Big Bang Fic: The Tangled Web Job, Part 1/10
Title: The Tangled Web Job
Authors: scout_lover and telaryn
Artist: alinaandalion
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage.
Characters/Pairings: Team, Damien Moreau, Director Conrad, Sterling, Nana, all canon pairings
Rating: PG-13 leaning over the fence and shaking hands with R
Genre: Gen, drama, angst, team!fic
Warnings/spoilers: Set after the events of The Last Dam Job, the story is directly drawn from events in The Experimental Job.
Word Count: 50,069
Summary: The threat issued by CIA Director Conrad at the end of The Experimental Job proves to be anything but idle. The team is blackmailed into working for the CIA to help gain control of the major nuclear pipeline into Iran. To accomplish this and keep their loved ones safe, they are forced to work with an old enemy towards a common goal.
What the CIA fails to realize is that catching the Leverage team and holding them are usually two different things.
What Nate fails to realize is that the price for squirming free of the government's grasp is likely to be higher than he expected.
Link to Art Post: Here
PROLOGUE
“Nana?”
Caroline Bushnell wiped hastily at her eyes before looking up from the papers she’d been reading. “What is it, honey?” she asked, trying not to snap at the small figure in the kitchen doorway. It’s not his fault.
“Reisha’s throwing up again,” the small boy said. He was clutching a tattered pale-blue blanket; Caroline was always tempted to call him Linus, even though six year old Jeffrey had no idea something as idyllic as Peanuts even existed. “She woke up the baby.”
Startled, Caroline held her breath and listened. She’d been so wrapped up in the letter from DCFS that she’d missed the building chaos upstairs. Sure enough, now that she was paying attention, she could hear her youngest wailing in his crib. “Go wake up Mary,” she said, getting to her feet. “Tell her to come make Makeen a bottle and do what she can to get him settled. I’ll see to Reisha.”
The six year old Afghani girl who’d recently joined their little family was lying in bed, covered in vomit. Her skin was flushed, and her large, dark eyes were glassy with fever. “What’s wrong, baby?” Caroline murmured, laying the back of her hand on the child’s forehead. 102 or 103, she thought. “Keitha honey,” she said, glancing at the room’s other occupant, “fetch me the thermometer from the bathroom, will you?”
“She smells bad,” the eight year old announced gravely.
Caroline ducked her head for a moment, praying for patience. “Do what I tell you, baby,” she said finally. “And bring me a damp washcloth, so we can start cleaning up this mess.”
“Sorry, Nana,” the girl whimpered as Caroline helped her sit up. Her English was still limited, but she was learning quickly. “Sorry.”
“Shhh,” Caroline soothed. “It’s okay, Reisha. Not your fault.” Working steadily, she got the girl cleaned up, bundled into a fresh nightgown and blanket and deposited in the room’s rocking chair with a thermometer under her tongue. “Don’t play with it,” she cautioned, before turning back to the task of stripping down the bed.
“No, Keitha!” she snapped, before the other girl could grab at the stained sheets. “Go wash your hands, then bringing me a clean set from the hallway.” She watched the girl trot off to do as she was told and saw twelve year old Mary in the doorway, bouncing the five month old Makeen on her hip.
“Nana?” the girl asked, “what was that letter on the kitchen table? They’re not taking us away, are they?”
The question caused an immediate ripple of distress among the children - even Reisha, who Caroline would have bet didn’t entirely understand what had been said, but who was sensitive enough to understand a stressful situation when she was around one. “I don’t want to leave!” Keitha wailed, tears filling her large, dark eyes. “Nana, don’t make me go! I’ll be good!”
Once upon a time Caroline would have been able to take immediate charge of the situation. She would have comforted the crying children with one hand and cleaned up the mess with the other - all the while plotting how she was going to make the government drones at DCF back off and leave her family alone.
Now, all she wanted to do was sink to the floor and cry herself. God, what am I going to do? How am I going to keep them from taking my babies?
*~*~*
CHAPTER ONE
“Run it again.”
General Lawrence Flores watched closely as security footage of the previous night’s activities were replayed on the monitor in front of him. He knew his aides - trusted men all - were having trouble believing the truth of their own eyes, but he didn’t have that luxury. While he’d been sleeping, secure in the knowledge that his country was safe from the bandits and terrorists that had held her hostage for so long, a squad of his own men had walked Damien Moreau out of the Tombs.
That’s what really hurts, he thought, watching Moreau glance up at the camera again. The traitors had pulled the exact maneuver Eliot and his men had used to free Flores from the very same prison.
“What do we know, General?”
Flores looked up into the worried eyes of President Michael Vittori. The young man had donned a suit, but his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was only loosely knotted around his neck. “We’ve closed off all known routes out of the country,” he reported, getting respectfully to his feet. “My best men are covering the airports and all of the known checkpoints.”
Vittori’s eyes ticked past him to the monitor - the recording was paused on the moment where Damien Moreau had smirked up at the camera in triumph. “General, how did this happen?”
The truth was heavy in the air. “All the exalted beliefs and high ideals in the world can’t change some people’s basic nature,” Flores said, feeling his heart sink. “Mr. President, I wish I could tell you these men were acting on some sort of agenda that was in conflict with our own, but they were paid. This was a monetary transaction, pure and simple.”
“Not so simple,” Vittori said, and once again Flores was struck by how much wisdom and depth there was to the man. He had a better grasp of the situation than any of them ordinarily would have given him credit for. “What are the odds he intends to retaliate against us?”
Flores thought of Eliot Spencer and his friends - the work they’d done, the sacrifices they’d made so that a tiny country nobody had ever given a damn about had a chance at a real future. “Truthfully, I do not think we are Moreau’s highest priority right now, Mr. President,” he said at last.
*~*~*
He was going to hear about not telling the rest of them. Nate cupped his hands around his coffee and tried not to imagine Eliot was watching him from the shadows. Even though he had a perfectly rational reason for excluding his hitter from this meeting, Nate had to admit that there was a rush in being here by himself, completely exposed.
“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Ford.”
Nate looked up into the face of a man he’d hoped to never see again. ”I hope this has all been worth it, Mr. Ford.”
”Worth what?”
”Attracting my attention.”
“Your employer’s reputation makes it hard to refuse,” he said finally. Nate glanced pointedly at their surroundings. “This seems a little … out in the open, though.”
Smiling coldly, Conrad took the seat opposite him. “You’d feel better in a deserted alley somewhere?”
Nate chuckled softly. “Honestly? I’d feel on more familiar ground.” Judging his coffee cool enough, he took a drink. “This is fine though. What can I do for you, Mr. Conrad?” He flinched slightly, suddenly hearing Eliot screaming a warning in his head. It’s not like I’m making a deal with the Devil himself, he thought, trying to quiet his nerves and dismiss the noise in his skull.
Conrad laced his fingers together on the table. “I need you to finish something you and your team started two years ago,” he said. “A mess you left behind that’s causing my people a great deal of aggravation.”
