Fic: The Thing with the Guys Job, 1/3 for Valawenel
Title: The Thing with the Guys Job
Author: JB McDragon
Giftee: valawenel
Characters/pairings: Nate, Eliot. No pairings.
Word count: 12,600 total
Spoilers: Takes place after the end of the show.
Warnings: Violence, much like you'd see in the show.
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own them, and I'm definitely not making any money off this.
Summary: It's just one more job, one that needs more than three people. A quick job, an easy job. Right up until Eliot is recognized and his and Nate's covers are blown.
Notes: For the Leverage Gift Exchange. I hope you enjoy it, Valawenel! It had to be broken into 3 parts, and sadly I'm out of town when my day hits. I'll post the other two parts on Tuesday when I'm back!
The Thing with the Guys Job 1/3
JB McDragon
It was a good con. Nate smiled at the mark, gave Eliot a sideways, slanted look where he sat slumped in his chair, and then scanned the warehouse.
Nate disliked warehouses. They always smelled strange. Like cold concrete and grease, whether or not they actually had grease in them. Only a few more minutes in this one, though, and then this part of the con would be over. The Diamond Cat con needed five people. Six, to be really believable, but the crew was good enough to make due. They couldn't have done it with three, and Leverage, Inc didn't have an extra two people yet. It had only made sense for Nate and Sophie to come back for just one more con. Sophie was in between directing gigs, anyway.
"All right," the mark said with a great big smile. He closed the laptop. "The money's transferred into your account. You can check if you like."
Nate made a show of peering at his phone, while Hardison spoke in his ear. "--went thro-- --ot it!" Cursing the earbud reception wouldn't help the static, but at least Hardison sounded too triumphant for it to be bad news. The money had been captured, then, and the rest of the team would finish framing the mark. Another twenty-four hours, and the con would be over.
Nate clapped Eliot's shoulder, grinning. "See now, that wasn't too hard, was it?"
Eliot rubbed his eyes, defeat written in every line of his body.
The mark chuckled, watching Eliot. The half dozen men behind the mark kept their eyes on the growing shadows, each of them professional in their attitude while the mark spoke. "This, son, is why it's not a good idea to say, 'I'll never.'"
Nate's grip tightened on Eliot's shoulder proprietorially as he addressed the mark. The cheap cotton of Eliot's button-down was worn under his fingers, like most shirts that had been through the wash a hundred times would be. Sophie was a marvel for details like that. "It was good doing business with you, Sean," Nate said. "I hope you enjoy your, ah, early retirement."
The mark laughed. One of his thugs chuckled. The sun lowered farther, and the light faded from the upper windows. Stacks of crates well over man-height created deeper shadows as the gloom spread. Nate stepped forward, hand outstretched. "We'll see you on the flip side, then," he said to Sean, smiling. "And hopefully--"
Footsteps. A two-man crew -- guards to make sure they did business undisturbed -- came around one of the stacks of crates. One of them stopped, frowning at Eliot. In a movement Nate almost missed, Eliot looked up and then down again, head twitching so his hair should have fallen forward to hide his face, except that his hair was tied back.
"Hey -- I know him," the guard who'd paused said. "He's no techie. And he's not getting blackmailed. That's Eliot Spencer!"
Time slowed. Hands went for the guns that were carried under dark jackets. Barrels glinted dully in the low light. Nate knew he wasn't fast enough to dodge a bullet. He wasn't Eliot.
The first man aimed as Eliot slammed into Nate like a linebacker, one hand over Nate's skull for protection as they hit the concrete floor. Nate didn't waste time, scrambling up and getting to shelter behind a crate. Three pops sounded, each of them echoing in the cavernous building.
"Shit! Shit!" the mark yelled. "Stop the transaction!"
It was too late, of course. Hardison had the money tucked safely away. That was his talent. Nate had made sure the con was sharp enough to keep their identities under wraps even if they were discovered. That was his talent. Now he had to rely on Eliot's talent: keeping him alive, and getting him out safely.
Eliot shoved at him and he scuttled to his feet and ran, keeping low and trusting that Eliot would follow. There was an exit this way, if he could just get to it.
Nate's heart pounded in his head, the surge of adrenaline from a job well done and a mark well played twisting into a sick sort of fear. He ignored it and ran. The crack of gunfire went off behind him. He ignored that, too. Looking back got people killed.
Nate ducked around another crate, chased by the sound of a quick, brutal scuffle, Hardison in his earbud. "--goin-- on? You g-- kay?"
"Not now," Nate snapped between breaths. There, ahead, light. He bolted for the door, trying to stay low, trying not to think about bullets ripping through his skin. It hadn't happened yet. It wouldn't happen. This was what he had a team for.
Eliot caught up and burst out into the open air with him. The smell of salt water and the sound of gulls crying washed away the grease and concrete. He couldn't hear the waves slapping against the piers over the hammer of his heart.
"This way," Eliot said, snatching Nate's sleeve and sprinting.
Nate ran. Two men came out of the warehouse behind them. He saw them aim from the corner of his eye, and followed Eliot around boxes that looked too thin to protect them.
Eliot plastered himself there anyway, and Nate followed suit. "What now?" Nate panted. There had to be an escape route.
Bullets hammered into the wooden box. Splinters flew. Nate flinched away from the noise, relieved to discover the box was thick enough to shield them.
Eliot looked at him, and there was a definite apology underneath the determination in his eyes. "Take a deep breath," he said, and jerked his head toward the water.
Eliot ran. Nate ran. Gunshots chased them. First concrete and then the wood pier shattered nearby. Chips drove into Nate's legs. He jumped. The water raced up at him and he closed his mouth, held his breath, felt it crash into his body and seal over his head.
