Title: The Dragon Tongue Job
Author: Trapper Creek Kaniac
Fandom: Leverage
Characters: Eliot-centric with the team, a minor character or two, and various OCs running around.
Pairing(s): Eliot/Sophie
Rating: T
Warning(s): Language because, well, it's Eliot; violence/whumpage/mild torture.
Summary: While on a job, a very distinctive scent reminds Eliot of the time he learned the hard way to never tell a Chechen his sister has a nice smile.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to the show's awesome creators John Rogers and Chris Downey, I am only having some fun with them. I do not own Leverage and am not affiliated with the show other than being an obsessed, ahem, devoted fan. That concludes our regularly scheduled disclaimer, so make yourself comfortable and join the fun!
Author's Note: Written as a gift for 2012 Leverage Exchange. Missing scene from the Beantown Bailout Job... my first attempt at writing Eliot/Sophie; hope you enjoy!
"We're gonna have to make this one up as we go." Nate's voice echoed through the comms.
"What are we going to do?" Parker looked worried as she glanced around.
"Eliot," Sophie turned to Eliot. "The Sheepdog isn't going to work anymore, you'll need to be the Fixer."
They were in the middle of running a con on the Irish mob and a miscalculation on their part was quickly derailing the plan. Instead of going to the cops to testify, Leary showed up at the waterfront warehouse because hewas the boss, not O'Hare, like they'd previously thought. The whole con had been built around Brandon O'Hare being the boss, but now...
"Nate's gonna be flyin' blind. I got to get in there in case this all goes south. This place is gonna be crawling with muscle, I can get them to take me directly to their boss."
Sophie frowned. "Eliot, this is the mob we're talking about... they're allgoing to have guns."
"I know, that's why I need to be in there."
"What about we bring out own guns?" Hardison suggested.
Eliot stiffened and an uncomfortable look crossed his face. Picking up a gun again... He didn't want to think about that.
"But Eliot doesn't like guns." Parker supplied.
"No, not real guns," Hardison explained. "Remember my brilliant detonator and those little squibs that sound like gunshots we used on Leary? Hold up a gun and press the detonator in your pocket and no one's going to know the difference-"
"The key to drawing attention is a dramatic entrance..." Sophie mused, warming up to the idea. She didlove a good death scene.
"We just need to put the squibs on Eliot," Hardison finished.
"Wait, what? No! I ain't wearing those things! What if they go off?"
"Eliot," Sophie said, "unless you can think of a better plan and fast, this is the only way."
Eliot glared at Hardison. Wearing explosives wasn't exactly his idea of protecting the team but if that was what he had to do, then he'd just have to swallow his pride. He did kind of have to hand it to the hacker for coming up with something that was kind of brilliant (never, ever, under any circumstances would he mention that to Hardison).
"Alright," the hitter finally relented. "Are you sure those things are safe?"
"Absitively posolutely."
"If you so much as set off a car alarm and these things go off, I will personally beat you to a pulp."
Hardison nodded.
"We'll need something for the blood." Sophie thought aloud. "It won't be convincing without it. Parker, do you still have those ketchup packs from earlier?"
"Yeah, I'll get them."
"Hardison, get the squibs."
Eliot watched, arms crossed, as Sophie eagerly directed Parker and Hardison. She was entirely too excited about the prospect of his death, even if it was all supposed to be an act. He hoped like hell this plan worked because otherwise they'd be trying to talk themselves out of a date with the Boston Harbor. There was no such thing as an empty threat with the mob.
"Here, I'll do it," Sophie said, taking the squibs from Hardison. Parker handed Sophie the ketchup packs and returned to her position of leaning on the car next to Hardison.
"Take off your shirt," Sophie commanded.
Eliot couldn't help a flirtatious smirk. "Yes, ma'am." He pulled the dark brown Henley over his head, revealing a navy blue wife-beater tank. The slight chill in the air from being near the harbor made him glad for the extra layer.
Sophie moved closer, filling his personal space. She nimbly began to attach the miniature explosives to his undershirt. Eliot couldn't help but notice the way her fingertips danced over his chest. He watched as she carefully secured the small ketchup packets of "blood" over each of the three squibs. Though she worked quickly, her fingers seemed to linger an extra second.
