This chapter is dedicated to my amazing boyfriend Benny who loaned Hardison his name. Benny is my beta reader and moral support. Without him this story would not have made it past the first chapter, so everyone who has enjoyed it owes him a big thank you.
Olympia, Washington
one week later
"I hate switching jobs," Hardison's voice muttered in Eliot's ear.
"You think I'm enjoying sitting in your funny smelling van and trying to do your geek thing?" Eliot growled.
On the computer screen he watched Hardison and Mikhal walk across the lobby of the high rise office building where Jarret Security had its corporate headquarters. Hardison had hacked the building's security system so Eliot could watch them wherever they went as long as there was a camera nearby. He had even programmed the computer to track the comms and automatically bring up the camera closest to them, saving Eliot the trouble of navigating the different feeds. Eliot knew he wasn't being nice. He just didn't want the hitter touching his computer any more than necessary, but that was fine with Eliot. "Believe me," he said, kicking away an empty orange soda bottle, "if there was another way, I'd be all for it."
"Hey. First of all, Lucille does not smell funny. How many times do I have to tell you? And second of all, the computer is not gonna try to beat the crap outta you. I have to go meet a merchant of death, man. This is a hitter's job."
"Which is why Mikhal is there," Eliot said with as much patience as he could muster. "Just concentrate on the grift. She's got your back."
"All right, but I'm tellin' you, I'm allergic to fists near my face or . . .other vital areas. I got a doctor's note and everythin'. If things get bloody, I might just faint and blow the grift -"
"Dammit, Hardison! Shut up!" Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't been sleeping well since this job began. He was constantly on high alert in case Jarret took another shot at Kate, and on top of that the whole situation had stirred up long buried memories. His dreams were never exactly pleasant, (one reason that he slept as little as possible,) but they hadn't been this bad since the team had been chasing Moreau. And while it was possible with a little discipline to function just as well on two hours of sleep as on eight, it had to be two solid, uninterrupted hours. By now he was running mostly on the energy of his own tension like a wind up toy, and he had a constant low key headache which was aggravated by the harsh light of the computer screen.
"No need to get snappy," Hardison said. "We all deal with fear in our own way. You hit things when you're nervous. I chatter. It's all good. It takes all kinds - Ouch!"
This was because Mikhal's hand had shot out suddenly and jabbed him in the ribs. "Sheket," (Quiet,) the woman snapped. "We're almost there."
"Toda raba, Mikhal," (Thank you very much,) Eliot said with a smirk.
"Y'all are nasty," Hardison said sulkily before finally subsiding.
Eliot was granted thirty seconds of silence, and he used them to take his own advice and get his head focused on the job at hand rather than the list of things that could go wrong. Then Hardison and Mikhal entered the offices of Jarret Security, and the game began in earnest.
"How can I help you?" he heard the desk clerk ask pleasantly.
"We have an appointment with Mr. Jarret," Hardison said with a thick Israeli accent. Mikhal had been coaching him all week, and as long as he stuck to English no one would question his authenticity. His Hebrew vocabulary was barely sufficient to communicate though, forget about passing for a native speaker.
"Your names?" the clerk asked, her attitude cooling in response to Hardison's brusqueness.
"Benyamin Ruveni," Hardison said, "and Geula Ben-Sasson."
The clerk tapped at her computer. "Yes, the representatives from the Israeli consulate. Just a moment while I tell Mr. Jarret you're here." She got up and disappeared down a hallway. Less than a minute later she was back. "Right this way please," she said.
Eliot watched them walk down the hallway and enter Jarret's office. He was prepared for the fact that the camera feed did not follow them in. Jarret valued his privacy almost as much as his reputation. But Eliot wasn't prepared for the squeal of feedback from his comm that made him wince and put a finger to his ear. "Hardison?" he said. "Mikhal? Hardison?!" There was only silence.
With a feeling of gut twisting apprehension, Eliot brought up the program that coordinated all the comm signals. Sure enough it was flashing in alarmed red letters, SIGNAL JAMMED.
The squeal of feedback was too loud and unexpected for Hardison to be able to hide his reaction. He glanced sideways at Mikhal, and she gave a tiny nod to indicate that her comm had also gone dead.
"Ah, sorry about that," said Jarret, rising from behind his desk. "It's nothing personal, but various people have attempted to bug my office in the past, so I have a selective signal jammer installed. It only activates when it detects an unauthorized signal in the room so it doesn't interfere with my own electronics."
Breathing a mental sigh of relief that the con wasn't blown before it began, Hardison said still in his Israeli accent, "That is all right, Mr. Jarret. We understand that a man in your position must take precautions." He turned to Mikhal. "Geula, step out in to the hall for a moment and tell our man downstairs not to worry. Everything is under control." He knew she would hear his real meaning. 'Tell Eliot not to panic and rush to our rescue. We still have chance to pull this off.'
