Walk out that door and keep walking. Isabelle stepped into the lift, the weight of Tool's words hanging off her shoulders. It'd taken all of five seconds for her to snap and Tool to push back. He never dealt crap out nor would he take any. The filth that'd come from her mouth on the other hand: since when did she speak like that, and to a stranger no less?

Her anger was half the problem. Every scrap of it had been condensed and bottled up inside for so long she'd become a walking volcano. All it would take was someone to push hard enough before she completely exploded. Isabelle hit the button for the lift and leaned against the railing, tremors still affecting her hands even as she shoved them in her pockets. She'd always prided herself on being eloquent, able to talk herself out of any corner. Any chance of talking her way out of this one was gone.

Stupid, she berated herself. You need a job, not friends. She glanced at the emergency stop button then struck it with her fist. The lift shuddered and came to a halt between the two floors. The building she wasn't welcome in any longer? Nowhere else felt safer. Stepping out that door would only guarantee her repeat imprisonment. Isabelle lowered herself onto the floor and sat with her knees bent, then slid her hands free of her pockets and held them before her face. She could still feel cold steel under her fingers, the warmth of flesh as she clawed and punched and fought.

When it came down to it, all her training made no difference. She still found herself on the losing side. It didn't matter how hard she fought or what the stakes were, whether she was injured or not, the end result was consistent.

Now she had nowhere to go and no one to lean on. Dead woman walking was right. At this rate the Agency would find her within a week. Where in God's name could she go? Who could she call? All her contacts bar Tool were overseas. This had been her first and only option.

A few minutes later, she reluctantly reached up and thumped the down button. The lift whirred to life and continued its descent while she used the railing to pull herself to her feet. It wasn't so easy getting up anymore. Her left leg was weak, the short curved running blade attached to her right foot allowed her to move fast, however it still wasn't flesh and blood. She couldn't pivot on it nor bend her ankle.

Isabelle stepped out when the lift came to a halt and kept her head down and her arms by her sides as she walked towards the door. Can't hotwire a car, can't find a job: this is why you need money. Without a job, obtaining money was an impossible feat. Nine years of contacts had gone to waste, her last bridge was burnt, and her boss wasn't picking up. After everything she'd seen and done, to just waste away in another cell seemed almost deserved.

Perhaps God did exist and this was his punishing her for a lack of faith. On the other hand, maybe the past five years were no more than a case of 'wrong place, wrong time' and all her nightmares had come about because those men were monsters who'd found easy prey. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter now. It was time to bottle her shit, repress it, and move on.

She shut the front door quietly and sat on the step. The street seemed eerily quiet for this time of morning, but she'd never spent long enough in New Orleans to know if it was normal. Isabelle crossed her legs and rested her head against the shop's exterior, the cool night air sending a shiver down her spine. Before she could fight it, sleep pulled her under into a hellish world of pain and torment.

A pair of hands gripped her ankle and pulled while she kicked out with her other foot. She'd heard the door creak and assumed it was a guard checking on her, until the cell door opened. Her screams fell on deaf ears and her prayers went unanswered as a hand grabbed her right arm. No! Isabelle struggled and lunged for the bars with her left while something sharp was jammed into her leg. "Get off! Fucking connard, get off me! No!"

Those were the days when she could still fight like one of the Erinye, defiant and willing to kill. After a year, she continued to resist. A sedative was used on occasion, and other times they fought until she was bloody and unconscious. A quick blast with a hose solved the guards' issue of evidence, leaving her to wake up a wet shivering mess.

By the third year, she began to waste away. They fed her what was required to keep her alive and no more. Sleep came easily sans any comforting dreams. If she did have pleasant ones, Belle found it impossible to remember them.

x - x - x

"Get some sleep, Barney, you're gonna need it." The strain in Tool's voice was clear as he shut and locked the window. He collapsed onto the bed and slid under the sheets, letting out a groan when his head hit the pillow.

"Yes, Mom!" Barney checked his revolver then holstered it and took the stairs down to the ground floor. Yang and Doc were on the couch and floor respectively, back to the zombie-like states they'd been in prior to him being shot. His shoulder had been stitched and bandaged, the eventual scar just two inches long. All things considered, it could've been worse: Barney could've been on a surgical table having bullets removed from his chest.

Sleep wasn't going to happen. Not with this humidity, nor with the nagging reminder that the legacies of his very dead former friend were both on the loose somewhere. Barney stripped off his shirt and dumped it on the back of an empty chair before he walked into the attached garage. He found Tool's cleaning kit then slid a back panel sideways within a large metal locker. Hidden out of sight and where no one would ever think to look was a long pine wood gun case. Within it was an eighty-year-old Winchester rifle.