Two years. It wasn’t hard to see what Conrad wasn’t saying. “Damien Moreau,” Nate said, taking another careful sip of his coffee. “I imagine that did cause quite an uproar at the time.”
“You cut the head off a big enough snake,” Conrad said, “it can do a lot of damage in its death throes. When your people took Damien Moreau out of play, you destabilized numerous underworld pipelines. Including …” He held up a hand to forestall Nate’s retort, “ … significant routes through the Middle East. Places like Iraq, Iran, Pakistan …”
The way he chose to emphasize the words left little doubt as to exactly what sort of pipelines Conrad was referring to. Visions of warlords and terrorists fighting over nuclear materials swirled in his mind, tugging quite insistently at his guilt. You didn’t think about the long-term consequences. Impulse, instinct and doing whatever he had to in order to bring the team through in relatively one piece. Anything more, and it was like the days when he was profiling Eliot. Once the job left his comfort zone, it automatically became somebody else’s problem.
“You’re giving us a great deal more credit than we deserve,” Nate said finally. “Believe me when I say that we got lucky in bringing down Moreau. The idea that we can affect things on an international scale like you’re talking about is patently ridiculous.”
Conrad was silent for a long moment. “We’ve spent a great deal of time and energy discussing you and your people, Mr. Ford. Some of the top minds in the intelligence community have dissected the work you’ve done in the past five years, and frankly there’s only one conclusion we can draw.” He paused, and it was all Nate could do not to shudder at the implications of what he was saying.
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
The skin on the back of Nate’s neck prickled; he was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that even though he had complied with Conrad’s request that he come to the meeting alone, there was no reason to believe the CIA operative had extended him the same courtesy. “We look a lot better on paper than we do in real life,” he said, swallowing against a throat gone suddenly dry. “Men like Eliot Spencer and Alec Hardison don’t react well to traditional authority.” And don’t even get me started on Parker, he thought. On a good day Nate knew he was lucky when he was able to get Parker to follow a plan.
“Dip into your slush funds,” he went on, draining his coffee. “Trust me - you can find people better suited to what you need done than us if you just look hard enough.”
Conrad’s eyes followed him as he got to his feet. “Your country needs you, Mr. Ford.”
Nate smiled bitterly. “No. You really don’t.”
*~*~*
Eliot swallowed hard as he stared down at the text message on his phone. Sunlight poured in warm waves through the windows of his kitchen, but he felt only a heavy chill as he read the words again. They were simple, terse, and heralded nothing good.
We need to talk. Now.
The text was from Lawrence Flores.
Dread started a slow crawl through his stomach. He and Flores had stayed in semi-regular contact since San Lorenzo, the man keeping him informed on the progress and outcome of Damien’s … Moreau’s … various trials or simply updating him on San Lorenzo’s latest step toward maturity as a country. Flores seemed to understand what it meant to him to know that, for once, his involvement in “regime change” had truly been for the good and was actually yielding positive results. But he knew with a sick certainty that this wouldn’t be one of those conversations. He sighed heavily and bowed his head, slipping his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes as a headache suddenly blossomed behind them.
Shit.
For a moment he was badly tempted just to delete the message and try to forget he’d ever gotten it. Moreau wasn’t his problem any longer; whatever trouble the bastard was brewing now belonged to San Lorenzo. Except that he didn’t really believe that. Some part of him would always bear a share of Damien’s guilt, and a share of responsibility for his crimes. So no matter how badly he didn’t want to hear whatever Flores had to say, he knew he didn’t really have a choice. And Flores, damn him, knew it, too.
Fuck.
He lifted his head and shook his hair out of his face. Fine. He went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer, then made his way to his kitchen table and sat down, reaching for his computer and pulling it to him. He hesitated for a moment, caught somewhere between fear and resignation, then swore again and opened it, launching Skype and selecting Flores from his contacts.
The man answered immediately; clearly he’d been waiting.
“Spencer.”
Even seated, Eliot stiffened into a military brace without thinking, sitting up straight and lifting his chin. Then his brain kicked in and he relaxed slightly, sitting back in his chair and locking his gaze on Flores. The man looked exhausted, his dark eyes dull and shadowed, his face deeply lined. His hair and shirt were rumpled, sleeves rolled up messily over his forearms, his customary tie nowhere in evidence.
Anxiety twisted another knot in Eliot’s gut. “General,” he greeted, unable to stop the familiar address. He knew Flores wasn’t a general any more, but he’d never be able to think of him as anything else.
Flores nodded slightly. “Thank you for responding so quickly,” he said quietly. “I am sorry for disturbing you like this, but I fear I have … difficult news.”
Eliot stiffened again, clenching his hands into tight fists in his lap. Damn, sometimes he hated being right.
“Moreau is gone.”
Eliot blinked and stared rather stupidly at Flores, not quite understanding his words. “Gone?” he rasped dazedly, wondering if the man had contacted him to tell him of Damien’s death. And how, exactly, was he supposed to feel about that? “As in … dead?”
“I wish,” Flores said in a low, harsh voice, his bitterness obvious. He had always argued fiercely for Damien’s execution, but President Vittori had argued just as adamantly against it, declaring that he would not have his people greeting their new future with blood on their hands. It was one of the few true points of contention between the two men.
Just now, though, that did nothing to help Eliot understand what was going on here and now. If Damien wasn’t dead, then how could he be- ?
“No,” he gasped as understanding, sudden and terrible, hit him. “No!”
“I am truly sorry,” Flores breathed softly, sadly. “I was certain-”
“No!” Eliot shouted furiously, lunging to his feet and slamming his hands onto the table, his chair falling to the floor behind him. “You’re telling me he escaped? How the hell could you let that happen? I warned you! Goddamn it, I warned you!” He struck the table again, then turned away sharply before he took his rage out on his computer.
Damien had escaped. It was his worst nightmare come true. Somehow, the bastard had found a way out of the Tombs and was now free-
Free to seek his revenge. On them.
All his breath left him in a hard, painful rush, and his world went horribly cold and dark. Damien’s face, arrogant and cruel, flashed before his eyes, driving a spike of nausea straight through him. Damien knew them, knew who they were and what they’d done to him.
And Damien Moreau never forgot.
He turned slowly back to the computer, to the man staring out at him from the screen. “How?” he snarled, his rage turning dangerously cold within him. “How the fuck could you let this happen? I warned you-”
“I know,” Flores sighed, looking and sounding as if he hadn’t slept in days. Years. “And we took every precaution you suggested and several that did not occur to you. We used only the most highly trained men to guard him and rotated them frequently so no one would be under his influence for too long. We made certain none were in financial difficulty or suffering any family or personal problems so that he would find no weakness to exploit. I selected every man myself.”
“Then what the hell happened?” Eliot ground out.
