The Occam's razor job - Chapter 32 - d
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
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
o.0.o
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His most efficient way to deal with the Mexicans in the control room silently slid up behind him, motioning to him to back off and stay out of their way, so Eliot could pretty accurately assume that the threat would be dealt with in the next couple of minutes. He was going back to the terrace to gather the Chileans and direct them there; he might be insane, but he still wasn’t stupid enough to go there and deal with the Mexicans himself. Though, if he had a gun, it would change the odds.
The group that passed him was small, but he had studied every single one of them while he talked with Villacorta, and he knew how trained and armed they were; the Mexicans didn’t have a chance, especially now that Hardison shut all the cameras off and nothing could warn them about their approach. Wait. How the hell did he know that the hacker shut them off, when he said nothing about… he checked the small eye at the end of the corridor; yep, the tiny light at the bottom was not blinking. Great, either he had lost that entire part of the conversation, or he was making things up.
He slowly turned around, not trying to follow the Chileans to their target; it would be useless, in this condition it would take him four damn minutes just to get to the end of the right wing. Even this corridor seemed too long. He leaned on the wall with his back, closing his eyes. His legs were too unstable to hold him. If he sat down he would never get up, and he had to go, as soon as possible. He had to move away from here before Nate came and tried to stop him, or start him, or whatever brilliant solution was on his mind. The cameras were blind, he should use that, go to the back stairs and enter the first floor; not that damn basement with the exit, no way. First floor. And disappearing. He could still do it, he was good at disappearing... and hiding bodies. Even the walking ones.
But he stayed, nevertheless, listening to the silence, trying to guess what was happening on the terrace, telling himself that nothing could go wrong now, that Nate wouldn’t let it happen. It could only get finished and completely wrapped up, that was all, and he was doing just that right now, and that was the reason that it was taking so long.
He was just staring blindly at the other wall, and he barely had the strength to turn his head when he heard someone entering the corridor at the end.
The plate had left a long, already purple gash across Cuchillo’s face; the poor man must have been pissed. Yep, he definitely looked pissed. He almost laughed when he remembered that he was the one who shot him at the first place, and that he was so completely drained that he could feel only compassion for him.
Yes, he could kill him - with a lot of effort and pain - kill the man who almost killed him, but… why? He just looked at him as he was approaching, cautiously. They'd taken his gun, but missed the knife. A little sloppy, under their standards. He was saying something, but he didn't hear a word. He just… couldn’t do it anymore. Horrible, utter exhaustion erased his mind completely, and he just stared at him, not giving a damn fuck about what would happen, whether he killed him or not. He just didn’t care anymore, he couldn’t.
He had done what he wanted, needed to do, and all he wanted was just to lie down and die. He couldn’t stand fighting anymore. God, he couldn’t stand standing anymore.
It would be so easy just let Cuchillo kill him and finish all this crap. The team was safe, and Nate would take care of the rest. He wanted to stop all this, just to end this exhaustion, agony, thinking, being afraid… to lie down and stop it all. He simply couldn’t get up, gather himself for the hundredth time, and continue. Those four days crushed down on him finally, and crushed hard.
But then Nate showed up behind Cuchillo's back and the Chilean turned around to meet the new enemy, with his knife ready to strike a blow.
He had no memory of stepping away from that wall, moving forward or doing anything, though he heard his own grunting, breathless cry as pain clawed at him, almost surprising him with its return; he just found himself a moment, or an eternity, later, looking at Cuchillo who was now lying on the floor, his knife in his hands now. He had to blink to bridge that gap, and it didn’t work, there was only complete emptiness.
Yep, that was what he was. He is. He kills. He stared at his hands and the blade he was holding. Everything he touched died.
And anything he had done to stop that, all those years he tried to change it, everything had been in vain. He was a fool when he thought he was anything else. Just a mindless killing machine.
Run. He should leave. Run away. Now. Run.
Nate was still standing between him and the end of the corridor.
“Move,” he breathed, not daring to move him by himself, not trusting his own hands, but the man just looked at him, with his head slightly tilted. Fuck you and your thinking Nate, move! He needed all of his meager strength to merely remain upright, and when Nate took a step forward - for Gods’ sake, what was he thinking?! He just killed a man without knowing he was doing it - he had to back away.
“Change of plans. We have one minute before the shooting starts, no time for the back stairs. Hardison said to stay low on this floor, to find some place to hide and wait 'til he managed to free a passage for us.”
What? Plans-shooting-backstairs-passage, words made no sense; he couldn’t connect them into anything understandable. He couldn’t stay here, he had to go… somewhere else. The only way to stop all this was to run away, and Nate was still standing between him and the exit unaware of what he was doing, that stupid… he blinked the sweat from his eyes and took one more step back.
“Nate, move,” he tried to snarl, but it came out as a faint whisper, more a plea than a demand, and that pissed him off completely. He shook his head trying to focus on the issue at hand: walking past Nate without losing control and forgetting where he was; he could see Nate speaking, but his words were lost in the white noise that was growing around him. He had to hurry, this wasn’t good; if he died here, it would tell Villacorta that he did have bullet in his lungs, and that would be enough to destroy everything. Or not? He couldn’t remember what the last thing they’d settled was. Whatever… pull out just one card from the house of cards, and everything would crumple. Run. He clung to that thought, and forced himself to take one step forward, desperately searching for a calm place in his mind that could guide him and take him out without killing Nate on his way. But it wasn’t there anymore, he couldn’t reach it. Please, move away, just shut up and fucking move!
The white floor hit his knees and he stared at it for a second, wondering how the fuck it came up and slammed into him, and why it was slowly getting even closer to his face, when hands clad in black got in the way and stopped the floor from rising.
Nate was yelling at the floor to stay awake - he was too close, damn, why did nobody ever listen to him? - and that confused him even more; he looked at the floor to see if it would obey Nate’s orders, but floor didn’t seem to be aware of the clear importance of his words.
Yep, he knew that from the beginning - but nobody listened to him, what a surprise - communication problems were at the core of this fuck up. Nate didn’t listen to him, the floor didn’t listen to Nate, nobody was listening to anybody, and this was how it all ended - in yelling. He stared at the floor, half expecting it to start yelling as well, and he suddenly figured out that the only person that didn’t end up yelling at him was Villacorta. He had managed to piss off, one way or another, everybody that he had encountered those past four days, except the one person that should be upset with his doings… and that was comical.
He tried, one more time, to at least look at the exit to remember where he had to go, when he got rid of that black thing that was holding him, but in one frighteningly clear moment, he realized that no door could help him with the escape he needed. He was stuck.
And he couldn't do anything, couldn't free himself, he just watched his own legs moving as he was dragged, or forced, or whatever, to walk somewhere... until the time ran to zero, and everything exploded in the gunshots.
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o.0.o
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Nate had no idea how he managed to drag him all the way to the next corridor which ended with the back stairs. Hardison was navigating him to the last office of the row, just two steps away from the stairs; it would take only a few seconds to reach them when Hardison gave the signal that the path was clear.
One giant copying machine looked solid enough to stop the bullets, so he carefully lowered him behind it, in the corner with a wall. Nope, wrong move; at the moment his back touched the floor, Eliot recoiled and his breathing, jagged and barely visible, turned into a suppressed cough. Nate quickly pulled him up.
“Okay, easy, don’t move.” He eased him back to lean on the wall, in sitting position, and that helped, the coughing stopped. He checked his pulse; Jesus, it was fluttering, unnaturally fast, and barely palpable.
What was he supposed to do now? Keep him awake and risk one more deranged breakdown, or let him drift away, unable to wake him up when they had to go, very fast, down the stairs?
The gunshots decided his dilemma; at the moment the attack started, Eliot opened his eyes, and his hand unknowingly reached under his jacket for the gun that wasn’t there. He was way, way down that road, Nate realized.
“Are you able to talk?” he said calmly; he needed a distraction, something that would keep him here, in the small, closed room, and divert his attention from the shooting. He half expected that he would try to go again, just get up and blindly walk out of here, but Eliot slowly raised his head and looked at him.
“The last guy who asked me that was Barclay.” Nate listened to his voice; weak, almost a whisper, but there was a steadiness in it that he didn’t like at all. “Yes, I am able to talk,” he carefully continued, slowly, as if he had to think about every word before saying it. He probably did; he was barely able to keep his eyes open. “First, I quit. Second, I’m going away from here. Third… you wait 'til Hardison says it’s safe. The fourth… if you try to touch me, or even come one step closer, I’ll break both your arms and one leg.”
