Chapter 7

"… Maybe he's still sleep —"

As Eliot walked in, Sophie stopped talking and flashed her brightest smile. "Good morning. Did you get some rest?"

Eliot responded with a fake smile of his own. "Actually, I did, thanks." He would at least pretend things were normal. He owed them that much.

It was obvious by the looks on the team's faces that they weren't buying it. Whatever they had been hoping to see in him — A good night's rest? Happiness? — they were all clearly disappointed, with the exception of Hardison, who refused to even look at him. Eliot's heart twinged.

"Hardison, one of these days you're going to have to teach me how to set the alarm on my phone. I thought I set it for eight AM, but apparently not…" Eliot cringed. What the hell was he doing? Certainly not helping.

Hardison didn't even look up from his screen. "Yeah, sure."

Eliot sighed. Just shut up and do your damned job, Spencer.

Nate started talking and walked them through the points of his plan. It wasn't bad, actually. Steal the election right out from under Moreau. He just hoped Nate had at least the whole alphabet of back-up plans.

He and Parker were supposed to go to the Tombs, where the General was being held, and break him out. As Eliot was showing Parker the blueprints, he realized that if they succeeded, Juan would now tell everyone Eliot had saved his life three times, instead of just two.

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As Eliot entered the room for the daily morning meeting, he knew right away that something was wrong. He'd only been with Flores's freedom fighters for a little over a month, but he had been in enough of these meetings to know when there was bad news. This time it concerned him.

"What's happened?" he asked as all eyes in the room watched him sit down.

The General and Colonel Escobar exchanged a look.

"What?" Eliot said again.

The General sighed and said, "Moreau knows you're alive."

Fuck. He'd been expecting this for weeks, but it still made his heart leap into his throat when he heard the news.

"He knows I'm here?" he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Yes," Escobar said. "It seems he may have known for a while now, but we just learned about it today."

Eliot tried to stay calm. "Do we know how he found out?"

"We have some theories," the General said hesitantly. "None of them good."

"Let me guess — a mole?"

"Exactly," the General said.

Eliot nodded. That had been his theory for a few weeks now. "That would make sense. Over the past couple of weeks, all of our recons and strikes have been intercepted, almost as if they were expected. Plus, when I was with Moreau, I remember him mentioning information he'd received from inside your organization."

Escobar's eyes darkened. "Really? Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because I wanted to make sure I was right before I got anyone worried."

"Or maybe because it's you."

Eliot looked across the table. Loud Commander Pete Fucking Rodriguez. Even though Rodriguez had been the reason Eliot decided to stay, he had been a pain in Eliot's ass the entire time. He didn't trust anything Eliot had to say, and always had some reason for why Eliot was the bad guy. Eliot understood some animosity; none of the men had exactly warmed up to him since he'd arrived, but they all at least acknowledged that he'd helped them on several occasions by providing pertinent information. Not Rodriguez. Everything Eliot said was a chance for him to express his displeasure at Eliot's very presence.

"Seriously?" Eliot asked. "Think about that for a second, Rodriguez. If I was the mole, why the hell would I suggest that there might be a mole?"

"I dunno, to divert suspicion?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. "Right. And the mole I just referred to as being in the organization before I got here?"

"A lie," Rodriguez said.

"Uh-huh. So let me get this straight." Eliot let the sarcasm drip from his voice. "Moreau wants me to be a mole, so he sends me to kill the General, on the off-chance that I maybe get through, even though no one has before. He tells me to pretend to have a change of heart, and try to get accepted into your ranks, on the assumption that the General, with a gun pointed to his head, will believe Moreau's Head of Security when he says that he wants to defect. As soon as I get here, he tells me to start giving away information in an obvious way. Then, more than a month later, Moreau lets it leak that he knows that I wasn't killed in the attempt, in order to have me suggest that there might be a mole, so that no one will suggest that I'm the mole that I brought up in the first place? You realize how ludicrous that sounds, don't you?"