He couldn't see, but it didn't matter. A hand grabbed his leg, pulling him down farther. Farther still. He tried to help.
He trusted Eliot. Eliot's job was to get them out of trouble. They swam deeper. With Eliot hauling on him, he went a lot faster than he ever had before. He tried to calculate how far they'd need to go to outswim bullets.
His lungs started to burn. He kept going. Any minute now, they'd surface.
Except they didn't. Eliot wrapped an arm around his chest, hauling him sideways through the water as his ability to swim weakened. Nate's lungs started to heave. Bubbles escaped from his nose and mouth, fleeing to the surface. He clapped a hand over his own face. His body demanded air. Eliot wasn't a fish. They'd surface. They had to.
His lungs rebelled. He coughed. Eliot's hand rose over the top of Nate's, shoved Nate's out of the way, sealed over his mouth and pinched his nose closed. Eliot kept swimming.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Nate twisted to free himself. He needed air. Needed it now. He couldn't stay down here--
It didn't matter how hard he fought, Eliot dragged him onward, keeping a hand over his nose and mouth. The hold was for rescuing drowning people, meant to keep their fighting from hampering the swimmer. Nate told himself not to fight. Eliot wouldn't kill him.
Nate's body didn't listen. The surrounding water took backstage to needing air now. He hadn't been able to see before, but it was an entirely different feeling when his vision started to blacken. He scratched at the hand holding him, scrabbling for purchase.
It didn't work. The darkened world went black. Panic, and then nothing.
**
Brain damage could start after two minutes in untrained swimmers.
Eliot swam, ignoring the pain in his free arm, forcing it to work despite the bullet wound searing pain across his bicep.
One minute forty-two seconds.
He could still hear bullets in the water, back the way they'd come. Surface here and they'd get shot. Definitely getting killed was worse than possible brain damage.
One minute fifty seconds.
Nate was a pull in the water, dead weight now that he'd stopped struggling. Eliot kept one hand looped under Nate's arm, over his chest, and up to hold his head tight against Eliot's chest, hand clamped over Nate's nose and mouth. Suffocating was bad enough. Eliot didn't want water in Nate's lungs, too.
He pushed Nate's stillness to the back of his mind to join fear and guilt at suffocating Nate.
One minute fifty-nine seconds.
His own lungs burned. The water around them darkened; the shadow of another pier. His movements felt sluggish. Shapes swam nearby, indistinct in the murk. He wondered how many of them were little sharks, drawn by his blood, and mentally cursed them.
Two minutes three seconds.
The gunshots had stopped, or he'd moved far enough away he couldn't hear them. His lungs spasmed, and bubbles escaped his mouth. He stopped the instinctive urge to breathe that was growing more insistent with every passing moment. He was out of practice.
There was a rocky point up here, and if they could get past it they'd be out of sight, and he'd be able to climb the rocky cliff back to land. Eliot kept swimming.
Two minutes twenty-three seconds.
Rocks scraped one leg. He twisted farther out to sea, to get around the point, and redoubled his efforts. He used the rocks, shoving off them, struggling to stay below the ocean's turbulent surface.
He'd known that voice. Known that face. They'd run with Moreau together; Jake would know Eliot couldn't be killed so easily. They'd be looking, still.
Around the point. Eliot dragged Nate up out of the water, twisting them both to backfloat, gasping. He let go of Nate's face and slapped his hand against Nate's chest, relieved to hear a weak cough followed by regular breathing. Breathing was good. Breathing was good. How long had it been?
Two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.
Eliot's legs were weak from oxygen deprivation, but he kicked toward land with the last of his strength. Nate was still against him, the only movement that of Nate's chest rising and falling. Severe brain damage was certain only after six minutes, and they hadn't gotten near that mark. Nate would be okay. Eliot had gone as fast as he could. The human body reacted differently in water. The heart slowed down, the body used oxygen better. Nate would be okay.
Rocks scraped against Eliot's legs and he kicked up higher, putting a foot on one and pushing off. The cliff loomed nearby, made up of boulders softened by wind and water, then roughened by barnacles. He caught one such rock, found foot purchase, and pulled them partway out of the ocean. His wounded arm screamed and he ignored it, twisting to keep Nate from smashing against the jagged barnacles.
He hung there, breathing. There was no time for pausing. He pushed onward, peering up at the cliff to spot any sort of shelter.
Halfway up was the outlet to a storm drain. He could make it halfway up.
**
"C'mon, Nate," Eliot growled, feeling for a pulse just to make sure it was strong. It was. Ten minutes to climb the cliff, and Nate had stayed out for all of it. Eliot eyed his place inside the storm drain. The tunnel wasn't tall enough to stand, only about four feet high, and slick with sewage and growth. He pulled off his button-up shirt and tore it into strips, binding his bicep so it didn't keep running red down his arm, then his hand where the flesh looked like pulp from the barnacles.
His legs had been protected from the worst of it by his slacks, and Nate only had a few scratches here and there.
And possible brain damage.
They needed to get somewhere safe.
Somewhere warm.
The earbuds weren't working at all, now that they'd been dunked in water. Neither were the cell phones.
Eliot slapped Nate's face, quick stinging strikes. "Come on, Nate! I need you to chew Hardison out so he gets those water-proof earbuds up and running. He's gotta have 'em somewhere, right?"
Brain damage was possible after two minutes. They'd spent almost three without air.
"Nate!" Eliot slapped him harder. His head rocked on the metal ridges of the storm drain, but he stayed out.