Damn. Nate wasn’t a fool; he knew damn well how to recognize a decision when he heard one…and this was deadly serious, said with an even, calm voice that added even more weight to his words. Eliot had put a bullet in Parker’s leg because he thought it was necessary.
Nate sat in the first office chair he found, not bothering himself with hiding from the door.
“You do know what’s happening with you right now?” he asked gently. “You do know that you are delusional, in severe shock, and you can’t think clearly?”
“I know what I’m doin’. I have to go. It’s the only way.”
“For what?” he asked slowly.
Eliot stared at him, and Nate realized that he was unable to understand the question. His eyes wavered from him, he wasn’t listening to him anymore. He didn’t know what exactly he cemented in his mind, but he had to pull him out from that stupor. He was looking at a spot near him, listening to the shooting. It seemed that the shots came from all sides at once, and Nate sighed.
“Hardison, status?”
Sophie’s voice came first. “You can’t just knock him out with something?
“That… wouldn’t be a very wise move.”
“He wouldn’t…” she hesitated. “You mean, he would?”
“Yep, no doubt about it. But don’t worry… he’ll pass out soon, and I’ll drag him down the stairs by his legs, like a dead cat.” Nate checked, no reaction came from Eliot, his stare was completely empty. “Besides, the police should be here in fifteen minutes tops.”
“He doesn’t have 15 minutes, Nate,” Hardison’s voice sounded desperate. “Sophie showed me when he stopped breathing with the right side, it was over twenty minutes ago. Remember what Betsy said. You have to move him somehow… or he won’t make it to the office.”
“How’s the shooting going?” Nate continued conversationally. “Any chances of it stopping soon?”
“I have no fucking idea what I’m doing! Nate, I’m going all over the building, locking and unlocking the doors and corridors, trying to separate them each another, and somehow direct them off the back side of the building, trying to… I don’t know what! Whose side are we even on? If I see a Mexican and a Chilean that are about to shoot each another, which one should I stop if I can, for crying out loud?” he continued with curses. “I’m simply stopping everybody from shooting at… at anybody… but that shit will just prolong this, they are spreading all over!! The longer all of them stay alive, the bigger the danger is for you two! Fuck, I should just kill them all.”
“Calm down, Hardison. Where’s Villacorta?”
“Half way there, Parker turned on the sprinklers to show him where to go, he must be pissed, completely wet by now.”
“Okay, slow down,” Nate said, watching Eliot who was listening to the shooting, his face becoming emptier with every shot he heard. And with every shot, his eyes were becoming more and more desperate. “Just continue with what you’re doing, will you? Now, cut yourself and Parker from the line.” He waited until he was sure Hardison had done it, then continued with the same tone, just a little lighter. “It’s possible that this is just a lot of noise, like in the movies. A few wounded, a bunch of heroes, no dead, and they’ll all scatter at the first sound of police coming. Much ado about nothing. Just like this entire night.”
Oh, yes, he heard him. Eliot slowly turned his head to him, and Nate sighed. There was always a possibility he would stop after the first arm.
“The shooting started two minutes ago. We have three dead in this corridor,” his voice was flat, his eyes empty, every feeling erased from his face. “We had one Chilean with a Magnum, very close, who just died while you were talking. He is not shooting anymore, and he still had three bullets. Maybe you remember him, he’s the only blond guy. He had cheerful smile, don’t you think? But he is dead now.” For a few moments he lost his train of thought, again watching something Nate didn’t want to know about, then managed to continue. “Do you remember the one that was standing behind Villacorta? He was the youngest. You could tell by his glances he was insecure and fresh - he probably didn’t kill anybody yet. Perhaps he would. But we'll never know now, because he is dead, too, Nate. He died second, he was killed by the third burst of the Uzi - after that, his gun was silent. A very distinctive gun, a small Bulldog. The Uzi jammed after killing him, and there were three shots from the same position. That Mexican is dead too.” He smiled; the first tired smile that Nate saw on his face. And his eyes were dead. “Do you know why those people are dead, Nate?”
Fuck. Nate recognized the desperation in that last sentence, in every carefully formulated word. Eliot was defeated - he had finally encountered an enemy he couldn’t beat - Eliot Spencer. And he had knocked himself so deep into the ground that he didn’t know if there was even a chance of recovering.
“Do you think this was a motherfucking game, Nate?” his voice grew a little stronger. “Do you want to know what exactly happened in Marco’s Tavern? How I drug Rojas right to his death, knowing they’d shoot him? Just because I needed him dead to start the fight. I talked to him in the car; he was scared. He wasn’t a damn lieutenant, evil, bad guy, a dreadful name… he was just one scared man to me. But it didn’t stop me. Do you want to know how I turned on the phone Villacorta was tracking, to draw the Chileans after me to the Mexicans, to their death? How many Mexicans died in that tavern, just because I arranged it? How many of them deserved, really deserved to die, and how many were just selling weed on the streets?
“We all have our own abysses that we have to stare into, Eliot,” he said gently. Knowing that his words were empty.
“You don’t understand,” his voice finally cracked, he continued with a whisper. “I don’t stare into abysses. They come and stare at me. And when I look back, they avert they eyes, and back off, slowly, not turning their backs on me.”
The silence was considerably longer this time. Moments passed while Eliot gazed sightlessly into him.
“Let me go, Nate,” he finally whispered. “Everything I touch dies. I will kill you all.”
Fuck. He got up, and went to the small window, he couldn’t stand watching that pain anymore. He should think of something. He should be able to solve this, to find something that would just make it all disappear.
At that moment he became aware of all the smoke screens that Eliot was putting around himself even before the night begun; all the reasons for distancing himself from them. Their guilt because of the night, their guilt because of his death, their ditching him with disgust after they realized what he had done… he was creating that for himself, not for them. He collected all the possible reasons to not return after this all ended, because he knew he would have to run away from this. No… not reasons. Excuses.
He couldn’t run away from this, they’d caught him in time, after all he had done to prevent it. But he could die. It was less painful than facing the consequences. Nate knew that decision was the result of a disturbed, incoherent mind, born under the delirious fight or flight state of shock, no matter how steady and coherent he sounded… but it made no difference. Eliot wasn’t, definitely, letting him take him to the team. He would just prolong all this, staying awake as long as he could, and he wouldn’t hesitate a moment in stopping him if he tried something, leaving him in the heap of broken bones. And when he finally passed out, it would be too late to do anything for him.
That bastard had lured him into a check, put him in a corner the same way he did with Villacorta, and blocked all the fields around him, disabling him to move, to do anything. And he had a check mate ready in the next move.
It was strange to hear the utter silence in the midst of the wild gunfire that echoed all around them.
“You are, again, listening to his words.” Sophie’s voice, soft, gentle, was so quiet that for a moment he wasn’t sure if she really said that, or he just thought it. “Look at him. He is there.”
She should have been here, not him. She would find a way to let them help him, she would be able to force him to go to that basement corridor. There wasn’t time to deal with this breakdown now, not while his time was running out. They had to save him first, give him time to recover from this deranged exhaustion, and only after that, when his mind was clear, it would be the time to assess the damage.
One crisis at the time. Like always.
Yes, of course he was listening to his words… but now he took a deep breath, and tried to watch.
And there was nothing to see. He was sitting in the exact position as they had seen him in that damn warehouse, with one hand on one raised knee, the other around his chest. Waiting. Listening. Allowing parts of himself to die with every single shot he heard. They’d come full circle, returning to the beginning of all this, and Eliot again disabled them to do anything for him. Yet, this time Nate knew what two dreadfully wrong moves in that warehouse led to all this, and he wasn’t going to do the same mistake again.
He watched, for Christ’s sake, and he had no idea what he was supposed to see. Eliot's eyes were empty again, he was drifting away, able to focus only on the nearest objects. The edge of the copy machine, his hand, his knee. He looked dead already, there wasn’t any visible breathing, his breaths were too shallow to be noticed.
Nate went back to his chair and stood beside it. No reaction. Just to try it, he took one step further towards him, and Eliot’s slightly lowered head rose in a second, his eyes locked on the target. Not a trace of recognition were in them, just a cold calculation. He had set a border, and he was ready to destroy anything that touched it. Nate knew that this immobility would explode into violent outburst one more time, if he only took one step more to him. He wasn’t afraid of broken arms… but Eliot wouldn’t stop. He would kill him. He was too deep into this to have any control left.
He checked his watch; only four minutes had passed since they’d entered the room, and he felt like they had been locked here for ages.
“So, you agree then that we should stay here for the next ten minutes?” he asked calmly.
