Title: The Deserter
Author: Pacacapa
Rating: T
Genre: Drama, angst
Length: 8,200
Summary: Sequel to "The Enforcer." After his encounter with the Leverage Team, there is no doubt in Eliot's mind that he fully controlled the situation. What he failed to realize was that victory or not, you don't walk away from Nate Ford unchanged. AU. Major spoilers through the end of Season Three.
Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage or any of its characters; I'm just borrowing them for fun and no profit.
AN: I thought "The Enforcer" was dark… but this is much worse. Proceed at your own risk.
The soothing rumble of the pickup truck rolled over Eliot's ears as he sat parked in a grassy field just two minutes away from Moreau's mansion. He had just gotten back to San Lorenzo after that job with Nate Ford, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to a meeting with his boss. He liked Damien, really he did. They were actually pretty good friends, and there was a lot of trust between them. Much more than Eliot had found in a long time.
Which made this decision so much harder.
If Eliot had been working for anyone else, he would have quit the instant the $32 million had hit his account. After all, even hitters had dreams, and Eliot would really appreciate a six month vacation to tour some of the nicer parts of the world and enjoy their food. He'd spent more time than he cared to remember in the forests, run-down back alleys, prisons, and warlord fortresses in virtually every country in Asia, the Middle East, South America, and Europe. Now that he had cash on his hands, he could actually appreciate some of the exotic locations he had passed through.
But deep down, he knew he was still relatively young, definitely too young to retire. There was only so much happiness to be found traveling the world without purpose. Not that Eliot considered himself a very happy person, but all things considered, he was pretty much content. He had to go through far more than his fair share of pain and struggles to get to where he was, so why jeopardize it now on a whim?
For now, he would stick with Damien and keep the money as a backup plan. Or retirement fund. Or really anything he might need if he ever did decide to leave Damien.
Eliot shifted the truck back into drive and pulled back onto the newly paved road. He'd be a little late for his meeting now, but he had needed the time to think. Damien would forgive him - he knew Eliot was always punctual so one slip up wouldn't be a problem - but now he would have to deal with Chapman's griping.
So what if Eliot got special treatment? He was reliable and had a nearly flawless record - something Chapman hadn't managed to achieve yet. Sure, Eliot had become friends with Damien during his time in Croatia, but he had seen Damien go so far as to execute former friends who displeased him, so Eliot didn't maintain any illusions about special treatment. Any favor he had from Damien came entirely because he was consistently the best enforcer Damien had ever employed.
Chapman liked to forget that. Eliot liked to remind him. And the other senior officers in Damien's employ saw them both as eager, untested dogs yapping for their master's attention.
As his truck rolled unimpeded through the gate, the guards all stiffened slightly and fell silent. Eliot mostly ignored them, lost in his own thoughts.
Yeah, those self-important "businessmen" were the one thing he honestly hated about working for Moreau. He could only stand so much of their condescension. He was one of the most feared enforcers in San Lorenzo - and the world, for that matter - and yet they treated him like their errand boy. Damien alone seemed to appreciate all of the blood and sweat he put into this job, and that was why Eliot avoided official meetings like the plague. Damien was usually pretty sympathetic to his dislike of meetings - "understanding Eliot's need to be hands on" or something - but today was a special case. The unexpected demise of Farrell meant Eliot would have to give a full report before Damien and all the senior officers.
Eliot pulled the truck into his parking place and slammed the door, not bothering to lock it. If someone touched his truck, there would be blood, and everyone knew it, so he didn't have to worry about anything happening while he was gone.
As he approached the grand double doors of Damien's villa, the soldiers standing by pulled them open and stood at attention. Eliot made his way through the house to the grand meeting room, which already had voices filtering out of it. Without ceremony, he pulled the door open and strode over to his seat.
Gomez, a high-ranking San Lorenzan official, and Allen, a UK-based smuggler, seemed to be engaged in yet another argument. Four other officials showed varying degrees of interest, but Damien seemed intent on listening. Chapman, Vitale, and a couple of the other enforcers who were in the country had also gathered.
Chapman, unsurprisingly, was the first to notice Eliot's entrance. "Looks like the high and mighty Eliot Spencer finally deigns to show up."
"Shut up." He took his seat at the table, just two chairs down from Moreau.
"Ooh, touchy. Ticked off that Farrell managed to hide his betrayal from you for that long?"
