Thank you to everyone who continues to read and review! I'm excited that everyone seems to be enjoying this story as much as I am. Special thanks again to quirkapotamus for her constant support and suggestions. If you aren't already, go read her fic, The French Kiss Job — it's a fun one!

This chapter was a doozy to write, so I hope you all enjoy! Thanks again!

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Chapter 11

"That, Mr. Ford, would be my wife." Mateo Ramirez, dashing as always, leaned lazily against the door frame with a devilish grin on his face.

Eliot rolled his eyes. Matty always did have a flair for the dramatic.

"C'mon, El, aren't you gonna introduce me to your new friends?" Matty asked as he pushed off the door frame and entered the room.

"Guys, this is Matty Ramirez. He's the General's son-in-law."

Sophie approached first and held out her hand. "It's lovely to meet you. I'm —"

"Rebecca Ibañez," Matty said, winking. "How nice to finally meet you! Michael's told us so much about you! You've known each other how long again? A few years, right?"

He flashed his dashing smile and dropped the act. "If you're the one who's been coaching him, you must be the best around. I've never seen him talk in public … well, ever."

Sophie, always vulnerable to flattery when it came to her craft, smiled demurely and — Eliot realized with increasing alarm — flirtatiously. He recalled the puppy conversation as he watched the grifter look Matty up and down with a discerning and admiring eye.

He cleared his throat loudly. "You done sucking up, Matty? This is Hardison and Parker" — they shook hands — "and this is —"

"Nate Ford," Matty said, shaking Nate's hand firmly. "Juan told me you'd be coming to help us out. Tell me —" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "How'd you get this one to come around and start to play nice with others?" He jerked his head in Eliot's direction.

Matty was obviously fishing — Eliot had refused to answer his inquiries during their brief conversation the previous day — but there were more important things to discuss right now.

"If you're done making jokes, Matty, maybe you can tell me why you're letting your nine-month-pregnant wife out of hiding to do interviews about the election."

"Okay, first of all, nobody 'lets' Maria do anything, let's get that straight," Matty said. "And second ... because that's what you asked me yesterday when you came to my house for the first time in eight years?"

Eliot tried to ignore the looks on the faces of his teammates — he'd never told them just how long it had been since he'd last set foot in San Lorenzo. "No, I said I needed the General's next in line to start rallying the troops."

Nate chuckled. "I think you may have been mistaken about exactly who the next in line is, Eliot."

Eliot's eyes widened as he processed what Nate's words. "You're saying Maria …?"

Matty laughed. "Of course it's Maria, why else did you come to me yesterday?" His smile faded as his eyes widened in realization. "Wait, you thought it was me? El, I'm a soldier, not a politician."

Eliot cocked an eyebrow. "Just like your old man, huh?"

Matty beamed at the compliment. His father, General Ramirez, had been childhood friends with General Flores. They'd enlisted back during the war for independence, risen through the ranks together, and been promoted to the rank of general at the same time. But, while General Flores was more of a political, rally-the-troops military leader — hence his recent presidential campaign, Eliot remembered with a pang — General Ramirez had been a soldier through-and-through. He'd loved strategy and insisted on joining his men on the front lines. When Moreau came to power, Generals Flores and Ramirez had led the fight against him together; but General Ramirez had been killed in one of the first firefights with Moreau. His wife, Matty's mother, had died a few months later. Matty was eleven.

"So you a general yet?" Eliot crossed his arms as he nodded in Matty's direction.

"Nope. Still a colonel. Going on five years now."

"Five years? What the hell are they waiting on?"

Matty smiled grimly. "Only the president can appoint generals. And thanks to my father-in-law and my wife, Ribera knows exactly whose side I'm on. His generals are all bullshit political appointees with no real military experience. They wouldn't know military action if it showed up at one of their political rallies and tried to assassinate their leader. Which it did." He rubbed his shoulder absently. "You'd think taking a bullet for the son of a bitch would have earned me something."

Eliot's stomach did a flip. Why hadn't he heard that Matty had been shot?

"Didn't you get a medal?" Parker asked, eyes sparkling as they always did when she thought of shiny things.

Matty's laugh was bitter. "Oh, there was a medal awarded, all right. To one of those political generals who cowered while I saved their president from assassination." He sighed. "Imagine waking up in the hospital to your wife ranting and raving, not at Moreau, not at Ribera, but at you." Eliot smiled as Matty fell into an uncanny impression of Maria. "'You should never have risked your life for that bastard! You should have let him get killed. It would have been better for our country! How could you have been so stupid?' Like I thought about the political ramifications in the split second I had to move … It's my job to protect people, especially the president, no matter who the hell he is … And it's not like —"

He stopped, as if suddenly remembering people were there. "Anyway, yeah. No medal, no promotion. Too politically charged. There's no way he's going to promote the husband of Maria Flores."