Sophie was impossibly close and Eliot found his mind starting to wander into extremely dangerous territory. Damn it, he mentally chided himself, pushing the traitorous thoughts away. This was Sophie, not to mention the fact that they were in the middle of a fucking job. One that could quite possibly get them all killed...
He tried to restore his focus and steady himself by drawing in a deep breath. Instead his nostrils filled with the intoxicating scent of the grifter's perfume.
It was a very distinctive perfume; Sophie only wore it when she was Annie Croy.
It had been years since the first time Eliot had smelled that particular perfume. A shiver ran down his spine as the memory flashed in his mind, as clear as if it had just happened the day before.
Oklahoma, 2005
Eliot was relaxing on his couch and watching football, a cold beer in his hand. He was currently in between jobs and enjoying the brief vacation. He took a swallow of his beer and just as the Sooners' wide receiver was scoring a touchdown, his phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the TV screen, he pulled the phone out of his pocket, flipped it open and answered gruffly.
"Yeah?"
"Spencer, I have a job for you. If you want it, you know where to meet me." The voice of his contact was rough and European accented.
The line went dead. He took another long swallow of his beer.
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
The next afternoon found Eliot stepping off a plane and onto Russian soil. Given the time difference, it was actually very early evening in Izhevsk, Russia. The sun would be setting in a couple hours or so.
He gave a cursory glance around the airport crowd as he made his way to the baggage claim, checking to see if anyone or anything stood out. Nothing did. It seemed none of Gutman's hired henchmen had followed him this time. Gutman was still pissed at him for the Sapphire Monkey incident and had been sending second-rate hitters to kill him ever since. So far none of them had gotten lucky enough to inflict any serious injuries, just a few bruises, and once, an almost sprained rib.
This time a rare, antique burled elm music box brought Eliot to Russia. The music box was by an Italian maker and apparently very valuable. His contact hadn't given him much information about the client, just that they were British and wanted the box. Not that Eliot really cared why they wanted it, if they were willing to pay his fee. Russia and Eliot were no strangers and he'd gotten to know a few of their prisons a little better than he would have liked. One of the places had better food than most; the huge-ass rats that lived there could testify to that fact.
Eliot retrieved his luggage from the baggage claim and headed for the door. He needed to get a hotel room to drop his stuff and get started working on the plan, not to mention do some surveilling.
The hotel room paid for, and what little there was that needed to be unpacked, Eliot spread the schematics out on the bed. He studied them, noting all the entries as well as the exits as well as anything else that might come in handy. Getting in wouldn't do him any good if he could get back out.
He traced the outline of the floor plans with his hand, committing them to memory for later use. A ghost of a plan was already forming in his mind. Just the very basics; he'd flesh it out later once he'd had a chance to check out the building.
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
Aleksandr Borshevsky was a name that was known to many in Russia, and feared by a considerably small number. Borshevsky liked money; most of all he liked to collect pretty things.
The historic brick building that sat on a slight hill overlooking the Iz River was his favorite among the handful of houses he owned. The interior had been lavishly renovated to fit the standards of the rich arms dealer and his family. A decorative but functional wrought iron fence surrounded the property.
Eliot eyed the building in the dying light, easing a little closer. If someone noticed him he could always fall back on the drunk and lost American tourist gag. His gaze swept over the grounds, taking in every detail. Shrubs in the courtyard and a large, thick hedge to the south would afford some cover. Frankly, he was a little surprised there weren't any visible guards. Killian, his contact, had mentioned something about the the wife and young son being away... In fact, the place looked empty.
He circled the premises warily. From what he could see, there were no security cameras, or any that were visible, at least. Having arrived back at the front entrance, Eliot glanced around again. Still no sign of life. Perhaps reputation alone was enough to keep intruders away.
Eliot approached the fence a little to the left of the gate. He glanced around again and quickly scaled the fence. Every sense was working in overdrive as his feet hit the ground on the other side. The scent of the river was strong his nose, his ears alert to the tiniest of sounds as he stealthily made his way towards the house.
No vehicles to be seen, though someone had recently spilled some fuel on the ground, evident by the oily stain on the gravel.
He felt a twinge of suspicion settle in the back of his mind. Could he be walking in to a trap? Sure, he'd pissed off a lot of people over the years, but this seemed like going to a lot of trouble in hopes he might take the bait.
By now he had reached the servant's entrance. He tried the door and found it locked. Crouching down, Eliot pulled out a set of picks and got to work on the lock. His lock picking skills weren't the best in the world but they'd saved his ass a number of times. The tumblers released and gave way with a satisfying click.