Eliot moved to the mouth of the drain, listening for a moment. No voices. Yet. They knew he'd been shot; he'd bled all over the pier. How long before they came this far down the shoreline? Probably not long. They'd assume he was either dead or looking for a landing site, and this was the nearest one.
"Come on, Nate," Eliot said again. He could carry Nate if he had to. He wanted Nate awake, though. Asking questions. Thinking. Un-brain damaged. God damn it, after everything they'd been through it wasn't going to be Eliot's hand over his mouth that turned him into a vegetable. "Nate!"
**
It wasn't like drifting back to awareness. It was a shock, nothing and then everything, adrenaline surging through his body. He scrambled backward, aware of the crash of metal and his heels sliding when they should have found purchase, Eliot's voice echoing everywhere. His own breath rattled in his burning lungs and boomed through air.
Darkness. Nate wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his rumpled suit -- now soaked -- and looked around. It took him a moment to understand that the blood-colored light at the end of the tunnel was the end of a sunset through a storm drain, that the reason he couldn't get purchase was because of the coating of slime in the bottom of the metal tube, that the shape crouched nearby was Eliot. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He coughed once, lightly, and it set off a fit that had him doubled over, eyes and nose both running. When his lungs finally settled he wiped off his face with a groan.
"What do you remember?" Eliot kept his voice pitched low. It still echoed weirdly in the tunnel. There was strain in it, too, but Nate's mind was too fuzzy to parse out the reason.
Nate shook his head, trying to ease the pounding ache. "I don't-- I don't know." He wasn't even sure he understood the question. What wouldn't he be remembering?
"Your name?"
"Yeah," he said with irritation. "Nate Ford." He frowned as he looked up at Eliot, but his frown eased, replaced by concern -- and maybe the cool brush of fear -- when he saw how intent Eliot was. "I remember--" he stopped, thinking back. "The transaction went through." He coughed again, lightly, glancing around the tunnel.
"Okay," Eliot said. "That's good."
There was a noise outside the tunnel, and Eliot tensed and half rose, swiveling toward it. Nate froze, waiting, resisting the urge to cough again.
Nothing happened.
"We need to go." Eliot eased toward Nate, still looking out the tunnel. Then he faced Nate, offering a hand.
Nate took it, levering himself up with difficulty. He didn't know how Eliot was keeping his balance on the slippery ridges of slime-coated metal. Nate stretched a hand out to the side of the tunnel to stabilize, moving carefully and as quickly as he could as Eliot started off. He couldn't stand, but walked in a half-crouch that had his thighs burning almost immediately.
"Eliot," he said, short of breath. "What happened?" He prodded at the absence in his memory, but nothing emerged.
"Tell me if it starts coming back," Eliot growled over his shoulder. "It's a good marker."
Good marker for what? was the question Nate didn't voice.
For a long while, he focused on traveling. On keeping his footing, which he wasn't entirely successful at. When he finally got the knack for walking on slime, he started paying more attention to Eliot.
Eliot was as wet as Nate was, his button-up shirt taken off and torn into strips, leaving him in a thin undershirt. The strips of cloth were wrapped most heavily around his upper arm, and more were around one hand. The t-shirt he'd had on under everything was soaked.
Hell, everything about them was soaked. Cotton stuck to Nate's body and made movement hard. He could already feel where his skin was chafing from it around his thighs. It made him cold, too. He couldn't stop the shiver that had started up in his bones, and Eliot looked pale.
The earbuds were out. Nate cringed as he pulled his from his ear with a wet sucking noise. He pocketed it. His shoes squished. His head throbbed.
He remembered the echo of gunshots.
"How burned are we?" he asked.
Eliot's head twitched back. "Burned."
Nate's mind felt sluggish and fuzzy. Nothing quite seemed to work right. "Talk to me, Eliot," he said quietly, lowering his voice in deference to the metal that trapped them. "What's going on?"
Eliot's gate slowed, allowing Nate to near. "Six guys left, all armed. One of them knows me by sight. Several of the others by reputation. They aren't going to stop looking just because we got away. We've got to get to ground."
"And the sewers are the way to do that?" Nate looked around doubtfully. He shivered again, and wrapped his arms around himself. "We need to get warm and dry." He eyed the bandage around Eliot's arm. It was turning pink. "A hospital, maybe."
"No hospitals."
Irritation flared. "Look, Eliot, I know you don't like hospitals, but--"
Eliot stopped so fast Nate would have run into him, except he wheeled and grabbed Nate, stabilizing. "Look, they know I've been shot. Hospitals are the first place they'll look."
Nate's lips tightened, but he nodded. "All right. You're the expert. What's the plan?"
Eliot turned, one hand still on Nate's elbow until the very last moment, keeping Nate steady. "We still need to get warm and dry. Safe first. We put distance between us and them, move through the sewer in a northerly direction. They'll be looking, but the sewers are ideal for sneaking around. When we come up, we'll find a bolthole and wait. Give the others time to finish the con and catch the mark. Then we'll be in the clear." They reached a junction and Eliot went right. Nate followed silently, trusting Eliot's instincts. It opened up into concrete instead of metal, and they could both straighten. "They might head down here, seeing the storm drain from the cliff side. Wouldn't take Jake long to get blueprints, figure out a likely direction. Hire more people, split 'em up. It would cost more money, though." Eliot glanced back, a question hanging between them in the darkness.
Nate frowned, considering their mark as he splashed through muck. "He'd give over the money if it meant saving face and getting his two million back."
"So we assume we're being hunted."