Eliot's eyes widened, and Matty laughed. "Yeah, don't mention it to her. It's a touchy subject."

"What is, you getting shot, or her being the reason you haven't been promoted?"

"Both. In fact, better pretend this conversation never happened, otherwise I'll be in deep shit." Matty's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"That's because it's bullshit, Matty!" Eliot couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "You're a damned good soldier. And you took a bullet for Ribera? You should have been promoted when Juan retired!"

"Well, I'm definitely not Juan." Matty paused. "But, I have to say, coming from you … I'm flattered."

They looked at each other in silence for a second, and Eliot felt a little overwhelmed by how much time had passed since he'd last been to San Lorenzo. Then Matty said, "Damn, it's good to see you again, El," and he embraced Eliot.

Eliot was filled with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment — fully aware that the team was watching with intense curiosity — but he returned the hug. He hadn't realized until just now how much he'd missed Matty.

"Well, you definitely married into the Flores family's affinity for hugging," he chuckled.

Matty laughed as he pulled away. "That I did. It's a little difficult to avoid."

Eliot frowned. "I don't get it, Matty. You're the natural choice to succeed Juan."

"Definitely the natural choice, considering I saved the life of the man who represents everything wrong in San Lorenzo." Matty smirked. "You do know the point is to get him out of office, right?"

"But … Maria?"

"Of course Maria, El. Look at her. She's amazing." Matty turned to look at the screen where his wife was paused mid-interview, smiling in pride and admiration.

Sophie crossed her arms, and when she spoke, her voice was cold. "Why exactly did you think it would be Matty and not Maria, Eliot? Is it because she's a woman?"

"Yeah!" Parker said. "Don't you know women can be generals too?"

Everyone looked at Parker, and Hardison said, "Uh, Mama, she's not a general, she's just the next person in line to be a leader of San Lorenzo. Matty's the one that's supposed to be a general."

Parker spoke to Hardison as if he was a small child. "Yeah, but her father's the General, and when she takes over she'll be the General, too."

Hardison shook his head and gave up, turning on Eliot instead. "Seriously, though, man, that is kinda sexist."

"Sexist?!" Eliot sputtered. "It's not — I don't —"

Matty was grinning. "How did you do that?" he asked Hardison.

Hardison grinned back. "What, make him sputter like that?" He shrugged. "It's a gift."

"Yeah," Parker piped up. "You should see how red his face gets when he says 'Dammit, Hardison!'"

Eliot felt himself flush as he said reflexively, "Dammit, Hardison!" This situation was surreal. Two of his worlds had just collided, and he couldn't wrap his head around it.

Matty just laughed, and then he turned to Hardison, said "Nice!" and they high-fived.

"I like your new friends, El," Matty said with a grin.

"Matty, I'm serious about this!" Eliot sputtered.

The smile left Matty's face, and he crossed his arms in mock seriousness. "So am I," he said. But he couldn't keep a straight face as he asked, "What were we talking about again?"

Parker and Hardison burst into laughter. Sophie smiled, and Nate had that grin on his face again.

"Maria, Matty! What the hell is this? When I left she was just a kid! She had nothing to do with anything political. You were the one who was serving under the General! She didn't want anything to do with it!"

Matty's expression darkened. "You're right. When you left she was an eighteen-year-old girl who'd just gotten married. But that changed, El. She changed when you left ... She changed because you left."

Eliot was stunned. "What the hell does that mean?"

Matty sighed. "El, she lost her brother. He went on a mission one day and never came back." He closed his eyes as he paused; Berto had been his best friend growing up. Matty had lost a lot of friends, Eliot remembered as a pang shot through his heart. "She was heart-broken when he died, and then she found you to confide in, and me to love. And she was happy. But then you left. We got married, and went to Paris for two weeks, and when we got back, you were just ... gone." His eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You didn't even say goodbye."

"Matty, I had to leave ... didn't Juan ... ?" Eliot said. It physically pained him to think that he might have hurt Maria or Matty.

"Yes, he told us," Matty said darkly. "But that didn't change anything. It broke her heart, El. She lost another brother."

Eliot could barely breathe.

"So she decided enough was enough," Matty continued. "She wasn't going to let Moreau take away anyone else she loved. She became politically active, in parallel to what Juan and I were doing. She railed against Moreau, Ribera, and everyone in between who might have anything to do with keeping San Lorenzo from being a true democracy. And the people listened." He looked at the screen again, his eyes filled with love and admiration. "She loves them, and they love her."