Flores exhaled heavily and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. “We are still working on that,” he said. “But from what we have learned so far, there was … a rather large sum of money involved.” He winced deeply, as if the words caused him physical pain. “Someone bought a handful of my men, who then got Moreau out the same way you and your team got me out- These men betrayed me, betrayed their country, for money,” he spat bitterly.
“And where are they now?” Eliot asked hoarsely, too caught up in his fear for his team just now to sympathize with Flores.
The man shrugged and shook his head. “We … do not know,” he said thickly, the words seeming almost to choke him. “We shut down all known access points into and out of the country as soon as we discovered he was gone, but to no avail. We have learned there was a helicopter waiting at an old deserted airstrip in the mountains, and that was almost certainly how he was taken out of the country. Along with the men who took him,” he added pointedly.
Eliot just stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. Damien had paid off the guards and arranged for a helicopter. Just as he had warned-
Just as he had warned.
He frowned and moved closer to the computer, staring in confusion at Flores. “How?” he asked tersely. “Where did he get the money? Every law enforcement agency in the world’s been going through his books, freezing his assets, confiscating anything that has his name on it. Hell, Hardison’s been through his accounts, and as far as we can tell the bastard didn’t have five dollars to his name. How the fuck did he finance an escape?” A sudden thought hit him. “Ribera-”
“It wasn’t Ribera,” Flores said hastily. “Believe me, we … looked into that.” Something in the man’s tone sent a chill through Eliot, and he decided he didn’t want to know any details. “He had nothing to do with this. In fact,” Flores smiled grimly, “he is as terrified as anyone of the prospect of Moreau being free after all the evidence he has given against the man.”
Eliot sighed and ran a hand through his hair. If not Ribera, then who? Chapman was dead, he’d seen to that himself. And most of Damien’s more competent lieutenants were rotting in various prisons around the world. The organization he - they - had so carefully built was in ruins, its carcass picked over until nothing but bones remained. He thought briefly of Juliana, Damien’s wife, but immediately discounted her. She’d always greatly enjoyed the status and wealth that came with being Mrs. Damien Moreau, but there was no way in hell she’d risk a prison sentence for him. She was too busy living it up as the infamously wronged wife on the French Riviera.
“Then how?” he asked tiredly. “Damien doesn’t have any money or any organization. He’s been under constant surveillance since we handed him to you. How could he put something like this together?”
“There is your answer,” Flores answered, a fine, cold edge of anger seeping into his voice. “He didn’t do it. From what we’ve been able to piece together, this was an outside operation, and the men who pulled it off were highly trained professionals. None of this originated in San Lorenzo, or with Moreau.” He lifted his head and his dark eyes flashed with a barely-leashed fury. “This wasn’t really an escape at all,” he said in a low, hard voice. “This was an extraction.”
Eliot could only stare at the computer screen in sick horror.
*~*~*
They talked for hours, going over every detail, sifting through what little evidence Flores and his forces had been able to uncover. Flores showed him the security footage of the “escape,” and he watched it until he thought his eyes would bleed, shuddering repeatedly at the smirk Damien threw at the cameras. Eventually President Vittori joined them, though he certainly had more urgent responsibilities just now. He looked every bit as worn and haggard as Flores, and was heartbreakingly sincere in his apologies to Eliot.
“Your people gave us the gift of our freedom,” he said, voice and eyes brimming with sorrow and shame. “You placed a great trust in our ability to bring this man to justice, and we have failed. Worse, I fear our failure has placed your team in grave danger. On behalf of San Lorenzo, I apologize.”
Eliot understood then why Flores served him so devotedly. Sophie had been right about Vittori all along.
And then Eliot had to smile when the man asked about “Rebecca.”
By the time he ended the call they were all hoarse, wrung out and no nearer an answer than when they’d started. Or … not any kind of answer that Eliot cared to speak out loud. Yet. But so much of what he’d seen and heard was so familiar. The tactics used to extract Moreau were ones he’d used himself countless times. And not just as a retrieval specialist. He’d seen that same suspicion in Flores’ eyes.
Eliot closed his computer and sat back in his chair, staring into nothing. Some part of him knew the sun was still shining, but he could see only shadows. Every one of them bore Damien’s face, and they murmured to him in the smooth, seductive voice he knew so well.
He’d thought he was free, thought he’d finally found a way both to lay his past to rest and make amends for it. He’d been so wrong. He should’ve killed Damien before they’d left San Lorenzo; it would’ve been so easy. He’d considered it, and still wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t done it. Except that, somehow, he’d let these people - Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Parker - convince him that that Eliot Spencer was gone.
You’re not that man any more.
He’d never loved Sophie more than he had at that moment, when she’d looked up at him with such knowing and such faith, and said those words. Believed those words. Believed in him.
You’re not that man any more.
Except that he’d proven her wrong in a warehouse in DC. And proven Nate right.
He might have to be, to get us in.
Or to save their lives. To protect these people, he’d be whatever he damned well had to be, do whatever he damned well had to do.
He was that man. He’d always be that man. And Damien, God damn him, knew it. That smirk hadn’t just been for Flores. The bastard had known Flores would call him, would share that footage with him, and had used that knowledge to taunt him. Challenge him. I do know you.
Eliot swallowed hard and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the shadows mocking him from the kitchen. From the past.
He had to talk to Nate. And this time he was going to kill Damien Moreau - anyone else’s moral qualms be damned.
*~*~*
The timing wasn’t a coincidence. How could it be? Nate leaned against the guard rail, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind off the harbor play across his face. Men like Conrad weren’t used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. Nate hadn’t expected his casual brush-off would be the end of things, but he’d needed time to figure out his next move.
They couldn’t afford to have an organization like the CIA as an enemy.
A part of him had half-expected Conrad to go to Eliot next, with his “flag and country” pitch, so Nate wasn’t surprised when Eliot texted him insisting on a meet. Waterfront Park, south end of the trail. He’d agreed immediately. Away from the others, they would be able to talk freely - Nate had some hard questions that needed the kind of answers only Eliot was going to be able to give him. We’re only going to get one shot at this, he thought, opening his eyes as he sensed his hitter’s approach.
“You look like you’ve had the same kind of morning I’ve had,” he said. Eliot looked tense and drawn, his eyes shadowed with deep worry.
“Doubt it,” he countered, leaning against the guardrail himself so that his back was to the water. “General Flores contacted me a few hours ago. Last night ‘persons unknown,’” his forefingers sketched the obligatory air quotes, “extracted Damien Moreau from his cell in the Tombs and took him out of San Lorenzo.”
Moreau … gone … Missing pieces of the puzzle began slamming together in Nate’s head with considerable force. Not a coincidence at all, then. He didn’t have a complete picture - not yet - but things were a great deal more clear than they’d been a few hours ago.
Eliot chuckled ruefully, shaking his head. “And you’re not surprised. Wonderful.”
Nate blew out a quiet breath, turning his gaze back out across the water. “The CIA just tried to recruit me.” He paused, considering the statement. “Us. The team. Director Conrad would ‘like our help,’” now it was his turn to sketch the air quotes. “in stabilizing several of Moreau’s trade routes through the Middle East.”