He was in.
Eliot slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He paused and let his eyes adjust to the darkness before continuing on. Just as he'd suspected, the narrow main hall led directly to the kitchen. He picked the door that looked the most promising and pushed it open a fraction before moving through it.
It was like stepping into another world.
A huge gold and crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling and the walls were covered in rich wallpaper and scattered with expensive paintings. The sun hadn't slipped below the horizon yet and even through the dim light streaming through a window, Eliot could see that everything had been meticulously dusted. The pure extravagance of the room contrasted harshly with the cold, barren walls just on the other side of the door. No music box.
The next two rooms he checked were much the same, each one just as ornate as the last. He got lucky on the third room. It appeared to be a parlor of sorts with plush chairs and rugs covering the floor.
Thankfully another window let in a small amount of light. A medium sized tiger maple parlor cabinet stood against the far wall, with the music box sitting on top of it. Eliot crossed the room toward it, already pulling the small padded duffel bag from his shoulder. The bag was perfect for transporting items that were either delicate or small, sometimes both. There were several other trinkets alongside the music box but he ignored them.
He picked up the box and briefly inspected it. It was roughly eight by six inches and around four inches tall. The lid was inlaid with a floral design of columbines and the burled elm had a glossy finish, its inside lined with red satin; other than that, it didn't look all that special. Eliot shrugged and wrapped it in a protective cloth, and put it in the bag.
The hardest part of the job was nearly done.
Eliot had just landed on the other side of the fence when he stopped. Something still bugged him about that place. Something felt slightly off. He shouldn't care, he didn't need to go back; the music box was in his hands and he was outside the fence. Still, his instincts were telling him to go back, and he'd learned in this business he'd better have a hell of a good reason to ignore them.
He weighed his options; the light was nearly gone, he wouldn't have much time. Against his better judgment, he decided to go back for a quick look around. He hid the music box and the duffel bag well and started back.
He went through almost the whole house and found nothing. A few secret compartments with some papers, but nothing that jumped out at him. He was beginning to wonder if maybe he was just paranoid, but then again there was no such thing as paranoia in his world.
The last door he checked was wider than all the others and looked to be quite a bit thicker, too. Eliot easily undid the latch, carefully easing the door open. He took a step inside.
Click.
It was incredibly faint but he heard it. The click was very distinctive – a trigger.
Shit.
It could have been hooked to a bomb but that wasn't as likely as it being attached to an alarm system of some kind. Still, he moved cautiously. If it was indeed an alarm, then he needed to be out of sight when the group of pissed off – and likely trigger happy – guards that were attached to it descended on the building. Whatever was through that door was worth guarding.
Eliot slowly eased back through the door. He was halfway back up the hall, farther from his exit than he would have liked when he tensed slightly at the sound of another door opening in the distance and a muffled order of "spread out!" given in Russian.
He kept going and came face to face with a young, scared guard barely into his twenties. The kid had a gun but he was obviously a rookie. Eliot knocked the pistol out of his hand and kicked it away. The two of them traded blows until the guard tried to yell for help. Eliot lunged and got him into a sleeper hold, quickly and effectively silencing him.
Eliot let the unconscious guard slip to the floor and hurried on. In his rush he made a mistake and somehow took a wrong turn, running directly into four heavily armed Russians. All four of them had their guns trained on him; he was good, but not that good.
"Stop! Who are you?" they demanded.
Before Eliot could react a door flew open behind him and a second later something sharp hit him from behind in the neck. A tranquilizer dart.
Fuck.
He reached a hand up to pull it out but it was too late; the fluid was already spreading through his veins.
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
Eliot woke with a start.
It was dark and he was lying in an unceremonious heap on a rough stone floor, the air around him cool and damp. Prison. He shifted a little and flinched at the tiny stab of pain in his left shoulder. They'd dumped him on his bad shoulder, the one that had been so frequently dislocated. His neck still hurt from where they'd shot him with the dart. He slowly sat up, wishing that the damn tranquilizer would wear off faster. He hated the groggy feeling that accompanied them.
