawless, and he knows it. He pushes hair that’s gotten long out of his face and answers her questions about his trip.

“Welcome home, Mr. Spencer.” She hands him back the passport and he hides his relief as he steps through, passing the baggage claim. He’s got nothing but what he’s carrying.

Eliot looked up slowly, Nate’s words sinking past the roar of noise in his head.

“I think it’s time someone answers for his death, don’t you?”

It was suicide.

He was sure of it.

“Nate.”

“Eliot.” His gaze was steady, pinning Eliot to the spot, holding him still while the fear and anger raged at one another inside him. He shook his head tightly. He swore to himself he’d never put himself in Seaver’s sights again.

“We can do this.” Parker said, pulling away from Nate and coming to stand in front of Eliot, her hand slipping into his. “We want to do this.”

“Parker…”

Hardison’s fingers moved on the keyboard. “He’s not invincible.”

It was touching, the level of concern they had for him, for the person that was Thomas Holmes.

“What are we talking about?” Eliot asked, not looking up at them.

“We take our time. Work him slow. Find our way in.” Nate offered. “You know his methods, his strategies. We can take him.”

“It won’t be easy.” Eliot tried to tamp down the spark inside him, but Nate knew how to sell him, and it wasn’t easy to fight the fire building.

There are them that say he died that day. Betrayed. Alone. Bleeding into the sand. Others will tell you he was born anew. And god help any who stood against him.

”In local news, former army colonel turned cut-throat personal security businessman was convicted in federal court today alongside two of his board members, of sixteen counts of manslaughter in the deaths of two Marines, three American reporters and eleven of his own men in what prosecutors claimed was an elaborate scheme to steal drugs, guns, money and even antiquities from both sides of the Afghani conflict. The mission claimed the lives of those he’d been hired by the US government to secure, as well as a squad led by former Army Lt. Thomas Holmes, who sources testified was beaten, stabbed and shot and left to die in the desert when he survived the initial attack.” The reporter glances at her notes, then back to the camera. “Today, in Arlington cemetery, Lt. Holmes will be symbolically laid to rest in a ceremony set to honor those, like Holmes, whose bodies were never recovered.”

He watches from the shadows as the reporter finishes the segment, waits as the others slip out of the courthouse. The final nail in the coffin is driven deep.

“You alright?” Nate asked.

They were alone, the bar was empty. Eliot nodded slowly.

“It ain’t everyday you get to bury who you used to be.”

Nate poured whiskey for them both and raised his glass. “To Thomas Holmes.”

It was stupid and corny, but Eliot raised the glass anyway, tipping it to touch Nate’s before downing the burn. Nate poured again and lifted the glass. “To Eliot Fucking Spencer.”

Eliot smiled and lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

He downed the shot, then reached for his coat. At the door, he paused and when he looked up at Nate he was serious. “Nate. Thanks.”

Nate held up another shot and nodded. “That’s what we’re here for, Eliot.”

There are them that say he died that day. Burned out. There are them that say that men like him can’t be killed. There are them that know for sure.

But none of them are talking anymore.