Eliot blinked, visibly trying to understand what he was asked, but the question was too complicated for him to decide what to think about it and what Nate meant to say. His eyes flickered toward the doors, as if he was checking to see if the escape still available, at the moment completely disorientated, not sure if the question was a threat to his decision or not. He tried to say something, but there was not enough air for words, just a raspy cough that bent him forward.
Nate quickly came closer, but Eliot raised his head again, his eyes completely crazy for a moment. “Back. Off,” he hissed the warning.
And then Nate realized what he had to see. What Sophie had in fact said and meant, her exact words. Look at him. He is there. Still here, in this room. Eliot hadn’t left.
Eliot asked him to let him go… but Nate wasn’t keeping him here. Nothing was keeping him from escaping.
His words were talking about going away, about escaping from all this, and yet he was still here. He could just get up and leave, there was no chance that Nate could stop him. He had enough strength for that.
His mind was producing those words, but his actions were telling a different story. Sophie was right. His mind now was one strange place, confused and totally lost. He couldn’t understand reason, logic, and he wouldn’t listen to it. His head was a mess of horrors that was making him wanting to die, and he couldn’t realize that all of this would feel different if he just waited to get it together again. His mind was literally killing him.
And yet, he was still here, because there was one thing that wasn’t affected by this madness, that was aware of reality. His heart.
He knew that, Nate remembered now, in the moment when he looked him in the eyes at the terrace, when he saw the pairs of mixed emotions; hate, madness, fear and defeat, fighting with love, control, laughter and victory… perfectly matched and glued together. His mind. And his heart.
The only thing Nate had to do was disable that mind so it could give no warning of the attack. At his strongest spot, just as Eliot did with Villacorta.
Check mate, Eliot Spencer.
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o.0.o
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Hardison slowly raised his hands from the keyboard. They were shaking uncontrollably, and he swallowed, checking the time for the hundredth time. He felt Sophie’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care; the damn grifter couldn’t guess what he was preparing himself to do.
They didn’t get it, nobody had any idea what was going on, and why it was too late for everything now.
Shaking wasn’t good, shaking could kill. But he couldn’t stop it.
He drew a shaky breath, and started the countdown, preparing himself for going out.
He was terrified.
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o.0.o
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“Hardison will give me a sign that the way is clear. Soon,” Nate turned around and returned in the chair, trying to speak as clearly as possible.
Eliot just shook his head, resting it on his knees.
“Sophie, tell him to connect everything back, I need a status update. Villacorta?”
“Out of the park. I connected Parker back to us,” Hardison said. His voice was strangely insecure. “Nate, is he-”
“Keep this line open, but call me on my phone. I’ll put you on speakerphone so we both can hear what’s going on. Just the status of the Mexicans and the Chileans, Hardison. No babbling or chatting, we don’t have much time.”
“Tell me about it.”
He waited until the phone rang, then switched it onto speakerphone and put it on the table.
“The second floor is completely empty, all the Chileans that dealt with the control room went down and joined the rest of them, except the terrace. Few of them fight there. The first floor is a mess, they are spread all over the place. The Chileans are trying to push the Mexicans into the back part of the building, which is extremely bad for you, ‘cause I can’t tell at which moment they’ll succeed. If the Mexicans reach the back stairs, which, for now, I’m able to delay by locking everything that’s on their way, they’ll be directly under you, and your way to basement will be blocked. Not to mention they have only to climb one story, and they will be in front of your door,” Hardison sighed deeply. “I can’t give you the sign to go for now, because one group is shooting in the basement, directly next to the stairs; you would jump right into their fire. The basement part is less occupied for now, though some of them, both sides, are retreating down there as well. All in all, after the first explosive encounters, they started to calculate, they are more careful, they are waiting, they hide, they plan their steps. Less shooting, but more unpredictable moves from everybody. Less bullets fired, but with more accuracy. Everything has slowed down a bit but I can't see traces of anyone thinking about retreating. No sound from the police yet.”
Nate said nothing when Hardison finished, he just put the phone back in his pocket. He couldn’t tell if Eliot understood the situation, though he thought it was a process that didn’t need any effort, it was natural to him, just like counting the bullets and weapons was. It was automatic, it didn’t require thinking.
He pulled the chair a step closer, to the border that was set for him, and again the empty stare froze him in place. But that stare was what he needed, not the lowered head.
“You said you would kill us all,” he stated gently.
No reaction.
“You’re right,” he continued. “In fact, you’re doing it right now as we speak.”
No understanding, not even the slightest sign he heard him.
“You are the reason we are all here. We won’t leave without you. We are staying here, in this fuckup, as long as you’re here. That’s a fact. I’m not going anywhere, Eliot. And they won’t hesitate to come in and try to get us out. And no matter how deeply you’re lost right now, you know it’s true.”
“Oh, Nate…” Sophie’s sigh was so damn sad, but he couldn’t pay attention to them now.
Eliot continued to look at him for another ten seconds, then he lowered his head again.
Nate leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs, and relaxed.
After fifteen seconds filled with only gunshots, Eliot raised his head again. “The sounds from the basement group are more distant now,” he whispered, his voice empty of everything. “Those from the first floor are closer. In a half a minute they’ll be on the stairs and block the way. If you’re ready to go, now is the time to do it.”
Nate waited.
“You have no idea how deeply you’ll regret this,” he shook his head in desperation. “But, at least, you’ll be down there, not two floors away from them.” He grabbed the edge of the copy machine and hoisted himself up. “Stay behind me.”
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o.0.o
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They would yell, they would be pissed off, and Hardison would look at her with those hurt eyes, she just knew it. But Parker couldn’t stop thinking, and moving her finger all over the escape route, in circles that were becoming more and more frantic, and faster, as her thinking was speeding up.
Hardison was lost in his own horrors, she could recognize and feel that distress, he didn’t pay attention to her.
But Sophie was watching her finger, the route that she was drawing, and she saw the points where her fingers trembled and stopped.
She looked at the grifter then, with the helpless question in her eyes, and for a moment she could feel her struggle too, just as she felt Hardison’s.
The grifter closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again, she nodded. And smiled at her.
Parker smiled back, and grabbed her bag.
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o.0.o
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“I managed to disconnect one group of Mexicans from the others in the basement - I’ve locked them in the rooms behind the pools, and released all the chlorine into the water - they took just one breath, yelped, and run back into the room. They’ll stay there, it’s impossible to pass the pools now. But the Chileans chased another group from another direction, they might intercept you in the basement. You have to get to the corridor before they reach it.”
That was the last of Hardison’s report they heard before they entered the hall. Eliot sent Nate to bring him the Magnum from the dead Chilean. Three bullets. That’d be enough.
Everything was so damn slow.
He forbid himself to think.
He just moved.
Two stories, three bullets. Find one damn corridor. He could do it.
Everything was swinging.
His mind was blank, thank god, he directed himself only to the steps, climbing down, shooting; the Mexicans that rushed through the door were like caricatures caught in slow motion, their aim was pathetically slow. They weren’t even able to change the surprise on their faces before he shot the three bullets; he had enough time to decide where to shoot them. The first in the leg to make him stumble back and hit the second man, and a bullet in each of second Mexican’s hands to disarm him. He took the gun that fell from his hand, and Nate closed the door.
No thinking. Move. If he stopped, only for a second, if he allowed himself only one question, only one thought, he would go down; he had to continue without any change in the rhythm.
He didn’t dare turn around to see if Nate was following him, looking back would spin everything, he just followed his aim, down, and down, and down, until the stairs finally stopped, and they reached the basement.
He couldn’t see anything except gray shadows and movements in them.
He fired at the doors that were opening in the distance with a loud click, but Nate pulled him aside and turned him in the right direction, through a small passage with a ramp.
He couldn’t feel the ground beneath him.
The corridor looked like a ten-mile long river of fog, turning slightly in the distance. No cover, no place to hide from the fire, the fucking firing range with two of them with a bull's eye on their back. But the seconds were crawling by.
He couldn’t breathe anymore.
So he smiled, and continued.
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o.0.o
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She couldn’t see Parker on the cameras.
She couldn’t see Hardison anymore.
Nate and Eliot were in the corridor with no cameras in it.
The only thing that Sophie could see were the Mexicans and Chileans that were spreading all over, firing at everything that moved, coming closer and closer to the corridor that was the only exit for all of them.
She knew someone had to stay and monitor everything. But she hated that that had to be her, because just now, when she was alone, Sophie Deveraux realized that those four people were the only thing she had left in her life.
And she couldn’t see them.