"It's not any more ludicrous than you asking us to believe that you had a change of heart about killing kids, but decided to kill the kids anyway to keep them from being killed."

"That's not —" Eliot breathed. Rodriguez knew which knives to twist, and it hurt every time. "Go to hell, Rodriguez. You're a fucking moron."

"Fuck you, Spencer —"

"That's enough," the General commanded. Eliot could tell that the he was getting tired of moderating the very public arguments between him and Rodriguez. "Given what's happened over the past few weeks, it seems highly likely that there is a mole. We need to be careful what information gets out. Orders and missions don't leave this room until the last possible minute to pull everything together."

"Unless the mole is someone in this room," Rodriguez mumbled.

The entire room rolled their eyes except Eliot. "I agree with Rodriguez," he said.

Silence. Then the room burst into laughter.

"Well don't let this happen too often, boys," Escobar chuckled. "Otherwise we might start to think the apocalypse is nigh."

"I'm serious," Eliot said. "Moreau wouldn't waste his resources on a mole unless he was sure the person could get access to the highest level of the organization."

"Exactly, and that's why —" Rodriguez started, but the General interrupted.

"Commander, that is enough."

"Actually, sir," Eliot said, "I'd like to hear what he has to say, if that's all right."

The General arched his eyebrows. "Very well. Continue, Commander Rodriguez."

Rodriguez flushed beet red. He clearly didn't like the idea that Eliot might be helping him out. "Well … I was going to suggest that we should start investigating. Give people false information, and if the lies get out, we know who the mole is."

"At the risk of bringing on the apocalypse … Rodriguez is right." The room chuckled, and Eliot wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a sparkle of something in Rodriguez's eyes, which were usually haunted and pained. After over a month, he still hadn't been able to find out what had happened in the man's past, but if agreeing with him on occasion might bring a little bit of light back to those eyes, he thought it was worth it — no one deserved that kind of pain. Especially when he is, in fact, right.

"In fact, I think we need several separate investigations," Eliot continued. "General, you should choose a few people you trust most to conduct independent investigations. If they come up with the same name, then that's the man. If one of them comes up with a different one, he's your man trying to divert suspicion." His eyes met Rodriguez's — there was that sparkle again.

"Agreed," the General said. "You're all dismissed. I apparently have some thinking to do."

As Eliot got up from the table, he winked at Rodriguez. He could have sworn he saw, for the first time, a shadow of a smile on the man's face.

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Eliot hadn't been inside the General's mansion since That Night, but he needed to see the General — now.

He'd figured out who the mole was.

Rodriguez had been right. It had been someone in that room.

He knocked on the front door, only to be stopped by the same guards he'd seen That Night.

"I need to see him, it's important," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

One left to find the General, while the other three remained with Eliot. Eliot thought about apologizing for what he'd done That Night, but wasn't sure how that type of apology would sound. "Hey, sorry I knocked you guys out that night I tried to kill the General. Be glad I didn't kill you. No hard feelings?"

Luckily, the fourth guard returned with the General, who didn't like being awakened at three in the morning, again, by Eliot Spencer trying to get into his house.

"What's going on? Eliot, is everything all right?"

"I need to talk with you. Now."

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"General, with all due respect, that is a terrible idea." Eliot couldn't believe what he was saying. "If we out him in front of the commanders, he may panic, and there's no telling what he might do."

"I am never safer than when I am surrounded by those men," the General said. "And I want him to explain to us all what he did, and why," he added darkly.

The pain and betrayal in the General's eyes was evident. Eliot hated seeing it; those eyes had always been so kind, so hopeful, so ... trusting. And Eliot couldn't help but feel responsible.

He had saved the worst part for last, but that hadn't made it any easier, to say or to hear.

"Sir ..." he had said. "He was with your son when he died, wasn't he?"

