The Occam's razor job - Chapter 32 - a
Title: The Occam's razor Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: The Lonely Hearts Club Job, The Boy's night out Job
warnings: Dead people, language, violence, medical bullsh*t, extreme violence in later chapters, and extreme angst
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
This one had to be divided into four chapters, but I managed to keep important parts together.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
***
.
.
The damn world was moving in fast forward and in slow motion at once, filling his brain with simultaneous urgent crises, and not giving him time to think about any of them for more than a second.
Nate cursed under his breath, shutting out all the voices from the van. No, not all; he filtered the sounds, dismissing their comments, listening to Eliot and Villacorta via Sophie’s earbud.
“I need silence. Speak only if it’s necessary,” he warned them although he knew they would take care not to disturb anything important. He needed silence now, to think, to try to sort all this chaos in his head.
“You’ve got some more time,” Sophie whispered. “Two Chileans are now between Eliot and Villacorta, he is explaining something to them; Eliot is waiting.”
Fourteen damn minutes before the Mexicans attack; he had no idea what to think about it, much less how to solve it… but that thought helped a little. He simply put that matter behind him. He’d start to think about the attack after ten minutes, and concentrate now on the most present danger. He knew only one thing for certain about the Mexicans, they were useful.
“Hardison, we have to use those Mexicans and let them kill Villacorta. That will solve everything, this time for good.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Got it. I’m working on the papers. Have no idea if this will work or not - start working on plan B… or whatever plans you have in mind.”
Plans? He had no time to make plans; he only had time to count the things that had to be done. The first thing, to stop Eliot at any cost. The second, to solve, somehow, the proof that he was shot, the thing that would kill them both in the next minute when those papers arrived. The third thing, get Eliot out of there without showing everyone he was barely conscious. The fourth, continue the negotiations with Villacorta and make sure he stayed on that terrace so the Mexicans could kill him. The fifth, take them both alive from the middle of sixty men shooting at each other.
He was climbing the stairs to the front lobby when he heard the sound of an arriving message, and he checked the sender, not slowing down a bit. “clear the mess- protect Tapia- stop Don Lazzara’s attack on his casino”
Damn, that was it; the time had just went to zero. Killing time. If he knew that the Mexicans were about to do the same thing… he hit Eliot’s number but his phone was off.
He was already taking four steps at a time, counting the seconds, waiting to hear fired guns… but when he burst onto the second floor, he stopped himself, forced himself to relax his moves and slow his breathing.
Nate Ford didn’t come to Villacorta to grab the hitter and wildly throw him from the terrace, no matter that it would, in only one move, solve pretty much all the trouble… no, he just came, slowly, to take over the negotiations after his pawn settled the primary terms of the truce. That was an impression Villacorta had to receive with his first step on that terrace.
So he made that first step, fucking aware that he had no time to think of anything, and that he was entering this entirely empty handed. He knew Hardison couldn’t do anything with those papers; there was no way he could hack scanned documents, the actual papers that the redhead held in her hands… and he knew he would have one hell of a job in twisting the truth in front of guns that were ready to fire.
Villacorta saw him at once, giving a sign to his men to let him pass, but Nate only had eyes for the man before him; still sitting, but so obviously ready to start killing that he couldn’t believe that the Chileans weren’t already jumping away in panic. He would.
He had no means to know what Eliot’s reaction would be, how deeply he was already unstrung, and it was possible that he was putting his life in the hands of a man who wasn’t able to think coherently, who was delirious and in a severely distraught state of mind.
One damn wrong word could kill them both.
He stopped one step behind Eliot’s chair.
“Good morning, Renan Villacorta.” he said simply, at the same time putting his hand on Eliot’s shoulder, to stop any movement. And he kept it there. Eliot didn’t turn around, he remained frozen, and Nate could feel that stiffness when he tightened his grip. Don’t. Move.
“Ah, the White King. Soon we shall have the entire board on this terrace, I see.”
The muscles under his hand moved, the tension he felt came within one step of the explosion; he knew the helpless rage Eliot must have felt right now, not knowing if Nate came in here without any preparation, right to his death, simply jumping onto the ride without any idea of what was going on - that thinking would drive even a completely healthy man insane, and in these circumstances he could expect a complete breakdown.
