The Season Six Job, Ch.18
Title: The Season Six Job
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Parttwo in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us
through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team
would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you
need to know will be explained.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
banner for Chapter 18 -
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***
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The damn whiskey must have caused all the tears; Parker had no other explanation for the veil that blurred the already dim lights in the strange rooms and corridors. Whiskey and dust. Her every step made little clouds, and everything she touched was covered with a thick layer of old dust that forced her to cough.
The stupid coughing brought Martin on her trail, and she couldn’t get rid of him - he was closing in and her leg was in agony. She turned around and looked at the footsteps she was leaving behind - one trail was long stripe in the dust, she started to drag her leg. Too painful to walk.
She turned left after one more half destroyed room. This one had no outer wall and she could see dark forest through the tears that started again.
She was too far away from Hardison and Eliot, they were deep in the basement, two levels beneath the ground, yet she had to go and leave them, no matter how many tears that stupid whiskey made her cry. Slowly, but steadily, she was making one big circle, leading Martin away from them, and getting closer to the room on the ground level, near the place she entered. She knew that another five mobsters were already in the building and she hoped they were somewhere near, searching for her, and not going down to the others. That would be a death sentence for Hardison and Eliot.
She hated fear. And she hated to hate. The hate was driving her mad. She quietly chuckled, remembering something that Hardison told her once…fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering… something about Jedis and the Force. Well, her hate wasn’t leading to suffering, at least not hers. When she hated, the others were suffering.
Oh God, she was so mad. And she wasn’t crying. Tears were just an effect of the whiskey.
She stopped for a moment, resting her back on the wall, checking the bomb with trembling hands. It was dry. Two more turns.
The steps behind her sounded closer, and she gritted her teeth and continued.
It took a few more minutes to find that room, the one with the functioning doors and big, closed metal breaker boxes. The electric switchboards for entire building, still kept in pretty good shape.
She quickly checked the timer on the bomb, set it to thirty seconds, and placed the bomb under the middle breaker, hurrying out and in the opposite direction.
The explosion knocked her down in the middle of a step - she didn’t have time to reach the end of the corridor, but at least Martin wouldn’t be able to find her in the darkness.
The darkness that would give only a chance to Eliot and Hardison.
She curled up by the wall, waiting for the mortar and dust to settle, listening breathlessly to the sound of the explosion that still echoed through the building. She would have pretty big problems finding her way down, down, and to find them.
The echo was cut off by other explosions - loud gunshots below her. She held her breath.
She counted six bullets, fired slowly, with pauses. And then silence, deadly silence.
She clutched her head for a moment, unable to locate the source of the new pain, the new, burning one that struck through her heart. Now she finally understood that ‘suffering’ part.
Whiskey was to blame, she said to herself; whiskey made her cry…
No, no crying, just eyes full of dust.
Nothing more.
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***
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The guy with the pole had done these things before, because he hit him in the head with enough strength to spin and blacken everything around him, but not nearly hard to knock him down.
Hardison was dragged five more meters away from him, closer to Goon C, so that meant that the knife and the gun were out of his reach, not to mention Goon A with another gun, and Eliot had to let this one hit him, until the knife came back. For now, he was sure he was doing ‘helpless victim only few hits before breaking and spilling everything’ pretty accurate and convincingly.
Until now, the beating wasn’t worse than a rough sparring, but after a series of quick blows in the head and the back, he found getting up from the dusty floor a task that needed immense concentration to perform, and the guy before him became blurry and tilting.
He calmly calculated how much time he had before the accumulated pain and disorientation severely ruined all chances of his attack; not much, if the guy continued with the same enthusiasm. He flailed with his left hand once, and missed him, stumbling to the ground again, just to show them he was unable to coordinate his moves. That didn’t bring the guy with the knife back, and he had to wait more. Well, this was stalling… sort of, he thought after one nasty blow sent him rolling over the floor - he rolled towards Goon C, decreasing the distance to nine meters instead of ten. If nothing else, he didn’t have to fake panting, because every breath he took was a fiery cut, and he couldn’t catch enough of it to spit any curse at them.
“This is unreasonable!” Hardison’s voice stopped another blow. At any other moment he would welcome this little diversion of their attention, but not now when Hardison waking up only meant that the guy with the knife might stay close to him to prevent his possible moves… or something even worse. Eliot curled up on the ground to erase any thoughts of eventual threat on his part, checking on the hacker. Hardison was up on his knees, swaying and unfocused. He clutched the massive railings behind his back and hoisted himself up, and his every move was a show of an uncoordinated, completely lost person. He tried to walk but his legs gave way and he just crumpled where he was, laying like he was dead, with his arms spread out.
Eliot had no idea if that was an act, or if he was really shook up, but the timing of it showed him that the hacker was giving him a little time to get it together… at least he hoped it was so, and not just a coincidence.
He needed him awake and able to clear out when shit started. He eyed him once more, noticing he was now a little further from the center. When he gave him a sign, the hacker would need only a few steps to disappear among the rows of boxes, out of their sight.
The guy with the knife went closer to the hacker, hitting him with his foot, but no reaction came.
“Leave that one, we have time for him later,” Goon A ordered shortly. “This one won’t talk - maybe it’s time to show him we are serious.” He got one nod in response, and Eliot widened his eyes as much as he could, watching the knife approaching. It's about fucking time. He crawled one step away, only to be stopped with the pole across his back. He didn’t turn around, he didn’t need to. Seventy five centimeters, seven o’clock, weight on his left foot, slightly unbalanced.
Goon B grinned, reflecting the pale yellow light from the blade into his eyes, and stopped one meter in front of him. Finally, the knife and the pole were within his reach.
“We can cut your face and your fingers first, so no one will recognize you if you’re found,” the guy smiled when Eliot flinched and got on his knees, and slowly, painfully, to his feet, one step to the left - Goon C had to move, Goon B was now in his line of sight. “Where shall we start?”
“Oh, I have a few ideas,” he looked him in the eyes and smiled, straightening just a little, enough to make other guy’s eyes blink with uncertainty. He put the knife between two of them, as a shield - thank you, that is appreciated - but Eliot had no time to start.
The sound of a large explosion went through the building, shaking the unstable ruins, and all of them could hear screeching in the walls, and rumble from all around.