"You just left?" They all turned to see Parker, eyes brimming with tears of accusation and betrayal. "You didn't even say goodbye? You just abandoned them? Why?"

Eliot's voice shook when he spoke. "Parker, I had to leave."

"Why?" she said again, more darkly this time. Her eyes flashed with anger.

"Because I didn't have a choice, Parker." She needed to understand. He would never hurt her or Maria or any of them unless there was absolutely no other choice.

So he took a deep breath, and he told them.

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Eliot was sitting at the bar trying to ignore the music and dancing and happiness going on around him. It was difficult. So he poured himself another glass from the bottle of Jack Daniel's he'd told the bartender to leave and knocked it back.

When Maria had asked him to be Matty's best man, he'd initially said no. But she'd insisted, she'd begged, she'd cried. "Please, Eliot, do this for me. Matty doesn't have anyone now." And so he'd agreed, for Maria's sake, even though he'd known how painful it would be for himself.

He'd put on the damned tux that he shouldn't have been wearing. He'd stood by Matty as Maria walked down the aisle, looking radiant. That was the one point where he'd forgotten, for a second, everything else and was just happy for them.

But that was over quickly. He'd made the damned toasts that weren't his. He'd pasted on his fake smile and danced with Maria and told her how happy he was for her and Matty. He'd even danced with the maid-of-honor, since apparently that was also a duty of the best man.

She'd flirted with him hard. Too hard. He'd had to move her hand from his ass twice. He'd tried to be nice, but eventually he'd said, "Listen, darlin', I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm really not up for that tonight."

She'd pouted and said, "Aw, come on, Eliot," and run her fingers down his jawbone, under his chin, and across his lips. For a second he'd considered it, just fucking her senseless, just so he could feel something other than the numbness of the past week. Then he'd remembered his original plan for the wedding, to get laid and have a blast, but that was before ... No. It wouldn't be fair to her anyway; she deserved someone who would enjoy being with her.

He'd grabbed both her hands in his and pushed them away. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I wouldn't be much fun tonight. Go find another groomsman" — his heart had squeezed hard at that — "who'll be able to give you a better time than me. Don't worry," he'd added, as he saw her eyes flash toward Maria, "I'll tell her you tried, but that I was a stubborn bastard who somehow said no to a beautiful woman in his arms."

She'd looked relieved and not a little flattered, and looked over toward the groomsman she'd been flirting with earlier in the day.

"Go," he'd said, flashing his best fake smile and nodding toward the man. "Have fun." He'd kissed her on the cheek and said, in all sincerity, "And I really do appreciate you trying."

She'd skipped away, and he'd headed straight for the bar, where he'd been sitting for the past hour. He poured himself another glass and realized that the bottle was almost empty. Who cares? Juan's paying for it. He tossed that drink back, too.

He was trying to figure out how long he'd have to wait to leave before Maria wouldn't be pissed when he heard a phone ringing. He looked around, but no one else seemed to hear it. Juan and Maria were dancing, looking happy, and everyone was gathered around, taking pictures and smiling. He tried to figure out where it was coming from, and he thought it was coming from his jacket, draped over the back of his chair. He fished in the front inside pocket for longer than should have been necessary and pulled out his phone, frowning. He hadn't even realized he'd brought it with him. Old habits, he thought darkly.

Who could possibly be calling him now? Anyone who had this number was here. But he was happy for a distraction, so he answered.

"Spencer," he said with more slur than he'd expected, but he didn't give a damn tonight.

"Spencer, my friend," a familiar voice purred. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up. Having fun?"

Eliot was suddenly alert. He spun around in his chair — a little too quickly, he realized as his stomach lurched — and his eyes darted around the room, searching for anything suspicious.

"What do you want, Moreau?" he growled, but it was much less intimidating when he couldn't even form the words properly.

Moreau chuckled gleefully. "You know, a lesser man might be offended by that greeting, but I've always had a weak spot for you. I want to talk."

"I'm not much on talkin', Moreau," Eliot said, still searching the room madly. It was difficult with the fog in his head.

"Let me do the talking, then. I want to meet."

Eliot forced a laugh. "Yeah, right. You think I'm an idiot?"

"No, I think you're a realist, Spencer. That's a lovely song, and the blushing bride and her father look so happy. Blood is such a bitch to get out of silk ... I'd hate to see the dress ruined."

Eliot's heart started to pound, and so did his head. He looked even more frantically to find a sniper or gunman, but he couldn't focus.