Cleaning and maintenance had been his job as a cofounder of the original team. He hated when guns weren't cleaned properly, and Stonebanks' predisposition for violence meant trace evidence was always being carried around. The risks of ever being caught were slim to none but regardless, Barney wouldn't take the chance — beneath his gruff exterior was the type of man who covered every base twice.

He cleaned the rifle from barrel to butt, oiling the wooden stock and letting it dry before Ross returned it to its hiding place. Every few years, Tool brought out the rifle and showed it off. It was bought by his great grandfather, he told them. One day he'd pass it to the next generation. As each year came and went, that seemed less likely; Cheyenne wasn't getting pregnant anytime soon; Barney — if he had kids — wasn't showing any interest in being the rifle's new owner; and Tool refused to allow it to fall into the hands of his no-good embezzler brother. Family heirlooms were meant to stay in the family, not with blood relatives simply because they were blood.

Barney glanced up as the garage door was suddenly slid open and a sports bike wheeled in. A small present painted on the side near the front tyre told him exactly who'd finally returned: Christmas. Barney smiled and gave a wave, relief setting in at the presence of a familiar face. "Hey, Lee."

He noticed the bandage on Barney's arm and frowned. That hadn't been there when he left. Jesus, was Barney picking fights with knives now? Lee shook his head as he parked the bike, removed his helmet, and climbed off. Can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I? Stupid bastard. "What the hell happened to you?"

Barney shrugged. The last thing he needed was Lee going all overprotective mother on him. It was bad enough in the field, but here? Barney just loosened the bandage and partly slid it down to reveal Doc's handiwork; luckily for them all, he wasn't piloting a helicopter. "It's just a flesh wound."

"And how do you manage to get yourself shot in a tattoo parlour?"

Funny thing, that. "I got kneed in the balls too, if you feel like cuddling on the couch and icing them for me."

Lee covered his mouth and tried not to laugh. This was far too amusing. It was just a shame he'd missed it. Shot in the shoulder and a knee to the groin? "Better you than me. The others back yet?"

"Not yet. They'll probably show up in the morning, and we still need a translator."

Caesar's Russian was fine, but Gunnar's was nearly flawless. Doc's Swazi on the other hand . . . Barney had a sneaking suspicion his failed linguistic skills were what'd gotten him caught and thrown in prison. Nothing else explained how Doc, a Cirque de Soleil wannabe and former gymnast, had been slow enough for a set of cuffs to be slapped on.

"I'm going to bed," Lee said finally, the words 'need a translator' rattling around in his brain. Why Barney didn't just invite Maggie to join the team was beyond him. She had all the linguistic skills they'd ever need and more. If Barney did play that conflict of interest b.s again, Lee would slap him. The fact remained, all someone had to do to get Barney's attention was mention her and Barney would be on his feet faster than a meerkat on lookout duty.

"I might come with you, just give me a minute." Barney packed away the gun cleaning kit and followed Lee upstairs in silence. No one needed to know when or if he was having issues. As the leader of the rugrats, it was his job to reassure them and keep them alive. He didn't need anyone — not Lee, not Tool, not that disrespectful brat who'd called him a weak little bitch — questioning his method or abilities.

Barney also refused to allow his state of mind to be called into question. If he planned to retire, he'd do so of his own accord when and if he was ready to pass the baton to Smilee. Fortunately, that wouldn't happen anytime soon. Lee was his partner, the guy who consistently stood by his Gunnar-level stupid decisions; however, he was also the only man on the present team who Ross felt he could openly talk to.

Only Lee knew about the dreams, the nightmares; the nights when he woke up in a sweat shaking and stammering because his hands hadn't caught the rope in time. With Barney unable to string together a clear sentence, Lee would sit with him until the aftereffects passed.

Two years later, he was still having fucking dreams about Azmenistan. If his dreams didn't involve Lee dying, it was Caesar being taken out permanently in Mogadishu; the building collapsing on Galgo and Luna; not reaching his gun in time to stop Stonebanks; the hotel crashing down on all twelve of them and burying them under the rubble. The fear of losing his team was creeping up on him the longer he spent in the field, and it didn't seem like it'd be going away anytime soon.

x - x - x

"Mama! Wake up!" Sofia shook Casey, "Mama! We gotta go!"

Casey yawned and rubbed her eyes as she sat up. Her bed hair was a tangled atrocity and the satin pillows had done nothing to prevent it. She squinted at the clock and groaned in the realisation someone — Gunnar, undoubtedly — had switched off her alarm. Sofia started tugging on her arm and pulling her towards the edge of the bed. A moment later, a large hand gripped hers and hauled her forward and to her feet.

"Morning."

"Go take a shower." Gunnar kissed Casey on the cheek then wrapped his arm around Sofia and lifted her. "I'll drop her off at school."