“There are eight of them,” Nate smiled, watching the Chilean.
“Eight of what?” Villacorta frowned.
“You'd asked him why he’d chosen the weakest piece on the board,” he continued. Before he finished his sentence, he felt the tension decreasing, the muscles relaxed barely visibly; the message was received, Eliot now knew he had been listening everything and that he knew what play was going on. Nate knew - and the large lump in his throat cleared a little - by judging the speed of his apprehension, that maybe, just maybe, they both might live through this. He slowly unclenched his grip, his hand just gently resting on his shoulder for one more second, and then took a chair beside him, in front of Villacorta. “You may be rational, but he is practical. You should expect the practical man to take the piece with eight lives.” Then, for the first time, he turned his head and looked at Eliot.
Dear God. For a second he couldn’t believe that Villacorta hadn’t figured it out, but then he remembered he didn’t know him before this. His face was paler than the faces of the dead in the body bags, the lines of pain engraved in dark shadows around his eyes, completely worn out. It was terrifying to see how weak he was, how horrible the exhaustion that radiated from his eyes was, from every slow move. Villacorta knew nothing about his speed and grace, he couldn’t see the difference. But Nate saw the broken remains of that strength and grace, ragged, shaky and weak, and he realized that he was dying, really dying; and that maybe they’d come too late.
He felt his heart sinking terribly, and all the words disappeared for a moment; his mind was empty.
But then Eliot moved. Nate watched in fascination as a regathering happened in front of his eyes, invisible to others; just the slight focusing of his eyes, the rearranging of his center of gravity, a five-centimeter long move of his right leg, the invisible straightening of his shoulders, and he knew the hitter was in functioning mode again, locked and loaded. He only hoped that it didn’t spend all his reserves that he he'd collected for killing those two.
Eliot glanced at Villacorta, almost with regret in his eyes, and then looked again at him. “I deeply, deeply hate you right now,” he slowly said and his voice almost went into his usual drawl. And Nate knew what he meant; thank you, you bastard, for making me do things again, for continuing all this when everything was almost finished.
“I own you,” he answered lightly. “You rest when I say you rest. Your contract is still in my hands.” He looked at Villacorta and smiled. “You’ll have to wait, I’m not letting him go yet. He has a few more jobs to do for us.”
Tapia’s laptop gave one ping sound, warning of an incoming email.
Right at that moment Eliot smiled, an aweless, challenging smile, and his eyes slowly swept over the terrace, returning to him again. Eliot knew what the trigger for his coming in here was. Whatever strength he kept for killing those men, he obviously still had it stored for this final ending, whatever it was. Because he had to, Nate realized, his throat tightening again. Because now, here, the hitter had one member of the team that he had to protect. He wished he could tell him it was time to stop, to rest, that the tables were turned now and that he was the priority here, but he wouldn’t say that even if he could; that instinct could keep him alive for a little longer. And to keep him alive enough to take him out of here, he would use it, without mercy.
“Wanna dance, Nate Ford?” Eliot whispered.
This was going to be one hell of a dance, Nate realized, feeling one side of his mouth going up, in an involuntary dark smile. The last play, together, but without any means to let the other clearly know what they were saying and doing, not in front of those keen black eyes that would read everything suspicious. One step forward, that had to be followed correctly - the alternative was death. One step aside, one wrong word, move, thought… and everything would come crashing down.
He locked his eyes on his, searching, inquiring; they were full of hate and love, madness and control, fear and laughter. Victory and defeat were still fighting inside Eliot, but when he saw one tiny spark of challenge, he knew he wasn’t stopped yet. They might die in here, both of them… but now he was certain they would die giving their best.
“There is a Bulgarian proverb,” he said, still staring into the eyes of the man with whom he had shared a wordless understanding for years. “’If you want to drown, don’t torture yourself with shallow water.’ Somehow, I think you’ve mastered that level. I’ll just try to follow.”
“That’ll do,” Eliot nodded. He nodded back.
And they both, slowly, turned their heads and their eyes on Villacorta, in one smooth, tuned move. And smiled.