Yet, no one could see the effects of explosion, because along with the sound, all the lights flickered and went out, leaving them all in pitch darkness. Good job, Parker. A soft rustle on the floor where Hardison was told him that the hacker didn’t need his sign to clear out - and he was finally free to act.
Eliot moved two steps to the right in the darkness, closing his eyes.
“Hello there,” he drawled, softly, letting the smile be heard.
And then, he started.
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***
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Florence managed to keep quiet when they heard the explosion, but when the sound of gunshots reached the van, she looked at Sophie. The dark haired woman was looking right in front of her, her face set in an expressionless mask, not giving away any clue to what was going on in her mind.
They were parked on the road, half way between the camp and the ruined building, able to see both through the trees. Sophie’s eyes were set on the camp, she didn’t look at the ruins once. Florence was pretty certain if there had been a magazine in the van that Sophie wouldn't even look at the camp.
“I should have brought the bullets for my gun from my apartment,” she whispered, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Is there anything, anything we can do?
Sophie slowly turned to her. “No,” she said calmly. “Just… trust in them all.”
She couldn’t.
Florence averted her eyes from her, watching the sudden activity in the excavation camp. The explosion and gunshots drew small figures out, reminding her of an ant hill someone stirred with a stick. A few cars and one truck left the camp, but many of them were still inside, doing who knew what. Nate was in the middle of that, for Christ’s sake. She curled up in the passenger’s seat.
“Fasten your seat belt, Florence.” Sophie’s voice suddenly sounded serious, and she quickly obeyed.
“What’s going on?”
“You asked if there was anything we could do… well, there is now.”
Florence squinted. One of the cars that left the camp, a large SUV, was heading in their direction. There was a chance they would just pass them and continue on, right? But even before she saw they were slowing down, she knew it was a fool’s hope.
Sophie waited until the driver stopped and two men got out, coming to Lucille, and then Lucille’s engine roared and Florence grabbed her seat.
She would never, ever, be able to write a car chase without this horrible, sinking feeling in her gut.
Reality sucked.
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***
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Nate was sure that a violent thrust with a screwdriver would make a hole in the truck’s gas tank, but the only result was a jolt of pain that shot through his hand and arm. He hurried back into the covered space, shaking his numb hand, silently cursing, and came back with the screwdriver and a hammer.
That worked. The trickle of gasoline was small, so he made another hole on the upper part to let the air in; that worked even better, and in a less than a minute the five tripper trucks were leaking fuel, making puddles. In another minute the puddles connected and spread out under the vehicles, and the odor was thick and heavy. Evaporation could make a critical mass in a matter of seconds, so he retreated to the Ford parked on the other end, to prepare a welding machine he had found near it.
He hid behind it at the last moment - loud shouts, orders, the sound of running and curses were spreading in the middle of the camp, around the main buildings and containers - nobody came to that side, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come to check the trucks.
His dark gray suit was almost invisible against the dark green Ford, in the diminishing daylight, and roof covered him from the large lights that were lit all around. He examined the packages in the back of the pickup, in case he should have to hide in there - sealed, with Chinese letters, seven of them… too small to give any decent cover. He took pictures, and one more of entire the pickup - Ford Super Duty F-250 DRW XL, brand new, shining like the majority of the trucks. And it wasn’t washed by rain, he was shielded.
Something was strange here, but he couldn’t catch it.
He waited, observing the mess in the center, waiting for someone to give direct orders, and he didn’t have to wait long. After the initial turmoil one voice took over and sent ten more men into the ruins, to check out the explosion and gunshots that followed.
He started to count, giving them time to leave the camp, turning the welding machine on.
This was the tricky part: the gasoline vapor was thick by now, and he could easily blow himself up along with the trucks, so he placed the white hot stream two meters away from the first puddle, retreating as far as he could.
He chose the working trucks at the far end for the explosion, far away from the covered ones and the Ford - those needed an inspection, not destruction.
He was almost fifty meters away when the first man noticed him and raised the alarm, but before they could gather and go after him, a hiss of flame started ignition. Detonation moved the ground below his feet, and the blast threw him into the bushes.
He struggled to his feet, turning just once; the ten men sent to the ruins were running back to the camp.
He smirked once and disappeared in the woods to find a good observation spot.
They would be busy with saving the covered trucks from spreading the fire and no one would be sent to join the rest of them in the ruins again, but he had to be sure.
He made himself busy with other plans he could use if he needed another distraction; everything was better than listening to the dreadful silence that fell on the ruins after the gunshots.
Six bullets.
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***
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Things weren’t going as smooth as Eliot wanted. Not a surprise, knowing he stayed conscious only by reminding himself that he should be upright and standing; his moves were a faltering mess, weak and inaccurate.
Eliot hit the one with the pole with an elbow in the head, turning - Jesus, he was so damn slow - to Goon B with the knife, and he almost finished his move when he realized that the first one only staggered and didn’t fall. Fuck, he overestimated his strength, obviously, and this was payback time. You couldn’t lift the damn window, he reminded himself.
He used Goon B as a shield from the pole, but his knife flew away in the darkness, out of his sight and reach. It took three hits to knock the man down, three dangerously slow seconds, and his advantage started to disappear. When he realized he could see the profile of the man with the pole, he remembered the two windows high above them - they were providing some light, and their eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He knew that Goons A and C could see his silhouette too. The first bullet that came close to him confirmed that happy thought.
He was too slow, and pole got him over the shoulder, he just managed to avoid a hit in the head. The fall was heavy, he crashed onto his back, all the air going out of his lungs in one painful exhale. Only his reflexes saved him, he instinctively rolled away, avoiding two more blows.
For ten dreadful seconds he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t inhale, all strength was drained from him. But he had to get up.
One more bullet came dangerously closer this time; the eyes of Goon A were adjusting too quickly to the dark and he could see their shapes. If he let this one occupy him just a few seconds more, that would be it. Time was running out faster than his strength.
He brought his attacker down with a hit to his legs, but this time it took the same amount of time for both of them to hoist themselves up.
Third bullet went through Hardison’s jacket, two inches from his ribs.
The fourth one would kill him.
He avoided three more swings of the pole, barely seeing the movement, more by listening to the air that hissed around him, and at the end of the third swing he closed the distance, throwing himself directly into the man, crashing him to the floor. He hit him with his head while they were falling, and two more times when they landed, and he was sure this one would stay down.
But he stayed down too. The opponent's elbow had found its way to his chest in that collision, and the pain was unbearable.