"Drop it, Chapman." Vitale was in charge of keeping San Lorenzo's crime regulated and beneficial to Moreau, and Chapman usually got called in to support him when there was trouble. Eliot didn't envy Vitale having to put up with Chapman day in and day out, but one of the perks of being the best meant he got to keep the international contracts to himself. "We've heard enough of your crap already."
Chapman ignored Vitale to focus his insults on Eliot. "You think you're so special. You wouldn't get away with half of these stunts if you had earned your top spot."
Eliot was in no mood for this today. "Just keep talking and see what happens." But he fixed his eyes on Damien, silently begging the man to get on with the meeting.
"You didn't even recover the money, did you—"
"That's enough." Damien finally pinned Chapman with a glare that shut him up. "It's a good thing Eliot was there to make an example of Farrell before he managed to disappear."
The rest of the room gradually quieted down, and Eliot knew it was his turn to give the report. Naturally, he left out all mention of Ford and his team, and what had happened to the money. Once he was done, Damien nodded his acceptance.
"Very good. You probably deserve some time off after that, but I've got another job lined up that needs taken care of this afternoon."
Half of Eliot wanted to delegate this to Vitale or one of the other enforcers, but maybe more work would help him get back into a routine. Get his mind off of all the options available to him and keep from making an impulsive mistake. "What needs done?"
"Kyle Jordan - you remember him, the chemical engineer downtown? He's been holding out on me, diluting the shipments but still demanding the same amount of pay. Make an example of him."
"Yes sir." With one last nasty glare for Chapman, Eliot sauntered out of the room. He was tense with frustration and he needed to get out of there, but there was no way he would let anyone else know. Once the door finally provided a barrier between the probing stares of the other enforcers and senior officials, Eliot allowed himself to relax. He always felt better around the soldiers, fighting men who were willing to do their own work and get things done. They had the toughness to back up their pride and a healthy dose of respect for anyone who deserved it. In short, they were real people who knew their places, worked hard, and saw results.
Men like Eliot.
The guards at the door nodded to him on his way out and he nodded back. Once he got back to his truck, he turned the country radio station up as loud as his ears could handle and didn't bother with his seatbelt before pulling out of the small parking lot and onto the road back to the city.
Hopefully some work would help restore normalcy.
An hour or so before sunset, Eliot shifted just slightly to get a pesky little branch out of a now-tender spot on his back. He honestly hated neighborhoods because there were few places to hide, and that was why he had ended up lying on his stomach under a painful row of short bushes with prickly leaves. Give him some reclusive warlord's compound or really anything out in the wilderness and he was a ghost, but neighborhoods? Ugh. They were why he stuck to international jobs. Terminating Damien's cast-offs in San Lorenzo was Chapman's job.
Unfortunately, this time, Damien wanted it done right. And that meant he needed Eliot to handle it. Chapman enjoyed this work a little too much and tended to be very messy, leaving Vitale to handle all the cleanup. Witnesses, evidence, and so on. Besides, he liked brute force and big shows of violence.
Eliot's cool professionalism was much better for handling delicate matters, and besides, everyone knew Eliot was more dangerous anyway. Damien helped Eliot build that reputation specifically so the enforcer could use that to Damien's benefit. Too bad Chapman had been too stupid to take advice…
When the sleek black car pulled into the driveway across the street, Eliot stiffened. As expected, Jordan was alone as he made his way into the two-story, obviously upper class home. Thirty seconds later, Eliot low-crawled out from under the bushes, wincing as the leaves grabbed his shirt and scratched his skin. After taking a minute to brush the dirt and miscellaneous flora off of himself, Eliot marched purposefully up to the front door. A quick peek through the glass told him no one was in sight.
Eliot set to work picking the lock. This was another reason he didn't like jobs in a city - locks weren't his strong suit. No self-respecting thief would be unable to handle them, but he would much rather take a more direct route. Through one of the many glass windows, for example. Unfortunately, that would not be appropriate for this job. The lock finally clicked open and Eliot slipped inside, carefully checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.
He had memorized the blueprints on the way over, so he made his way toward what he knew would be Jordan's study. The marble floors desperately wanted to squeak under Eliot's boots, but he took great care to keep that from happening. Another problem with jobs like this.
Once he made it to the room, he cracked a smile. There was Jordan, still in his professional suit and tie, unloading his briefcase onto the desk. He wouldn't be a problem at all. Silently, Eliot opened the door and stepped in.
It took the other man a minute to notice him. As soon as he did, the papers slid right out of his hands and fluttered to the floor, forgotten. Eliot could see the absolute terror in his eyes. "Mr. Spencer… what… what do you want with me?"