"Don't bother, Spencer. You wouldn't get there in time — certainly not in your condition." Moreau chuckled.

Eliot tried to stay calm. "What do you want?"

"I told you, I want to meet. My study, twenty minutes. Come alone, or you'll have to explain to Flores why his daughter died in his arms on her wedding night."

The line went dead.

Eliot was stunned. He sat for a few seconds, trying not to panic. He had to go. He stood up and the room spun. He looked over at the bottle of Jack — actually, he was seeing two of them now — and saw how empty it was.

Fuck.

He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and was horrified by what he saw. Dark circles around his eyes — the nightmares of the past week had kept him from getting any sleep worth mentioning — bloodshot eyes, and he could have sworn one pupil was actually bigger than the other, though he had a hard time focusing on them. He was too drunk for this.

He focused on the remains of his tux. He'd left his jacket at the bar, so he had on his dress shirt, collar undone, bow tie untied around his neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his vest unbuttoned. He took off the bow tie immediately. Could be used as a garrote. He moved toward the trashcan, but then slipped it into his pants pocket. Could be used as a garrote, he thought again, more hopefully.

He decided to keep on the vest, which could also be used as a weapon if necessary. Jesus, what kind of a person was he, looking at his half-tux and assessing its parts for usefulness in a fight?

The kind of person who got a call from Damien Moreau in the middle of a wedding, that's who.

The pants were standard dress pants: too tight for anything but standing still. But he didn't have time to change or even anything to change into, and honestly, if he was attacked he'd have bigger things to worry about than his pants ripping.

Then he remembered: he had a single knife tucked into his sock, which was held up with those sock-suspender-thingies he never remembered the name of. Also useful as a garrote, he thought absently. He'd snuck the knife in without Maria knowing.

"No knives at my wedding, Eliot!" she'd scolded that morning when he'd started to put his knife holster under the vest. "This is not the American Wild West! Take it off!" He'd grumbled that guns, not knives, had been the weapon of choice in the Wild West, but he'd agreed, then snuck one knife into his sock when she wasn't looking.

Just great, he thought. Going to see Moreau armed with a knife, a bow tie, and some other tux accoutrements. What could possibly go wrong?

He looked like a reject from prom night. Ready for a date with death.

He slapped his cheeks several times, hard. A date with death?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Spencer? He was too drunk for this.

He splashed water on his face one last time and tried to make himself presentable. If he could look like he was okay, maybe they wouldn't try anything ... Fuck, who was he kidding? Moreau had seen him drinking.

He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself, then left the bathroom and snuck away from the reception hall while everyone was busy with the dancing. He jogged to try to clear his head.

He was going alone, right into the lion's den. With a knife, a bow tie, a vest, those sock-suspender-thingies, and too tight pants. He didn't even have his cuff links with him. And he was drunk. He was a dead man.

Bring it on, Moreau.

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Nine and a half minutes later, he burst through the door of Moreau's study. He was met by the sight and sound of a dozen men cocking and aiming their guns right at his chest. Chapman was front and center.

"Aw, Spencer, you didn't have to dress up just for us," he drawled.

The rage that boiled so close to the top these days — the only thing that ever displaced the emptiness, if only for a little bit — almost overwhelmed him. The booze didn't help. He had never hated the bastard more than in that moment.

"Now, Chapman," Moreau purred from behind his desk, "I want him to hear my offer before you two decide to finally have the angry sex you've been holding back on all this time."

The look on Chapman's face at the realization that his boss still didn't have any respect for him after nearly a year in the top job made Eliot laugh — actually laugh, like he thought it was funny. Maybe it really was funny, he didn't know. He was too damned drunk.

"Don't worry, Chapman," he winked, "Someday Daddy might appreciate you. But only if you're good." He smiled his most devilish grin as he thought of all the different ways he wanted to kill Chapman.

Chapman smiled and said, "He certainly appreciated my work in the warehouse last week. By the way, how's your little friend?"

Nope, now he had never hated the bastard more. Before anyone had time to react, Eliot disarmed Chapman and hit him in the left side of the abdomen. He knew he'd hit the right spot as he saw the blood on his own fist and the red stain spreading on Chapman's shirt. Chapman fell to the ground with a yelp of pain as Eliot put his foot on the man's throat and pointed the gun at his head.

"Knife wounds are a bitch, aren't they?" he snarled. "Now you understand why I prefer them to guns, though for you I think I'll make an exception."

"You don't want to do that, Spencer," Moreau said, calm as always.