Even after a year, the grief of losing his only son was still fresh. "Yes," the General had said, voice unsteady. "Berto ... He was killed in a firefight …"

"No he wasn't," Eliot had said. It hurt him to say it. "I — I was there. They retreated. I watched them. I heard later that your son had been killed. I had always wondered, but Moreau ... well, he wasn't forthcoming about what had happened."

That was a vast understatement. When Eliot had asked Moreau, the man had smiled and purred, "Eliot, my friend, you didn't think you were the only weapon in my arsenal, did you? You're just the one I tell people about."

The General had protested. "Are you saying that he ... impossible! He would never! Berto ... He ..." His eyes had filled with tears, and Eliot's heart broke.

"Juan ... I'm so sorry." It had been the first time Eliot had used the General's first name, but the man was too distraught to notice.

And now he was about to do something reckless. "Sir," Eliot said desperately. "I am begging you to please wait. Don't do anything you might regret."

"I won't regret this, I assure you," the General said darkly. Eliot was actually frightened. He had never seen this side of the General before; he finally understood why Moreau saw him as such a threat. "Get them all out of bed. I want to do this now."

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The commanders were understandably confused and worried at being awoken at four in the morning. The mole looked at Eliot, and his eyes flashed. He obviously knew what this was about.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming at such an early hour," the General began. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's not for a happy reason. We have found the mole."

He looked at Eliot expectantly.

Are you serious? He was the last man that should be exposing this person. No one in the room truly trusted him.

But he would do anything for Juan. So he took a deep breath and spoke. "A month ago the General asked me to start looking into who the mole might be. I started to feed you all subtle pieces of wrong information. I followed a hunch, and tonight I figured out who it was." He looked at the man. There was a collective intake of breath.

Escobar looked enraged and scandalized.

He's good, Eliot thought. He had to be, to have hidden in plain sight for so long.

"What?! Absolutely not! Juan, surely you don't believe —"

"Eliot has provided me with a mountain of evidence, starting with the fact that only you were told that the mission would take place tonight. And sure enough, Moreau's men were waiting for a recon team that never came. How do you explain that?"

"This is insane! The three of us were in that meeting, Juan. How do you know it wasn't Spencer?"

"Because it was my idea to feed you the wrong information." Eliot stood with arms crossed, at the General's side. Escobar was not going to get away with this.

"Eliot also informed me ..." The General lost his voice.

Eliot would have to do it. I'm so sorry, Juan. "Escobar, you were with Roberto Flores when he died, weren't you?"

The room fell deadly silent. The eyes of every commander were wide with shock and anticipation.

Escobar started to falter. "Y-yes ... I was. He was killed in a firefight."

"Except that he wasn't, Escobar. I was there. I saw you retreat, together, and you were both alive. When I heard later that he'd been killed, I found it odd. I asked Moreau about it, but he was cryptic." Eliot paused. He hadn't gone into detail with Juan, but he needed to now, to draw Escobar out. "He said, and I quote, 'You didn't think you were the only weapon in my arsenal, did you? You're just the one I tell people about.'"

Juan looked stricken. Eliot wanted to hit — no, he wanted to kill Escobar.

Escobar laughed nervously. "Are you kidding me? Berto was my godson! I loved him like my own child!"

Eliot kept pushing. For Juan. "But he figured it out, didn't he? He was smart and resourceful. He figured out that you were feeding Moreau information. I remember that firefight. Moreau sent us there on intel from one of his secret contacts. That was you, wasn't it? Let me guess — after you retreated, Roberto accused you of feeding information to Moreau. You tried to deny it, but he wouldn't have any of it. So to preserve your cover, you killed him, and then came home and cried over his body like he was your own child."

He knew how deep he was cutting Juan — he didn't need to hear the details of his son's death, and certainly not in the brusque tone Eliot was using right now. It hurt Eliot to see Juan's reaction, but he had to do it. Not just for Juan, but for Roberto Flores. He had been a truly good man, like his father. His family deserved to know the truth.

