Back in his apartment, Eliot sat with his head in his hands, breathing heavily. He had scrubbed them until they were raw but he knew they would never feel clean again. Why was this happening to him now? He had worked for Damien for years and was only now having trouble with it? Had Ford done more damage than Eliot had initially realized?

And even when Eliot had managed to force his way through Ford's voice in his head and finish the job, he knew he would never be the same. Something had snapped in him. And it was Ford's fault that he would rather spend a month in a North Korean prison than kill another innocent person.

In fact, it was Ford's fault that "innocent" was even in his vocabulary. Until now, there were only targets.

Had domestic jobs always been this hard? Maybe that was why Chapman was so unhinged. You had to be a sociopath to put up with that all the time. Eliot had once prided himself on his ability to do any job asked of him. Was he slipping? Was he going soft, taking all the easy jobs abroad?

Maybe more work would help him readjust, silence this infernal voice in his head and weight like lead in his stomach. He snatched up the phone he had abandoned on the table beside him and pressed the speed dial button.

Damien picked up on the second ring. "Eliot, is something wrong? Is the job done?"

"Yeah, it's done. What else d'ya got?"

"Industrious. I like that about you, Spencer. No matter where you go, you make things happen. Let's see…" He fell silent for a minute. "Miguel Garcia - you know him, right? The politician? - Well, he has announced his intention to run against President Ribera this year. You have not had the pleasure of assassinating a political rival yet, so if you wish, the job is yours."

"Done."

"Good, good! I expect to hear good news in the next day or so." The click signified the end of the conversation.

Eliot did in fact know Garcia. Even better, he knew Garcia liked to sample alcoholic beverages from all around the city, and would often visit a bar on request to improve its notoriety.

About three years ago, Eliot had "acquired" a bar to use whenever he needed it. The owner and all of the employees knew to let him do whatever he needed to do, no questions asked. All he needed to do was have the bar request a visit from Garcia, and there was a good chance Garcia would come. Once he was out in public with just eight or so guards to protect him, he would be an easy hit for someone like Eliot.

Now he just needed to set the scene…


Eliot stared down at the mug of beer in front of him, untouched. He had been here for the last ten minutes, establishing his cover as a civilian trying to drown his troubles. The scenario was perfect: plenty of reflective surfaces so he could see the room, even though his back was to it. Not too many other people to get in the way, and the bartender had been nice enough to set up the bar this morning to allow Eliot an easy path to the door.

At first, Eliot thought he might have trouble getting into character, but with so much time to ponder recent events, that hadn't been hard at all. He could have sworn he saw the faces of Noah and Carrie Jordan in the foam spilling over the side of his mug.

He hadn't seen the wife's face, but his mind was drawing unwanted parallels between her and Parker, especially the Parker bound to a chair with the protective hacker hovering over her shoulder. Eliot would never forget the way Hardison had faced him and demanded he let Parker go. Not a hint of cowardice, and Eliot knew that wasn't just because Hardison wasn't scared. That kid had been terrified out of his wits.

No. Hardison had been willing to talk back to him because he cared about Parker.

Eliot didn't care about anyone.

It had always been an asset - not being attached to anyone or anything, able to do whatever needed done because he had nothing to lose. Now he was starting to feel like some sort of vampire, feeding on the lives of others but not doing anything with his own.

A barstool beside him squeaked against the ground and Eliot snapped to attention just in time to see a grey-haired man in business casual clothes settle in at the bar with just a single stool between them.

Their eyes met and Garcia smiled gently. "Lost in thought?"

Eliot gave a small smile and dropped his eyes back to his still untouched beer. "Yeah."

"You have the look of someone haunted by misery."

Eliot met his eyes again and paused for a minute. Finally, he gave in. "Yeah. I, uh, I messed up. Big time."

Garcia nodded understandingly. "You know, people aren't defined by their mistakes. What defines them is how they respond when things go wrong." His eyes twinkled with kindness. "You might be surprised how well things can be fixed by an apology and a sincere desire to change."

"There's no forgiveness for what I've done."

He shrugged. "That may be true, but you're… what, 30? 35? You still have a lot of life left ahead of you. If you let yourself be defined by the mistakes in your past, you will never be able to move forward and do anything good. All you have to do is take that first step toward change." Garcia put a hand on Eliot's shoulder and smiled warmly. "Take it from someone who knows."

Eliot held his eyes for a long moment. Why did his marks have to torment him like this? First innocent children and now a wise, kindly old man. Eliot felt like a storm was brewing inside him, tearing him in every direction and leaving him with no lifeline in the midst of a raging sea.

At one hand was his dagger, scrubbed clean from yesterday but still stained with blood that never should have been shed. At the other hand was this man, a complete stranger who seemed to care enough to try to direct him toward a happier life.

Eliot felt his resolve melt.

He stared at Garcia for almost too long before nodding solemnly and standing up. He left a bill beside his still-full beer and made his way out of the bar. Garcia's guards eyed him as he left, but Eliot didn't care - he had done nothing wrong. They would probably never know what terror had just left them in peace.

Ten years of begging had fallen on deaf ears, but ten minutes of understanding had broken through all of Eliot's defenses. Eliot found it miserably ironic that an old man and some children had managed to cripple him far worse than any professional torturer ever could.

The big question now was what in the world he was supposed to do with himself.