Eliot's eyes were still on Chapman as he said, "Oh, I really think I do." Then he turned and pointed the gun at Moreau and said, "And while I'm at it, I think I'll take care of you, too."

"You'll never get out of here alive," one of the men said.

Eliot turned and shouted to the room, "Do you think I give a fuck?! I was dead the moment I set foot in here! So go ahead! But if I'm going down, I may as well take as many of you with me as I can!"

"You really don't want to do that, Spencer," Moreau said quietly. Eliot turned to him; he was holding a phone to his ear and smiling. It was the smile Moreau always had on his face when he knew he had the upper hand.

"If you don't hear from me in the next ten seconds," Moreau said into the phone, never taking his eyes off Eliot. "Open fire on the wedding, starting with the bride and groom." He spoke to Eliot. "Now, I asked you here to talk, Spencer. We can talk, or my man can start shooting. Your choice."

He smiled, and Eliot finally knew what the Devil looked like.

"Five seconds," Moreau said.

Eliot's hand holding the gun started to shake, and his heart — and head — pounded. This was his chance to get rid of Moreau for good … but not at the expense of everyone at the wedding. He wouldn't let anyone else die for his mistakes. Never again.

He knew he'd lost. He lowered the gun, took out the magazine, and ejected the round from the chamber. He threw the gun to his left, away from everyone, and tossed the magazine onto Moreau's desk.

"Call him off," he nearly whispered.

Moreau smiled. "I knew you'd make the right choice. Standby," he said into the phone, and then he hung up. "Now, are you going to let Chapman up? He doesn't look too well."

"I'm good, thanks," Eliot said, crossing his arms. He kept his foot on Chapman's throat. The man could breathe, but he was in a lot of pain and bleeding quite a bit. Eliot smiled, but his heart squeezed in pain.

Moreau shrugged. "I'm good if you are."

"What the hell do you want, Moreau?"

Moreau smiled and sighed dramatically. "I really do miss you, Eliot. You always get right to the point. I'm here to make you an offer."

Eliot laughed again — he wished he'd stop it, none of this was actually funny, but the damned alcohol haze still surrounded his brain. "There's no way I'm agreeing to any fucking thing you offer me, Moreau."

Moreau's smile turned dark. "Ah, yes, well, I knew you would say that. But I really do think you should hear what I'm offering before you tell me to fuck off."

Eliot stood with his arms crossed. What could Moreau possibly be offering, and why in the hell wasn't he dead yet?

"I want you to leave San Lorenzo."

"Fuck off," Eliot snarled. "There's nothing you could do to make me leave."

"Oh, I know that's not true. If you don't leave, then I'll make sure all your little friends suffer for it," Moreau purred.

"You won't be able to touch them if I'm here, and you know it."

"Yes and no. You see, the lucky newlyweds are going off on their honeymoon tomorrow, to ... Where was it, Chapman?"

Eliot smiled as he watched Chapman try to choke out an answer with Eliot's foot over his throat.

"Paris …"

Eliot smile faded as his stomach did a somersault.

"Yes, that's right, thank you, Chapman." Moreau smiled. "Not to Rome, though I imagine that false information was your idea, wasn't it, Spencer?"

Eliot had known that the real honeymoon destination might be a target, so he'd suggested announcing a fake one. But Moreau had seen right through it. He should have known. Moreau knows me.

"You won't be able to touch them, they'll be guarded the whole time," Eliot said, but his voice was shaking and still slurring slightly.

"But I won't have to." Moreau's voice was smooth as silk. "I'll just send someone in to check on the plane, and snip snip, they never arrive in Paris." He smiled at Eliot. "You know how these things are done, Spencer."

Eliot stood silently, mind whirling, trying to hide his growing terror. Moreau didn't make empty threats.

"So I'll go with them, check the plane, everything. You won't hurt a hair on their heads."

"Of course, but then who will protect General Flores? I've been meaning to get rid of him for so long, and without his top man, I think I might just have a chance," Moreau cooed.

He's going to make me choose, Eliot thought. That's what he does. It was stifling in the room, and he was starting to hyperventilate.

"But," Moreau continued. "If you leave, I promise not to touch them."

"Right, and you always keep your promises," Eliot snarled. He really wished he could form words without slurring.

"Spencer, if you left and I killed the entire Flores family — no, no, kill is too simple. If I had Chapman here take care of the Flores family" — his eyes sparkled with a sick pleasure as every single muscle in Eliot's body tensed — "what would you do? Honestly."

Eliot pushed down harder on Chapman's throat. "I'd kill you," he said simply. "In the worst way I know how. Wouldn't matter how many men you put in front of me, I'd get there."