"I think you know."
He stepped backward, but tripped over the briefcase. His hands fidgeted with anything in reach and his eyes never left Eliot… or more specifically, they never left the hand now crawling toward the knife at his belt. "No, wait! I can explain… I'll pay it all back, I swear!"
Eliot drew his knife, slowly and deliberately. He always liked it when targets tried to talk him out of what he was there to do, as if he hadn't heard every excuse a dozen times.
"Whatever Moreau wants, he has it! Please, my wife and kids…"
"You won't have to worry about them either." Eliot took a menacing step forward, now within reaching distance of the frantic man in front of him.
His mouth fell open as he realized what Eliot was implying. "Leave them alone, you monster!" That stung more than it should have, but an instant later, Jordan inhaled deeply and Eliot realized he was about to scream a warning. Almost instantly the knife was in his throat while Eliot's empty hand clamped over Jordan's mouth. Jordan thrashed weakly, but Eliot held him still until all life was gone from his eyes.
After wiping the blade clean on Jordan's no-longer-perfect suit, Eliot slipped back out of the study. The wife, he knew, was doing laundry at the moment. He had heard her when he came in. As he approached the laundry room, Eliot could hear her singing as if there were music playing. A few more steps and he saw why - she was wearing headphones and was completely oblivious.
She was pretty, and obviously significantly younger than her husband. Her back faced him now as she lifted each article of clothing in turn and folded it up, carefully placing it on one of the several piles she had formed. Little girl shirts went in one pile, pajamas in another, and then middle-school boy clothes in another pile. She seemed genuinely happy, humming along to an upbeat tune and swaying a little as she worked.
Eliot snapped his attention back to the task at hand. He knew all too well that if he let himself humanize his targets, he wouldn't be able to get the job done.
Marks, not people.
Not people.
He only wished she didn't have such long blonde hair cascading down her back.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Eliot covered her mouth and ran his blade cleanly across her throat. As quickly as he had struck, he slipped away. Watching her die right now just left a sick feeling in his stomach. He had a sinking feeling he would have a hard time finishing this job…
Eliot took a deep breath to calm himself before moving on. Two more targets, and they could be anywhere in the house, or out in the backyard for that matter. He sincerely hoped that wasn't the case; he was ready to be done and get out of here. Something just felt really wrong today, and he couldn't out his finger on it.
Suddenly, voices echoed from somewhere down a hall to his right. "Betcha can't catch me, Noah!" A little girl, no more than six years old, sprinted into view.
"Oh yeah I can!" A boy of about ten followed right on her heels, but stopped abruptly when he spotted Eliot. "Carrie, come back here."
"Who's that?"
"Just get behind me." His eyes were wide but his tone was even. Noah moved his sister behind him and stared up at Eliot. "Where's mom?"
Carrie peeked her head out from behind her brother, and her eyes were equally wide. Her knuckles squeezed the life out of her brother's shoulders.
"He's hurting kids."
As soon as Nate had said those words, Eliot had known Farrell had to go down. But now what was he doing? Exactly the same thing. Here he stood, about to murder two innocent children because their father was stupid enough to cheat Damien.
Sure, Eliot knew Damien's policy was to kill the entire family for an offense. It was a very effective threat that kept his underlings in line. But since Eliot spent most of his time out of the country, it had actually been over a year since he had been in the position of having to exterminate a whole family. The thought of it now made his stomach flip, thanks in no small part to Nate Ford.
"You're a monster," his mind told him again. Why did that phrase have so much power over him now? It wasn't like he had changed at all. He had helped Ford purely to further his own ends. He wanted the money. Keeping Farrell from hurting kids was just a bonus…
Who was he kidding? He had known he would help the instant those words had been spoken. The money was just so he could retain some illusion of coldheartedness in front of Ford's team. And the fact that he had thought of it as an illusion should have triggered a warning somewhere in his head: he was letting himself start to care about who was hurt because of his actions. Ford had seen right through him and manipulated him into killing Farrell and letting Ford's people go.
Eliot's hand tightened around his blade and he steeled his nerves. Ford could not control him like this. He was dangerous and deadly and one of the most feared men on the planet. He wouldn't shy away from doing his job, no matter how unpleasant it was. He couldn't, or he would lose all respect.
If he let these two live, he might as well walk away right now.
Eliot closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. He knew what he had to do.
TBC...