Moving his arms became an impossible task, and when he tried to push himself off the ground they just refused to obey, he fell back, gasping for air. Stay down, they can’t see you now, black on black.
Yet, he knew, if he stayed down, he wouldn’t be able to get up.
Two down, two to go. Two with guns, out of his reach.
He bit back the curse, closed his eyes, and waited.
He could hear Goon C slowly moving - his steps were cautious and steady; he was trying to come closer, to find an angle that would help him to see who was where on the dark floor full of garbage.
Just a few more steps, he needed him to come just three meters closer, and he would be in the reach, he could tackle him and knock him on the floor.
But the man stopped, when a low rumble was heard again. Another explosion, not in this building, but close. For a few seconds he was thrown back into the basement corridor of Estrella - gunpowder, shots, darkness, the sound of an explosion and the pain cut off his breathing, pushing him to the very edge of a panic attack. Nate, what the hell are you doing? Sophie and Florence were with him, for god’s sake… for a moment he was completely unstrung, with one more crisis to handle, the three of them too far away to do anything, out of his reach - but he snapped himself out of it. One shit at a time.
Damn, he had to move. He slowly slowed his breathing, once more gathering everything he had in him - and how tired he was of this shit, it was simply indescribable - and raised himself to his knees. Three meters. When he jumped up, he would be charging right into his gun, in the dark… but it was the only way.
He tensed every muscle that he could command, not taking his eyes from the man and his gun, but right before the moment he started, a quiet sound from somewhere to the left of him drew Goon C’s attention.
Fuck, Hardison is still here and he’ll…. He sprang to his feet driven by a sudden burst of rage and fear, and slammed into Goon C with all his force. The gun went off, he felt the warmth of the bullet, and just the thought that he might be too late, that the bullet might hit the hacker painted everything red. At the last second, with his last conscious thought, he moved his hands from his head and didn’t snap his neck, just hitting him instead. He threw him to the ground like a bag and turned to Goon A who hesitated for one second, his gun moving from him to the place from where the sound was heard.
But he was closer, and he could see his hand turning to him. He had exactly one second to reach him - four meters… he would get two bullets. Maybe even more, he was much slower. He had to kill him with the first hit, because he wouldn’t have time for the second, and Hardison would be left with him alone.
He took one last, deep breath, and started.
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***
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Hardison was the only one who wasn’t completely blind when the explosion cut off the lights, because his eyes were closed the whole time, and he opened them to a grayish, shadowy world, not the pitch black that surrounded everybody else.
The only problem was he was seeing two of everything.
He came to his senses when they threw him on the sand by the van, he was out less than a minute - somebody obviously misjudged his strength. And what about asking nicely, huh? He could pretend to be out, but that thought was obviously too much for somebody. He was starting to see a pattern here, and he could almost imagine Eliot’s vision with red letters on display in the corners of his eyes; dangerous situation - teammates in his way - remove - exterminate. Fucking violent types with one track minds… he was almost as tired of his shortcuts as he was of his duty issues. So what if he was the hitter, he wasn’t subscribed to all the shit that came their way. Sometimes, and he was determined to teach him that, it was okay to share the load, even with the less successful. This protect with life thing was starting to scare the shit out of him.
He wasn’t completely helpless. While they were dragging him, he managed to lift a phone from one guy - yes, it might be only his third successful lift in almost five years, but he did it now, in a stressful situation, when it mattered the most. He also had a pocket full of wires that he pulled out in the van, and when they threw him on the floor, he found one long, rusty nail that was almost as useful as a real knife.
He. Wasn’t. Fucking. Helpless.
He was just scared. According to somebody, fear was good.
And he had a concussion, but he would rather die than tell him that a not very strong collision with the wall shook his brain so much that he was seeing everything double. He was tougher than that, it was just… unhappy chance. A moment of temporary softening of his skull. Somethin’ like that.
His fear grew stronger when the lights went out and when Eliot started, because he could clearly see how slow he was, and how much effort it took to bring the first two down. If the hitter was clever, if he calculated him into his action, as an active role, and not just as keep safe, they could do it together.
Yet, he understood. And he knew he shared that feeling, just he wasn’t very often in a position to stand between his friends and danger. And when he saw that Eliot tried to get up, and fell back - two Eliots, but both of them damn clear - he swallowed all his complaints about the hitter and felt the same rage and fear Eliot must have felt from when this shit started.
A nearby explosion told him that the other part of the team wasn’t idle as well - Nate was obviously very busy. It was about time for all of them to clear out.
No, you won’t, he thought watching Goon C coming closer, searching for the hitter, aiming the gun deadly close - and he slowly stepped closer, intentionally making noise. He had to give Eliot that second to react.
Remove, exterminate. He had to bite back a laugh when he felt that, when he almost continued to Goon C to stop him. But he stopped. He wouldn’t be faster than Eliot, even in this condition.
He almost squinted at their collision, but when the bullet went off, and he couldn’t see who was hit, he forgot to breathe. The other guy fell, Eliot was standing, but there was the last one, with yet another gun, and this damn idiot, again, didn’t stop for a second to think that there were two of them now, he just turned to Goon A. Hardison could see his mind, his decision, and his heart literally stopped for a heartbeat when he charged directly toward the gun.
At the moment Eliot moved, Hardison threw the nail and hit the Goon A in the face. It didn’t move his hand with the gun, but the first bullet went with a second’s delay, and Eliot was already falling. No, not falling, he was sliding with his feet first, under the bullets that were expecting him in front, and he slammed into Goon A’s legs, knocking him down. The guy fell hard, slammed his head on the metal railings, and didn’t move anymore.
But he wasn’t the only one that stayed on the ground. He should have expected that, it would be a miracle if Eliot could now stand on his feet, but nevertheless fear grabbed him with renewed strength.
Hardison hurried to him, stumbling over unseen things, nearly falling over him; Eliot was curled up on the ground, on his left side. Hardison quickly pointed the stolen phone and in blue light he could see he was conscious, just too spent to do anything except breathe.
He turned him onto his back, pointing the phone at his face. “Are you shot?” he asked, worriedly monitoring his almost closed eyes.
“No… I don’t think so.” Eliot’s voice sounded more uninterested than weak. Uh-oh.
He swallowed the fear and nudged him. “Naw, don’t play that shit on me - stay awake or I’ll have to slap you, and we both know how that’ll end.”