Eliot realized he was next to the wall of the small cell and moved so he could rest his back against it. His eyes had adjusted some but it was still too dark to see much of anything. Not that prison cells varied that much. There was a patter of small feet and he knew the prison's little furry inhabitants had come to check out the newcomer. He imagined several pairs of little eyes peering at him in the darkness. None of the other prisoners were stirring but the smell assured Eliot that they were definitely there.
He tipped his head against the wall and sat back to wait. It was only a matter of time before they came to check on him.
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
They left him alone all night. At what Eliot guessed was approximately six in the morning the lights in the corridor and the bare bulb in his cell switched on. The sound of voices and three sets of footsteps soon followed.
They paused in front of his door for a couple of seconds, and he imagined them planning what they might do if he didn't come along willingly.
Eliot ignored them and continued to stare at the cell wall until the door opened in a jingle of keys and metal scraping on concrete. Two of the guards marched into the cell and Eliot immediately recognized the first one as one of the four from Borshevsky's; the second man, like the first, was also Russian. His eyes went to the guard watching the door. The guard's bone structure was slightly more refined, and if Eliot had to guess, he would say the man was Chechen. His suspicions were confirmed when the guard spoke, a trace of Arabic influence coloring his words.
"Make sure he doesn't try anything."
"Get up," the first guard ordered.
Eliot just looked at him. The guard tipped his head toward the other man and together they hauled Eliot to his feet. He didn't make it easy for them, resisting and dragging his feet, which gave him a chance to take in his surroundings.
When they reached the "interrogation" chamber – two corridors and three turns later – the two Russians roughly shoved Eliot into a metal chair and cuffed his hands behind his back. Five bare high-wattage bulbs made the thirty by thirty-ish room extremely bright.
The three men moved around, inadvertently revealing their pecking order. The Borshevsky man and the Chechen appeared to be in charge while the second Russian, whom Eliot mentally nick-named "Tank" because of his thick, bruiser-like build, went to stand by the door. Several medium-sized buckets of water sat along one wall and Eliot had no doubt of their use. Above the buckets were chains and other instruments of torture.
The Russian and the Chechen drew up chairs in front of him, within kicking range if his feet hadn't also been bound. They sat down. Eliot stared between their heads at a point on the opposite wall.
"Who are you?" The Russian asked.
Eliot didn't answer.
After the pattern had continued for about ten minutes, the guards were getting frustrated.
"What were you doing in that room?" the Russian asked again.
Again, Eliot remained silent. At a nod from the Russian the Chechen drenched him with one of the buckets of freezing cold water. The Chechen set the bucket down and slugged Eliot in the jaw.
A muscle in Eliot's cheek twitched in response and he barely managed to swallow an annoyed growl. The first days were always the easiest. They would soon tire of their cat-and-mouse game and take him back to his cell because they both knew that he wouldn't be giving up any information yet. That would come later, when they'd finally worn him down enough that he would just want it to stop. Only, he could wait them out.
Later, when he was back in his cell, Tank grudgingly pushed a small bowl of cold, partially congealed gruel into his reach. A cockroach crawled out of it and Eliot let it escape because he wasn't hungry enough yet to eat it.
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
They were a couple hours into day four's session when Eliot decided to intersperse his silence with some smart-ass remarks.
The Chechen had been asking most of the questions this time. Eliot glanced at him.
"You know, your sister has a real pretty smile."
The Chechen's face contorted in anger and he let out a long string of curses as he launched himself at the hitter. He kicked over the chair and sent Eliot tumbling to the floor. Eliot barely managed to keep from cracking his skull against the floor. "Don't talk about my sister that way, you fucking American scum!"
The Chechen landed several kicks and hit after hit until the Russian stepped in and pulled him away with a firm hand.
"Enough."
The Russian pulled the chair and Eliot back upright. The hitter's face was bruised and bleeding, but at least the Chechen had been sloppy and missed the vital places.
Eliot coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood, chuckling darkly. "She sure didn't seem to mind my technique when I bent..."
Faster than a lighting strike, the Chechen's knife was out and pressed against his carotid. Once again the Russian restrained him. The Russian pulled him away and whispered harshly in his ear but Eliot still managed to overhear his words.
"We need him alive. He said get the information out of him, not kill him."
Eliot couldn't help a little smirk as the Russian led him away, leaving the Chechen glaring after him and still clutching the knife tightly.
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
L*E*V*E*R*A*G*E
Eliot was lying the narrow concrete shelf that served as a bed, his eyes closed and on the edge of sleep, when a small commotion made him open his eyes and listen intently.