Nate nodded wordlessly. He wouldn't want to hunt Eliot. Especially not in a darkened sewer. Sounded like a set up for a horror movie, to him. Hopefully others would feel the same way.
**
Eliot kept a sharp eye out as Nate stumbled again, catching himself with one hand in the mud at the bottom of the sewer.
Nate was stumbling more as the darkness got darker. Eliot could make out shapes, but not much else: he was navigating by sound, at this point. Nate clearly didn't know how.
"How're you holding up?" Eliot slowed his pace a little more. His arm burned under the make-shift bandage. No time for that, now.
"Fine." It was a lie and they both knew it. A necessary lie, though. They didn't have time to rest. It all came down to time.
Eliot inched closer to Nate, just in case. "How're things going these days?" he asked, trying to distract Nate from the cold and misery. This close, he could hear Nate's teeth chattering. His own jaw was sore from clenching.
"Great." Nate breathed heavily, slid, caught Eliot's arm and steadied himself. Eliot braced against falling, planting both feet to remain upright until Nate was okay. Then Nate spoke again. "Bored."
Eliot huffed a laugh. Was that a voice, ahead? No.
"Thought I could be a house-husband. That lasted a few weeks. Tried visiting Sophie while she's directing. We ended up arguing over character motivation." Nate slipped again, and Eliot grabbed his elbow to steady him.
"You could get a job." Eliot paused, then added, "Or run a job."
"You having problems with Parker?"
That wasn't what he meant, but Nate seemed honestly concerned. "Nah, she's good. We balance out her crazier schemes. She hasn't blown anything up since right after you left."
Nate chuckled, paused, then said, "I assume you mean literally."
"'Course. She's never blown a job. But--" Eliot stopped just short of finishing that sentence.
He hadn't needed to. "I miss you guys, too. So does Sophie." Then Nate hit a particularly slimy spot, and his feet went out from under him, right into Eliot's. Eliot slid, worked to keep his footing, holding tight to Nate's arm and trying to keep Nate from hitting the ground. When it all ended, the moment was over.
Nate's mind seemed to be working all right. That was the important thing.
It was getting harder to walk, though. Eliot's feet and hands were thick and sluggish with the cold, his skin slightly numb. He figured Nate was worse. They needed to get somewhere safe. Get above ground, maybe, and hide.
"What's the plan, Eliot?" Nate asked, as if able to follow Eliot's train of thought.
It was all at once disconcerting and completely right for Nate to be asking. Nate was the one with the plan, always, but they were out of his realm, now. "Get up top. Get somewhere safe and warm."
Nate nodded; Eliot could just make it out in the gloom. "The team will rendezvous to the third safe house if we aren't back in 24 hours. Think we'll be back in 24 hours?"
Two minutes to get to the water. Three in the water. Ten climbing the cliff. Fifteen before Nate had woken. Two hours since. By the time they hit topside, the mark and his flunkies would have had time to hire more guns, spread out a search. As far as they were concerned, they needed Nate and Eliot to get their money back. "Wouldn't count on it." It would be dark out by now.
"Can we make the third rendezvous house?"
Eliot considered it. "Depends. If Sean puts guys at the transportation portals, not likely. Safer to stay put until Parker and Sophie work their magic, and Sean's locked up."
"So we hide for a few days. I can get us clothes and a room if you can get us out of danger."
Eliot nodded. Nate's mind was working. That was a good sign.
**
"Wait here," and Eliot vanished.
Nate waited because there wasn't much else he could do. He was drowning in darkness, listening to the soft splash of Eliot's steps. Around a corner? Down the tunnel? He couldn’t tell. His eyes ached from straining for light, though it didn't do him any good. He'd had his hand on Eliot's shoulder for some time to keep them from getting separated. Without the solid presence, the tunnel felt big.
Lights ahead. A beam, showing a T-juncture. Quick steps. A grunt, and the spine-jarring screech of metal against concrete. Strikes, like punches. Splashing. Nearby.
Nate leaped sideways, and felt more than saw the blow that should have leveled him. Sprawled in a puddle, he lashed out with one foot, guessing at where his opponent's groin would be. He connected, but it was a glancing blow. The attacker barely reacted.
Nate rolled through the sludge, scrambling to his feet. He needed space between them.
There were grunting, cursing, fighting sounds nearby. They blocked anything he might have learned about his opponent's whereabouts. He found the wall and put his back to it, heart hammering.
A low, guttural voice echoed from elsewhere. "Sean wants his money back."
Eliot, grunting. "Not -- gonna -- happen!" Something crashed.
A blow slammed into Nate's gut. He doubled over, was yanked away from the wall, nearly slid in the muck and felt someone grab him, hauling him upward to stand behind him. "Got your friend, Spencer!"
Nate heaved forward, twisting to throw the man over his shoulder, bracing his feet hard because he knew there'd be a nasty, sliding mess in a minute. There was. He scrambled to rise.
And then there was a shape in the dark, someone stopping just in front of Nate and hammering downward at his attacker.
Silence.
"Good job," Eliot breathed.
"You, too," Nate said without thinking.
It drew a bare chuckle. Then light flared; a flashlight held in one of Eliot's hands. He pointed it toward the ground -- Nate really hadn't needed to see the filth they were trudging through -- and jerked his head.
They moved on.
**
Nate trusted Eliot. He repeated it to himself as they continued on. He trusted Eliot to get him out of any situation whole and relatively unharmed. He even trusted Eliot to find his way through the sewers of Seattle and not get them hopelessly, completely lost.
Even when their march continued for hours, and Nate felt so cold and bone-weary that he'd almost prefer to get caught.