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o.0.o
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... at least, you’ll be down there, not two floors away from them. It was almost amusing how Eliot’s words were the only thing that was reeling in Nate’s mind while he was monitoring their progress. That was the exact thing he was thinking when he decided to move him. Instead of counting how far they had to go, he just decided that every step and every stair was a success, and relaxed. He took care not to move into the hitter's line of fire, he stayed behind him, and played invisible.
Eliot started to slow down when they entered the corridor. The stairs should have been much more difficult for him, but it seemed that the task that was more demanding kept his concentration sharp enough. Nate came closer, not sure if there was a reason for that in their surroundings.
They only went fifty more meters when Eliot simply stopped. He didn't turn around.
“Nate, one group is climbing down the stairs, they’ll enter the corridor after you. You should hurry, I have nothing to stop them!”
“Sophie, the Mexicans are not my biggest problem right now.”
“No, they aren’t.” Eliot took two steps to the side and blindly reached with his hand until he felt the wall for support. He actually smiled, but his eyes were closed. “Come closer.”
He carefully put both guns in his hands. “Take them away. Prints. You should leave now.”
Nate looked at him, with a terribly sinking heart. This wasn’t a rejection of continuing, this was…
“Hardison,” he whispered. “We need that oxygen. Now.”
“No… use…” Eliot managed to whisper, shaking his head. He leaned on the wall with one shoulder, not moving for a few seconds. A loud metallic sound behind them, very close to the entrance of the corridor, forced him to push himself off the wall and turn around, but he staggered without support. “Go. Now.” That was the last thing he managed to say before a vicious spasm of coughing bent him forward. Jesus, so much blood.
Nate held him and let him slowly kneel, hoping for a moment that this was just one attack, which would stop like the others. He was wrong. Damn, he told him he would regret this. Now he knew what he was trying to say. The coughing continued, without a second of pause. He couldn’t breathe in, and the only thing that came out was blood.
“Move!” he pulled him up on his feet again, knowing that they had only seconds to reach the van; staying here would kill him. He was still coughing, and that meant there was some air that was getting in, somewhere; that hope was the only thing left. “Walk! Stay awake and just walk!”
He pulled his arm over his shoulder and directed his steps, keeping him upright, and next few meters went by inertia, he was dragging him more than he walked.
“Parker, now would be a good time.” Sophie’s calm voice shook him; what the hell; no, he couldn’t think now about them, not while Eliot’s coughing was becoming weaker after every step they made. He was rapidly losing his strength and his weight started to drag them both down.
A deafening explosion somewhere behind them almost knocked them both down, and he staggered, barely able to keep them upright, and a rain of mortar and dust fell over them. Right at the moment Eliot’s legs gave way and the only thing that was keeping him from falling was Nate's arm, Hardison grabbed him from the other side.
One more explosion covered his words. The damn idiot didn’t bring the oxygen. He brought a fucking knife.
“Keep moving!” he yelled. “Don’t stop, we have to get him to the-”
“Too late for that. Oxygen can’t help him now.” Hardison stopped his attempt to continue walking. “You’ll need to help me. Lower him down.”
“No! He has to stay upright, if he-”
“Nate, stop!” he wrest him from his hold and slowly laid him down; Eliot’s eyes were open and he was still trying to breathe in, but the effort was useless. Hardison waved his hand before his eyes, getting only the slightest reaction in return. “Keep him awake. Don’t let him move.” Hardison was cutting through his shirt as he spoke, and Nate stirred from the stupor, kneeling next to them. He was too low, all that blood was closing all his breathing paths, but even when he lifted his head and shoulders, he couldn’t see any change. Eliot stopped coughing; no air was going in.
Another explosion shook the entire basement and he swore, noticing that even that didn’t force Eliot to blink.
“Eliot, look at me!” He slapped him, trying to pour life back into his eyes, to get any kind of response, to stop that creeping emptiness, but all of it was in vain. “Stay awake! Don’t close your eyes!” He checked his pulse; it quivered, for god’s sake, it went from almost nothing, to rapid bursts, as his chest moved in the last attempts to breathe. They were losing him.
“Fuck.” Hardison sounded stunned for a second, and Nate glanced down. He had cut through his bandages as well, but he couldn’t see anything.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Me? Nothing. I don’t have to. He did it by himself, the fucking bastard,” Hardison’s voice wavered. “Now I know how he is even alive at all, why he isn’t dead already… I thought I’d have to do it, and I prepared for it, I really did, in fact, I should have thought-”
“Hardison! Focus!” Nate kept his hand on Eliot’s neck, with the other hand holding his shoulder to prevent any movement. “He’s not breathing! Whatever you thought you could do, now would be the time-”
“It's done,” Hardison whispered. “Look down.”
Nate followed his eyes. “What-” he stuttered when he saw the blood on the floor. The fucking pool of blood, growing larger every second. “What have you don- he was already bleeding out, you’ve just kill-”
“No. It’s the blood he’d already lost, not new…” Hardison whispered, rubbing his face. His hands were shaking. “It was the only way… tension hemothorax, Nate… too much time passed since his lung collapsed, the pressure was rising constantly, pressing on his heart, blood vessels, trachea, everything. I had to… I thought I would have to… to…”
“What?!” he growled.
“To fucking stab him with his own knife!” Hardison cried. “To let the blood out and ease the pressure… but I didn’t have to. We were wrong. He didn’t remove his chest tube. He just cut it, leaving it in, closed off.” He raised his hand with something in it; a small piece of duct tape. “I've opened it. He told you he did something to buy a few more hours this morning, remember? Now I know how. Fucking... practical.”
Nate stared at him, but a change under his hand made him look up sharply; Eliot's pulse had stopped bursting, it felt quieter. And his eyes were closed. At the moment he thought that wasn’t a good sign at all, he heard one rasping breath. Shallow, barely visible, but it was there, and then another one, still rattling.
“Is it working?” he whispered, too frightened to hope.
“In theory, less blood in the chest cavity means more room for air, ‘cause the lung can spread again. Sophie, you can come now.” He looked at him. “I didn’t want her to come before we knew…”
“The back stairs are destroyed. No one is going into the basement anymore,” Parker’s cheerful voice chirped in their ears, causing them both to flinch. “I demolished the beginning of the corridor too, the way is blocked, and that group of Mexicans is cut off from you. I’m going out now, meet you at the van.”
“How did she get-”
“The first explosion was her entering point, Nate.” Sophie was already there, she must have been waiting just one turn away in the corridor. “Dear god,” she whispered coming closer, and froze. Hardison had to get up to take the oxygen from her. “Is he-”
Nate checked his pulse again; it was still terribly weak, but at least it was more regular than just a few seconds ago. “Alive? Yes. But we have to hurry. Eliot, do you hear me?”
No response. Hardison put the mask on his face and fastened it. “I hope this will keep him alive until we reach the office. Nate, lift him up in a sitting position, carefully. Sophie, you’ll carry the tank, okay? Damn, this is going to be interesting…” He took a deep breath, and picked him up, the same way he had carried Parker before, yet this time he staggered under the weight. He swayed the first few steps, but he continued.
The damn exit was just one turn away; after the dim light in the corridor, the sun felt unnaturally painful, but Lucille was just two steps away, and Parker was already entering the van.
Nate helped Hardison place Eliot in Parker’s nest, and then turned to Estrella for a second. Gunshots were still echoing from the depths of the building, and in the distance, from all around, the howling of the police sirens could be heard. Less than one fucking hour. It felt like they spent three lives during that time.
“Move, Nate!”
He jumped in, closing the door, and Parker pushed the gas.
“If you don’t mind…” Hardison crawled into the other corner and curled himself into a shaking heap. “I would like to pass out now.”
Sophie sat next to Eliot on the floor, holding her hand on his neck, monitoring his breathing, and Nate crumpled next to her. He had to sweep the van three times with his eyes, to assure himself that everyone was here, finally… and then he checked once more, just in case. And he dared not feel relief… not yet. Karma was a bitch, she struck the most deadly blows just when a flicker of hope was born again.
“Maybe we should try to wake him.” Sophie’s voice was still trembling.
“We should.” He pulled a blanket over him, remembering that victims of shock should be warmed, “But she is driving, and it’s better for him to be out. Hold him in one place.”
Something flew from the front of the van, barely missing Sophie. Handcuffs.
“Just in case,” Parker murmured. “And I locked the doors.”
Nate stared at the handcuffs, trying to stop the attack of hysterical laughter, when he felt Sophie’s hand in his. He swallowed, something in his gut, painful, frozen, finally melting down. Her eyes were smiling.
He squeezed her hand, not letting it go, and closed his eyes, resting his head on the wall.
“Parker, take us home.”