Casey began to protest then noticed the look on his face. Gunnar understood boredom better than most. He'd once filled his days with drugs, women and alcohol just to pass the time. The cynic inside her wondered if he still did that when he wasn't working. Living only on her savings — and his money — she found her days were long and drawn out when Sofia was at school. Casey needed a job that paid well and took her mind off worrying about him so much. "Sof, you better be good for Papa."

"I will be!"

"Do you need anything at the store?" Gunnar said, "I can go there on the way back. Milk? Tea?"

"Actually I was planning on going there this afternoon."

"Okay." He understood the need to escape being confined. Staring at four walls could send anyone stir-crazy after a long time. They'd both lived somewhat nomadic lifestyles before settling in New Orleans, but the need to be constantly moving still burned inside the two of them. "Do you want me to pick Sofia up in the afternoon?"

"She has dance practise. I'll be driving her there after school, and you'll be off to Russia, won't you?"

"Right." Russia. As if he could care less about some stupid arms dealer. He was her dad, it was his sacred duty to be at that dance recital, not on a plane. Yet his job kept the money flowing and Sofia safe so she could perform her dance in three weeks time.

Sofia huffed and started walking towards the bedroom door. She wasn't going to walk all the way to school by herself, but maybe she'd have to if her parents didn't stop talking. "Papa, we're gonna be late!"

"Alright, we're going." He kissed Casey goodbye on the cheek and rushed to catch up with Sofia. She'd already fetched her bag and put her helmet on by the time he found her waiting by the front door.

"Safety first," she reassured him, tapping her dark blue helmet twice. With bright red flames going down either side, she looked like Optimus Prime. Her blonde hair sticking out from beneath the helmet, she brushed her fringe out of her eyes and gave him a thumbs up. "I know the rules, Papa."

"Okay, what's rule three?"

"Keep your arms in and no being silly."

"That's my girl. Bye, Mama, I love you."

"I love you, Mama," Sofia shouted as her father opened the door. She rushed outside, going straight for the large Harley parked in the driveway.

Once Casey was passed out, he'd forced himself to get out of bed and wheeled his bike down the street. Her car was still having brake pad problems and Gunnar still hadn't solved the problem. Casey refused to buy a new car until they were certain it was hopeless; she also refused to allow him to pay for the aforementioned new car.

Sofia was obsessed with mechanics, always complaining that she wasn't allowed to be under Casey's car when he had it up on jacks. It was dangerous, he reminded her. If he got hurt, it wouldn't be as bad. Jacks could slip, but if she behaved between now and Mama's birthday, he'd let her under and show her the ropes. The sooner he culled her addiction to danger, the stress Gunnar was carrying internally would be alleviated.

Gunnar made sure the deadbolt lock was on before he shut the door behind him and took off with Casey on his bike. Her hands gripping him tightly, Sofia clung to him like a koala until they arrived at her elementary school. Her teacher, Miss O'Shaughnessy, seemed nice enough but Gunnar was still wary. As he'd learnt the hard way by once insulting Casey, women weren't to be underestimated.

"Mama said you have practise, so she'll pick you up this afternoon, and I'll be off to Russia by then so you need to be good. Pinky swear you won't jump into the pool again?"

Sofia handed him her helmet and nodded as she stood on the nature strip. "I promise, Papa." She looped her pinky with his and kissed him on the cheek when he bent down to hug her. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too." Coercing Barney to make a pit stop in St Petersburg would take a miracle, but for Sofia? Anything was possible. "I love you, prinsessa."

Sofia grinned, revealing a gap where one of her teeth once was. She'd fallen out of bed when he'd come in to wake her and hit the floor face-first. The tooth fairy would pay a lot for this one, maybe enough that she could get Mama a fancy bike like his. She started walking to her classroom and waved behind her, listening out for the loud thundering sound of he and his bike leaving.

x - x - x

Gunnar waited until she was inside before he took off. Barney would complain that he was late and the others would follow in their fearless leader's footsteps. He got to the shop just before nine and parked outside, paying no attention to the person sitting on the front step. Doc, Galgo, and Toll were all sitting around the coffee table eating bowls of cereal — Ear-ios, probably — and Lee was doing crunches and half paying attention as Barney rambled on about the scheduled flight.

"You're late, Gunnar."

"I had to make a delivery."

Barney frowned. A delivery? If he was dealing — taking drugs had been one thing, but if Jensen was using his plane and risking their asses for a few kilos of coke, Barney would murder him. "Whatever, just pay attention. Yang can catch you up after. Church emailed confirmation: Amil is in Russia. From the photos, he looks similar to Lee with severe facial burns."

The photos were laid out on the coffee table. All down the left side of his face was melted skin, scarred and twisted as if someone had thrown sulfuric acid at him. The pair of sunglasses did the opposite of hiding his injuries, shifting a person's attention to the burns and away from the faded tattoos on Neban's neck.