“Nuclear materials,” Eliot said, his brain immediately making the leap. “Nate-”
“I know,” Nate said, shifting until their eyes met again. “But if the CIA has taken Moreau, then they’ve already got a plan in place.” He smiled slightly, seeing an almost imperceptible flash of something in Eliot’s eyes. “And they’ve likely already accounted for the possibility of assassination,” he finished - letting the younger man know without stating it outright that his preferred course of action was off the table.
Silence fell between the two men; Nate knew that Eliot was sorting and analyzing the data in his own way, using his own unique experiences to see if he could find a way through the problem. “Conrad said they want the team?” he asked finally. “All of us?”
Nate nodded. “That’s why this doesn’t make sense,” he admitted. “There’s something I’m missing - and it’s a critical something.”
“If all they were looking to do was control Da- Moreau,” Eliot said, “they’d target you.”
“Eliot, I can’t control Damien Moreau,” Nate said, letting Eliot’s verbal slip pass unremarked. His worry about what being thrust back into close proximity with Moreau would do to his hitter was an entirely different problem - one he couldn’t share with anyone else.
“I know that,” Eliot said, waving the protest away. “From the Company’s point of view though, it looks like you can - like you’re one of the only people on the planet who could. Put me with you …” His voice trailed off, but Nate was already ahead of him.
“We need to talk to the others.” He saw Eliot flinch as soon as he said the words, but Nate felt absolutely sure about his decision. “I can’t have everybody haring off in different directions on this. Besides - you know the fastest way to get Hardison and Parker in the thick of something is to try and hide it from them.”
“Nate, we can’t run a game on the CIA.”
Nate snorted softly. “Believe it or not, Eliot, I’m not looking to run a game on anybody. Right now my preferred course of action is to drop out of sight for as long as it takes this to blow over.” He sighed. “But if we do that, I want to make damn sure they can’t come after us with anything. I know where my weaknesses are.” He locked eyes with his hitter again. “I’ve got a pretty good idea where yours are. Do you want to even hazard a guess as to the others? Sophie?”
When Eliot didn’t answer, Nate shook his head. “No stupid heroics this time. We’re only going to get one shot at this - we’ve got to make it count.”
*~*~*
Nate made the call, gathering the others and setting Hardison loose on the situation before he and Eliot had even left the park. “Sweep for everything,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Imagine you’re in a world where there’s no such thing as too paranoid.”
Chew on that, he thought, pulling out of the parking lot with Eliot’s truck on his tail. Hardison would be vibrating from the implications of his orders, but Alec Hardison was also the only member of the team Nate knew had actively been recruited by the CIA before today. It was a foregone conclusion that Conrad’s people already had them under surveillance, but Nate also knew that if anyone alive could counter what they’d done, it was Hardison. And if he can’t, it’s not like they’re not expecting us to try and figure a way out of this.
His mind was spinning, going over everything he knew and trying to piece it together with everything he was starting to suspect. The idea of trying to outmaneuver the CIA was daunting enough on its own, but inserting Damien Moreau into the mix threw his relationship with Eliot into question. In the privacy of his own head, Nate could admit to himself that his trust in Eliot wasn’t entirely what it should be. He felt disloyal even thinking it, but Moreau was an issue between them they’d never managed to entirely resolve.
Everybody’s always pushing you to talk about your feelings, he thought, parking his car in its usual stall behind McRory’s. Ironic that this was turning out to be one of those situations where he really should have paid attention.
“Lucy, you got some ’splainin to do,” was Hardison’s greeting when he and Eliot finally entered the loft. The hacker and Sophie were at the desk, staring at the wall of monitors in horror. Parker had retreated halfway up the spiral staircase to Nate’s bedroom, hugging her knees to her chest. Their eyes met and Nate ordered her down with a glance.
Eliot was already taking his usual seat when Nate turned to face the other two. “How’s your paranoia?” he asked, looking at Hardison.
The hacker’s eyes held none of his usual sardonic humor. “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.”
“Nate, what is going on?” Sophie asked, her eyes flashing with a mixture of confusion and fear. Giving into a sudden impulse Nate reached across the desk and covered her hand with his own.
“Run it,” he said, looking at Hardison. “Everything you’ve got - Eliot and I’ll fill in the gaps where we can.”
*~*~*
Sophie managed to keep from pulling free of Nate’s touch, but it took effort. What have you done? She knew it was an unfair reaction on her part - particularly since she saw no hint of the crusader in Nate’s eyes as they talked over everything that had happened - but the CIA was one of those organizations that just automatically kicked her “flight” instinct into overdrive.
Add Damien Moreau into the mix … She agreed with Nate and Eliot’s assessment that the CIA’s plan likely involved them working with Moreau in some capacity, and even the idea of that made her skin crawl.
“Why doesn’t Eliot just kill Moreau?” Parker asked during a break in the discussion. Sophie’s first instinct was to reprimand Parker for the insensitive statement, but even she realized Eliot had probably gotten there well before any of them.
“They’re going to have figured that as Eliot’s likely response to the situation,” Nate said. “I’m not sure neutralizing Moreau gets the CIA off our backs.”
“It’s not off the table, though,” Eliot said gruffly. Sophie flinched at the matter-of-fact statement; Nate’s hand automatically tightened on hers.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Sophie saw an unguarded flash of how much Nate was relying on her to stand by him. I can’t do this without you. He might as well have said the words out loud, for how clearly they were written in his expression.
Exhaling softly, she nodded and turned her hand in his so that they were clasping each other instead of him pinning her down. “It’s not the priority right now,” Nate said, directing his remark to the others.
“What is the priority then?” Hardison asked. “I mean, aside from running away like our pants are on fire?” He raised his remote. “Nate, the amount of shit they’ve laid on you since we shut down psycho frat boy is ungodly. It’s all fast strikes too - no long term surveillance until first thing this morning.”
The screens shifted again. Sophie didn’t entirely understand everything Hardison was showing him, but she and the hacker had talked before Nate and Eliot had arrived. “They want us to think they’ve been watching us for months,” she said. “Instill the idea that there’s nothing Hardison can do to protect us …”
“When it’s the in and out work that plays hell with my protections,” Hardison grumbled. “Now that I know their strategy …”
“It’s too late,” Nate said, but with no real hint of heat or rebuke in the statement. “The big show was because they knew I’d have you looking for whatever was out there to find after I left Conrad. By now they’ve got all the intel they need to bring us in line.”
Parker whimpered at that, half-rising out of her seat. Sophie reached for her automatically, but Eliot was faster - whispering to her until Parker finally relaxed again. Hardison was watching them - clearly worried about the thief - but he flinched suddenly as the harsh buzz of a vibrating smart phone split the air.
Clearly confused, Hardison slid his phone free and checked the screen. “I … um … I gotta take this,” he stammered. Before any of them could react, he was on his feet and headed for the hallway.
