Thanks again to all who have reviewed and\or alerted so far. And to those of you who favorited (is that a verb?) this story or that lovely person who honored me with an author alert (and holy cow that made my day) . . . I really hope I can keep doing whatever it is you're liking!

Warning: possible trigger for violence against a woman.

If you would prefer to skip over the portion in question, you might want to stop at the first section break and then run a cntrl—F for the word cut.

Regardless, please let me know what you think.

It was already late evening by the time Eliot walked out of the airport terminal. He checked his messages out of habit, the first time he'd turned on his phone since they'd left for Arizona. It seemed a lot longer than a week.

The job had been an over-long, over-complicated hairball for everyone. Sophie had had six character changes—two on the fly— Parker had stolen and planted the same pearl necklace a record nine times because the target kept changing; Hardison had pretty much been awake the entire week monitoring everything; and Nate had been holding onto sobriety with ragged fingernails.

So aside from the usual, Eliot had been the dresser, the cabbie, the caffeine supplier, and the AA counselor on this one—by the end, he hadn't just wanted to take it out on the bad guy, he'd come close to decking the client out of sheer frustration. Especially when it turned out the guy'd been interfering with every single move the team made because he wanted to help.

And then the flight back had been delayed at both ends—an hour up front and over forty minutes of circling before they was allowed to land—and if Eliot found out that Parker, who had vanished from her seat twenty minutes in, had something to do with that, there would be trouble.

All he wanted to do was go home and watch game highlights on ESPN with a cold beer or three.

Five messages. One from Andrea, which he skipped. He didn't know why she kept calling after he'd turned down her last few lunch invitations—for someone who apparently wasn't that into him, she was having a hard time letting go.

Four from Ron. He listened to the first one, and chuckled.

Eliot had found it difficult to convince Ron that he wasn't interested in Jo, that the idea was just . . . wrong. It wasn't that he didn't think she was good-looking, because she was—even in the sweats she usually wore, it was obvious she had a good body. And of course, he didn't teach the lethal secrets of office supplies to just anyone. But she was more like an apprentice . . . or maybe a colleague who ranked somewhere between Sophie and Parker on the maintenance\irritation scale.

So he'd told Ron to go ahead with his blessing and a threat about minding his manners that was only half serious. Eliot figured Jo would say no the first time, for one reason or another, but it sounded like she'd said yes on a time delay. Maybe that meant she was planning to stick around?

The next message changed his smile to a frown. The one after that had him giving a low whistle. And the last one—

He sprinted to the parking lot, punching in Ron's cell number as he went.

OOOOOoooooOOOOO

Eliot let himself in the side door of The Gym, glancing at the deactivated alarm keypad. He moved silently through the building, past the weight machines, the desk, the sparring rings. . .

Someone was up ahead, leaning against the wall. Short blonde hair glinted as the head turned. Eliot relaxed. "Mike. Anything happened yet?"

"Hiya, Eliot. Not much—just like last night. Tamerlin made bail yesterday, but he didn't show."

"You think he will?"

"Jo does. She says guys like him—"

Glass shattered somewhere nearby. "C'mon," whispered Mike, and jogged down the hall.

Up ahead, light streamed from the window of Studio Three, like a beacon in the dark. Mike knocked on the wired glass twice as he passed and picked up speed.

Eliot kept up, guessing where they were headed. Sure enough, Mike stopped in front of Ron's office. They slipped inside.

Ron was sitting at the table that served him as a desk, staring at a monitor. He glanced up at Eliot. "Is he here?" The usual good humor was gone from his voice.

"Just broke in," said Mike. "Camera working?"

"Yeah." He pointed to the screen and Eliot went to take a look, Mike going around to Ron's other side.

Jo, wearing a pair of white Gym sweats and work gloves, walked across the room. She stopped in the center, and turned her head, her face registering surprise.

A man appeared at the bottom of the screen as he walked under the camera.

Ron clicked the link for the audio feed.

"What are you doing here?" said Jo, backing up.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson, bitch."

He rushed her and she dodged at the last second, moving past him, making him swing around.

"Get his face?" asked Mike.

"Not—wait, there," said Ron, as Jo led the guy around again so he faced the camera. "That should do it."

"That Tamerlin?" asked Eliot. The man was built like a bear from the waist up.

"That's him," said Ron.

"So why are we in here, instead of in there?"

"Good question," said Mike.

"Because this is Jo's show," said Ron, not sounding too happy about it.

Eliot watched Jo retreat in large circles, letting Tamerlin swipe at her, but never quite connect. He was all power moves, while she was grace and speed.

"Someone's been neglecting his leg work," he said.

"Mmm-hmm," said Mike. "Watch it, hon," he muttered, as she let Tamerlin get too close.

He caught her arm and almost yanked her off her feet. She broke the hold, but instead of following through, she backed off, making a panicked sound.

"What's she doing?" said Eliot.

"Making it look good," said Ron, his voice like grim death.

Jo was moving slower now, and Tamerlin backhanded her across the face, knocking her to her knees. She cowered under a rain of blows, and fell over, curling up against a kick, her back to the camera—providing a perfect view of Tamerlin's expression.

"This is insane," said Eliot.

Mike muttered something under his breath.

"She knows what she's doing," said Ron.

"Then why ain't she doing it?" asked Eliot.

"She is."

"Where's Chloe?" asked Tamerlin.

"I don't know."

His foot lashed out. "Where is she?"

"I don't know!" Jo's wail hurt Eliot ears, or maybe someplace deeper. Ron's hands curled into fists. Mike swore under his breath.

"This ain't right," said Eliot.

Ron didn't look away from the screen. "You taught her to be you," he said. "She's being you."