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
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
o.0.o
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His most efficient way to deal with the Mexicans in the control room silently slid up behind him, motioning to him to back off and stay out of their way, so Eliot could pretty accurately assume that the threat would be dealt with in the next couple of minutes. He was going back to the terrace to gather the Chileans and direct them there; he might be insane, but he still wasn’t stupid enough to go there and deal with the Mexicans himself. Though, if he had a gun, it would change the odds.
The group that passed him was small, but he had studied every single one of them while he talked with Villacorta, and he knew how trained and armed they were; the Mexicans didn’t have a chance, especially now that Hardison shut all the cameras off and nothing could warn them about their approach. Wait. How the hell did he know that the hacker shut them off, when he said nothing about… he checked the small eye at the end of the corridor; yep, the tiny light at the bottom was not blinking. Great, either he had lost that entire part of the conversation, or he was making things up.
He slowly turned around, not trying to follow the Chileans to their target; it would be useless, in this condition it would take him four damn minutes just to get to the end of the right wing. Even this corridor seemed too long. He leaned on the wall with his back, closing his eyes. His legs were too unstable to hold him. If he sat down he would never get up, and he had to go, as soon as possible. He had to move away from here before Nate came and tried to stop him, or start him, or whatever brilliant solution was on his mind. The cameras were blind, he should use that, go to the back stairs and enter the first floor; not that damn basement with the exit, no way. First floor. And disappearing. He could still do it, he was good at disappearing... and hiding bodies. Even the walking ones.
But he stayed, nevertheless, listening to the silence, trying to guess what was happening on the terrace, telling himself that nothing could go wrong now, that Nate wouldn’t let it happen. It could only get finished and completely wrapped up, that was all, and he was doing just that right now, and that was the reason that it was taking so long.
He was just staring blindly at the other wall, and he barely had the strength to turn his head when he heard someone entering the corridor at the end.
The plate had left a long, already purple gash across Cuchillo’s face; the poor man must have been pissed. Yep, he definitely looked pissed. He almost laughed when he remembered that he was the one who shot him at the first place, and that he was so completely drained that he could feel only compassion for him.
Yes, he could kill him - with a lot of effort and pain - kill the man who almost killed him, but… why? He just looked at him as he was approaching, cautiously. They'd taken his gun, but missed the knife. A little sloppy, under their standards. He was saying something, but he didn't hear a word. He just… couldn’t do it anymore. Horrible, utter exhaustion erased his mind completely, and he just stared at him, not giving a damn fuck about what would happen, whether he killed him or not. He just didn’t care anymore, he couldn’t.
He had done what he wanted, needed to do, and all he wanted was just to lie down and die. He couldn’t stand fighting anymore. God, he couldn’t stand standing anymore.
It would be so easy just let Cuchillo kill him and finish all this crap. The team was safe, and Nate would take care of the rest. He wanted to stop all this, just to end this exhaustion, agony, thinking, being afraid… to lie down and stop it all. He simply couldn’t get up, gather himself for the hundredth time, and continue. Those four days crushed down on him finally, and crushed hard.
But then Nate showed up behind Cuchillo's back and the Chilean turned around to meet the new enemy, with his knife ready to strike a blow.
He had no memory of stepping away from that wall, moving forward or doing anything, though he heard his own grunting, breathless cry as pain clawed at him, almost surprising him with its return; he just found himself a moment, or an eternity, later, looking at Cuchillo who was now lying on the floor, his knife in his hands now. He had to blink to bridge that gap, and it didn’t work, there was only complete emptiness.
Yep, that was what he was. He is. He kills. He stared at his hands and the blade he was holding. Everything he touched died.
And anything he had done to stop that, all those years he tried to change it, everything had been in vain. He was a fool when he thought he was anything else. Just a mindless killing machine.
Run. He should leave. Run away. Now. Run.
Nate was still standing between him and the end of the corridor.
“Move,” he breathed, not daring to move him by himself, not trusting his own hands, but the man just looked at him, with his head slightly tilted. Fuck you and your thinking Nate, move! He needed all of his meager strength to merely remain upright, and when Nate took a step forward - for Gods’ sake, what was he thinking?! He just killed a man without knowing he was doing it - he had to back away.
“Change of plans. We have one minute before the shooting starts, no time for the back stairs. Hardison said to stay low on this floor, to find some place to hide and wait 'til he managed to free a passage for us.”
What? Plans-shooting-backstairs-passage, words made no sense; he couldn’t connect them into anything understandable. He couldn’t stay here, he had to go… somewhere else. The only way to stop all this was to run away, and Nate was still standing between him and the exit unaware of what he was doing, that stupid… he blinked the sweat from his eyes and took one more step back.
“Nate, move,” he tried to snarl, but it came out as a faint whisper, more a plea than a demand, and that pissed him off completely. He shook his head trying to focus on the issue at hand: walking past Nate without losing control and forgetting where he was; he could see Nate speaking, but his words were lost in the white noise that was growing around him. He had to hurry, this wasn’t good; if he died here, it would tell Villacorta that he did have bullet in his lungs, and that would be enough to destroy everything. Or not? He couldn’t remember what the last thing they’d settled was. Whatever… pull out just one card from the house of cards, and everything would crumple. Run. He clung to that thought, and forced himself to take one step forward, desperately searching for a calm place in his mind that could guide him and take him out without killing Nate on his way. But it wasn’t there anymore, he couldn’t reach it. Please, move away, just shut up and fucking move!
The white floor hit his knees and he stared at it for a second, wondering how the fuck it came up and slammed into him, and why it was slowly getting even closer to his face, when hands clad in black got in the way and stopped the floor from rising.
Nate was yelling at the floor to stay awake - he was too close, damn, why did nobody ever listen to him? - and that confused him even more; he looked at the floor to see if it would obey Nate’s orders, but floor didn’t seem to be aware of the clear importance of his words.
Yep, he knew that from the beginning - but nobody listened to him, what a surprise - communication problems were at the core of this fuck up. Nate didn’t listen to him, the floor didn’t listen to Nate, nobody was listening to anybody, and this was how it all ended - in yelling. He stared at the floor, half expecting it to start yelling as well, and he suddenly figured out that the only person that didn’t end up yelling at him was Villacorta. He had managed to piss off, one way or another, everybody that he had encountered those past four days, except the one person that should be upset with his doings… and that was comical.
He tried, one more time, to at least look at the exit to remember where he had to go, when he got rid of that black thing that was holding him, but in one frighteningly clear moment, he realized that no door could help him with the escape he needed. He was stuck.
And he couldn't do anything, couldn't free himself, he just watched his own legs moving as he was dragged, or forced, or whatever, to walk somewhere... until the time ran to zero, and everything exploded in the gunshots.
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o.0.o
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Nate had no idea how he managed to drag him all the way to the next corridor which ended with the back stairs. Hardison was navigating him to the last office of the row, just two steps away from the stairs; it would take only a few seconds to reach them when Hardison gave the signal that the path was clear.
One giant copying machine looked solid enough to stop the bullets, so he carefully lowered him behind it, in the corner with a wall. Nope, wrong move; at the moment his back touched the floor, Eliot recoiled and his breathing, jagged and barely visible, turned into a suppressed cough. Nate quickly pulled him up.
“Okay, easy, don’t move.” He eased him back to lean on the wall, in sitting position, and that helped, the coughing stopped. He checked his pulse; Jesus, it was fluttering, unnaturally fast, and barely palpable.
What was he supposed to do now? Keep him awake and risk one more deranged breakdown, or let him drift away, unable to wake him up when they had to go, very fast, down the stairs?
The gunshots decided his dilemma; at the moment the attack started, Eliot opened his eyes, and his hand unknowingly reached under his jacket for the gun that wasn’t there. He was way, way down that road, Nate realized.
“Are you able to talk?” he said calmly; he needed a distraction, something that would keep him here, in the small, closed room, and divert his attention from the shooting. He half expected that he would try to go again, just get up and blindly walk out of here, but Eliot slowly raised his head and looked at him.
“The last guy who asked me that was Barclay.” Nate listened to his voice; weak, almost a whisper, but there was a steadiness in it that he didn’t like at all. “Yes, I am able to talk,” he carefully continued, slowly, as if he had to think about every word before saying it. He probably did; he was barely able to keep his eyes open. “First, I quit. Second, I’m going away from here. Third… you wait 'til Hardison says it’s safe. The fourth… if you try to touch me, or even come one step closer, I’ll break both your arms and one leg.”