.
.
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: The Lonely Hearts Club Job, The Boy's night out Job
warnings: Dead people, language, violence, medical bullsh*t, extreme violence in later chapters, and extreme angst
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
This one had to be divided into four chapters, but I managed to keep important parts together.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
***
.
.
The damn world was moving in fast forward and in slow motion at once, filling his brain with simultaneous urgent crises, and not giving him time to think about any of them for more than a second.
Nate cursed under his breath, shutting out all the voices from the van. No, not all; he filtered the sounds, dismissing their comments, listening to Eliot and Villacorta via Sophie’s earbud.
“I need silence. Speak only if it’s necessary,” he warned them although he knew they would take care not to disturb anything important. He needed silence now, to think, to try to sort all this chaos in his head.
“You’ve got some more time,” Sophie whispered. “Two Chileans are now between Eliot and Villacorta, he is explaining something to them; Eliot is waiting.”
Fourteen damn minutes before the Mexicans attack; he had no idea what to think about it, much less how to solve it… but that thought helped a little. He simply put that matter behind him. He’d start to think about the attack after ten minutes, and concentrate now on the most present danger. He knew only one thing for certain about the Mexicans, they were useful.
“Hardison, we have to use those Mexicans and let them kill Villacorta. That will solve everything, this time for good.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Got it. I’m working on the papers. Have no idea if this will work or not - start working on plan B… or whatever plans you have in mind.”
Plans? He had no time to make plans; he only had time to count the things that had to be done. The first thing, to stop Eliot at any cost. The second, to solve, somehow, the proof that he was shot, the thing that would kill them both in the next minute when those papers arrived. The third thing, get Eliot out of there without showing everyone he was barely conscious. The fourth, continue the negotiations with Villacorta and make sure he stayed on that terrace so the Mexicans could kill him. The fifth, take them both alive from the middle of sixty men shooting at each other.
He was climbing the stairs to the front lobby when he heard the sound of an arriving message, and he checked the sender, not slowing down a bit. “clear the mess- protect Tapia- stop Don Lazzara’s attack on his casino”
Damn, that was it; the time had just went to zero. Killing time. If he knew that the Mexicans were about to do the same thing… he hit Eliot’s number but his phone was off.
He was already taking four steps at a time, counting the seconds, waiting to hear fired guns… but when he burst onto the second floor, he stopped himself, forced himself to relax his moves and slow his breathing.
Nate Ford didn’t come to Villacorta to grab the hitter and wildly throw him from the terrace, no matter that it would, in only one move, solve pretty much all the trouble… no, he just came, slowly, to take over the negotiations after his pawn settled the primary terms of the truce. That was an impression Villacorta had to receive with his first step on that terrace.
So he made that first step, fucking aware that he had no time to think of anything, and that he was entering this entirely empty handed. He knew Hardison couldn’t do anything with those papers; there was no way he could hack scanned documents, the actual papers that the redhead held in her hands… and he knew he would have one hell of a job in twisting the truth in front of guns that were ready to fire.
Villacorta saw him at once, giving a sign to his men to let him pass, but Nate only had eyes for the man before him; still sitting, but so obviously ready to start killing that he couldn’t believe that the Chileans weren’t already jumping away in panic. He would.
He had no means to know what Eliot’s reaction would be, how deeply he was already unstrung, and it was possible that he was putting his life in the hands of a man who wasn’t able to think coherently, who was delirious and in a severely distraught state of mind.
One damn wrong word could kill them both.
He stopped one step behind Eliot’s chair.
“Good morning, Renan Villacorta.” he said simply, at the same time putting his hand on Eliot’s shoulder, to stop any movement. And he kept it there. Eliot didn’t turn around, he remained frozen, and Nate could feel that stiffness when he tightened his grip. Don’t. Move.
“Ah, the White King. Soon we shall have the entire board on this terrace, I see.”
The muscles under his hand moved, the tension he felt came within one step of the explosion; he knew the helpless rage Eliot must have felt right now, not knowing if Nate came in here without any preparation, right to his death, simply jumping onto the ride without any idea of what was going on - that thinking would drive even a completely healthy man insane, and in these circumstances he could expect a complete breakdown.