“I’m awake.” More quiet, absent words, he wasn’t quite present. Hardison quickly ran his hands over him, trying to find any new wounds, just in case, and the fact Eliot didn’t try to push him away or stop him told him exactly what state he was in. For someone who wasn’t supposed to be able to climb down the stairs to the street, he was doing surprisingly well. He had no idea how, though… fucking stubbornness was only a part of the answer. He should have been down before they stopped the van.
He pulled him up to sit. Letting him stay down would only push him deeper into unconsciousness, and he was balancing on the very edge of it already.
“All four are down, but they might get up soon, and we have to move,” he said gently when he was sure the hitter would stay upright. “We have to find Parker, another five are coming. Can you walk?”
The silence spread while Eliot was thinking, and Hardison worriedly thought about slapping him when he spoke at last.
“I need four minutes. Then I’ll walk.” He blinked slowly, focusing. “A phone?”
“Successful lift. You didn’t hit me as hard as you thought. You’re getting soft.”
No comment on that, and he should snapped at him. Hardison leaned of the railings above him; the dizziness was making him sick, and he tried not to show it. He still saw everything double.
Eliot leaned his left shoulder on the railings, resting, and Hardison examined the phone just to keep a little light, so he could keep an eye on him. His hands were clutched around his chest, but as far as he could see, he was breathing normally, not too quick or shallow. In fact, slower than he should-
“Eliot, open your eyes, or I’ll poke you to see if you’re awake, and you don’t want that.”
“Inner feng shui needs dark,” he whispered but he lifted his head up.
“Stay right there.” Hardison turned around and went back into the open space, trying to ease his panic and the urge to hurry the fuck up - he frantically searched for the guns, the knife, or anything that they could use - and it was just useless floundering in the darkness, he was staggering as the room spun around him. He didn’t even know where the exit was, in which direction, and even if he knew, they couldn’t go that way, five men were coming and they would bump right into them. He was stuck in this fucking labyrinth with a barely conscious man, and he was unarmed. They were two stories below the ground level. The full severity of the situation hit him when he realized that only thing he could do was to move Eliot deeper into the rows of animal pens and then to bring those five somewhere after him.
He turned around, misjudged the distance, and crashed face first into a column he didn’t see - and that showed him how successful that diversion would be.
For starters, they had to move away from the four who could easily come together faster than Eliot’s usual opponents. He groped around until he felt his jacket, then pulled him up on his feet. “C’mon, we have to move. We can’t stay close to these guys.”
“Dammit, Hardison, what part of the four minutes didn't you-”
“No complaining, just walk.” He pulled him carefully in a randomly chosen direction, and made him walk until he was sure those four would have trouble finding them, and he let him sit only when he was sure that behind their backs was something solid, made of wood and steel.
“We could call Nate,” he said when he felt Eliot was drifting away again.
“Could?”
“I don’t know his number by heart. Do you?”
“How can you not know-” Good, a little annoyance crept back into Eliot’s voice, he didn’t sound so absent. “No, I don’t know his number… he’s on speed dial.”
“Cool. Sophie’s? No? I thought so. I’ll try to-”
“Where are you?” Parker’s voice was coming from the other end of this middle part - a quiet whisper, but strong enough to carry. He lifted the hand with the phone and sent the blue signal into the darkness.
“She’s limping.” One more absent remark from the hitter, barely audible. He lowered his head again and Hardison reached to nudge him but missed, his hand went by his shoulder. He aimed at the other Eliot, and he remembered to aim between the two images the next time. The headache was getting stronger. He calculated the trajectory and tried again, this time reaching his shoulder - he must have poked something hit because the hitter hissed through gritted teeth, and recoiled from his touch.
“Nothing better than a little pain to wake you up,” he grinned, though he didn’t feel like grinning at all. “Focus, Eliot. Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be out of here. Stay with me, okay?”
“The fifth guy is somewhere near those silos, he lost me in the dark,” Parker whispered, crouching next to them, grabbing them both at their forearms - her version of a quick hug. “We have to go, five new ones entered the building, they are climbing down as we speak.”
“Between us and the exit,” Eliot said, and Hardison knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t fight those five, hell, all three of them couldn’t fight them.
“I entered on the opposite side,” Parker said. “One wall is crushed, the holes are big enough for all of us. The only problem is-”
“Speed,” Hardison finished. She was limping, Eliot might not be able to walk at all, and he was seeing double, his vision was completely fucked up.
As if answering their thoughts, a quiet noise, metal on metal, was heard not very far away, only a few rooms, and one level above them. They might be slow because of the darkness, but they weren’t stopping. And they would have torch lights.
“It's simple,” Hardison said. “I’ll draw them away deeper into the building, away from Parker’s route and lose them there, then simply go out where we entered. And I suggest you start walking, as in now.”
Eliot chuckled. “You’re fucking joking, right?” he whispered hoarsely.
“What? No, I’m serio-”
“Really? Take this,” Eliot handed them something - he flashed the phone and saw the keys from his jacket - but when he reached for them his hand went by, again, missing them by ten inches.
“You have a concussion, Hardison,” Eliot continued. “You won’t be able to find your way out of here even without those guys, Parker will have to lead you by the hand, step by step. Which is good, because you’ll be able to help her walk.”
“Seriously? You’re out of your-”
“I said I needed four minutes.” Eliot slowly lifted himself to his feet. He did help himself with the railings, but it was one, pretty swift move for someone who should be feeling beaten to a pulp. “I’m not telling you how to hack, Hardison. This is my job, and my rules.”
“He’s right.” Parker got up too. “We have to go.”
“What? You too?” He couldn’t believe his eyes - which was expected because he was staring at four of them hovering over him - but those two always had the same, strange, almost non human reaction to things that needed to be done.
“I’ll simply walk in the dark, Hardison.” Eliot sounded tired. “Yep, you two could do it, too, but what if shit happens, while leading those five deeper into the building you get too close? Or they jump you, or you get stuck at some dead end? The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive, okay?”
Hardison just shook his head, regretting it immediately when everything spun. He knew that this long and patient explanation was just because Eliot felt guilty for slamming his head into the wall - he would have been snarling the order instead. He knew it was the logical and right thing to do.
Fuck logic, it was simply wrong.
And he could do fucking nothing about it.