As tired as he was, he noticed it when Eliot started to stumble.
**
Author: JB McDragon
Giftee: valawenel
Characters/pairings: Nate, Eliot. No pairings.
Word count: 12,600 total
Spoilers: Takes place after the end of the show.
Warnings: Violence, much like you'd see in the show.
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own them, and I'm definitely not making any money off this.
Summary: It's just one more job, one that needs more than three people. A quick job, an easy job. Right up until Eliot is recognized and his and Nate's covers are blown.
Notes: For the Leverage Gift Exchange. I hope you enjoy it, Valawenel! It had to be broken into 3 parts, and sadly I'm out of town when my day hits. I'll post the other two parts on Tuesday when I'm back!
The Thing with the Guys Job 1/3
JB McDragon
It was a good con. Nate smiled at the mark, gave Eliot a sideways, slanted look where he sat slumped in his chair, and then scanned the warehouse.
Nate disliked warehouses. They always smelled strange. Like cold concrete and grease, whether or not they actually had grease in them. Only a few more minutes in this one, though, and then this part of the con would be over. The Diamond Cat con needed five people. Six, to be really believable, but the crew was good enough to make due. They couldn't have done it with three, and Leverage, Inc didn't have an extra two people yet. It had only made sense for Nate and Sophie to come back for just one more con. Sophie was in between directing gigs, anyway.
"All right," the mark said with a great big smile. He closed the laptop. "The money's transferred into your account. You can check if you like."
Nate made a show of peering at his phone, while Hardison spoke in his ear. "--went thro-- --ot it!" Cursing the earbud reception wouldn't help the static, but at least Hardison sounded too triumphant for it to be bad news. The money had been captured, then, and the rest of the team would finish framing the mark. Another twenty-four hours, and the con would be over.
Nate clapped Eliot's shoulder, grinning. "See now, that wasn't too hard, was it?"
Eliot rubbed his eyes, defeat written in every line of his body.
The mark chuckled, watching Eliot. The half dozen men behind the mark kept their eyes on the growing shadows, each of them professional in their attitude while the mark spoke. "This, son, is why it's not a good idea to say, 'I'll never.'"
Nate's grip tightened on Eliot's shoulder proprietorially as he addressed the mark. The cheap cotton of Eliot's button-down was worn under his fingers, like most shirts that had been through the wash a hundred times would be. Sophie was a marvel for details like that. "It was good doing business with you, Sean," Nate said. "I hope you enjoy your, ah, early retirement."
The mark laughed. One of his thugs chuckled. The sun lowered farther, and the light faded from the upper windows. Stacks of crates well over man-height created deeper shadows as the gloom spread. Nate stepped forward, hand outstretched. "We'll see you on the flip side, then," he said to Sean, smiling. "And hopefully--"
Footsteps. A two-man crew -- guards to make sure they did business undisturbed -- came around one of the stacks of crates. One of them stopped, frowning at Eliot. In a movement Nate almost missed, Eliot looked up and then down again, head twitching so his hair should have fallen forward to hide his face, except that his hair was tied back.
"Hey -- I know him," the guard who'd paused said. "He's no techie. And he's not getting blackmailed. That's Eliot Spencer!"
Time slowed. Hands went for the guns that were carried under dark jackets. Barrels glinted dully in the low light. Nate knew he wasn't fast enough to dodge a bullet. He wasn't Eliot.
The first man aimed as Eliot slammed into Nate like a linebacker, one hand over Nate's skull for protection as they hit the concrete floor. Nate didn't waste time, scrambling up and getting to shelter behind a crate. Three pops sounded, each of them echoing in the cavernous building.
"Shit! Shit!" the mark yelled. "Stop the transaction!"
It was too late, of course. Hardison had the money tucked safely away. That was his talent. Nate had made sure the con was sharp enough to keep their identities under wraps even if they were discovered. That was his talent. Now he had to rely on Eliot's talent: keeping him alive, and getting him out safely.
Eliot shoved at him and he scuttled to his feet and ran, keeping low and trusting that Eliot would follow. There was an exit this way, if he could just get to it.
Nate's heart pounded in his head, the surge of adrenaline from a job well done and a mark well played twisting into a sick sort of fear. He ignored it and ran. The crack of gunfire went off behind him. He ignored that, too. Looking back got people killed.
Nate ducked around another crate, chased by the sound of a quick, brutal scuffle, Hardison in his earbud. "--goin-- on? You g-- kay?"
"Not now," Nate snapped between breaths. There, ahead, light. He bolted for the door, trying to stay low, trying not to think about bullets ripping through his skin. It hadn't happened yet. It wouldn't happen. This was what he had a team for.
Eliot caught up and burst out into the open air with him. The smell of salt water and the sound of gulls crying washed away the grease and concrete. He couldn't hear the waves slapping against the piers over the hammer of his heart.
"This way," Eliot said, snatching Nate's sleeve and sprinting.
Nate ran. Two men came out of the warehouse behind them. He saw them aim from the corner of his eye, and followed Eliot around boxes that looked too thin to protect them.
Eliot plastered himself there anyway, and Nate followed suit. "What now?" Nate panted. There had to be an escape route.
Bullets hammered into the wooden box. Splinters flew. Nate flinched away from the noise, relieved to discover the box was thick enough to shield them.
Eliot looked at him, and there was a definite apology underneath the determination in his eyes. "Take a deep breath," he said, and jerked his head toward the water.
Eliot ran. Nate ran. Gunshots chased them. First concrete and then the wood pier shattered nearby. Chips drove into Nate's legs. He jumped. The water raced up at him and he closed his mouth, held his breath, felt it crash into his body and seal over his head.