Part 2
Authors: scout_lover and telaryn
Artist: alinaandalion
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage.
Characters/Pairings: Team, Damien Moreau, Director Conrad, Sterling, Nana, all canon pairings
Rating: PG-13 leaning over the fence and shaking hands with R
Genre: Gen, drama, angst, team!fic
Warnings/spoilers: Set after the events of The Last Dam Job, the story is directly drawn from events in The Experimental Job.
Word Count: 50,069
Summary: The threat issued by CIA Director Conrad at the end of The Experimental Job proves to be anything but idle. The team is blackmailed into working for the CIA to help gain control of the major nuclear pipeline into Iran. To accomplish this and keep their loved ones safe, they are forced to work with an old enemy towards a common goal.
What the CIA fails to realize is that catching the Leverage team and holding them are usually two different things.
What Nate fails to realize is that the price for squirming free of the government's grasp is likely to be higher than he expected.
Link to Art Post: Here
PROLOGUE
“Nana?”
Caroline Bushnell wiped hastily at her eyes before looking up from the papers she’d been reading. “What is it, honey?” she asked, trying not to snap at the small figure in the kitchen doorway. It’s not his fault.
“Reisha’s throwing up again,” the small boy said. He was clutching a tattered pale-blue blanket; Caroline was always tempted to call him Linus, even though six year old Jeffrey had no idea something as idyllic as Peanuts even existed. “She woke up the baby.”
Startled, Caroline held her breath and listened. She’d been so wrapped up in the letter from DCFS that she’d missed the building chaos upstairs. Sure enough, now that she was paying attention, she could hear her youngest wailing in his crib. “Go wake up Mary,” she said, getting to her feet. “Tell her to come make Makeen a bottle and do what she can to get him settled. I’ll see to Reisha.”
The six year old Afghani girl who’d recently joined their little family was lying in bed, covered in vomit. Her skin was flushed, and her large, dark eyes were glassy with fever. “What’s wrong, baby?” Caroline murmured, laying the back of her hand on the child’s forehead. 102 or 103, she thought. “Keitha honey,” she said, glancing at the room’s other occupant, “fetch me the thermometer from the bathroom, will you?”
“She smells bad,” the eight year old announced gravely.
Caroline ducked her head for a moment, praying for patience. “Do what I tell you, baby,” she said finally. “And bring me a damp washcloth, so we can start cleaning up this mess.”
“Sorry, Nana,” the girl whimpered as Caroline helped her sit up. Her English was still limited, but she was learning quickly. “Sorry.”
“Shhh,” Caroline soothed. “It’s okay, Reisha. Not your fault.” Working steadily, she got the girl cleaned up, bundled into a fresh nightgown and blanket and deposited in the room’s rocking chair with a thermometer under her tongue. “Don’t play with it,” she cautioned, before turning back to the task of stripping down the bed.
“No, Keitha!” she snapped, before the other girl could grab at the stained sheets. “Go wash your hands, then bringing me a clean set from the hallway.” She watched the girl trot off to do as she was told and saw twelve year old Mary in the doorway, bouncing the five month old Makeen on her hip.
“Nana?” the girl asked, “what was that letter on the kitchen table? They’re not taking us away, are they?”
The question caused an immediate ripple of distress among the children - even Reisha, who Caroline would have bet didn’t entirely understand what had been said, but who was sensitive enough to understand a stressful situation when she was around one. “I don’t want to leave!” Keitha wailed, tears filling her large, dark eyes. “Nana, don’t make me go! I’ll be good!”
Once upon a time Caroline would have been able to take immediate charge of the situation. She would have comforted the crying children with one hand and cleaned up the mess with the other - all the while plotting how she was going to make the government drones at DCF back off and leave her family alone.
Now, all she wanted to do was sink to the floor and cry herself. God, what am I going to do? How am I going to keep them from taking my babies?
*~*~*
CHAPTER ONE
“Run it again.”
General Lawrence Flores watched closely as security footage of the previous night’s activities were replayed on the monitor in front of him. He knew his aides - trusted men all - were having trouble believing the truth of their own eyes, but he didn’t have that luxury. While he’d been sleeping, secure in the knowledge that his country was safe from the bandits and terrorists that had held her hostage for so long, a squad of his own men had walked Damien Moreau out of the Tombs.
That’s what really hurts, he thought, watching Moreau glance up at the camera again. The traitors had pulled the exact maneuver Eliot and his men had used to free Flores from the very same prison.
“What do we know, General?”
Flores looked up into the worried eyes of President Michael Vittori. The young man had donned a suit, but his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was only loosely knotted around his neck. “We’ve closed off all known routes out of the country,” he reported, getting respectfully to his feet. “My best men are covering the airports and all of the known checkpoints.”
Vittori’s eyes ticked past him to the monitor - the recording was paused on the moment where Damien Moreau had smirked up at the camera in triumph. “General, how did this happen?”
The truth was heavy in the air. “All the exalted beliefs and high ideals in the world can’t change some people’s basic nature,” Flores said, feeling his heart sink. “Mr. President, I wish I could tell you these men were acting on some sort of agenda that was in conflict with our own, but they were paid. This was a monetary transaction, pure and simple.”
“Not so simple,” Vittori said, and once again Flores was struck by how much wisdom and depth there was to the man. He had a better grasp of the situation than any of them ordinarily would have given him credit for. “What are the odds he intends to retaliate against us?”
Flores thought of Eliot Spencer and his friends - the work they’d done, the sacrifices they’d made so that a tiny country nobody had ever given a damn about had a chance at a real future. “Truthfully, I do not think we are Moreau’s highest priority right now, Mr. President,” he said at last.
*~*~*
He was going to hear about not telling the rest of them. Nate cupped his hands around his coffee and tried not to imagine Eliot was watching him from the shadows. Even though he had a perfectly rational reason for excluding his hitter from this meeting, Nate had to admit that there was a rush in being here by himself, completely exposed.
“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Ford.”
Nate looked up into the face of a man he’d hoped to never see again. ”I hope this has all been worth it, Mr. Ford.”
”Worth what?”
”Attracting my attention.”
“Your employer’s reputation makes it hard to refuse,” he said finally. Nate glanced pointedly at their surroundings. “This seems a little … out in the open, though.”
Smiling coldly, Conrad took the seat opposite him. “You’d feel better in a deserted alley somewhere?”
Nate chuckled softly. “Honestly? I’d feel on more familiar ground.” Judging his coffee cool enough, he took a drink. “This is fine though. What can I do for you, Mr. Conrad?” He flinched slightly, suddenly hearing Eliot screaming a warning in his head. It’s not like I’m making a deal with the Devil himself, he thought, trying to quiet his nerves and dismiss the noise in his skull.
Conrad laced his fingers together on the table. “I need you to finish something you and your team started two years ago,” he said. “A mess you left behind that’s causing my people a great deal of aggravation.”