There was no blame in his voice, but Eliot bristled anyway. "I woulda come up with something a little less—"

"Then you should have been here," Ron growled at him. "And what kind of thing were you doing wherever the hell you were?"

Eliot clamped down on something he knew he'd regret saying . . .and his memory flashed to a job where he'd let a couple of punks beat him down so he'd have to be sent to a certain hospital—fake wounds wouldn't have done it. Parker hadn't talked to him for a week, and Sophie hadn't talked to Nate for two. Hardison hadn't cracked a smile or made a single wiseass remark for the rest of the job, which was somehow worse. They didn't seem to understand that doing whatever it took was part of the—

"Dammit," he said. "Just—dammit."

"Yeah."

Tamerlin's low laugh caught their attention. On screen, he reached into his back pocket and brought out something. Even before he hit the button, Eliot knew what it was.

"Knife," said Mike, straightening up.

"Riot baton," said Eliot, as the steel rods clicked into place.

"That's it. She's done."

Ron grabbed Mike with a long arm. "She has to say the word."

"Are ya kidding me?"

"She has to say the word. We agreed."

"I didn't," said Eliot.

"It's her show," Ron said through his teeth. "You're not going to screw it up."

"Tell me where she is." Metal whistled through the air.

Jo wailed.

"Tell me!"

She screamed.

"Don't make me go through you, Ron" said Eliot, in a voice he almost didn't recognize as his.

Tamerlin raised the baton a third time and Jo shrieked, "I'll tell! I'll tell you! Just don't hurt me anymore!"

Ron slapped at the mouse and shot to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the wall. "Go!" he roared.

Eliot took off for the studio, Mike pounding behind him. He ripped the door open. "Do it and die," he said in that same voice.

Tamerlin looked up and froze, weapon held high.

Jo slowly rolled up to her knees. "Cu—cut?" she asked in a hoarse voice that reminded Eliot of the first time she'd spoken to him.

"We got it," said Mike.

"Good." She got to her feet, slowly, carefully. Just like she had in the alley . . .

Tamerlin's arm sagged. "What the fu—"

Jo kicked him full in the stomach, sending him stumbling back.

"I know how that feels," said Mike, grinning.

Ron pushed past them, but Eliot grabbed him.

"No," he said. "She's earned it."

"Shouldn't we get that thing away from him first?" asked Mike.

But Jo had moved close before Tamerlin could get his breath. She grabbed the baton with both hands, twisted it from his grip and flung it away.

"Never mind," said Mike. "Yeeouch, that's gotta hurt," she said, watching Jo's next move.

"It does," said Eliot. Now that Jo was in control—though he knew she'd argue that she always had been—he analyzed the fight. Even hurt—she was favoring her right side—she was good. It helped that most of her opponent's muscles were for show and that he wasn't used to women who fought back. But objectively . . .

Tamerlin howled and came at her. She stepped in and did something that made Ron whistle and Tamerlin fall to his knees.

"I taught her that one," said Eliot.

"I know," said Mike, giving him a sour look.

Eliot smirked. "Payback's a bitch."

"Wrap it up, Jo," said Ron. "Cops are on their way."

She glanced over and Tamerlin leapt. She pulled up her knees, let his momentum bring them both over, and shoved hard with her legs, sending him flying over her head. "Make it look good," she called.

Ron hauled Tamerlin to his feet. "Don't worry," he said, and planted a haymaker to the shorter man's jaw. Tamerlin went down and stayed there. Ron stepped over him and went to help Jo, who was sitting up, or trying to.

Eliot walked up to her, shaking his head. "What the hell, Jo?" he said.

"Hey, Spencer." She offered him a tired smile. "Welcome back. You need to go now."

"Take the emergency exit," said Ron. "I'll call you."

Eliot gave Jo a look. "We need to talk," he told her.

"Yes, we do," she said, as the faint, high-pitched whine of a siren reached them. "But not now. Go let them in," she told Ron.

"No." He slipped her gloves from her hands and tried to pull up her sweatshirt.

She slapped at his hand. "Yes. Mike—"

"We're gone. C'mon, Eliot, I'll fill you in."

With a last glance over the scene, Eliot left.

He'd parked a block away, like Ron had suggested, and by the time they reached his car, there were multiple sirens. They got in and Eliot drove away.

"That was . . . the second most difficult thing I ever had to watch," said Mike. He didn't offer to share the first.

"It made my top ten," said Eliot. "What the hell were you all thinking?"

"We were thinking that the sentences for domestic assault around here are pathetic," said Mike in a flat voice. "Especially when the rat bastard is a first timer and wasn't caught in the act. Maya's got Chloe stashed in one of her safehouses, but that's just temporary—and ya know restraining orders aren't worth squat. But now, we have him for busting in, assault— maybe attempted murder. All on camera."

"Yeah, but—"

"And," Mike interrupted. "We were thinking Jo was going to do it with us or without us. And without wasn't gonna happen."

Eliot sighed. "All right. But it didn't occur to anyone that he might bring a weapon along?"

Mike paused. "I think Jo knew," he said. "Don't know how."

Eliot thought about it. He'd never seen Jo wear gloves to lift something—she always said her calluses would protect her. . . "I think —"

His phone vibrated. "Yeah. Hey Ron," he said, assuming the cops were listening. "Almost—my flight was delayed. What's up? When?" He let Ron tell him what he knew. "How bad is she?" he asked, and listened to the answer. "Which hospital? I'll meet you there." He closed the phone. "Want me to drop you off?" he asked Mike.

"Please. I need to tell Maya what happened so she can tell Chloe . . . and I think I need to watch Cody sleeping for a while."

Eliot glanced at him. "Yeah," he said.

This is as dark as it gets. I swear.

And it was the most difficult piece to write so far—surprise, surprise. I think I did what I set out to do . . . but your comments would be greatly appreciated.