He couldn't see, but it didn't matter. A hand grabbed his leg, pulling him down farther. Farther still. He tried to help.
He trusted Eliot. Eliot's job was to get them out of trouble. They swam deeper. With Eliot hauling on him, he went a lot faster than he ever had before. He tried to calculate how far they'd need to go to outswim bullets.
His lungs started to burn. He kept going. Any minute now, they'd surface.
Except they didn't. Eliot wrapped an arm around his chest, hauling him sideways through the water as his ability to swim weakened. Nate's lungs started to heave. Bubbles escaped from his nose and mouth, fleeing to the surface. He clapped a hand over his own face. His body demanded air. Eliot wasn't a fish. They'd surface. They had to.
His lungs rebelled. He coughed. Eliot's hand rose over the top of Nate's, shoved Nate's out of the way, sealed over his mouth and pinched his nose closed. Eliot kept swimming.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Nate twisted to free himself. He needed air. Needed it now. He couldn't stay down here--
It didn't matter how hard he fought, Eliot dragged him onward, keeping a hand over his nose and mouth. The hold was for rescuing drowning people, meant to keep their fighting from hampering the swimmer. Nate told himself not to fight. Eliot wouldn't kill him.
Nate's body didn't listen. The surrounding water took backstage to needing air now. He hadn't been able to see before, but it was an entirely different feeling when his vision started to blacken. He scratched at the hand holding him, scrabbling for purchase.
It didn't work. The darkened world went black. Panic, and then nothing.
**
Brain damage could start after two minutes in untrained swimmers.
Eliot swam, ignoring the pain in his free arm, forcing it to work despite the bullet wound searing pain across his bicep.
One minute forty-two seconds.
He could still hear bullets in the water, back the way they'd come. Surface here and they'd get shot. Definitely getting killed was worse than possible brain damage.
One minute fifty seconds.
Nate was a pull in the water, dead weight now that he'd stopped struggling. Eliot kept one hand looped under Nate's arm, over his chest, and up to hold his head tight against Eliot's chest, hand clamped over Nate's nose and mouth. Suffocating was bad enough. Eliot didn't want water in Nate's lungs, too.
He pushed Nate's stillness to the back of his mind to join fear and guilt at suffocating Nate.
One minute fifty-nine seconds.
His own lungs burned. The water around them darkened; the shadow of another pier. His movements felt sluggish. Shapes swam nearby, indistinct in the murk. He wondered how many of them were little sharks, drawn by his blood, and mentally cursed them.
Two minutes three seconds.
The gunshots had stopped, or he'd moved far enough away he couldn't hear them. His lungs spasmed, and bubbles escaped his mouth. He stopped the instinctive urge to breathe that was growing more insistent with every passing moment. He was out of practice.
There was a rocky point up here, and if they could get past it they'd be out of sight, and he'd be able to climb the rocky cliff back to land. Eliot kept swimming.
Two minutes twenty-three seconds.
Rocks scraped one leg. He twisted farther out to sea, to get around the point, and redoubled his efforts. He used the rocks, shoving off them, struggling to stay below the ocean's turbulent surface.
He'd known that voice. Known that face. They'd run with Moreau together; Jake would know Eliot couldn't be killed so easily. They'd be looking, still.
Around the point. Eliot dragged Nate up out of the water, twisting them both to backfloat, gasping. He let go of Nate's face and slapped his hand against Nate's chest, relieved to hear a weak cough followed by regular breathing. Breathing was good. Breathing was good. How long had it been?
Two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.
Eliot's legs were weak from oxygen deprivation, but he kicked toward land with the last of his strength. Nate was still against him, the only movement that of Nate's chest rising and falling. Severe brain damage was certain only after six minutes, and they hadn't gotten near that mark. Nate would be okay. Eliot had gone as fast as he could. The human body reacted differently in water. The heart slowed down, the body used oxygen better. Nate would be okay.
Rocks scraped against Eliot's legs and he kicked up higher, putting a foot on one and pushing off. The cliff loomed nearby, made up of boulders softened by wind and water, then roughened by barnacles. He caught one such rock, found foot purchase, and pulled them partway out of the ocean. His wounded arm screamed and he ignored it, twisting to keep Nate from smashing against the jagged barnacles.
He hung there, breathing. There was no time for pausing. He pushed onward, peering up at the cliff to spot any sort of shelter.
Halfway up was the outlet to a storm drain. He could make it halfway up.
**
"C'mon, Nate," Eliot growled, feeling for a pulse just to make sure it was strong. It was. Ten minutes to climb the cliff, and Nate had stayed out for all of it. Eliot eyed his place inside the storm drain. The tunnel wasn't tall enough to stand, only about four feet high, and slick with sewage and growth. He pulled off his button-up shirt and tore it into strips, binding his bicep so it didn't keep running red down his arm, then his hand where the flesh looked like pulp from the barnacles.
His legs had been protected from the worst of it by his slacks, and Nate only had a few scratches here and there.
And possible brain damage.
They needed to get somewhere safe.
Somewhere warm.
The earbuds weren't working at all, now that they'd been dunked in water. Neither were the cell phones.
Eliot slapped Nate's face, quick stinging strikes. "Come on, Nate! I need you to chew Hardison out so he gets those water-proof earbuds up and running. He's gotta have 'em somewhere, right?"
Brain damage was possible after two minutes. They'd spent almost three without air.
"Nate!" Eliot slapped him harder. His head rocked on the metal ridges of the storm drain, but he stayed out.