Moreau's grin grew wider as Eliot spoke. Eliot wished he could do or say anything that could wipe that smug look off the bastard's face, but he knew better. Nothing could do that. Moreau was always in control.

"Exactly," Moreau said. "And, this may surprise you, but I have no desire to die at your hands. You're too good at what you do."

Eliot was surprised to see a tiny flicker of fear in Moreau's eyes. That was new. Maybe this offer was for real.

"So, I leave San Lorenzo and you leave the Flores family alone. Why don't you just kill me right now? I'm pretty drunk and I'm not armed, though I do have a hostage." He felt himself smirk as Chapman tensed.

What the fuck are you doing, Spencer?! Do you want to die?!

Moreau laughed. "Eliot, maybe it's the alcohol talking, but you really do have the biggest balls of any man I know! Even if I wanted to kill you, Flores wouldn't let me get away with it. But I could never kill you: you're the best. It would be like killing a prized thoroughbred after he won the Triple Crown, to use an American reference for you." He winked. "You're too valuable an asset, Eliot, and I hope one day you might be valuable to me again."

"Go to hell, Moreau," Eliot spat. The "asset" crap was bullshit for the men; he used that term all the time to keep people in line. The real reason was that Moreau knew the General would start an all-out war if he killed Eliot.

This time Moreau's smile was wistful. He shook his head in sadness. "You were the best, Eliot, my friend. I gave you everything, including free reign. I've never done that for anyone, before or since." Chapman coughed under Eliot's foot. "And you threw it all away to join Flores and his cute little army. We could have ruled the world together, you and I."

"I'm not too crazy about how you decided to get there," Eliot spat.

Moreau's eyes darkened. He was finished with playtime. "I want you gone," he snarled. "Stay out of my business, here and elsewhere." For the first time, he came around his desk and walked toward Eliot. "You see, I'm done with this backwater country. I'm too big for this little pond." He looked Eliot in the eyes. "I've always been destined for greater things," he said almost defensively, and Eliot saw something in the man's eyes that he'd never seen before. But it was gone in a flash, before he could identify it.

"So I'm branching out," Moreau continued, back in control. "My international contacts have helped me expand my business to the point where I need to be elsewhere, somewhere more central. Perhaps Berlin, or Paris." His eyes glinted with an evil Eliot had rarely seen. "And the only thing keeping me from fulfilling my full potential is you, Spencer. So I want you gone. You stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours. But the second you break your end of the bargain is the second I'll break mine."

Eliot couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So I leave and pretend I never knew you, and you leave the Flores family alone?" This can't be for real.

"Exactly," Moreau purred. "So ... do we have a deal?"

Eliot was trying to weigh his options, but he knew he had no choice. The thought of leaving San Lorenzo, Juan, Matty and Maria, Pete... It was agony. But if he stayed, they'd all be dead — no, worse than dead.

"I need a week," Eliot lied, even though he knew Moreau would never agree.

"No," Moreau snapped. "You leave tonight. I don't want you to have any time to second guess or tip anyone off. I want you to go straight to the airport."

"I'm not leaving until I know that Matty and Maria are safely in Paris," Eliot countered. "Otherwise, how will I know you're not gonna go back on your word?"

Moreau considered it. "Fine," he agreed. "But as soon as that plane lands, I want yours taking off. And I never want to see you again."

Moreau walked up to him and gently grabbed his arms, just like Juan always did. Moreau looked him in the eyes, and Eliot saw only evil. He felt sick at the thought that he had once admired this man.

"Eliot, I truly am sorry. I wish things had ended differently between us. We could have ruled the world, with me at the helm and you at my right side. We were the best. You could have had everything." Moreau shook his head. "I'll miss our little chats, my friend." Then his voice grew low and dark, and he said, "You'll regret making an enemy of me."

Eliot shrugged off the hands and said in a voice to match Moreau's, "That's the one thing in my life I'll never regret, Damien." He was stone-cold sober.

Then he raised his voice, because he wanted to make sure all the men heard it, but the darkness and threat remained. "I'll be keeping tabs, Moreau. If I hear that anyone in the Flores family dies or gets hurt because of anything other than natural causes, I'll be back. And it won't be pretty. I'll get past all your men, no matter how many there are, because I know how they work. I did train them, after all." He smiled the Rottweiler's most dangerous smile. "And when I get to you, you'll regret you ever made an enemy of me. You know exactly what I'm capable of. My work is, as you say, 'inspired'. And I'll do my worst, Moreau. Don't think for a second that I'll hold back."