Damn. Nate wasn’t a fool; he knew damn well how to recognize a decision when he heard one…and this was deadly serious, said with an even, calm voice that added even more weight to his words. Eliot had put a bullet in Parker’s leg because he thought it was necessary.
Nate sat in the first office chair he found, not bothering himself with hiding from the door.
“You do know what’s happening with you right now?” he asked gently. “You do know that you are delusional, in severe shock, and you can’t think clearly?”
“I know what I’m doin’. I have to go. It’s the only way.”
“For what?” he asked slowly.
Eliot stared at him, and Nate realized that he was unable to understand the question. His eyes wavered from him, he wasn’t listening to him anymore. He didn’t know what exactly he cemented in his mind, but he had to pull him out from that stupor. He was looking at a spot near him, listening to the shooting. It seemed that the shots came from all sides at once, and Nate sighed.
“Hardison, status?”
Sophie’s voice came first. “You can’t just knock him out with something?
“That… wouldn’t be a very wise move.”
“He wouldn’t…” she hesitated. “You mean, he would?”
“Yep, no doubt about it. But don’t worry… he’ll pass out soon, and I’ll drag him down the stairs by his legs, like a dead cat.” Nate checked, no reaction came from Eliot, his stare was completely empty. “Besides, the police should be here in fifteen minutes tops.”
“He doesn’t have 15 minutes, Nate,” Hardison’s voice sounded desperate. “Sophie showed me when he stopped breathing with the right side, it was over twenty minutes ago. Remember what Betsy said. You have to move him somehow… or he won’t make it to the office.”
“How’s the shooting going?” Nate continued conversationally. “Any chances of it stopping soon?”
“I have no fucking idea what I’m doing! Nate, I’m going all over the building, locking and unlocking the doors and corridors, trying to separate them each another, and somehow direct them off the back side of the building, trying to… I don’t know what! Whose side are we even on? If I see a Mexican and a Chilean that are about to shoot each another, which one should I stop if I can, for crying out loud?” he continued with curses. “I’m simply stopping everybody from shooting at… at anybody… but that shit will just prolong this, they are spreading all over!! The longer all of them stay alive, the bigger the danger is for you two! Fuck, I should just kill them all.”
“Calm down, Hardison. Where’s Villacorta?”
“Half way there, Parker turned on the sprinklers to show him where to go, he must be pissed, completely wet by now.”
“Okay, slow down,” Nate said, watching Eliot who was listening to the shooting, his face becoming emptier with every shot he heard. And with every shot, his eyes were becoming more and more desperate. “Just continue with what you’re doing, will you? Now, cut yourself and Parker from the line.” He waited until he was sure Hardison had done it, then continued with the same tone, just a little lighter. “It’s possible that this is just a lot of noise, like in the movies. A few wounded, a bunch of heroes, no dead, and they’ll all scatter at the first sound of police coming. Much ado about nothing. Just like this entire night.”
Oh, yes, he heard him. Eliot slowly turned his head to him, and Nate sighed. There was always a possibility he would stop after the first arm.
“The shooting started two minutes ago. We have three dead in this corridor,” his voice was flat, his eyes empty, every feeling erased from his face. “We had one Chilean with a Magnum, very close, who just died while you were talking. He is not shooting anymore, and he still had three bullets. Maybe you remember him, he’s the only blond guy. He had cheerful smile, don’t you think? But he is dead now.” For a few moments he lost his train of thought, again watching something Nate didn’t want to know about, then managed to continue. “Do you remember the one that was standing behind Villacorta? He was the youngest. You could tell by his glances he was insecure and fresh - he probably didn’t kill anybody yet. Perhaps he would. But we'll never know now, because he is dead, too, Nate. He died second, he was killed by the third burst of the Uzi - after that, his gun was silent. A very distinctive gun, a small Bulldog. The Uzi jammed after killing him, and there were three shots from the same position. That Mexican is dead too.” He smiled; the first tired smile that Nate saw on his face. And his eyes were dead. “Do you know why those people are dead, Nate?”
Fuck. Nate recognized the desperation in that last sentence, in every carefully formulated word. Eliot was defeated - he had finally encountered an enemy he couldn’t beat - Eliot Spencer. And he had knocked himself so deep into the ground that he didn’t know if there was even a chance of recovering.
“Do you think this was a motherfucking game, Nate?” his voice grew a little stronger. “Do you want to know what exactly happened in Marco’s Tavern? How I drug Rojas right to his death, knowing they’d shoot him? Just because I needed him dead to start the fight. I talked to him in the car; he was scared. He wasn’t a damn lieutenant, evil, bad guy, a dreadful name… he was just one scared man to me. But it didn’t stop me. Do you want to know how I turned on the phone Villacorta was tracking, to draw the Chileans after me to the Mexicans, to their death? How many Mexicans died in that tavern, just because I arranged it? How many of them deserved, really deserved to die, and how many were just selling weed on the streets?
“We all have our own abysses that we have to stare into, Eliot,” he said gently. Knowing that his words were empty.
“You don’t understand,” his voice finally cracked, he continued with a whisper. “I don’t stare into abysses. They come and stare at me. And when I look back, they avert they eyes, and back off, slowly, not turning their backs on me.”
The silence was considerably longer this time. Moments passed while Eliot gazed sightlessly into him.
“Let me go, Nate,” he finally whispered. “Everything I touch dies. I will kill you all.”
Fuck. He got up, and went to the small window, he couldn’t stand watching that pain anymore. He should think of something. He should be able to solve this, to find something that would just make it all disappear.
At that moment he became aware of all the smoke screens that Eliot was putting around himself even before the night begun; all the reasons for distancing himself from them. Their guilt because of the night, their guilt because of his death, their ditching him with disgust after they realized what he had done… he was creating that for himself, not for them. He collected all the possible reasons to not return after this all ended, because he knew he would have to run away from this. No… not reasons. Excuses.
He couldn’t run away from this, they’d caught him in time, after all he had done to prevent it. But he could die. It was less painful than facing the consequences. Nate knew that decision was the result of a disturbed, incoherent mind, born under the delirious fight or flight state of shock, no matter how steady and coherent he sounded… but it made no difference. Eliot wasn’t, definitely, letting him take him to the team. He would just prolong all this, staying awake as long as he could, and he wouldn’t hesitate a moment in stopping him if he tried something, leaving him in the heap of broken bones. And when he finally passed out, it would be too late to do anything for him.
That bastard had lured him into a check, put him in a corner the same way he did with Villacorta, and blocked all the fields around him, disabling him to move, to do anything. And he had a check mate ready in the next move.
It was strange to hear the utter silence in the midst of the wild gunfire that echoed all around them.
“You are, again, listening to his words.” Sophie’s voice, soft, gentle, was so quiet that for a moment he wasn’t sure if she really said that, or he just thought it. “Look at him. He is there.”
She should have been here, not him. She would find a way to let them help him, she would be able to force him to go to that basement corridor. There wasn’t time to deal with this breakdown now, not while his time was running out. They had to save him first, give him time to recover from this deranged exhaustion, and only after that, when his mind was clear, it would be the time to assess the damage.
One crisis at the time. Like always.
Yes, of course he was listening to his words… but now he took a deep breath, and tried to watch.
And there was nothing to see. He was sitting in the exact position as they had seen him in that damn warehouse, with one hand on one raised knee, the other around his chest. Waiting. Listening. Allowing parts of himself to die with every single shot he heard. They’d come full circle, returning to the beginning of all this, and Eliot again disabled them to do anything for him. Yet, this time Nate knew what two dreadfully wrong moves in that warehouse led to all this, and he wasn’t going to do the same mistake again.
He watched, for Christ’s sake, and he had no idea what he was supposed to see. Eliot's eyes were empty again, he was drifting away, able to focus only on the nearest objects. The edge of the copy machine, his hand, his knee. He looked dead already, there wasn’t any visible breathing, his breaths were too shallow to be noticed.
Nate went back to his chair and stood beside it. No reaction. Just to try it, he took one step further towards him, and Eliot’s slightly lowered head rose in a second, his eyes locked on the target. Not a trace of recognition were in them, just a cold calculation. He had set a border, and he was ready to destroy anything that touched it. Nate knew that this immobility would explode into violent outburst one more time, if he only took one step more to him. He wasn’t afraid of broken arms… but Eliot wouldn’t stop. He would kill him. He was too deep into this to have any control left.
He checked his watch; only four minutes had passed since they’d entered the room, and he felt like they had been locked here for ages.
“So, you agree then that we should stay here for the next ten minutes?” he asked calmly.