"Juan, you can't seriously believe this. We grew up together. I was Berto's godfather. I was there when Maria was born! I was best man at your wedding, for Christ's sake! And Eliot Spencer has been here a few months and now all of a sudden you believe him over me?"

"Explain yourself, then," Pete Rodriguez said.

Thank God. Someone else believes me.

"Juan." Escobar stood, ignoring Rodriguez's comment. "I would never —"

"Then explain yourself," Eliot growled. "We're all ears."

Eliot saw it in Escobar's eyes the second before he did it, but he wasn't fast enough.

Escobar drew his gun and grabbed the General. He held the gun to his friend's head and said, "Back off, Spencer, or he's dead."

The General was in shock — the twin blows of hearing his best friend admit his betrayal and learning the details of his son's death were too much — he couldn't fight, he just stood there.

The entire room drew their guns and pointed them at Escobar, except for Eliot. He hadn't carried a gun since That Night. He had always disliked guns, but it was only recently that he had refused to carry one.

He did, however, carry knives. About half a dozen, hidden on his person: one in each boot, two in the holster he had taken to wearing recently, and a couple others when he could figure out where to put them. He had expected the shit to hit the fan tonight, so he'd taken an extra one and stuck it up his sleeve before he called in the commanders.

Having a dozen guns pointed at him seemed to jar the General back into reality. "Hold your fire!" he ordered.

"Ignore that order," Eliot said to the room. He realized a second too late how it sounded.

The confusion in the room was palpable, and Escobar capitalized on it. "See?" he smirked. "He's ordering you to ignore the General. What possible reason could he have for doing that? Did it ever occur to you all that there could be a second mole?"

Eliot tried and failed to keep the panic out of this voice. Do not lose control of this situation, Spencer. Juan's life is at stake. "He's lying. Don't listen to him. He's trying to save his own ass."

"Save my own ass? My ass is cooked, thanks to you, Spencer. But if I'm going down, I may as well take you with me." In that moment, Escobar's smile was not unlike Moreau's.

"Why — Why would Moreau have two moles?" Pete Rodriguez again. Thank God someone was being rational.

"Good question, Rodriguez. Why would Moreau waste his resources like that?" Eliot challenged.

"Well, he wouldn't," Escobar said, still smiling. He spoke to the room, but he looked at Eliot. "At least, not intentionally. See, Spencer's defection wasn't a complete act. He chickened out at the last minute. Did no one wonder why it took Moreau a month to 'figure out' that Spencer was alive? It was because that's exactly how long it took Spencer to realize he'd made a mistake — and how long it took Moreau to take him back under his wing."

Eliot was frozen in shock. Escobar was spinning a story — a very believable story — and he could tell that the room was buying it. But surely Juan, who had believed in Eliot from the beginning, wouldn't take the bait.

But Escobar wasn't finished. "That's why he outed me. So he could be the mole, get back in Moreau's good graces, and be The Chosen One again."

Eliot winced at the name, but the room saw it as a confession.

"Spencer ... ?" The look of betrayal in the General's eyes told Eliot that Escobar had succeeded. For a fraction of a second he saw his own father, disappointed and betrayed by Eliot's decision to join the service. Then the General was back, and the look in his eyes tore Eliot's heart in two.

"No, Juan, I swear, I would never —" He sounded desperate — because he was.

Escobar laughed. "Oh yes, you would never — the honorable Eliot Spencer, baby-killer. You would never do anything wrong, would you?" His smile was evil as he hit the mark. "Moreau is pleased with your work, Spencer."

Eliot was shaking. How could he have lost control of the situation so quickly? Escobar was good, and he was taking his revenge on the man who had caught him.

"He's lying," Eliot said. His shaky voice barely convinced himself. "He's trying to discredit me ..." He heard how pathetic his own story sounded. The commanders were trying to decide who was the bigger threat. Right now it was Escobar, but Eliot was next. He knew he was done. But Escobar would only get Eliot Spencer — no one else.

He'd be damned if Moreau was going win this one.