Eliot moved to the mouth of the drain, listening for a moment. No voices. Yet. They knew he'd been shot; he'd bled all over the pier. How long before they came this far down the shoreline? Probably not long. They'd assume he was either dead or looking for a landing site, and this was the nearest one.
"Come on, Nate," Eliot said again. He could carry Nate if he had to. He wanted Nate awake, though. Asking questions. Thinking. Un-brain damaged. God damn it, after everything they'd been through it wasn't going to be Eliot's hand over his mouth that turned him into a vegetable. "Nate!"
**
It wasn't like drifting back to awareness. It was a shock, nothing and then everything, adrenaline surging through his body. He scrambled backward, aware of the crash of metal and his heels sliding when they should have found purchase, Eliot's voice echoing everywhere. His own breath rattled in his burning lungs and boomed through air.
Darkness. Nate wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his rumpled suit -- now soaked -- and looked around. It took him a moment to understand that the blood-colored light at the end of the tunnel was the end of a sunset through a storm drain, that the reason he couldn't get purchase was because of the coating of slime in the bottom of the metal tube, that the shape crouched nearby was Eliot. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He coughed once, lightly, and it set off a fit that had him doubled over, eyes and nose both running. When his lungs finally settled he wiped off his face with a groan.
"What do you remember?" Eliot kept his voice pitched low. It still echoed weirdly in the tunnel. There was strain in it, too, but Nate's mind was too fuzzy to parse out the reason.
Nate shook his head, trying to ease the pounding ache. "I don't-- I don't know." He wasn't even sure he understood the question. What wouldn't he be remembering?
"Your name?"
"Yeah," he said with irritation. "Nate Ford." He frowned as he looked up at Eliot, but his frown eased, replaced by concern -- and maybe the cool brush of fear -- when he saw how intent Eliot was. "I remember--" he stopped, thinking back. "The transaction went through." He coughed again, lightly, glancing around the tunnel.
"Okay," Eliot said. "That's good."
There was a noise outside the tunnel, and Eliot tensed and half rose, swiveling toward it. Nate froze, waiting, resisting the urge to cough again.
Nothing happened.
"We need to go." Eliot eased toward Nate, still looking out the tunnel. Then he faced Nate, offering a hand.
Nate took it, levering himself up with difficulty. He didn't know how Eliot was keeping his balance on the slippery ridges of slime-coated metal. Nate stretched a hand out to the side of the tunnel to stabilize, moving carefully and as quickly as he could as Eliot started off. He couldn't stand, but walked in a half-crouch that had his thighs burning almost immediately.
"Eliot," he said, short of breath. "What happened?" He prodded at the absence in his memory, but nothing emerged.
"Tell me if it starts coming back," Eliot growled over his shoulder. "It's a good marker."
Good marker for what? was the question Nate didn't voice.
For a long while, he focused on traveling. On keeping his footing, which he wasn't entirely successful at. When he finally got the knack for walking on slime, he started paying more attention to Eliot.
Eliot was as wet as Nate was, his button-up shirt taken off and torn into strips, leaving him in a thin undershirt. The strips of cloth were wrapped most heavily around his upper arm, and more were around one hand. The t-shirt he'd had on under everything was soaked.
Hell, everything about them was soaked. Cotton stuck to Nate's body and made movement hard. He could already feel where his skin was chafing from it around his thighs. It made him cold, too. He couldn't stop the shiver that had started up in his bones, and Eliot looked pale.
The earbuds were out. Nate cringed as he pulled his from his ear with a wet sucking noise. He pocketed it. His shoes squished. His head throbbed.
He remembered the echo of gunshots.
"How burned are we?" he asked.
Eliot's head twitched back. "Burned."
Nate's mind felt sluggish and fuzzy. Nothing quite seemed to work right. "Talk to me, Eliot," he said quietly, lowering his voice in deference to the metal that trapped them. "What's going on?"
Eliot's gate slowed, allowing Nate to near. "Six guys left, all armed. One of them knows me by sight. Several of the others by reputation. They aren't going to stop looking just because we got away. We've got to get to ground."
"And the sewers are the way to do that?" Nate looked around doubtfully. He shivered again, and wrapped his arms around himself. "We need to get warm and dry." He eyed the bandage around Eliot's arm. It was turning pink. "A hospital, maybe."
"No hospitals."
Irritation flared. "Look, Eliot, I know you don't like hospitals, but--"
Eliot stopped so fast Nate would have run into him, except he wheeled and grabbed Nate, stabilizing. "Look, they know I've been shot. Hospitals are the first place they'll look."
Nate's lips tightened, but he nodded. "All right. You're the expert. What's the plan?"
Eliot turned, one hand still on Nate's elbow until the very last moment, keeping Nate steady. "We still need to get warm and dry. Safe first. We put distance between us and them, move through the sewer in a northerly direction. They'll be looking, but the sewers are ideal for sneaking around. When we come up, we'll find a bolthole and wait. Give the others time to finish the con and catch the mark. Then we'll be in the clear." They reached a junction and Eliot went right. Nate followed silently, trusting Eliot's instincts. It opened up into concrete instead of metal, and they could both straighten. "They might head down here, seeing the storm drain from the cliff side. Wouldn't take Jake long to get blueprints, figure out a likely direction. Hire more people, split 'em up. It would cost more money, though." Eliot glanced back, a question hanging between them in the darkness.
Nate frowned, considering their mark as he splashed through muck. "He'd give over the money if it meant saving face and getting his two million back."
"So we assume we're being hunted."
Nate nodded wordlessly. He wouldn't want to hunt Eliot. Especially not in a darkened sewer. Sounded like a set up for a horror movie, to him. Hopefully others would feel the same way.