Eliot blinked, visibly trying to understand what he was asked, but the question was too complicated for him to decide what to think about it and what Nate meant to say. His eyes flickered toward the doors, as if he was checking to see if the escape still available, at the moment completely disorientated, not sure if the question was a threat to his decision or not. He tried to say something, but there was not enough air for words, just a raspy cough that bent him forward.
Nate quickly came closer, but Eliot raised his head again, his eyes completely crazy for a moment. “Back. Off,” he hissed the warning.
And then Nate realized what he had to see. What Sophie had in fact said and meant, her exact words. Look at him. He is there. Still here, in this room. Eliot hadn’t left.
Eliot asked him to let him go… but Nate wasn’t keeping him here. Nothing was keeping him from escaping.
His words were talking about going away, about escaping from all this, and yet he was still here. He could just get up and leave, there was no chance that Nate could stop him. He had enough strength for that.
His mind was producing those words, but his actions were telling a different story. Sophie was right. His mind now was one strange place, confused and totally lost. He couldn’t understand reason, logic, and he wouldn’t listen to it. His head was a mess of horrors that was making him wanting to die, and he couldn’t realize that all of this would feel different if he just waited to get it together again. His mind was literally killing him.
And yet, he was still here, because there was one thing that wasn’t affected by this madness, that was aware of reality. His heart.
He knew that, Nate remembered now, in the moment when he looked him in the eyes at the terrace, when he saw the pairs of mixed emotions; hate, madness, fear and defeat, fighting with love, control, laughter and victory… perfectly matched and glued together. His mind. And his heart.
The only thing Nate had to do was disable that mind so it could give no warning of the attack. At his strongest spot, just as Eliot did with Villacorta.
Check mate, Eliot Spencer.
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o.0.o
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Hardison slowly raised his hands from the keyboard. They were shaking uncontrollably, and he swallowed, checking the time for the hundredth time. He felt Sophie’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care; the damn grifter couldn’t guess what he was preparing himself to do.
They didn’t get it, nobody had any idea what was going on, and why it was too late for everything now.
Shaking wasn’t good, shaking could kill. But he couldn’t stop it.
He drew a shaky breath, and started the countdown, preparing himself for going out.
He was terrified.
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o.0.o
.
.
“Hardison will give me a sign that the way is clear. Soon,” Nate turned around and returned in the chair, trying to speak as clearly as possible.
Eliot just shook his head, resting it on his knees.
“Sophie, tell him to connect everything back, I need a status update. Villacorta?”
“Out of the park. I connected Parker back to us,” Hardison said. His voice was strangely insecure. “Nate, is he-”
“Keep this line open, but call me on my phone. I’ll put you on speakerphone so we both can hear what’s going on. Just the status of the Mexicans and the Chileans, Hardison. No babbling or chatting, we don’t have much time.”
“Tell me about it.”
He waited until the phone rang, then switched it onto speakerphone and put it on the table.
“The second floor is completely empty, all the Chileans that dealt with the control room went down and joined the rest of them, except the terrace. Few of them fight there. The first floor is a mess, they are spread all over the place. The Chileans are trying to push the Mexicans into the back part of the building, which is extremely bad for you, ‘cause I can’t tell at which moment they’ll succeed. If the Mexicans reach the back stairs, which, for now, I’m able to delay by locking everything that’s on their way, they’ll be directly under you, and your way to basement will be blocked. Not to mention they have only to climb one story, and they will be in front of your door,” Hardison sighed deeply. “I can’t give you the sign to go for now, because one group is shooting in the basement, directly next to the stairs; you would jump right into their fire. The basement part is less occupied for now, though some of them, both sides, are retreating down there as well. All in all, after the first explosive encounters, they started to calculate, they are more careful, they are waiting, they hide, they plan their steps. Less shooting, but more unpredictable moves from everybody. Less bullets fired, but with more accuracy. Everything has slowed down a bit but I can't see traces of anyone thinking about retreating. No sound from the police yet.”
Nate said nothing when Hardison finished, he just put the phone back in his pocket. He couldn’t tell if Eliot understood the situation, though he thought it was a process that didn’t need any effort, it was natural to him, just like counting the bullets and weapons was. It was automatic, it didn’t require thinking.
He pulled the chair a step closer, to the border that was set for him, and again the empty stare froze him in place. But that stare was what he needed, not the lowered head.
“You said you would kill us all,” he stated gently.
No reaction.
“You’re right,” he continued. “In fact, you’re doing it right now as we speak.”
No understanding, not even the slightest sign he heard him.
“You are the reason we are all here. We won’t leave without you. We are staying here, in this fuckup, as long as you’re here. That’s a fact. I’m not going anywhere, Eliot. And they won’t hesitate to come in and try to get us out. And no matter how deeply you’re lost right now, you know it’s true.”
“Oh, Nate…” Sophie’s sigh was so damn sad, but he couldn’t pay attention to them now.
Eliot continued to look at him for another ten seconds, then he lowered his head again.
Nate leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs, and relaxed.
After fifteen seconds filled with only gunshots, Eliot raised his head again. “The sounds from the basement group are more distant now,” he whispered, his voice empty of everything. “Those from the first floor are closer. In a half a minute they’ll be on the stairs and block the way. If you’re ready to go, now is the time to do it.”
Nate waited.
“You have no idea how deeply you’ll regret this,” he shook his head in desperation. “But, at least, you’ll be down there, not two floors away from them.” He grabbed the edge of the copy machine and hoisted himself up. “Stay behind me.”
.
.
o.0.o
.
.
They would yell, they would be pissed off, and Hardison would look at her with those hurt eyes, she just knew it. But Parker couldn’t stop thinking, and moving her finger all over the escape route, in circles that were becoming more and more frantic, and faster, as her thinking was speeding up.
Hardison was lost in his own horrors, she could recognize and feel that distress, he didn’t pay attention to her.
But Sophie was watching her finger, the route that she was drawing, and she saw the points where her fingers trembled and stopped.
She looked at the grifter then, with the helpless question in her eyes, and for a moment she could feel her struggle too, just as she felt Hardison’s.
The grifter closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again, she nodded. And smiled at her.
Parker smiled back, and grabbed her bag.
.
.
o.0.o
.
.
“I managed to disconnect one group of Mexicans from the others in the basement - I’ve locked them in the rooms behind the pools, and released all the chlorine into the water - they took just one breath, yelped, and run back into the room. They’ll stay there, it’s impossible to pass the pools now. But the Chileans chased another group from another direction, they might intercept you in the basement. You have to get to the corridor before they reach it.”
That was the last of Hardison’s report they heard before they entered the hall. Eliot sent Nate to bring him the Magnum from the dead Chilean. Three bullets. That’d be enough.
Everything was so damn slow.
He forbid himself to think.
He just moved.
Two stories, three bullets. Find one damn corridor. He could do it.
Everything was swinging.
His mind was blank, thank god, he directed himself only to the steps, climbing down, shooting; the Mexicans that rushed through the door were like caricatures caught in slow motion, their aim was pathetically slow. They weren’t even able to change the surprise on their faces before he shot the three bullets; he had enough time to decide where to shoot them. The first in the leg to make him stumble back and hit the second man, and a bullet in each of second Mexican’s hands to disarm him. He took the gun that fell from his hand, and Nate closed the door.
No thinking. Move. If he stopped, only for a second, if he allowed himself only one question, only one thought, he would go down; he had to continue without any change in the rhythm.
He didn’t dare turn around to see if Nate was following him, looking back would spin everything, he just followed his aim, down, and down, and down, until the stairs finally stopped, and they reached the basement.
He couldn’t see anything except gray shadows and movements in them.
He fired at the doors that were opening in the distance with a loud click, but Nate pulled him aside and turned him in the right direction, through a small passage with a ramp.
He couldn’t feel the ground beneath him.
The corridor looked like a ten-mile long river of fog, turning slightly in the distance. No cover, no place to hide from the fire, the fucking firing range with two of them with a bull's eye on their back. But the seconds were crawling by.
He couldn’t breathe anymore.
So he smiled, and continued.
.
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o.0.o
.
.
She couldn’t see Parker on the cameras.
She couldn’t see Hardison anymore.
Nate and Eliot were in the corridor with no cameras in it.
The only thing that Sophie could see were the Mexicans and Chileans that were spreading all over, firing at everything that moved, coming closer and closer to the corridor that was the only exit for all of them.
She knew someone had to stay and monitor everything. But she hated that that had to be her, because just now, when she was alone, Sophie Deveraux realized that those four people were the only thing she had left in her life.
And she couldn’t see them.
.
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o.0.o
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.