Characters: Nate Ford, Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Parker, Sophie Deveraux, Patrick Bonnano, OC
Fandom: Leverage
Spoilers: None - takes place before Season 4 finale, they're still in Boston
Warnings: None for now. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah
Author's note: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Parttwo in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us
through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team
would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you
need to know will be explained.
Special, special, special, special thanks to trappercreekd for Betaing :D
banner for Chapter 18 -
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***
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The damn whiskey must have caused all the tears; Parker had no other explanation for the veil that blurred the already dim lights in the strange rooms and corridors. Whiskey and dust. Her every step made little clouds, and everything she touched was covered with a thick layer of old dust that forced her to cough.
The stupid coughing brought Martin on her trail, and she couldn’t get rid of him - he was closing in and her leg was in agony. She turned around and looked at the footsteps she was leaving behind - one trail was long stripe in the dust, she started to drag her leg. Too painful to walk.
She turned left after one more half destroyed room. This one had no outer wall and she could see dark forest through the tears that started again.
She was too far away from Hardison and Eliot, they were deep in the basement, two levels beneath the ground, yet she had to go and leave them, no matter how many tears that stupid whiskey made her cry. Slowly, but steadily, she was making one big circle, leading Martin away from them, and getting closer to the room on the ground level, near the place she entered. She knew that another five mobsters were already in the building and she hoped they were somewhere near, searching for her, and not going down to the others. That would be a death sentence for Hardison and Eliot.
She hated fear. And she hated to hate. The hate was driving her mad. She quietly chuckled, remembering something that Hardison told her once…fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering… something about Jedis and the Force. Well, her hate wasn’t leading to suffering, at least not hers. When she hated, the others were suffering.
Oh God, she was so mad. And she wasn’t crying. Tears were just an effect of the whiskey.
She stopped for a moment, resting her back on the wall, checking the bomb with trembling hands. It was dry. Two more turns.
The steps behind her sounded closer, and she gritted her teeth and continued.
It took a few more minutes to find that room, the one with the functioning doors and big, closed metal breaker boxes. The electric switchboards for entire building, still kept in pretty good shape.
She quickly checked the timer on the bomb, set it to thirty seconds, and placed the bomb under the middle breaker, hurrying out and in the opposite direction.
The explosion knocked her down in the middle of a step - she didn’t have time to reach the end of the corridor, but at least Martin wouldn’t be able to find her in the darkness.
The darkness that would give only a chance to Eliot and Hardison.
She curled up by the wall, waiting for the mortar and dust to settle, listening breathlessly to the sound of the explosion that still echoed through the building. She would have pretty big problems finding her way down, down, and to find them.
The echo was cut off by other explosions - loud gunshots below her. She held her breath.
She counted six bullets, fired slowly, with pauses. And then silence, deadly silence.
She clutched her head for a moment, unable to locate the source of the new pain, the new, burning one that struck through her heart. Now she finally understood that ‘suffering’ part.
Whiskey was to blame, she said to herself; whiskey made her cry…
No, no crying, just eyes full of dust.
Nothing more.
.
.
***
.
The guy with the pole had done these things before, because he hit him in the head with enough strength to spin and blacken everything around him, but not nearly hard to knock him down.
Hardison was dragged five more meters away from him, closer to Goon C, so that meant that the knife and the gun were out of his reach, not to mention Goon A with another gun, and Eliot had to let this one hit him, until the knife came back. For now, he was sure he was doing ‘helpless victim only few hits before breaking and spilling everything’ pretty accurate and convincingly.
Until now, the beating wasn’t worse than a rough sparring, but after a series of quick blows in the head and the back, he found getting up from the dusty floor a task that needed immense concentration to perform, and the guy before him became blurry and tilting.
He calmly calculated how much time he had before the accumulated pain and disorientation severely ruined all chances of his attack; not much, if the guy continued with the same enthusiasm. He flailed with his left hand once, and missed him, stumbling to the ground again, just to show them he was unable to coordinate his moves. That didn’t bring the guy with the knife back, and he had to wait more. Well, this was stalling… sort of, he thought after one nasty blow sent him rolling over the floor - he rolled towards Goon C, decreasing the distance to nine meters instead of ten. If nothing else, he didn’t have to fake panting, because every breath he took was a fiery cut, and he couldn’t catch enough of it to spit any curse at them.
“This is unreasonable!” Hardison’s voice stopped another blow. At any other moment he would welcome this little diversion of their attention, but not now when Hardison waking up only meant that the guy with the knife might stay close to him to prevent his possible moves… or something even worse. Eliot curled up on the ground to erase any thoughts of eventual threat on his part, checking on the hacker. Hardison was up on his knees, swaying and unfocused. He clutched the massive railings behind his back and hoisted himself up, and his every move was a show of an uncoordinated, completely lost person. He tried to walk but his legs gave way and he just crumpled where he was, laying like he was dead, with his arms spread out.
Eliot had no idea if that was an act, or if he was really shook up, but the timing of it showed him that the hacker was giving him a little time to get it together… at least he hoped it was so, and not just a coincidence.
He needed him awake and able to clear out when shit started. He eyed him once more, noticing he was now a little further from the center. When he gave him a sign, the hacker would need only a few steps to disappear among the rows of boxes, out of their sight.
The guy with the knife went closer to the hacker, hitting him with his foot, but no reaction came.
“Leave that one, we have time for him later,” Goon A ordered shortly. “This one won’t talk - maybe it’s time to show him we are serious.” He got one nod in response, and Eliot widened his eyes as much as he could, watching the knife approaching. It's about fucking time. He crawled one step away, only to be stopped with the pole across his back. He didn’t turn around, he didn’t need to. Seventy five centimeters, seven o’clock, weight on his left foot, slightly unbalanced.
Goon B grinned, reflecting the pale yellow light from the blade into his eyes, and stopped one meter in front of him. Finally, the knife and the pole were within his reach.
“We can cut your face and your fingers first, so no one will recognize you if you’re found,” the guy smiled when Eliot flinched and got on his knees, and slowly, painfully, to his feet, one step to the left - Goon C had to move, Goon B was now in his line of sight. “Where shall we start?”
“Oh, I have a few ideas,” he looked him in the eyes and smiled, straightening just a little, enough to make other guy’s eyes blink with uncertainty. He put the knife between two of them, as a shield - thank you, that is appreciated - but Eliot had no time to start.
The sound of a large explosion went through the building, shaking the unstable ruins, and all of them could hear screeching in the walls, and rumble from all around.