Back in the safety of his truck, Eliot let out a shaky breath and let his head fall against the headrest. His brain almost didn't want to process what he had just done, but he forced it to focus since he needed to make a decision and make it quickly.

Even now, he could go back in and finish the job. If he became too soft to instill fear in others, what would become of him? Who would he be, and what would he do? What would be the point of… anything? With Damien, he knew he was valuable and effective. People respected him and he was good at what he did.

And he was a monster.

But he could live with that, right? He had so far. He could just walk right back inside… it wouldn't be hard, pretend to thank him and then finish the hit…

Who was he kidding? There was no way he could bring himself to do it. Not after what he had done to those kids.

There was no going back to Damien, that was for certain. Eliot had a $32 million safety net, but he was back to the problem of having nothing to do with his life. He certainly wasn't going to go back to wet-work. Apparently Ford had managed to destroy his stomach for it. What else was there? He had spent so long working for Damien that he had barely bothered to consider any other options.

Well, at least he could start where he knew he could make some progress. Damien knew where Eliot lived, so that was the first thing that needed to be dealt with. It was nearing night, so Eliot would need to sleep before going on the run, but he obviously couldn't sleep at home or any of his other regular haunts.

He cranked the truck into drive and headed toward his apartment. Once he got there, he would just have a few minutes to grab what he needed and get out. As soon as Damien heard he had let Garcia live - because the bartender would certainly let him know - Eliot would have a target on his back. He needed to be settled before then.

On second thought, he better not go home tonight. Even just a few minutes wasted could mean the difference between capture and disappearing. He would probably swing around later, just before his flight out, but only after he had figured out Damien's plan for tracking him down.

Eliot growled as he slowed down for a stop sign. As much as it annoyed him, he knew the best way to draw attention to yourself was to drive recklessly. If he wanted to stay under the radar, he would need to drive calmly, as if he had nothing to hide.

Finally, he pulled up to his safe house. It was barely more than a two-room hovel, but it was the only one he had managed to keep hidden from Damien. At the very least, it would be a good place to spend the night as he planned his way out of the country the next morning.

The real question at this point was where to go.


Eliot woke very early. He had only slept for a few hours but he knew Damien would have caught on to the situation by now. The next order of business was to slip into his apartment and retrieve anything useful from there before heading to the airport.

As he carefully made his way across the city - deliberately not using his truck since that would easily be identified - Eliot kept an eye out for Damien's other enforcers. Thankfully, he hadn't trained Damien's domestic security force. He knew these guys would be pretty easy to spot and subdue.

After making it through the city without incident, Eliot arrived at his apartment… only to find the whole building swarmed by police cars. What in the world?

He pulled his emergency suit jacket out of his backpack and climbed into it before tucking his long hair up into a fedora and putting on his glasses. One glance in the mirror told him he was sufficiently disguised to get to his hallway. The real question was how many cops were in that hallway and his apartment. He really didn't want to have to fight his way out of this if he could help it, since it would leave a huge mess and ensure that he had both Damien's men and the cops chasing him as he tried to slip away.

Walking briskly and confidently, he approached the side door of the building. He had picked a large apartment building because it had several routes up and down. It was coming in handy now, since the police seemed concentrated around the main elevators and stairs. Eliot took the back stairwell.

When he reached the second floor, he took the long way around toward his apartment, taking note of how many cops there were and where they were. Sure enough, most of them were congregated around his apartment. Eliot meandered by, pretending to be a curious resident. As he approached the door, he didn't slow, but made a point to glance inside.

The sight stopped his heart cold.

His plan to just keep walking was completely forgotten in the horror of the sight on his living room floor. A pool of red didn't quite disguise the flash of grey hair, and the kindly face Eliot had spared not twenty-four hours before was marred nearly beyond recognition. Eliot's trained eyes spotted the electrical burns on Garcia's bare chest as well as the cuts and bruises on Garcia's wrists.

To make matters worse, Eliot's own knives were scattered across the floor and the whole apartment was trashed. This wasn't something cops would do — whoever had killed Garcia had sent a very clear message to Eliot too.

"Sir, this is a crime scene. I'm going to have to ask you to move on."

Eliot nodded numbly, but didn't look at the cop who placed a hand on Eliot's shoulder. As he resumed his walk down the hall, his eyes remained glued to Garcia as long as possible.

When he reached the opposite side of the floor and there were no police in sight, he took the stairs right back down. The numbness was starting to fade, and in its place was a slow burning fury in Eliot's stomach. He would recognize Chapman's handiwork anywhere, and this was particularly glaring. He didn't just kill Garcia — he tortured the man to death in Eliot's own apartment, with Eliot's own equipment. The fact that Eliot had been framed for the atrocious crime was just a bonus.

Chapman was sending a message, and Eliot heard it loud and clear. If he tried to run, Damien's men would hound him until he died, probably an early death at their hands. No, Eliot should have seen it earlier. Shame on him for trying to run away in the first place. He needed to send a message of his own.

He was going to look Damien in the eye and tell him he was done.


TBC...

A/N: I'm so sorry, I know several of you wanted Eliot to make the right choice, but the story was already complete and I felt he wouldn't walk away after a single incident. He needed one more push to get him to leave for good. I hope it wasn't too horrible to endure. Thank you so much for reading!