Eliot dropped the knife from his sleeve to his hand and threw it at Escobar. It hit Escobar's right hand, which held the gun. He yelped and dropped the weapon. The General took the opportunity to get the upper hand, and everyone rushed in to arrest Escobar.

Except for Eliot. He grasped the table with one hand as he felt a sharp pain in his right side. He looked down. There was a knife — it looked like one of his, but he couldn't be sure — sticking out of him between his ninth and tenth ribs. He looked across the table to where the knife had come from, and there stood Pete Rodriguez. By the look in his eyes, Eliot could tell he was horrified at what he'd just done.

"Spencer — I thought you were —"

"Aiming for the General," Eliot smiled. "That's right ... protect the principal ..." He took out the knife and dropped it on the table — the worst thing to do if you didn't want to bleed out, but that was exactly what Eliot wanted. The red stain spread quickly, and he was already feeling dizzy.

"It's funny," he slurred. "I knew that if someone was going to ... that it would be you ..." He simultaneously resented and respected Rodriguez, who had been the only one to see Eliot as the bigger threat. He smiled — he was already out of breath. "Thanks, Rodriguez."

He collapsed. All of a sudden, Juan was there, and Rodriguez was next to him.

"Eliot!" The General grabbed Eliot's face in his hands. He looked frightened.

Why? This is for the best.

"You okay?" Eliot slurred. Protect the principal.

"I'm fine, Eliot," the General said. "Look at me. Stay awake — Get a doctor!" he shouted to no one in particular.

"Juan ... I swear ... I'm not ... in league ... with Moreau," Eliot said, his breathing shallow. He has to understand that. "I would never ... do that ... you saved me ..." His head was lolling; he was losing consciousness fast.

"I know, Eliot," Juan said, tears in his eyes. The look of betrayal was gone. Eliot smiled with relief. "I know. Just stay awake, you're going to be fine, we're getting a doctor ..."

"No ..." He had trouble getting the words out; he could barely breathe. "No ... please ... it's okay ... I want this ... it's better ..." He swallowed. "I deserve it ... I'm so sorry ..."

Juan brought his face right up to Eliot's. "No, Eliot, you don't deserve it. You can still do good. Don't give up now!"

Eliot shook his head. "It's better ... thank you ... you ... believed ... in me ..."

He looked at Pete Rodriguez. His eyes were more pained than usual. Why? Eliot smiled at the man. "S'okay ... thanks ... Pete ..."

Then the darkness engulfed him.

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The first thing Eliot was aware of was the brightness. Who knew Hell was so bright?

Then he was aware of the pain. His right side was on fire. Yup ... Hell.

Then he heard beeping. A constant, high-pitched beep ... beep ... beep ... that would definitely drive him mad if he heard it long enough. Odd choice of torture ...

Then he felt thirsty. "Water," he tried to say. He wasn't sure what sound his mouth made, but he was positive it wasn't water. At least, not in any language he knew.

Then he heard a voice. "He's waking up! General!"

No, it couldn't be ...

He opened his eyes and saw Pete Rodriguez.

He was definitely in Hell.

He jumped away and his side erupted in pain. He looked for a weapon, any weapon, but he couldn't see one. He didn't even know where he was. The beeping was fast now: beep-beep-beep-beep-beep …

"Spencer, it's okay, settle down —"

"What's going on?" Juan?

"I didn't do anything, I swear! He just opened his eyes and —"

"Eliot," Juan was right next to him. He placed a hand on Eliot's shoulder. It had a calming effect. The beeping slowed. "Relax. Calm down."

Eliot lay back down and looked around. He was in a small room in the infirmary, attached to a heart monitor and an IV. This wasn't possible. I'm still alive?

He looked at Juan, who smiled. "Am I alive? What happened?"

Juan chuckled. "Yes, you're alive. As for what happened," he chuckled again. "Let's just say that my daughter Maria would call you a drama queen."

Rodriguez snorted. Eliot glared at him. "What the fuck are you doing here? You almost killed me!"