Yet, no one could see the effects of explosion, because along with the sound, all the lights flickered and went out, leaving them all in pitch darkness. Good job, Parker. A soft rustle on the floor where Hardison was told him that the hacker didn’t need his sign to clear out - and he was finally free to act.
Eliot moved two steps to the right in the darkness, closing his eyes.
“Hello there,” he drawled, softly, letting the smile be heard.
And then, he started.
.
.
***
.
Florence managed to keep quiet when they heard the explosion, but when the sound of gunshots reached the van, she looked at Sophie. The dark haired woman was looking right in front of her, her face set in an expressionless mask, not giving away any clue to what was going on in her mind.
They were parked on the road, half way between the camp and the ruined building, able to see both through the trees. Sophie’s eyes were set on the camp, she didn’t look at the ruins once. Florence was pretty certain if there had been a magazine in the van that Sophie wouldn't even look at the camp.
“I should have brought the bullets for my gun from my apartment,” she whispered, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Is there anything, anything we can do?
Sophie slowly turned to her. “No,” she said calmly. “Just… trust in them all.”
She couldn’t.
Florence averted her eyes from her, watching the sudden activity in the excavation camp. The explosion and gunshots drew small figures out, reminding her of an ant hill someone stirred with a stick. A few cars and one truck left the camp, but many of them were still inside, doing who knew what. Nate was in the middle of that, for Christ’s sake. She curled up in the passenger’s seat.
“Fasten your seat belt, Florence.” Sophie’s voice suddenly sounded serious, and she quickly obeyed.
“What’s going on?”
“You asked if there was anything we could do… well, there is now.”
Florence squinted. One of the cars that left the camp, a large SUV, was heading in their direction. There was a chance they would just pass them and continue on, right? But even before she saw they were slowing down, she knew it was a fool’s hope.
Sophie waited until the driver stopped and two men got out, coming to Lucille, and then Lucille’s engine roared and Florence grabbed her seat.
She would never, ever, be able to write a car chase without this horrible, sinking feeling in her gut.
Reality sucked.
.
.
***
.
Nate was sure that a violent thrust with a screwdriver would make a hole in the truck’s gas tank, but the only result was a jolt of pain that shot through his hand and arm. He hurried back into the covered space, shaking his numb hand, silently cursing, and came back with the screwdriver and a hammer.
That worked. The trickle of gasoline was small, so he made another hole on the upper part to let the air in; that worked even better, and in a less than a minute the five tripper trucks were leaking fuel, making puddles. In another minute the puddles connected and spread out under the vehicles, and the odor was thick and heavy. Evaporation could make a critical mass in a matter of seconds, so he retreated to the Ford parked on the other end, to prepare a welding machine he had found near it.
He hid behind it at the last moment - loud shouts, orders, the sound of running and curses were spreading in the middle of the camp, around the main buildings and containers - nobody came to that side, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come to check the trucks.
His dark gray suit was almost invisible against the dark green Ford, in the diminishing daylight, and roof covered him from the large lights that were lit all around. He examined the packages in the back of the pickup, in case he should have to hide in there - sealed, with Chinese letters, seven of them… too small to give any decent cover. He took pictures, and one more of entire the pickup - Ford Super Duty F-250 DRW XL, brand new, shining like the majority of the trucks. And it wasn’t washed by rain, he was shielded.
Something was strange here, but he couldn’t catch it.
He waited, observing the mess in the center, waiting for someone to give direct orders, and he didn’t have to wait long. After the initial turmoil one voice took over and sent ten more men into the ruins, to check out the explosion and gunshots that followed.
He started to count, giving them time to leave the camp, turning the welding machine on.
This was the tricky part: the gasoline vapor was thick by now, and he could easily blow himself up along with the trucks, so he placed the white hot stream two meters away from the first puddle, retreating as far as he could.
He chose the working trucks at the far end for the explosion, far away from the covered ones and the Ford - those needed an inspection, not destruction.
He was almost fifty meters away when the first man noticed him and raised the alarm, but before they could gather and go after him, a hiss of flame started ignition. Detonation moved the ground below his feet, and the blast threw him into the bushes.
He struggled to his feet, turning just once; the ten men sent to the ruins were running back to the camp.
He smirked once and disappeared in the woods to find a good observation spot.
They would be busy with saving the covered trucks from spreading the fire and no one would be sent to join the rest of them in the ruins again, but he had to be sure.
He made himself busy with other plans he could use if he needed another distraction; everything was better than listening to the dreadful silence that fell on the ruins after the gunshots.
Six bullets.
.
.
***
.
Things weren’t going as smooth as Eliot wanted. Not a surprise, knowing he stayed conscious only by reminding himself that he should be upright and standing; his moves were a faltering mess, weak and inaccurate.
Eliot hit the one with the pole with an elbow in the head, turning - Jesus, he was so damn slow - to Goon B with the knife, and he almost finished his move when he realized that the first one only staggered and didn’t fall. Fuck, he overestimated his strength, obviously, and this was payback time. You couldn’t lift the damn window, he reminded himself.
He used Goon B as a shield from the pole, but his knife flew away in the darkness, out of his sight and reach. It took three hits to knock the man down, three dangerously slow seconds, and his advantage started to disappear. When he realized he could see the profile of the man with the pole, he remembered the two windows high above them - they were providing some light, and their eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He knew that Goons A and C could see his silhouette too. The first bullet that came close to him confirmed that happy thought.
He was too slow, and pole got him over the shoulder, he just managed to avoid a hit in the head. The fall was heavy, he crashed onto his back, all the air going out of his lungs in one painful exhale. Only his reflexes saved him, he instinctively rolled away, avoiding two more blows.
For ten dreadful seconds he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t inhale, all strength was drained from him. But he had to get up.
One more bullet came dangerously closer this time; the eyes of Goon A were adjusting too quickly to the dark and he could see their shapes. If he let this one occupy him just a few seconds more, that would be it. Time was running out faster than his strength.
He brought his attacker down with a hit to his legs, but this time it took the same amount of time for both of them to hoist themselves up.
Third bullet went through Hardison’s jacket, two inches from his ribs.
The fourth one would kill him.
He avoided three more swings of the pole, barely seeing the movement, more by listening to the air that hissed around him, and at the end of the third swing he closed the distance, throwing himself directly into the man, crashing him to the floor. He hit him with his head while they were falling, and two more times when they landed, and he was sure this one would stay down.