Two years. It wasn’t hard to see what Conrad wasn’t saying. “Damien Moreau,” Nate said, taking another careful sip of his coffee. “I imagine that did cause quite an uproar at the time.”
“You cut the head off a big enough snake,” Conrad said, “it can do a lot of damage in its death throes. When your people took Damien Moreau out of play, you destabilized numerous underworld pipelines. Including …” He held up a hand to forestall Nate’s retort, “ … significant routes through the Middle East. Places like Iraq, Iran, Pakistan …”
The way he chose to emphasize the words left little doubt as to exactly what sort of pipelines Conrad was referring to. Visions of warlords and terrorists fighting over nuclear materials swirled in his mind, tugging quite insistently at his guilt. You didn’t think about the long-term consequences. Impulse, instinct and doing whatever he had to in order to bring the team through in relatively one piece. Anything more, and it was like the days when he was profiling Eliot. Once the job left his comfort zone, it automatically became somebody else’s problem.
“You’re giving us a great deal more credit than we deserve,” Nate said finally. “Believe me when I say that we got lucky in bringing down Moreau. The idea that we can affect things on an international scale like you’re talking about is patently ridiculous.”
Conrad was silent for a long moment. “We’ve spent a great deal of time and energy discussing you and your people, Mr. Ford. Some of the top minds in the intelligence community have dissected the work you’ve done in the past five years, and frankly there’s only one conclusion we can draw.” He paused, and it was all Nate could do not to shudder at the implications of what he was saying.
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
The skin on the back of Nate’s neck prickled; he was suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that even though he had complied with Conrad’s request that he come to the meeting alone, there was no reason to believe the CIA operative had extended him the same courtesy. “We look a lot better on paper than we do in real life,” he said, swallowing against a throat gone suddenly dry. “Men like Eliot Spencer and Alec Hardison don’t react well to traditional authority.” And don’t even get me started on Parker, he thought. On a good day Nate knew he was lucky when he was able to get Parker to follow a plan.
“Dip into your slush funds,” he went on, draining his coffee. “Trust me - you can find people better suited to what you need done than us if you just look hard enough.”
Conrad’s eyes followed him as he got to his feet. “Your country needs you, Mr. Ford.”
Nate smiled bitterly. “No. You really don’t.”
*~*~*
Eliot swallowed hard as he stared down at the text message on his phone. Sunlight poured in warm waves through the windows of his kitchen, but he felt only a heavy chill as he read the words again. They were simple, terse, and heralded nothing good.
We need to talk. Now.
The text was from Lawrence Flores.
Dread started a slow crawl through his stomach. He and Flores had stayed in semi-regular contact since San Lorenzo, the man keeping him informed on the progress and outcome of Damien’s … Moreau’s … various trials or simply updating him on San Lorenzo’s latest step toward maturity as a country. Flores seemed to understand what it meant to him to know that, for once, his involvement in “regime change” had truly been for the good and was actually yielding positive results. But he knew with a sick certainty that this wouldn’t be one of those conversations. He sighed heavily and bowed his head, slipping his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eyes as a headache suddenly blossomed behind them.
Shit.
For a moment he was badly tempted just to delete the message and try to forget he’d ever gotten it. Moreau wasn’t his problem any longer; whatever trouble the bastard was brewing now belonged to San Lorenzo. Except that he didn’t really believe that. Some part of him would always bear a share of Damien’s guilt, and a share of responsibility for his crimes. So no matter how badly he didn’t want to hear whatever Flores had to say, he knew he didn’t really have a choice. And Flores, damn him, knew it, too.
Fuck.
He lifted his head and shook his hair out of his face. Fine. He went to the refrigerator and got himself a beer, then made his way to his kitchen table and sat down, reaching for his computer and pulling it to him. He hesitated for a moment, caught somewhere between fear and resignation, then swore again and opened it, launching Skype and selecting Flores from his contacts.
The man answered immediately; clearly he’d been waiting.
“Spencer.”
Even seated, Eliot stiffened into a military brace without thinking, sitting up straight and lifting his chin. Then his brain kicked in and he relaxed slightly, sitting back in his chair and locking his gaze on Flores. The man looked exhausted, his dark eyes dull and shadowed, his face deeply lined. His hair and shirt were rumpled, sleeves rolled up messily over his forearms, his customary tie nowhere in evidence.
Anxiety twisted another knot in Eliot’s gut. “General,” he greeted, unable to stop the familiar address. He knew Flores wasn’t a general any more, but he’d never be able to think of him as anything else.
Flores nodded slightly. “Thank you for responding so quickly,” he said quietly. “I am sorry for disturbing you like this, but I fear I have … difficult news.”
Eliot stiffened again, clenching his hands into tight fists in his lap. Damn, sometimes he hated being right.
“Moreau is gone.”
Eliot blinked and stared rather stupidly at Flores, not quite understanding his words. “Gone?” he rasped dazedly, wondering if the man had contacted him to tell him of Damien’s death. And how, exactly, was he supposed to feel about that? “As in … dead?”
“I wish,” Flores said in a low, harsh voice, his bitterness obvious. He had always argued fiercely for Damien’s execution, but President Vittori had argued just as adamantly against it, declaring that he would not have his people greeting their new future with blood on their hands. It was one of the few true points of contention between the two men.
Just now, though, that did nothing to help Eliot understand what was going on here and now. If Damien wasn’t dead, then how could he be- ?
“No,” he gasped as understanding, sudden and terrible, hit him. “No!”
“I am truly sorry,” Flores breathed softly, sadly. “I was certain-”
“No!” Eliot shouted furiously, lunging to his feet and slamming his hands onto the table, his chair falling to the floor behind him. “You’re telling me he escaped? How the hell could you let that happen? I warned you! Goddamn it, I warned you!” He struck the table again, then turned away sharply before he took his rage out on his computer.
Damien had escaped. It was his worst nightmare come true. Somehow, the bastard had found a way out of the Tombs and was now free-
Free to seek his revenge. On them.
All his breath left him in a hard, painful rush, and his world went horribly cold and dark. Damien’s face, arrogant and cruel, flashed before his eyes, driving a spike of nausea straight through him. Damien knew them, knew who they were and what they’d done to him.
And Damien Moreau never forgot.
He turned slowly back to the computer, to the man staring out at him from the screen. “How?” he snarled, his rage turning dangerously cold within him. “How the fuck could you let this happen? I warned you-”
“I know,” Flores sighed, looking and sounding as if he hadn’t slept in days. Years. “And we took every precaution you suggested and several that did not occur to you. We used only the most highly trained men to guard him and rotated them frequently so no one would be under his influence for too long. We made certain none were in financial difficulty or suffering any family or personal problems so that he would find no weakness to exploit. I selected every man myself.”
“Then what the hell happened?” Eliot ground out.
Flores exhaled heavily and bowed his head, shaking it slowly. “We are still working on that,” he said. “But from what we have learned so far, there was … a rather large sum of money involved.” He winced deeply, as if the words caused him physical pain. “Someone bought a handful of my men, who then got Moreau out the same way you and your team got me out- These men betrayed me, betrayed their country, for money,” he spat bitterly.