... at least, you’ll be down there, not two floors away from them. It was almost amusing how Eliot’s words were the only thing that was reeling in Nate’s mind while he was monitoring their progress. That was the exact thing he was thinking when he decided to move him. Instead of counting how far they had to go, he just decided that every step and every stair was a success, and relaxed. He took care not to move into the hitter's line of fire, he stayed behind him, and played invisible.
Eliot started to slow down when they entered the corridor. The stairs should have been much more difficult for him, but it seemed that the task that was more demanding kept his concentration sharp enough. Nate came closer, not sure if there was a reason for that in their surroundings.
They only went fifty more meters when Eliot simply stopped. He didn't turn around.
“Nate, one group is climbing down the stairs, they’ll enter the corridor after you. You should hurry, I have nothing to stop them!”
“Sophie, the Mexicans are not my biggest problem right now.”
“No, they aren’t.” Eliot took two steps to the side and blindly reached with his hand until he felt the wall for support. He actually smiled, but his eyes were closed. “Come closer.”
He carefully put both guns in his hands. “Take them away. Prints. You should leave now.”
Nate looked at him, with a terribly sinking heart. This wasn’t a rejection of continuing, this was…
“Hardison,” he whispered. “We need that oxygen. Now.”
“No… use…” Eliot managed to whisper, shaking his head. He leaned on the wall with one shoulder, not moving for a few seconds. A loud metallic sound behind them, very close to the entrance of the corridor, forced him to push himself off the wall and turn around, but he staggered without support. “Go. Now.” That was the last thing he managed to say before a vicious spasm of coughing bent him forward. Jesus, so much blood.
Nate held him and let him slowly kneel, hoping for a moment that this was just one attack, which would stop like the others. He was wrong. Damn, he told him he would regret this. Now he knew what he was trying to say. The coughing continued, without a second of pause. He couldn’t breathe in, and the only thing that came out was blood.
“Move!” he pulled him up on his feet again, knowing that they had only seconds to reach the van; staying here would kill him. He was still coughing, and that meant there was some air that was getting in, somewhere; that hope was the only thing left. “Walk! Stay awake and just walk!”
He pulled his arm over his shoulder and directed his steps, keeping him upright, and next few meters went by inertia, he was dragging him more than he walked.
“Parker, now would be a good time.” Sophie’s calm voice shook him; what the hell; no, he couldn’t think now about them, not while Eliot’s coughing was becoming weaker after every step they made. He was rapidly losing his strength and his weight started to drag them both down.
A deafening explosion somewhere behind them almost knocked them both down, and he staggered, barely able to keep them upright, and a rain of mortar and dust fell over them. Right at the moment Eliot’s legs gave way and the only thing that was keeping him from falling was Nate's arm, Hardison grabbed him from the other side.
One more explosion covered his words. The damn idiot didn’t bring the oxygen. He brought a fucking knife.
“Keep moving!” he yelled. “Don’t stop, we have to get him to the-”
“Too late for that. Oxygen can’t help him now.” Hardison stopped his attempt to continue walking. “You’ll need to help me. Lower him down.”
“No! He has to stay upright, if he-”
“Nate, stop!” he wrest him from his hold and slowly laid him down; Eliot’s eyes were open and he was still trying to breathe in, but the effort was useless. Hardison waved his hand before his eyes, getting only the slightest reaction in return. “Keep him awake. Don’t let him move.” Hardison was cutting through his shirt as he spoke, and Nate stirred from the stupor, kneeling next to them. He was too low, all that blood was closing all his breathing paths, but even when he lifted his head and shoulders, he couldn’t see any change. Eliot stopped coughing; no air was going in.
Another explosion shook the entire basement and he swore, noticing that even that didn’t force Eliot to blink.
“Eliot, look at me!” He slapped him, trying to pour life back into his eyes, to get any kind of response, to stop that creeping emptiness, but all of it was in vain. “Stay awake! Don’t close your eyes!” He checked his pulse; it quivered, for god’s sake, it went from almost nothing, to rapid bursts, as his chest moved in the last attempts to breathe. They were losing him.
“Fuck.” Hardison sounded stunned for a second, and Nate glanced down. He had cut through his bandages as well, but he couldn’t see anything.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Me? Nothing. I don’t have to. He did it by himself, the fucking bastard,” Hardison’s voice wavered. “Now I know how he is even alive at all, why he isn’t dead already… I thought I’d have to do it, and I prepared for it, I really did, in fact, I should have thought-”
“Hardison! Focus!” Nate kept his hand on Eliot’s neck, with the other hand holding his shoulder to prevent any movement. “He’s not breathing! Whatever you thought you could do, now would be the time-”
“It's done,” Hardison whispered. “Look down.”
Nate followed his eyes. “What-” he stuttered when he saw the blood on the floor. The fucking pool of blood, growing larger every second. “What have you don- he was already bleeding out, you’ve just kill-”
“No. It’s the blood he’d already lost, not new…” Hardison whispered, rubbing his face. His hands were shaking. “It was the only way… tension hemothorax, Nate… too much time passed since his lung collapsed, the pressure was rising constantly, pressing on his heart, blood vessels, trachea, everything. I had to… I thought I would have to… to…”
“What?!” he growled.
“To fucking stab him with his own knife!” Hardison cried. “To let the blood out and ease the pressure… but I didn’t have to. We were wrong. He didn’t remove his chest tube. He just cut it, leaving it in, closed off.” He raised his hand with something in it; a small piece of duct tape. “I've opened it. He told you he did something to buy a few more hours this morning, remember? Now I know how. Fucking... practical.”
Nate stared at him, but a change under his hand made him look up sharply; Eliot's pulse had stopped bursting, it felt quieter. And his eyes were closed. At the moment he thought that wasn’t a good sign at all, he heard one rasping breath. Shallow, barely visible, but it was there, and then another one, still rattling.
“Is it working?” he whispered, too frightened to hope.
“In theory, less blood in the chest cavity means more room for air, ‘cause the lung can spread again. Sophie, you can come now.” He looked at him. “I didn’t want her to come before we knew…”
“The back stairs are destroyed. No one is going into the basement anymore,” Parker’s cheerful voice chirped in their ears, causing them both to flinch. “I demolished the beginning of the corridor too, the way is blocked, and that group of Mexicans is cut off from you. I’m going out now, meet you at the van.”
“How did she get-”
“The first explosion was her entering point, Nate.” Sophie was already there, she must have been waiting just one turn away in the corridor. “Dear god,” she whispered coming closer, and froze. Hardison had to get up to take the oxygen from her. “Is he-”
Nate checked his pulse again; it was still terribly weak, but at least it was more regular than just a few seconds ago. “Alive? Yes. But we have to hurry. Eliot, do you hear me?”
No response. Hardison put the mask on his face and fastened it. “I hope this will keep him alive until we reach the office. Nate, lift him up in a sitting position, carefully. Sophie, you’ll carry the tank, okay? Damn, this is going to be interesting…” He took a deep breath, and picked him up, the same way he had carried Parker before, yet this time he staggered under the weight. He swayed the first few steps, but he continued.
The damn exit was just one turn away; after the dim light in the corridor, the sun felt unnaturally painful, but Lucille was just two steps away, and Parker was already entering the van.
Nate helped Hardison place Eliot in Parker’s nest, and then turned to Estrella for a second. Gunshots were still echoing from the depths of the building, and in the distance, from all around, the howling of the police sirens could be heard. Less than one fucking hour. It felt like they spent three lives during that time.
“Move, Nate!”
He jumped in, closing the door, and Parker pushed the gas.
“If you don’t mind…” Hardison crawled into the other corner and curled himself into a shaking heap. “I would like to pass out now.”
Sophie sat next to Eliot on the floor, holding her hand on his neck, monitoring his breathing, and Nate crumpled next to her. He had to sweep the van three times with his eyes, to assure himself that everyone was here, finally… and then he checked once more, just in case. And he dared not feel relief… not yet. Karma was a bitch, she struck the most deadly blows just when a flicker of hope was born again.
“Maybe we should try to wake him.” Sophie’s voice was still trembling.
“We should.” He pulled a blanket over him, remembering that victims of shock should be warmed, “But she is driving, and it’s better for him to be out. Hold him in one place.”
Something flew from the front of the van, barely missing Sophie. Handcuffs.
“Just in case,” Parker murmured. “And I locked the doors.”
Nate stared at the handcuffs, trying to stop the attack of hysterical laughter, when he felt Sophie’s hand in his. He swallowed, something in his gut, painful, frozen, finally melting down. Her eyes were smiling.
He squeezed her hand, not letting it go, and closed his eyes, resting his head on the wall.
“Parker, take us home.”