But he stayed down too. The opponent's elbow had found its way to his chest in that collision, and the pain was unbearable.
Moving his arms became an impossible task, and when he tried to push himself off the ground they just refused to obey, he fell back, gasping for air. Stay down, they can’t see you now, black on black.
Yet, he knew, if he stayed down, he wouldn’t be able to get up.
Two down, two to go. Two with guns, out of his reach.
He bit back the curse, closed his eyes, and waited.
He could hear Goon C slowly moving - his steps were cautious and steady; he was trying to come closer, to find an angle that would help him to see who was where on the dark floor full of garbage.
Just a few more steps, he needed him to come just three meters closer, and he would be in the reach, he could tackle him and knock him on the floor.
But the man stopped, when a low rumble was heard again. Another explosion, not in this building, but close. For a few seconds he was thrown back into the basement corridor of Estrella - gunpowder, shots, darkness, the sound of an explosion and the pain cut off his breathing, pushing him to the very edge of a panic attack. Nate, what the hell are you doing? Sophie and Florence were with him, for god’s sake… for a moment he was completely unstrung, with one more crisis to handle, the three of them too far away to do anything, out of his reach - but he snapped himself out of it. One shit at a time.
Damn, he had to move. He slowly slowed his breathing, once more gathering everything he had in him - and how tired he was of this shit, it was simply indescribable - and raised himself to his knees. Three meters. When he jumped up, he would be charging right into his gun, in the dark… but it was the only way.
He tensed every muscle that he could command, not taking his eyes from the man and his gun, but right before the moment he started, a quiet sound from somewhere to the left of him drew Goon C’s attention.
Fuck, Hardison is still here and he’ll…. He sprang to his feet driven by a sudden burst of rage and fear, and slammed into Goon C with all his force. The gun went off, he felt the warmth of the bullet, and just the thought that he might be too late, that the bullet might hit the hacker painted everything red. At the last second, with his last conscious thought, he moved his hands from his head and didn’t snap his neck, just hitting him instead. He threw him to the ground like a bag and turned to Goon A who hesitated for one second, his gun moving from him to the place from where the sound was heard.
But he was closer, and he could see his hand turning to him. He had exactly one second to reach him - four meters… he would get two bullets. Maybe even more, he was much slower. He had to kill him with the first hit, because he wouldn’t have time for the second, and Hardison would be left with him alone.
He took one last, deep breath, and started.
.
.
***
.
Hardison was the only one who wasn’t completely blind when the explosion cut off the lights, because his eyes were closed the whole time, and he opened them to a grayish, shadowy world, not the pitch black that surrounded everybody else.
The only problem was he was seeing two of everything.
He came to his senses when they threw him on the sand by the van, he was out less than a minute - somebody obviously misjudged his strength. And what about asking nicely, huh? He could pretend to be out, but that thought was obviously too much for somebody. He was starting to see a pattern here, and he could almost imagine Eliot’s vision with red letters on display in the corners of his eyes; dangerous situation - teammates in his way - remove - exterminate. Fucking violent types with one track minds… he was almost as tired of his shortcuts as he was of his duty issues. So what if he was the hitter, he wasn’t subscribed to all the shit that came their way. Sometimes, and he was determined to teach him that, it was okay to share the load, even with the less successful. This protect with life thing was starting to scare the shit out of him.
He wasn’t completely helpless. While they were dragging him, he managed to lift a phone from one guy - yes, it might be only his third successful lift in almost five years, but he did it now, in a stressful situation, when it mattered the most. He also had a pocket full of wires that he pulled out in the van, and when they threw him on the floor, he found one long, rusty nail that was almost as useful as a real knife.
He. Wasn’t. Fucking. Helpless.
He was just scared. According to somebody, fear was good.
And he had a concussion, but he would rather die than tell him that a not very strong collision with the wall shook his brain so much that he was seeing everything double. He was tougher than that, it was just… unhappy chance. A moment of temporary softening of his skull. Somethin’ like that.
His fear grew stronger when the lights went out and when Eliot started, because he could clearly see how slow he was, and how much effort it took to bring the first two down. If the hitter was clever, if he calculated him into his action, as an active role, and not just as keep safe, they could do it together.
Yet, he understood. And he knew he shared that feeling, just he wasn’t very often in a position to stand between his friends and danger. And when he saw that Eliot tried to get up, and fell back - two Eliots, but both of them damn clear - he swallowed all his complaints about the hitter and felt the same rage and fear Eliot must have felt from when this shit started.
A nearby explosion told him that the other part of the team wasn’t idle as well - Nate was obviously very busy. It was about time for all of them to clear out.
No, you won’t, he thought watching Goon C coming closer, searching for the hitter, aiming the gun deadly close - and he slowly stepped closer, intentionally making noise. He had to give Eliot that second to react.
Remove, exterminate. He had to bite back a laugh when he felt that, when he almost continued to Goon C to stop him. But he stopped. He wouldn’t be faster than Eliot, even in this condition.
He almost squinted at their collision, but when the bullet went off, and he couldn’t see who was hit, he forgot to breathe. The other guy fell, Eliot was standing, but there was the last one, with yet another gun, and this damn idiot, again, didn’t stop for a second to think that there were two of them now, he just turned to Goon A. Hardison could see his mind, his decision, and his heart literally stopped for a heartbeat when he charged directly toward the gun.
At the moment Eliot moved, Hardison threw the nail and hit the Goon A in the face. It didn’t move his hand with the gun, but the first bullet went with a second’s delay, and Eliot was already falling. No, not falling, he was sliding with his feet first, under the bullets that were expecting him in front, and he slammed into Goon A’s legs, knocking him down. The guy fell hard, slammed his head on the metal railings, and didn’t move anymore.
But he wasn’t the only one that stayed on the ground. He should have expected that, it would be a miracle if Eliot could now stand on his feet, but nevertheless fear grabbed him with renewed strength.
Hardison hurried to him, stumbling over unseen things, nearly falling over him; Eliot was curled up on the ground, on his left side. Hardison quickly pointed the stolen phone and in blue light he could see he was conscious, just too spent to do anything except breathe.
He turned him onto his back, pointing the phone at his face. “Are you shot?” he asked, worriedly monitoring his almost closed eyes.
“No… I don’t think so.” Eliot’s voice sounded more uninterested than weak. Uh-oh.