“And where are they now?” Eliot asked hoarsely, too caught up in his fear for his team just now to sympathize with Flores.
The man shrugged and shook his head. “We … do not know,” he said thickly, the words seeming almost to choke him. “We shut down all known access points into and out of the country as soon as we discovered he was gone, but to no avail. We have learned there was a helicopter waiting at an old deserted airstrip in the mountains, and that was almost certainly how he was taken out of the country. Along with the men who took him,” he added pointedly.
Eliot just stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. Damien had paid off the guards and arranged for a helicopter. Just as he had warned-
Just as he had warned.
He frowned and moved closer to the computer, staring in confusion at Flores. “How?” he asked tersely. “Where did he get the money? Every law enforcement agency in the world’s been going through his books, freezing his assets, confiscating anything that has his name on it. Hell, Hardison’s been through his accounts, and as far as we can tell the bastard didn’t have five dollars to his name. How the fuck did he finance an escape?” A sudden thought hit him. “Ribera-”
“It wasn’t Ribera,” Flores said hastily. “Believe me, we … looked into that.” Something in the man’s tone sent a chill through Eliot, and he decided he didn’t want to know any details. “He had nothing to do with this. In fact,” Flores smiled grimly, “he is as terrified as anyone of the prospect of Moreau being free after all the evidence he has given against the man.”
Eliot sighed and ran a hand through his hair. If not Ribera, then who? Chapman was dead, he’d seen to that himself. And most of Damien’s more competent lieutenants were rotting in various prisons around the world. The organization he - they - had so carefully built was in ruins, its carcass picked over until nothing but bones remained. He thought briefly of Juliana, Damien’s wife, but immediately discounted her. She’d always greatly enjoyed the status and wealth that came with being Mrs. Damien Moreau, but there was no way in hell she’d risk a prison sentence for him. She was too busy living it up as the infamously wronged wife on the French Riviera.
“Then how?” he asked tiredly. “Damien doesn’t have any money or any organization. He’s been under constant surveillance since we handed him to you. How could he put something like this together?”
“There is your answer,” Flores answered, a fine, cold edge of anger seeping into his voice. “He didn’t do it. From what we’ve been able to piece together, this was an outside operation, and the men who pulled it off were highly trained professionals. None of this originated in San Lorenzo, or with Moreau.” He lifted his head and his dark eyes flashed with a barely-leashed fury. “This wasn’t really an escape at all,” he said in a low, hard voice. “This was an extraction.”
Eliot could only stare at the computer screen in sick horror.
*~*~*
They talked for hours, going over every detail, sifting through what little evidence Flores and his forces had been able to uncover. Flores showed him the security footage of the “escape,” and he watched it until he thought his eyes would bleed, shuddering repeatedly at the smirk Damien threw at the cameras. Eventually President Vittori joined them, though he certainly had more urgent responsibilities just now. He looked every bit as worn and haggard as Flores, and was heartbreakingly sincere in his apologies to Eliot.
“Your people gave us the gift of our freedom,” he said, voice and eyes brimming with sorrow and shame. “You placed a great trust in our ability to bring this man to justice, and we have failed. Worse, I fear our failure has placed your team in grave danger. On behalf of San Lorenzo, I apologize.”
Eliot understood then why Flores served him so devotedly. Sophie had been right about Vittori all along.
And then Eliot had to smile when the man asked about “Rebecca.”
By the time he ended the call they were all hoarse, wrung out and no nearer an answer than when they’d started. Or … not any kind of answer that Eliot cared to speak out loud. Yet. But so much of what he’d seen and heard was so familiar. The tactics used to extract Moreau were ones he’d used himself countless times. And not just as a retrieval specialist. He’d seen that same suspicion in Flores’ eyes.
Eliot closed his computer and sat back in his chair, staring into nothing. Some part of him knew the sun was still shining, but he could see only shadows. Every one of them bore Damien’s face, and they murmured to him in the smooth, seductive voice he knew so well.
He’d thought he was free, thought he’d finally found a way both to lay his past to rest and make amends for it. He’d been so wrong. He should’ve killed Damien before they’d left San Lorenzo; it would’ve been so easy. He’d considered it, and still wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t done it. Except that, somehow, he’d let these people - Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Parker - convince him that that Eliot Spencer was gone.
You’re not that man any more.
He’d never loved Sophie more than he had at that moment, when she’d looked up at him with such knowing and such faith, and said those words. Believed those words. Believed in him.
You’re not that man any more.
Except that he’d proven her wrong in a warehouse in DC. And proven Nate right.
He might have to be, to get us in.
Or to save their lives. To protect these people, he’d be whatever he damned well had to be, do whatever he damned well had to do.
He was that man. He’d always be that man. And Damien, God damn him, knew it. That smirk hadn’t just been for Flores. The bastard had known Flores would call him, would share that footage with him, and had used that knowledge to taunt him. Challenge him. I do know you.
Eliot swallowed hard and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the shadows mocking him from the kitchen. From the past.
He had to talk to Nate. And this time he was going to kill Damien Moreau - anyone else’s moral qualms be damned.
*~*~*
The timing wasn’t a coincidence. How could it be? Nate leaned against the guard rail, and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind off the harbor play across his face. Men like Conrad weren’t used to taking ‘no’ for an answer. Nate hadn’t expected his casual brush-off would be the end of things, but he’d needed time to figure out his next move.
They couldn’t afford to have an organization like the CIA as an enemy.
A part of him had half-expected Conrad to go to Eliot next, with his “flag and country” pitch, so Nate wasn’t surprised when Eliot texted him insisting on a meet. Waterfront Park, south end of the trail. He’d agreed immediately. Away from the others, they would be able to talk freely - Nate had some hard questions that needed the kind of answers only Eliot was going to be able to give him. We’re only going to get one shot at this, he thought, opening his eyes as he sensed his hitter’s approach.
“You look like you’ve had the same kind of morning I’ve had,” he said. Eliot looked tense and drawn, his eyes shadowed with deep worry.
“Doubt it,” he countered, leaning against the guardrail himself so that his back was to the water. “General Flores contacted me a few hours ago. Last night ‘persons unknown,’” his forefingers sketched the obligatory air quotes, “extracted Damien Moreau from his cell in the Tombs and took him out of San Lorenzo.”
Moreau … gone … Missing pieces of the puzzle began slamming together in Nate’s head with considerable force. Not a coincidence at all, then. He didn’t have a complete picture - not yet - but things were a great deal more clear than they’d been a few hours ago.
Eliot chuckled ruefully, shaking his head. “And you’re not surprised. Wonderful.”
Nate blew out a quiet breath, turning his gaze back out across the water. “The CIA just tried to recruit me.” He paused, considering the statement. “Us. The team. Director Conrad would ‘like our help,’” now it was his turn to sketch the air quotes. “in stabilizing several of Moreau’s trade routes through the Middle East.”