He looked down at Chapman. He removed his foot from the man's throat, but before he moved away, he stomped on the knife wound. Chapman howled in pain. "You really should get that looked at," Eliot said with a smile. "Until next time, Chapman."

He turned back to Moreau, his eyes filled with more hate and anger than he'd ever known, and said, "Goodbye, Damien."

Then he turned around and walked out of Moreau's study for the last time.

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.

.

When he returned to the reception, the party was still in full swing. Eliot had no doubt that it would go until dawn. He went back to his place at the bar. It was the same as before, and yet completely different.

His world had just been turned upside-down. He hadn't given any thought to when he might leave San Lorenzo. He had just recently decided to stay until Moreau was defeated. Now he was being forced to leave, and Moreau was going international. He looked around the room at the Flores family. They had saved him … they'd help him start to feel again. And now he had to leave.

Maybe it was better this way. When he wasn't swallowed by the emptiness, he was filled with rage, and that wasn't much help to anyone.

He looked at the nearly empty bottle of Jack. It made him want to vomit.

"Eliot!" He turned and there was Juan, buzzed and happy as a clam. He sat next to Eliot clumsily and leaned his arms on the bar. "Where did you sneak off to? Maria said you turned down the lovely maid-of-honor whose name escapes me right now —" He chuckled. "But I hope you snuck off with another of the guests for some fun." He nudged Eliot suggestively with his elbow.

Eliot looked at him. How could he possibly tell him this?

Juan knew immediately that something was wrong. He could always tell. He frowned and said, "What's happened? Is everything okay?"

Eliot looked into his empty glass and said, "No, nothing is okay. I just got back from meeting with Moreau."

Juan was suddenly sober. Wish I could have done that earlier. "Moreau? You — you met with him? Just now? How are you ...? Why?"

Eliot decided to answer the last question first. The others just didn't matter. But he didn't want to worry Juan, so he said, "He threatened you, so I had to go. He made me an offer."

Juan's eyes widened with worry. "What kind of offer?"

As Eliot told him, he saw the fear and worry in Juan's eyes turn to anger, then immense sadness. He was silent for a long time after Eliot finished.

"There's no other way?" he asked. His eyes begged.

"There's not," Eliot said. "I have to be gone once Maria and Matty have landed in Paris."

Juan's eyes filled with a grief that Eliot had only seen when Juan thought about Berto, and his heart broke.

"Juan, please ..." He looked away. "I have to do this. I'm sorry."

Juan said nothing.

"Listen. Moreau is leaving. He's always hated San Lorenzo, because —"

Eliot remembered the defensiveness in Moreau's voice and the flash in his eyes. He recognized it now, and it made him smile.

"— because Moreau has daddy issues, just like the rest of us. But he's leaving. He'll leave a small contingent, but it shouldn't be anything you can't handle. I'm sure he'll keep this as a safe-haven, but he won't be terrorizing you on a daily basis. You can take your country back, Juan."

Juan's eyes were filled with grief. "And the price is losing you."

A lump formed in Eliot's throat. No. The price is losing you.

He looked Juan in the eyes. "I will never forget what you've done for me, Juan. I'll be forever in your debt. And don't give me that bullshit about me saving your life twice." He smiled. "First of all, it's once and a half. And second …"

His voice gave out. He took a few deep breaths and continued. "Thank you. For everything."

Juan's eyes filled with tears.

"I wanted more than anything to help you beat the bastard," Eliot spat. "But you're going to have to do that without me."

"Eliot," Juan said, "we can figure out a way —"

"No!" Eliot said sharply. "I have too much blood on my hands already! I won't add yours to it!"

He took a deep breath and stood up. "I need to go. I can't stay here. Tell Maria and Matty ..." He didn't know what else to say.

"You have to say goodbye, Eliot."

"And ruin their wedding? Look at them." They both turned and watched for a moment as Matty and Maria danced together. She was smiling, eyes closed, and her head was on his shoulder; he was smiling, too, one hand on her waist, the other stroking her hair, whispering something into her ear. "This is the happiest they've ever been, and maybe ever will be. And they deserve it. I won't ruin that for them. I can't take that away. Just ... just …" He was having difficulty speaking. "Please explain why I had to go. And tell them that I ..." He looked away.

"Eliot." As he turned back, Juan embraced him for what they both knew was the last time. Then he took Eliot by the arms, as he always had, looked into his eyes and said, "Eliot Spencer, you are a good man. You have done some terrible things, and you will never be clean of them, but you are and always have been a good man. Never forget that. Death is too easy, but so is life if you never live it." Eliot's eyes stung as Juan quoted those words. "You can do good, Eliot, and you will. I have faith in you. I am proud of you."