Juan chuckled again. "Actually, he didn't ..." More chuckling.

"Will someone please explain to me what the fuck is so damned funny?!"

Juan forced himself to be serious. "You're right. I apologize. You remember what happened?"

Escobar ... Juan as a hostage ... lies about working with Moreau —

He started to hyperventilate. The beeping sped up again. "Juan, I swear, Escobar was lying. I'm not a mole, I would never —" he pleaded.

Juan put his hand on Eliot's shoulder. The beeping slowed down, and Eliot ripped the sensors off. That's enough of that. The monitor made one long, loud BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP before Juan reached over and switched it off.

"We know, Eliot. Calm down. We know. Escobar's story, while believable at first glance, did not stand up to further scrutiny."

Rodriguez looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't —"

"Pete fell for the story just like the rest of us," Juan said to Rodriguez, then turned to Eliot, "and misunderstood your knife to be aimed for me, not for Escobar."

"To be fair, there was only a couple-inch difference ..." Rodriguez mumbled.

"And —" The General help up a hand before Eliot could interject. "He threw a knife at you. It hit you between the ninth and tenth ribs on your right side."

Obviously.

"The thing is…" Juan smiled again. "You were never in any real danger. Pete's knife hit you in a fleshy spot — some muscle and fat, nothing vital. You bled a lot — enough to pass out, but not enough to even need a transfusion."

The General's smile melted away, and his face became serious. "However, your reaction to the wound concerns me." He turned to Rodriguez. "I need to speak with Eliot alone. Please give us the room."

"But you said —"

The General held up a hand. "You will have your turn, Pete, I promise. But I need to speak with Eliot first."

Rodriguez avoided Eliot's eyes as he left the room.

Juan waited for the door to close. Then, "Eliot ... do you want to die?"

Eliot was surprised by the abruptness. He swallowed and realized he had no saliva. "Could I get some water?"

"Of course." The General obliged, but he was waiting for an answer.

Eliot was trembling again. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I ... I don't know."

"Yes you do," Juan said sternly. "It's a simple question. Yes or no?"

Eliot looked at his hands and nodded. He couldn't speak.

"Why?"

It was a simple question, but the answer was complex. He didn't say anything for a long time.

"Eliot?" Juan prompted.

He took another deep breath. "Because I deserve it ..." Barely a whisper.

"Why do you think that?"

Eliot's eyes flashed. "Why do you think?" he snapped.

"I know what I think. I want to hear what you think."

Damn you, Flores. "I've done things ... awful things ... someone like me ..." He swallowed. "Someone like me doesn't deserve to be alive."

"Really? And who decides that? Who decides who deserves to live and who deserves to die?" the General asked.

Eliot didn't say anything. He didn't know how to respond.

"Because you know who that sounds like to me? That sounds like Damien Moreau."

Eliot winced. The words hurt. "I decide. I decide if I deserve to live or die. Someone like me —"

"Someone like you saved my life today. Someone like you exposed a mole in our organization, saving who knows how many other lives. Someone like you ..." He paused. "Someone like you discovered the truth about my son's death. Now tell me, does that sound like someone who deserves to die?"

Eliot was silent.

"Eliot." Juan's voice was kind. Eliot looked him in the eyes; they were kind, too. "You have done some truly terrible things. You will never be clean of them. I don't believe that you will ever be able to do anything to make up for what you've done."

A pain seared through Eliot's heart. It was one thing to think that about himself, but to hear it spoken aloud, by Juan ...

"But," Juan continued, "that doesn't mean that you can't do good. It doesn't mean that you aren't capable of becoming a good person. Death ..." He paused again, thoughtfully. "Death is too easy for you, Eliot. You think you deserve death as a punishment? I think you deserve life as a punishment, because no punishment anyone else could come up with could ever be as horrible as the guilt you will feel for the rest of your life."

Eliot met Juan's eyes. They were still kind. They were grateful. They were ... hopeful.