“Nuclear materials,” Eliot said, his brain immediately making the leap. “Nate-”
“I know,” Nate said, shifting until their eyes met again. “But if the CIA has taken Moreau, then they’ve already got a plan in place.” He smiled slightly, seeing an almost imperceptible flash of something in Eliot’s eyes. “And they’ve likely already accounted for the possibility of assassination,” he finished - letting the younger man know without stating it outright that his preferred course of action was off the table.
Silence fell between the two men; Nate knew that Eliot was sorting and analyzing the data in his own way, using his own unique experiences to see if he could find a way through the problem. “Conrad said they want the team?” he asked finally. “All of us?”
Nate nodded. “That’s why this doesn’t make sense,” he admitted. “There’s something I’m missing - and it’s a critical something.”
“If all they were looking to do was control Da- Moreau,” Eliot said, “they’d target you.”
“Eliot, I can’t control Damien Moreau,” Nate said, letting Eliot’s verbal slip pass unremarked. His worry about what being thrust back into close proximity with Moreau would do to his hitter was an entirely different problem - one he couldn’t share with anyone else.
“I know that,” Eliot said, waving the protest away. “From the Company’s point of view though, it looks like you can - like you’re one of the only people on the planet who could. Put me with you …” His voice trailed off, but Nate was already ahead of him.
“We need to talk to the others.” He saw Eliot flinch as soon as he said the words, but Nate felt absolutely sure about his decision. “I can’t have everybody haring off in different directions on this. Besides - you know the fastest way to get Hardison and Parker in the thick of something is to try and hide it from them.”
“Nate, we can’t run a game on the CIA.”
Nate snorted softly. “Believe it or not, Eliot, I’m not looking to run a game on anybody. Right now my preferred course of action is to drop out of sight for as long as it takes this to blow over.” He sighed. “But if we do that, I want to make damn sure they can’t come after us with anything. I know where my weaknesses are.” He locked eyes with his hitter again. “I’ve got a pretty good idea where yours are. Do you want to even hazard a guess as to the others? Sophie?”
When Eliot didn’t answer, Nate shook his head. “No stupid heroics this time. We’re only going to get one shot at this - we’ve got to make it count.”
*~*~*
Nate made the call, gathering the others and setting Hardison loose on the situation before he and Eliot had even left the park. “Sweep for everything,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Imagine you’re in a world where there’s no such thing as too paranoid.”
Chew on that, he thought, pulling out of the parking lot with Eliot’s truck on his tail. Hardison would be vibrating from the implications of his orders, but Alec Hardison was also the only member of the team Nate knew had actively been recruited by the CIA before today. It was a foregone conclusion that Conrad’s people already had them under surveillance, but Nate also knew that if anyone alive could counter what they’d done, it was Hardison. And if he can’t, it’s not like they’re not expecting us to try and figure a way out of this.
His mind was spinning, going over everything he knew and trying to piece it together with everything he was starting to suspect. The idea of trying to outmaneuver the CIA was daunting enough on its own, but inserting Damien Moreau into the mix threw his relationship with Eliot into question. In the privacy of his own head, Nate could admit to himself that his trust in Eliot wasn’t entirely what it should be. He felt disloyal even thinking it, but Moreau was an issue between them they’d never managed to entirely resolve.
Everybody’s always pushing you to talk about your feelings, he thought, parking his car in its usual stall behind McRory’s. Ironic that this was turning out to be one of those situations where he really should have paid attention.
“Lucy, you got some ’splainin to do,” was Hardison’s greeting when he and Eliot finally entered the loft. The hacker and Sophie were at the desk, staring at the wall of monitors in horror. Parker had retreated halfway up the spiral staircase to Nate’s bedroom, hugging her knees to her chest. Their eyes met and Nate ordered her down with a glance.
Eliot was already taking his usual seat when Nate turned to face the other two. “How’s your paranoia?” he asked, looking at Hardison.
The hacker’s eyes held none of his usual sardonic humor. “It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.”
“Nate, what is going on?” Sophie asked, her eyes flashing with a mixture of confusion and fear. Giving into a sudden impulse Nate reached across the desk and covered her hand with his own.
“Run it,” he said, looking at Hardison. “Everything you’ve got - Eliot and I’ll fill in the gaps where we can.”
*~*~*
Sophie managed to keep from pulling free of Nate’s touch, but it took effort. What have you done? She knew it was an unfair reaction on her part - particularly since she saw no hint of the crusader in Nate’s eyes as they talked over everything that had happened - but the CIA was one of those organizations that just automatically kicked her “flight” instinct into overdrive.
Add Damien Moreau into the mix … She agreed with Nate and Eliot’s assessment that the CIA’s plan likely involved them working with Moreau in some capacity, and even the idea of that made her skin crawl.
“Why doesn’t Eliot just kill Moreau?” Parker asked during a break in the discussion. Sophie’s first instinct was to reprimand Parker for the insensitive statement, but even she realized Eliot had probably gotten there well before any of them.
“They’re going to have figured that as Eliot’s likely response to the situation,” Nate said. “I’m not sure neutralizing Moreau gets the CIA off our backs.”
“It’s not off the table, though,” Eliot said gruffly. Sophie flinched at the matter-of-fact statement; Nate’s hand automatically tightened on hers.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Sophie saw an unguarded flash of how much Nate was relying on her to stand by him. I can’t do this without you. He might as well have said the words out loud, for how clearly they were written in his expression.
Exhaling softly, she nodded and turned her hand in his so that they were clasping each other instead of him pinning her down. “It’s not the priority right now,” Nate said, directing his remark to the others.
“What is the priority then?” Hardison asked. “I mean, aside from running away like our pants are on fire?” He raised his remote. “Nate, the amount of shit they’ve laid on you since we shut down psycho frat boy is ungodly. It’s all fast strikes too - no long term surveillance until first thing this morning.”
The screens shifted again. Sophie didn’t entirely understand everything Hardison was showing him, but she and the hacker had talked before Nate and Eliot had arrived. “They want us to think they’ve been watching us for months,” she said. “Instill the idea that there’s nothing Hardison can do to protect us …”
“When it’s the in and out work that plays hell with my protections,” Hardison grumbled. “Now that I know their strategy …”
“It’s too late,” Nate said, but with no real hint of heat or rebuke in the statement. “The big show was because they knew I’d have you looking for whatever was out there to find after I left Conrad. By now they’ve got all the intel they need to bring us in line.”
Parker whimpered at that, half-rising out of her seat. Sophie reached for her automatically, but Eliot was faster - whispering to her until Parker finally relaxed again. Hardison was watching them - clearly worried about the thief - but he flinched suddenly as the harsh buzz of a vibrating smart phone split the air.
Clearly confused, Hardison slid his phone free and checked the screen. “I … um … I gotta take this,” he stammered. Before any of them could react, he was on his feet and headed for the hallway.
Part 2