He swallowed the fear and nudged him. “Naw, don’t play that shit on me - stay awake or I’ll have to slap you, and we both know how that’ll end.”
“I’m awake.” More quiet, absent words, he wasn’t quite present. Hardison quickly ran his hands over him, trying to find any new wounds, just in case, and the fact Eliot didn’t try to push him away or stop him told him exactly what state he was in. For someone who wasn’t supposed to be able to climb down the stairs to the street, he was doing surprisingly well. He had no idea how, though… fucking stubbornness was only a part of the answer. He should have been down before they stopped the van.
He pulled him up to sit. Letting him stay down would only push him deeper into unconsciousness, and he was balancing on the very edge of it already.
“All four are down, but they might get up soon, and we have to move,” he said gently when he was sure the hitter would stay upright. “We have to find Parker, another five are coming. Can you walk?”
The silence spread while Eliot was thinking, and Hardison worriedly thought about slapping him when he spoke at last.
“I need four minutes. Then I’ll walk.” He blinked slowly, focusing. “A phone?”
“Successful lift. You didn’t hit me as hard as you thought. You’re getting soft.”
No comment on that, and he should snapped at him. Hardison leaned of the railings above him; the dizziness was making him sick, and he tried not to show it. He still saw everything double.
Eliot leaned his left shoulder on the railings, resting, and Hardison examined the phone just to keep a little light, so he could keep an eye on him. His hands were clutched around his chest, but as far as he could see, he was breathing normally, not too quick or shallow. In fact, slower than he should-
“Eliot, open your eyes, or I’ll poke you to see if you’re awake, and you don’t want that.”
“Inner feng shui needs dark,” he whispered but he lifted his head up.
“Stay right there.” Hardison turned around and went back into the open space, trying to ease his panic and the urge to hurry the fuck up - he frantically searched for the guns, the knife, or anything that they could use - and it was just useless floundering in the darkness, he was staggering as the room spun around him. He didn’t even know where the exit was, in which direction, and even if he knew, they couldn’t go that way, five men were coming and they would bump right into them. He was stuck in this fucking labyrinth with a barely conscious man, and he was unarmed. They were two stories below the ground level. The full severity of the situation hit him when he realized that only thing he could do was to move Eliot deeper into the rows of animal pens and then to bring those five somewhere after him.
He turned around, misjudged the distance, and crashed face first into a column he didn’t see - and that showed him how successful that diversion would be.
For starters, they had to move away from the four who could easily come together faster than Eliot’s usual opponents. He groped around until he felt his jacket, then pulled him up on his feet. “C’mon, we have to move. We can’t stay close to these guys.”
“Dammit, Hardison, what part of the four minutes didn't you-”
“No complaining, just walk.” He pulled him carefully in a randomly chosen direction, and made him walk until he was sure those four would have trouble finding them, and he let him sit only when he was sure that behind their backs was something solid, made of wood and steel.
“We could call Nate,” he said when he felt Eliot was drifting away again.
“Could?”
“I don’t know his number by heart. Do you?”
“How can you not know-” Good, a little annoyance crept back into Eliot’s voice, he didn’t sound so absent. “No, I don’t know his number… he’s on speed dial.”
“Cool. Sophie’s? No? I thought so. I’ll try to-”
“Where are you?” Parker’s voice was coming from the other end of this middle part - a quiet whisper, but strong enough to carry. He lifted the hand with the phone and sent the blue signal into the darkness.
“She’s limping.” One more absent remark from the hitter, barely audible. He lowered his head again and Hardison reached to nudge him but missed, his hand went by his shoulder. He aimed at the other Eliot, and he remembered to aim between the two images the next time. The headache was getting stronger. He calculated the trajectory and tried again, this time reaching his shoulder - he must have poked something hit because the hitter hissed through gritted teeth, and recoiled from his touch.
“Nothing better than a little pain to wake you up,” he grinned, though he didn’t feel like grinning at all. “Focus, Eliot. Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be out of here. Stay with me, okay?”
“The fifth guy is somewhere near those silos, he lost me in the dark,” Parker whispered, crouching next to them, grabbing them both at their forearms - her version of a quick hug. “We have to go, five new ones entered the building, they are climbing down as we speak.”
“Between us and the exit,” Eliot said, and Hardison knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t fight those five, hell, all three of them couldn’t fight them.
“I entered on the opposite side,” Parker said. “One wall is crushed, the holes are big enough for all of us. The only problem is-”
“Speed,” Hardison finished. She was limping, Eliot might not be able to walk at all, and he was seeing double, his vision was completely fucked up.
As if answering their thoughts, a quiet noise, metal on metal, was heard not very far away, only a few rooms, and one level above them. They might be slow because of the darkness, but they weren’t stopping. And they would have torch lights.
“It's simple,” Hardison said. “I’ll draw them away deeper into the building, away from Parker’s route and lose them there, then simply go out where we entered. And I suggest you start walking, as in now.”
Eliot chuckled. “You’re fucking joking, right?” he whispered hoarsely.
“What? No, I’m serio-”
“Really? Take this,” Eliot handed them something - he flashed the phone and saw the keys from his jacket - but when he reached for them his hand went by, again, missing them by ten inches.
“You have a concussion, Hardison,” Eliot continued. “You won’t be able to find your way out of here even without those guys, Parker will have to lead you by the hand, step by step. Which is good, because you’ll be able to help her walk.”
“Seriously? You’re out of your-”
“I said I needed four minutes.” Eliot slowly lifted himself to his feet. He did help himself with the railings, but it was one, pretty swift move for someone who should be feeling beaten to a pulp. “I’m not telling you how to hack, Hardison. This is my job, and my rules.”
“He’s right.” Parker got up too. “We have to go.”
“What? You too?” He couldn’t believe his eyes - which was expected because he was staring at four of them hovering over him - but those two always had the same, strange, almost non human reaction to things that needed to be done.
“I’ll simply walk in the dark, Hardison.” Eliot sounded tired. “Yep, you two could do it, too, but what if shit happens, while leading those five deeper into the building you get too close? Or they jump you, or you get stuck at some dead end? The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive, okay?”
Hardison just shook his head, regretting it immediately when everything spun. He knew that this long and patient explanation was just because Eliot felt guilty for slamming his head into the wall - he would have been snarling the order instead. He knew it was the logical and right thing to do.
Fuck logic, it was simply wrong.
And he could do fucking nothing about it.