She left the room, and he heard her speaking to Eliot in rapid Hebrew, but his own comm remained jammed so he couldn't hear what Eliot said. A moment later Mikhal returned and gave him another nod. They were clear to proceed.
"Everything all right then?" Jarret said. "Have a seat. Remind me of your names?"
"Colonel Benyamin Ruveni," Hardison said, "and this is Commander Geula Ben-Sasson. As we told your secretary on the telephone, we represent an elite unit of the Israeli Defense Force which is dedicated to tracking down and eliminating terrorist leaders -"
"Please, Colonel Ruveni." Jarret held up a hand. "We've established that this room is completely secure, and I dislike double talk. If we're going to do business, you'll have to speak plainly. You're with the Mossad."
Hardison didn't have to fake his smile. He loved it when the mark followed the script without realizing it. "I am glad you are so straightforward," he said. "It has been my experience that Americans love to talk in circles. You usually call it being polite, but I also have little patience for it. Yes, we are with the Mossad."
"And what does the most efficient, most successful black ops organization in the world want with an ordinary military contractor like Jarret Security?" Jarret asked. His eyes flickered briefly toward Mikhal as he spoke. She stared evenly back at him but said nothing.
"But you are not an ordinary military contractor," Hardison said, adding a small snap to his tone. Not enough to make Jarret feel threatened, but just enough to make it clear that Colonel Ruveni was the leader of this duo and Commander Ben-Sasson was just furniture unless he said otherwise. Jarret got the message and politely returned his gaze to Hardison who continued as though nothing had happened. "Your training methods are legendary in armies all over the world. And your success rate is just as high as ours. The Israeli government would like to know if you are interested in a collaboration."
Jarret's eyes narrowed. "What kind of collaboration?"
Tread carefully, Hardison reminded himself. This was no time to oversell the part. Dangle the bait just out of reach. Let him fill in the blanks. "Allow us to observe your training methods in action," he said, "for an extended period of time. In exchange, we will promise contracts to, let us say, thirty of your best students."
Jarret kept his expression neutral, or so he thought, but Hardison had learned people-reading from none other than Sophie Deveraux, and he saw the micro-expression of interest in the muscles around the eyes. "I have no trouble securing contracts for my students, especially the best of them," Jarret said. "As you said, my methods are legendary. Why should I give away my trade secrets for free?"
"Oh, if it is money you want, that can be arranged as well," Hardison said, knowing full well that that wasn't what Jarret wanted at all. "But think for a moment, Mister Jarret, what it would mean for your reputation if your clients found out that the Mossad, which you yourself called the most successful organization of its kind a moment ago, is using your methods and even hiring your students."
Hardison knew immediately that Eliot had read the man's hook perfectly. Jarret had a harder time controlling his face once he'd got a good sniff of the bait. What he wanted more than anything was legitimacy. He might be big in the private sector, but he knew that the official military and even other mercenary companies looked down on him as a small time operator. They even viewed his system of taking kids off the street rather than veteran soldiers as a little bit of a cheat. A contract like this would change all that. Whatever their personal political opinions, no one could call Mossad small time.
"I'll have to consider your proposal and discuss it with a few people," he said at last. "I may be the founder of this company, but I don't have sole control of it, especially in a matter as . . .large as this. And of course I'll have to check your credentials." His gaze flickered toward Mikhal again.
"Of course," Hardison said. "You know how to get in touch with the consulate, and," - he pushed a card across the desk - "here is my private number for when you have made up your mind."
The only job Eliot hated more than the computer stuff was waiting. At least tapping at a keyboard was doing something. Just sitting with nothing to distract his mind from the fear that everything was about to go wrong made his skin crawl.
He had been ready to pull the plug when the comms went offline, even though that would mean going in himself to pull Hardison and Mikhal out, possibly blowing the con for no reason. But he recognized that that was a hitter's instinct, and he wasn't the hitter on this one, so he had already decided to let Mikhal call it when her comm came back on. She explained in terse, rapid Hebrew about the selective signal jammer, but assured him that everything was under control. Then she signed off before he could reply. So he sat back to wait.
It seemed like an eternity before the security camera showed them exiting Jarret's office and heading for the elevator. Hardison started to say something once they were in the elevator, but Eliot said, "Wait. Don't talk yet. Mikhal, take appropriate precautions. I'll meet you back at the base camp." That was all he felt safe saying, but that was all he needed to say.
Climbing in to the driver's seat of the van, he watched them leave the building. Not even glancing toward the van, Mikhal hailed a cab. Once they were gone, Eliot started back to the hotel.