“There are eight of them,” Nate smiled, watching the Chilean.
“Eight of what?” Villacorta frowned.
“You'd asked him why he’d chosen the weakest piece on the board,” he continued. Before he finished his sentence, he felt the tension decreasing, the muscles relaxed barely visibly; the message was received, Eliot now knew he had been listening everything and that he knew what play was going on. Nate knew - and the large lump in his throat cleared a little - by judging the speed of his apprehension, that maybe, just maybe, they both might live through this. He slowly unclenched his grip, his hand just gently resting on his shoulder for one more second, and then took a chair beside him, in front of Villacorta. “You may be rational, but he is practical. You should expect the practical man to take the piece with eight lives.” Then, for the first time, he turned his head and looked at Eliot.
Dear God. For a second he couldn’t believe that Villacorta hadn’t figured it out, but then he remembered he didn’t know him before this. His face was paler than the faces of the dead in the body bags, the lines of pain engraved in dark shadows around his eyes, completely worn out. It was terrifying to see how weak he was, how horrible the exhaustion that radiated from his eyes was, from every slow move. Villacorta knew nothing about his speed and grace, he couldn’t see the difference. But Nate saw the broken remains of that strength and grace, ragged, shaky and weak, and he realized that he was dying, really dying; and that maybe they’d come too late.
He felt his heart sinking terribly, and all the words disappeared for a moment; his mind was empty.
But then Eliot moved. Nate watched in fascination as a regathering happened in front of his eyes, invisible to others; just the slight focusing of his eyes, the rearranging of his center of gravity, a five-centimeter long move of his right leg, the invisible straightening of his shoulders, and he knew the hitter was in functioning mode again, locked and loaded. He only hoped that it didn’t spend all his reserves that he he'd collected for killing those two.
Eliot glanced at Villacorta, almost with regret in his eyes, and then looked again at him. “I deeply, deeply hate you right now,” he slowly said and his voice almost went into his usual drawl. And Nate knew what he meant; thank you, you bastard, for making me do things again, for continuing all this when everything was almost finished.
“I own you,” he answered lightly. “You rest when I say you rest. Your contract is still in my hands.” He looked at Villacorta and smiled. “You’ll have to wait, I’m not letting him go yet. He has a few more jobs to do for us.”
Tapia’s laptop gave one ping sound, warning of an incoming email.
Right at that moment Eliot smiled, an aweless, challenging smile, and his eyes slowly swept over the terrace, returning to him again. Eliot knew what the trigger for his coming in here was. Whatever strength he kept for killing those men, he obviously still had it stored for this final ending, whatever it was. Because he had to, Nate realized, his throat tightening again. Because now, here, the hitter had one member of the team that he had to protect. He wished he could tell him it was time to stop, to rest, that the tables were turned now and that he was the priority here, but he wouldn’t say that even if he could; that instinct could keep him alive for a little longer. And to keep him alive enough to take him out of here, he would use it, without mercy.
“Wanna dance, Nate Ford?” Eliot whispered.
This was going to be one hell of a dance, Nate realized, feeling one side of his mouth going up, in an involuntary dark smile. The last play, together, but without any means to let the other clearly know what they were saying and doing, not in front of those keen black eyes that would read everything suspicious. One step forward, that had to be followed correctly - the alternative was death. One step aside, one wrong word, move, thought… and everything would come crashing down.
He locked his eyes on his, searching, inquiring; they were full of hate and love, madness and control, fear and laughter. Victory and defeat were still fighting inside Eliot, but when he saw one tiny spark of challenge, he knew he wasn’t stopped yet. They might die in here, both of them… but now he was certain they would die giving their best.
“There is a Bulgarian proverb,” he said, still staring into the eyes of the man with whom he had shared a wordless understanding for years. “’If you want to drown, don’t torture yourself with shallow water.’ Somehow, I think you’ve mastered that level. I’ll just try to follow.”
“That’ll do,” Eliot nodded. He nodded back.
And they both, slowly, turned their heads and their eyes on Villacorta, in one smooth, tuned move. And smiled.
.
.