"You can punish yourself much better if you're alive," Juan said. "And you can do good. Why not try to do both?"

Eliot nodded. He had never thought of it that way.

"The burden you carry, the guilt you feel, it's terrible, and it's suffocating. But it's good. It means you have a conscience. That's what makes you different from Damien Moreau."

Eliot didn't know what to say, so he said the phrase he'd never be able to say enough. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Wanting to die? Don't be sorry. Just fix it." Juan stood up to leave, but he paused. "Thank you, Eliot, for what you did today. I will be forever in your debt." He opened the door.

"Wait — What about Escobar? Did he tell you why he did it?"

The General's eyes darkened. "No, he didn't. While I was waiting for you to get out of surgery, he hanged himself."

"Could Moreau have — ? That's how he does things."

"No. No one came or went. He was in the Tombs. Only one way in or out. He did it himself. He was a coward." He spat out the last word.

"Yes he was." Eliot wanted to say something else, but wasn't sure how. "Juan ..."

The General waited.

"Your son ... Roberto ... He was a good man." He paused. "I know it's true because — because Moreau wanted him dead." Juan's eyes filled with tears. Eliot looked away, but continued. "He wanted him dead more than he wanted you dead because the people of San Lorenzo looked to him as their next leader. He was Moreau's biggest enemy. I know because —" He took a breath. " Because he asked me to kill him. He asked me to plan it, to make it happen. But Escobar — I didn't get the chance. I wish I had. I would have liked to have met him. I think that —" He swallowed. "I think that if I had, I'd have been on your side a long time ago. I think he could have turned me against Moreau before ... before I had so much blood on my hands."

He heard Juan move, and he looked up in time to see the man embrace him, tightly. He hadn't been held like that in ... too long. His eyes stung.

Juan pulled away and smiled. "When you're up to it, I want you to come to dinner. I want you to meet Anita and Maria. They'll be more than happy to talk about Berto." He paused. "Maria, she's taken it hard. They were close, and she has no one now ... I think she would like you." He smiled. "When you're feeling better."

He walked to the door again. "Now, I think I'd better let Pete in here before he has a conniption."

Eliot winced. "Juan, I really don't want —"

"Please. He needs to do this. Just listen to him." Juan paused thoughtfully. "He doesn't have anyone either ... I think you would be good for him."

What the hell? First your daughter, now Rodriguez? "Juan, do you hear yourself? You literally just finished convincing me that I don't deserve to die. Do you really think I'm a good role model for the kids?"

Juan laughed. "It's not just the kids that could benefit, Eliot."

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Pete Rodriguez entered the room awkwardly. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he sat down in the chair next to Eliot's bed.

Eliot waited, but not patiently. I'm not Juan. "You got something you need to say, Rodriguez?"

Rodriguez cleared his throat. "Spencer ... I'm sorry."

Eliot waited what he felt was a sufficient amount of time, then said, "That it? Great. You can go now. I'm exhausted."

Rodriguez breathed in as if preparing to say something, then nodded and got up to leave.

"He doesn't have anyone."

Eliot shook his head. Just let him leave, Spencer.

"I think you would be good for him."

Damn you, Juan. "Wait." Eliot cringed, eyes closed, as if he'd rather not see the outcome. "Sit down."

Rodriguez sheepishly sat down. He looked like he expected to be chewed out.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Escobar was really convincing, and I thought —"

"It's fine." Did you really just say that, Spencer? "You were doing your job. Protect the principal."

"What does that mean?" Rodriguez asked. "You said it before, but I didn't understand."

"It's a term used in personal security. The principal is the person you're protecting, in this case the General. And that's what you did — or attempted to do." Eliot had still been able to throw his knife, after all. "You were the only one to see me as the threat, not Escobar. That was good." Rodriguez made a face. "I'm serious. If Escobar had been right, I was the most dangerous person in the room. You saw that, and you reacted." He paused. "You did exactly what I would have done."