The rats scurried off at the sound of the approaching footsteps. In addition to the three guards Eliot heard the distinctive clicking of high heels on stone. A woman. They stopped in front of his cell.
The mysterious woman stayed in the shadows and did not step into the dim light from the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Eliot was facing the door and despite his eyes having adjusted to the darkness he couldn't make out anything more than her dark silhouette, though he could smell her perfume. When she spoke her voice was soft and held a hint of a British accent.
She conversed to with Borshevsky's Russian for what seemed like several minutes before Eliot heard something that gave him hope. "Release him."
The Russian opened the door and motioned for Eliot to get up. He did so, slowly. He was sore and a little stiff after the morning's session.
He tried to get a good look at her face as the guards escorted him towards the door but a large, elegant hat kept most of her face in shadow. She could be an assassin for all he knew, hoping to get him out in the open. And Eliot didn't care, just as long as he was out of the prison. Even in his less-than-ideal condition he was confident he could handle her. He'd taken on his fair share of highly-trained women.
They had reached the entrance and Eliot squinted in the mid-afternoon sun. A car was parked some thirty feet away and two men, obviously hired muscle, were leaning against it. When they saw the woman they began to walk towards her and Eliot.
The guards released their hold on him; he was free. The woman thanked them in Russian then turned to Eliot. His eyes flitted over her well dressed figure and he could see that she was beautiful. He couldn't help but notice her full lips as she spoke.
"Come with me," she said in lightly British-accented English.
Eliot followed her, her two goons flanking them, because right now she was his only ticket out of this hellhole. As they went, Eliot half expected a bullet or two in the back. Surprisingly they made it to the car unscathed.
"Who are you?" Eliot asked once they were all in the car; one of the muscle driving, her in the passenger seat and he in the back with the other man.
"You'll soon find out," was the silken answer.
Silence reigned as they drove several miles to an abandoned warehouse.
Eliot piled out of the backseat and watched, taking in the woman's appearance as she gracefully climbed out of the car. He still couldn't see much of her face because of the hat, but styled dark brown hair fell against the shoulders of her long Burberry coat. His eyes traveled lower, over the purple hem of the dress she wore beneath the coat, noting her killer legs and the black pumps on her feet.
She dismissed the two men and turned to Eliot.
"Let's go inside, shall we?"
Eliot followed warily. He still didn't know her intentions and now that he was away from the Russians he was not as willing to blindly trust this mysterious woman that he knew absolutely nothing about.
The woman flipped on the light switch and he noticed a chair and a cot with a blanket on it in the midst the discarded junk in the warehouse. Eliot frowned. What the hell was this?
She strode over to the chair and sat down, indicating the cot to Eliot.
"Please sit."
"No, really, I'm fine."
"I insist." Keeping his eyes on her to make sure she wasn't about to pull a weapon on him, he reluctantly sat on the cot.
Instead, she took off her hat and Eliot swallowed. She was even more gorgeous than he anticipated. Dark waves framed her face and brushed against the shoulders of her coat, and perfectly sculpted brows arched over dark chocolate brown eyes as she spoke. Her lips were full and stained a light red.
"I was told you needed my help, Eliot Spencer."
Eliot quickly masked his surprise. It wasn't that she knew his name, he did have a reputation, but that she had been sent to rescue him. The only person that knew he was here was Killian, one of his contacts. Leopold Killian was a bit of a genius with a computer (read hacker) and the two men had worked together on several jobs. Despite their differences, Eliot though him somewhat of a friend, or at the very least, someone he could count on. Killian would have known he'd run into some trouble after not hearing from him for several days but it was beyond Eliot how he knew exactly where to look. Eliot remembered him mentioning something about the client being British... the woman who sat before him could very well be the one who hired him to retrieve the music box.
Eliot studied her. There was nothing in her movements that screamed trained killer. Every action and expression was carefully controlled but she looked more like the type to spin her web with words and her beauty rather than weapons. A grifter, thief. And a skilled one, at that.
"And you are?" Eliot arched an eyebrow.
"Annie Croy." She introduced herself with a hint of a smile and there was just an edge of Cockney in her accent. "I was also told you would have something of mine."
So it was her.
Aware that the bruises were probably beginning to show by now and that there was still some blood on his face, Eliot ran a hand through his hair and smiled a self-depreciating smile. "Well, I was just in a Russian prison."