Eliot closed his eyes until he could regain control. He would never be able to tell Juan how much it meant to him to hear those words. "Thank you," he said thickly. "For everything."

Then he turned and left the wedding reception. Eight hours later he was on a plane, leaving San Lorenzo for the last time.

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.

.

As he finished the story, he looked at the team. Sophie was silently crying. Parker was, too, but not like before. Hardison was staring at his computer screen through unshed tears, and Nate — well, Nate was unreadable, as always.

It was Matty who spoke first, his voice thick with emotion. "El ... I had no idea ... You met with him? How could you be so stupid?"

"I didn't have a choice, Matty. He had someone there, and he threatened to kill Maria while she danced with Juan." He looked at Matty, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "He would have done it, Matty, at your wedding. It would have broken you. And it would have — Matty, it would have broken Juan." Matty's eyes flashed with grief, but he nodded in understanding. "I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't let it happen. So I did what he asked."

"But you were drunk ... and you met with Damien Moreau?" Matty shook his head in disbelief. "How did he not kill you?"

"He didn't want to," Eliot explained. "If he had, I'd be dead. But what would you have done if Moreau had killed your best man?"

He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Matty's eyes flickered with pain at the same time Eliot's heart seared with it. It was a horrible choice of words, but Eliot was comforted to know that he wasn't alone in still feeling the pain eight years later.

"We'd have thrown everything we had at him," Matty said darkly. "Juan would've —"

"Exactly," Eliot said. "Moreau didn't want a war, he just wanted to be left alone. If Moreau had killed me, you would have started a war. If I had even attempted to kill him, he would have started a war. And if he had killed you …I would have started a war," he finished darkly.

"Mutually assured destruction." Nate sounded as though he finally understood.

"Exactly," Eliot said to Nate's chest. He still couldn't look the man in the eyes, and certainly not now.

Nate spoke as though he was thinking aloud. "'Because I was trying to figure out a way around this, maybe take my shot …'" Eliot was surprised to hear his own words from the park come out of Nate's mouth. "You were going to go after Moreau. Alone."

Sophie gasped. "What? Eliot, you wouldn't! You're not that man anymore!"

"But he would've been, to protect the Flores family," Hardison said, finally looking at Eliot. Eliot saw sadness, and pity, and something else ...Respect?

"To protect us," Parker corrected. The betrayal was gone from her eyes, and Eliot was relieved. Now there was only sadness. It still hurt Eliot's heart to see it in her eyes, but the sadness would fade.

"Exactly," Nate said. "'I'm protecting you … Last time I checked that's my job,'" he quoted Eliot again.

"To protect you all." Eliot stared at the floor as a lump formed in his throat. "That's my — I made a promise …"

He looked up at them, and they all looked back, expectantly. They deserved the truth. He'd been hiding from them for too long. He took a deep breath.

"I never wanted this war. But it was mine. Moreau and I struck a deal, a ceasefire, until that damned Italian bitch came along and dragged us all into it. I knew that if we fired the first shot, we were all dead. So for six months I tried to figure out a way around it, and there was a point when I actually thought I could do it. Then she moved up the deadline."

He closed his eyes and took a couple of breaths. His heart was pounding. He opened his eyes and continued.

"But I thought there still might be a way to take a shot without him knowing it. That's why I took Hardison to the hotel, and let him nearly drown at the bottom of a pool." He looked Hardison in the eyes. His voice had started to shake. "I had to do it. To try to keep us all alive. I'm sorry."

Hardison nodded in understanding. Eliot forced himself to look at the rest of the team. "I should have told you all before, but I knew you wouldn't let me do what I knew needed to be done."

He took another deep, shaky breath. He had to finish. He owed it to them.

"It almost worked, too. But somehow he figured out I was involved. Probably because it was too damned suspicious that he discovered the Italian undercover in his posse the day after I came out of nowhere and asked him to let me into his auction. That was the first shot."

Literally. He looked down at the table and tried to push the sounds and images of the warehouse from his mind.

"That's why the General and his family were in hiding — because I broke my end of the bargain, and Moreau was going to make good on his threat. I never thought that just a phone call could …"

He paused, took a deep breath, and looked up. Then he froze, and his voice died in his throat.

"My, my. Eliot Spencer, talking about his feelings? Buckle up, everyone, the apocalypse is coming."

They all turned at the voice. Maria Flores stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She was smiling, but there was a familiar fire in her eyes. She glowed with the radiance of pregnancy, and Eliot was struck by how beautiful she was now. It may have been due to her massive size, but she looked mature, refined.

And very pissed.