**
Eliot kept a sharp eye out as Nate stumbled again, catching himself with one hand in the mud at the bottom of the sewer.
Nate was stumbling more as the darkness got darker. Eliot could make out shapes, but not much else: he was navigating by sound, at this point. Nate clearly didn't know how.
"How're you holding up?" Eliot slowed his pace a little more. His arm burned under the make-shift bandage. No time for that, now.
"Fine." It was a lie and they both knew it. A necessary lie, though. They didn't have time to rest. It all came down to time.
Eliot inched closer to Nate, just in case. "How're things going these days?" he asked, trying to distract Nate from the cold and misery. This close, he could hear Nate's teeth chattering. His own jaw was sore from clenching.
"Great." Nate breathed heavily, slid, caught Eliot's arm and steadied himself. Eliot braced against falling, planting both feet to remain upright until Nate was okay. Then Nate spoke again. "Bored."
Eliot huffed a laugh. Was that a voice, ahead? No.
"Thought I could be a house-husband. That lasted a few weeks. Tried visiting Sophie while she's directing. We ended up arguing over character motivation." Nate slipped again, and Eliot grabbed his elbow to steady him.
"You could get a job." Eliot paused, then added, "Or run a job."
"You having problems with Parker?"
That wasn't what he meant, but Nate seemed honestly concerned. "Nah, she's good. We balance out her crazier schemes. She hasn't blown anything up since right after you left."
Nate chuckled, paused, then said, "I assume you mean literally."
"'Course. She's never blown a job. But--" Eliot stopped just short of finishing that sentence.
He hadn't needed to. "I miss you guys, too. So does Sophie." Then Nate hit a particularly slimy spot, and his feet went out from under him, right into Eliot's. Eliot slid, worked to keep his footing, holding tight to Nate's arm and trying to keep Nate from hitting the ground. When it all ended, the moment was over.
Nate's mind seemed to be working all right. That was the important thing.
It was getting harder to walk, though. Eliot's feet and hands were thick and sluggish with the cold, his skin slightly numb. He figured Nate was worse. They needed to get somewhere safe. Get above ground, maybe, and hide.
"What's the plan, Eliot?" Nate asked, as if able to follow Eliot's train of thought.
It was all at once disconcerting and completely right for Nate to be asking. Nate was the one with the plan, always, but they were out of his realm, now. "Get up top. Get somewhere safe and warm."
Nate nodded; Eliot could just make it out in the gloom. "The team will rendezvous to the third safe house if we aren't back in 24 hours. Think we'll be back in 24 hours?"
Two minutes to get to the water. Three in the water. Ten climbing the cliff. Fifteen before Nate had woken. Two hours since. By the time they hit topside, the mark and his flunkies would have had time to hire more guns, spread out a search. As far as they were concerned, they needed Nate and Eliot to get their money back. "Wouldn't count on it." It would be dark out by now.
"Can we make the third rendezvous house?"
Eliot considered it. "Depends. If Sean puts guys at the transportation portals, not likely. Safer to stay put until Parker and Sophie work their magic, and Sean's locked up."
"So we hide for a few days. I can get us clothes and a room if you can get us out of danger."
Eliot nodded. Nate's mind was working. That was a good sign.
**
"Wait here," and Eliot vanished.
Nate waited because there wasn't much else he could do. He was drowning in darkness, listening to the soft splash of Eliot's steps. Around a corner? Down the tunnel? He couldn’t tell. His eyes ached from straining for light, though it didn't do him any good. He'd had his hand on Eliot's shoulder for some time to keep them from getting separated. Without the solid presence, the tunnel felt big.
Lights ahead. A beam, showing a T-juncture. Quick steps. A grunt, and the spine-jarring screech of metal against concrete. Strikes, like punches. Splashing. Nearby.
Nate leaped sideways, and felt more than saw the blow that should have leveled him. Sprawled in a puddle, he lashed out with one foot, guessing at where his opponent's groin would be. He connected, but it was a glancing blow. The attacker barely reacted.
Nate rolled through the sludge, scrambling to his feet. He needed space between them.
There were grunting, cursing, fighting sounds nearby. They blocked anything he might have learned about his opponent's whereabouts. He found the wall and put his back to it, heart hammering.
A low, guttural voice echoed from elsewhere. "Sean wants his money back."
Eliot, grunting. "Not -- gonna -- happen!" Something crashed.
A blow slammed into Nate's gut. He doubled over, was yanked away from the wall, nearly slid in the muck and felt someone grab him, hauling him upward to stand behind him. "Got your friend, Spencer!"
Nate heaved forward, twisting to throw the man over his shoulder, bracing his feet hard because he knew there'd be a nasty, sliding mess in a minute. There was. He scrambled to rise.
And then there was a shape in the dark, someone stopping just in front of Nate and hammering downward at his attacker.
Silence.
"Good job," Eliot breathed.
"You, too," Nate said without thinking.
It drew a bare chuckle. Then light flared; a flashlight held in one of Eliot's hands. He pointed it toward the ground -- Nate really hadn't needed to see the filth they were trudging through -- and jerked his head.
They moved on.
**
Nate trusted Eliot. He repeated it to himself as they continued on. He trusted Eliot to get him out of any situation whole and relatively unharmed. He even trusted Eliot to find his way through the sewers of Seattle and not get them hopelessly, completely lost.
Even when their march continued for hours, and Nate felt so cold and bone-weary that he'd almost prefer to get caught.
As tired as he was, he noticed it when Eliot started to stumble.
**