Lee gave a wary look at Gunnar when he mentioned the delivery. The false dichotomy Gunnar's words seemed to present made his stomach churn. There were other reasons for Gunnar to be making a delivery, but his mind instantly thought of only two possibilities: guns, or drugs. "Church thinks the burns're prosthetics. Says they look too perfect."

"And the tattoos?"

"I don't know. Cyrillic, maybe?" Lee picked up a close-up of Amil's neck and passed it to Gunnar. "Can you translate?"

He took one look and laughed, the word петух tattooed in cursive. Above it was a feather. The meaning was clear to anyone who knew what they were looking at, and whilst Gunnar's experience with the Russian prison system took place while he was in his late twenties, he'd learnt fast. "He was everyone's prison bitch and butt-buddy. It's read as petukh, translates to rooster."

"Bag's still there. You sure no one slipped in last night?" Tool said in passing as he headed for the door. He'd looked out the window when he woke, seen the bag still on the dumpster, and a mild panic began to weigh him down. Barney's words had been replaying in his head since dawn, reminding him the hand that fed them was also the hand they didn't want to bite. Did Church put you in prison because you wouldn't turn on Stonebanks? Church, prison, Stonebanks, fear. Shooting someone because they wouldn't move wasn't odd behaviour, but doing it in his home certainly was. You want to know where he'll send me?

"I was down here all night, brother," Doc said. "No one came in or out that door."

"Thanks, Doc." Tool paused behind the couch and looked over Gunnar's shoulder, studying the photo momentarily. If no one had come in or out, she was probably gone. "Tattooing petukh on someone's neck? That's a declaration, a brand. Most prison tatts are on the back or chest."

Tool had seen Gunnar's tattoos once. Three spires on a cathedral for three years, and a snake coiled near the base of his neck to represent his drug addiction. If there were more on the lower half of Jensen's body, Tool had never noticed them. According to Barney, only the two of them knew about Gunnar's tattoos. They were a piece of his past the man refused to talk about and the team respected that, until the day push would finally come to shove.

"Hey, Gunnar, you mind checking the lot down the block? You're looking for a brunette woman with one eye," Barney said, catching the look on Tool's face. Perhaps they had matching thoughts, or he was being overly cautious. There was a good reason they normally avoided jobs in Russia. It was too risky, and the trust Barney had lost in him all those years ago was still yet to return.

"Sure." What was he, Barney's errand boy? Gunnar pushed off the couch and headed for the front door, Bowie knife sheathed on his left side. He shut the door behind him, muttered an 'excuse me' and made it two feet down the sidewalk before he looked back and noticed the gaping hole in her head. Found you.

"Excuse me, you okay?" Gunnar said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She jerked back instantaneously, lifting her head to look at him. The woman nodded and forced a smile. "I'm Gunnar. Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine, merci."

French accent, the voice — she was the girl from Tool's kitchen! He tried not to stare and instead focused on the bridge of her nose. The look in her eye read exhaustion, her shoulders sat low and for all it was worth, she appeared defeated. "You trying to avoid the testosterone inside?"

"Something like that."

"You're the French woman from the kitchen, aren't you?"

"Oui."

"Je m'appelle Gunnar," he said again, extending his hand this time and turning slightly so she could see the tattoo on his right bicep. "I'm one of the team."

Oh for God's sake. How many were there? Isabelle swallowed and braced herself before she shook his hand once then let go. Her palms slightly sweaty from the already growing humidity, and his firm grip made her hand ache slightly. She'd made physical contact with someone; that was good. All she had to do was say her name, the conversation would be over, and she could leave. Surely this wouldn't carry on for much longer. "Je m'appelle Isabelle."

"You're from the South, aren't you?"

"My accent?"

"Nouvelle-Aquitane."

He had an ear for accents then, or Tool had filled him in. Who was to say this wasn't just some setup on Tool's behalf to coerce her into apologising? She wouldn't apologise for reacting to the situation at hand. She'd tell Tool she was sorry for threatening him — which she was, he'd always been nothing but kind to her — but this was what desperation turned her into. "Close enough."

"You drink tea or coffee?"

"Tea."

He gestured for her to wait. "Give me five minutes and I'll be back with the best cup you've ever had."

Isabelle swallowed and nodded. Tea would wake her up, and it would allow her to just sit there and give herself time to think, right? No, she couldn't just sit here and drink; she had to leave and get as far from New Orleans as possible. Oh shit, she thought. One handshake and she was playing nice already. Drink the tea then leave.

A/N: Oh I'm definitely continuing, Ashley! I've just got a lot of IRL baggage unfortunately. Hope you enjoy, though this could be the last chapter for a while. I'll keep you guys updated.