She gave him a look.
"Though I may have managed to hide the box somewhere safe before I got grabbed."
He was Eliot Spencer, after all.
"I would certainly hope so. A failed retrieval can't be good for your reputation." The threat was very thinly veiled and Eliot didn't doubt that she would make good on it. Whether or not she'd be successful was another matter.
Eliot abruptly stood and she mirrored him. He was suddenly aware of just how close their bodies were. The scent of her perfume, a sensual mix of rich spices, exotic florals and a light musk, wrapped around him like an invisible rope, pulling him closer. He wanted to tangle a hand in her dark waves and...
Her mouth was incredibly close to his and in the back of his mind he knew that this was by no accident and she was likely playing him. For half a second he didn't care. She lightly touched his arm and it took all his control not to close the distance between them and claim her mouth, if only for second.
"The box," she prompted quietly, looking at him through lowered lashes as she slowly retreated half a step.
Eliot suppressed a groan. "Near here. It wouldn't take me long to get it."
She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. "How do I know you won't double cross me and just keep it for yourself?"
"You don't," Eliot chuckled. "But there's that little matter of you still having my money."
"Fair enough."
Eliot led her to where he'd hidden the duffel bag, and after gently unwrapping the box, handed it to her. She took it, lovingly stroking the inlaid top. The exchange was over quickly; she pulled out her phone and transferred the money into his account. With one last look she turned and melted away, seemingly disappeared, leaving the hitter staring after her for several minutes.
Eliot learned later that the music box probably hadn't been what she was after since it actually had a false bottom with a demantoid garnet and diamond necklace hidden inside of it. He remembered chuckling when he heard through the thief grapevine that the valuable necklace had been stolen. Anyone would have assumed she wanted the music box but what she really wanted was inside it.
Present
He'd never actually seen the garnet, whose Russian name roughly translated to The Green Dragon's Tongue, but he hadnoticed Sophie wearing a necklace with a description suspiciously similar to that of the stolen gem.
Eliot met Sophie's gaze and something flickered in her eyes for a split second before it was quickly replaced, but not before he saw it. Sophie had just taken full advantage of the opportunity to feel him up. They were both professionals who liked pushing the boundaries and it had become a little game between them. The flirtatious banter, seductive glances, and fleeting touches, because they could. The reward, a momentary slip of control. Who could send a shiver down the others spine, elicit the telltale hitch in a breath or shudder first?
Sophie liked to play her little games and Eliot found himself not minding so much about playing along. If Nate had noticed, he never said anything. Then again, he had been drunk most of the time during their first run, before they had all gone separate ways.
"There." Sophie stepped back and proudly surveyed her work. "Ooh, this is so exciting! Your first death scene!"
Eliot resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though he could see Parker and Hardison rolling theirs behind the grifter's back. He gingerly pulled the Henley back down over his head and turned a menacing glare on Hardison. "These damn things better work."
"Just chill would you, they're perfectly safe. What do you think they've been using in the movies for the last thirty years?"
Eliot made a doubtful noise.
Hardison pulled a very realistic looking toy gun from a holster under his jacket and handed it and the detonator to Sophie. "Just squeeze the trigger while pressing the button and, bang, bullet hole appears."
Sophie nodded.
"Eliot, here." Hardison turned to the hitter and handed him a state trooper badge. "You might need this, just in case."
Eliot nodded and slipped the badge into his pocket.
"Okay, then, we're ready."
"All right." Eliot drew in a breath and looked at his three teammates before turning towards the warehouse down the waterfront where Nate was currently stalling. He touched his hand to his ear to turn his comm back on. "Nate, I'm comin'."
"Hurry," was Nate's whispered response and Eliot could hear Leary loudly explaining how he was the brains behind the whole bailout scam.
Parker and Hardison watched as Eliot briskly made his way towards Nate; they were still on the badge and needed to stay with the car. Sophie had moved away in the opposite direction for her part in the amended con.
"Eliot's not going to explode, right?" Parker whispered to the hacker who was doing something with his phone.
"Nope, those little babies work like a charm." Hardison couldn't help the evil little idea forming in his mind.
"Bang!"
"DAMN IT, HARDISON!" Eliot growled through clenched teeth. His hand may have accidentally slipped behind his back and flipped Hardison off. The hacker was so going to pay for that when the job was over.