Rodriguez's eyes lit up and he smiled, as if that was the greatest compliment he'd ever received. Eliot's heart felt just a little bit lighter.

He wasn't exactly sure what to say next, so he tried small talk. "Where'd you get the knife?"

The smile was gone now, and Rodriguez's eyes widened in terror. "I — um — well ... See, I found it ..."

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Where?"

"Um ... in here ..." he said quietly, avoiding Eliot's eyes. "When you ... weren't."

"I knew it!" Eliot exclaimed. "You stole it! I knew I recognized it!"

"Sorry," Rodriguez mumbled.

"No, no sorry. Why did you take it?"

"Well, I saw you with them, when you were showing some of the other guys, and it looked really cool. I actually tried on my own with some kitchen knives, but it didn't work out so well."

Eliot chuckled. "No, it wouldn't. Those knives are crap, even for kitchen knives. A throwing knife needs to be balanced."

"Yeah, I figured, so that's why I —"

"Stole one of mine," Eliot snapped. Rodriguez flinched, which surprised Eliot. He softened his voice. "You could have just asked me, you know. I would have shown you."

"Yeah, but ..."

"You didn't trust me."

Rodriguez nodded.

They were silent for a while. Eliot thought about asking the question that had plagued him for months, but he couldn't bring himself to see the pain in the boy's eyes.

"So how long did you practice with it?"

"Not long. A week, maybe."

"A week? Impressive. You hit me between the ninth and tenth ribs. Fleshy, but lots of blood loss. Enough to disable, but not kill." Eliot tried not to remember that he himself had forgotten that fact.

Rodriguez looked sheepish. "Yeah ... I wasn't aiming for that."

Eliot froze. "What were you aiming for?"

"Your neck."

Eliot's eyes widened. "My neck?! Are you fucking kidding me, Rodriguez?"

"I'm sorry, okay?! I thought you were working with Moreau! You threw your knife, I thought you were going to kill the General! I just reacted!"

"No. No. This is not okay. General!" he yelled.

Juan came through the door.

"Is everything all right?" He looked concerned.

"No, everything is absolutely not fucking all right! Are you aware that Rodriguez was not, in fact, aiming for the spot between my ninth and tenth ribs, but was aiming for my neck?"

The General's eyes brimmed with worry. "No, I wasn't aware of that. But Eliot, I'd ask you to understand —"

"Understand?!" He turned to Rodriguez. "You were six feet away. Six. Feet. And you missed?!"

Silence. Juan tried to hide a smile.

"Um, what?" Rodriguez blinked.

"You said you practiced for a week with that knife. How many times did you throw it? Once?"

Rodriguez turned beet red. "Hey! No, okay, I threw it a lot. But it took me a while to get it to stick. Like, in the wall."

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's it," he said, sitting up and throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. "Get up. I'm going to teach you. Now."

Juan stepped in. "No, Eliot, you are not getting up."

"General, I don't think you understand. Pete here is a danger to himself and others. I need to do this, for the greater good."

The General smiled and pushed him back down. "Relax. You'll have plenty of time. But you need to rest now." Then, under his breath, so only Eliot could hear, "Maybe dial it down a couple of notches?"

Eliot winked at him. It wasn't all an act. As an expert in his craft, he was offended at Pete's complete lack of coordination. But, he really should be grateful; if Pete had actually hit what he'd been aiming at ...

Eliot sighed dramatically. "I suppose you can be forgiven, since your ineptitude saved my life."

Pete smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, shouldn't you be grateful?"

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Don't push it."

.

.

.

Eliot smiled. He hadn't thought about that exchange in years; it had always been overshadowed by later, unhappier memories. He was struck by how much Pete had been a combination of Parker and Hardison.

He felt a twinge. He really loved all three of them.

"Eliot?"

"Huh?" Shit. Parker had just asked him a question.

"I said, are you ready to go?"

Eliot smirked. "Yeah. Let's do this."

To the Tombs.