Thank you so much to everyone who has read and/or reviewed! You guys keep me going. Again, I'm sorry it's been so long. I'm still working, I swear, but I can only spend so long in poor Eliot's head at a time, so it's taking longer than expected. Thank you for bearing with me, and I promise you the end is near(ish)!
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Chapter 21
Eliot sped across the ballroom, weaving expertly in and out of the crowd. He gave a curt nod to the guards at the door and, after making sure they weren't watching him, headed down the stairs toward the Tombs.
He exited the stairwell into the hallway thirteen seconds later. It dumped him out right next to the closet he, Hardison, and Matty had hidden in that afternoon.
Had it really been only a few hours earlier that they'd bantered while beating up the guards and putting on their gear? It seemed like weeks ago.
"My question is, how in the hell did it take Hardison ten minutes to get here from that conference room upstairs?" Pete asked.
Eliot rolled his eyes and grumbled, "It's Hardison. Unless it's on a screen, he has issues."
He peered around a corner, down the hallway, toward the entrance to the Tombs. There were four uniformed, armed men standing guard at the elevator. They were clearly bored, but vigilant.
Four guys? Not bad, Matty.
"So, do you think these guys are here because they're the best, or because they're being punished and aren't allowed to be at the party?" asked Pete.
Knowing Matty, it was probably the former. At least that's what Eliot hoped.
"But won't that just make this harder?"
It would. But Eliot had an idea.
He stepped out from his hiding place and into their line of sight, but otherwise made no move toward or away from them. This was a test of their reaction time.
It took less than a second for all four men to pull their guns on him. Two positioned themselves in front of the elevator doors, blocking the entrance with their bodies. The other two advanced on Eliot. The closest one shouted, "Stop and put your hands in the air!"
Eliot did as he was told.
Not bad at all, Matty.
"Hey," he said slowly. "Cool it. I'm just walking. Not even armed."
He took a step toward them. Another test.
All four men tensed. The same man who spoke before yelled, "I said freeze!" and took another two steps in Eliot's direction.
Very good. Step 1: Keep the suspect engaged. Step 2 —
One of the men in front of the elevator reached for his radio.
While that was exactly what the guards should do, it was the opposite of what Eliot wanted. The last thing he needed was them calling for backup and the entire ballroom full of San Lorenzo military — Matty for sure, probably Juan, too, and Nate, Sophie and Maria would come just to see what was going on — racing downstairs to find Eliot incapacitated because he had refused to fight back against four good men doing their job. All because Sophie had urged him into a final private chat with Moreau.
So he said the only thing that might actually stop them from calling in the cavalry.
"General Ramirez sent me."
The man reaching for his radio froze and exchanged a look with his partner at the doors. The two men nearest Eliot also exchanged a look. Well, that wasn't true. The guard who hadn't spoken looked at the one who had. That one — who, Eliot recognized from the insignia on his uniform, was a full commander — never took his eyes off Eliot. In fact, they narrowed suspiciously at Eliot's comment.
"Who are you?"
For the second time in as many weeks, Eliot played his trump card.
"I'm Eliot Spencer."
Recognition flashed across the faces of all four men, followed by varying degrees of surprise and not a small amount of —
"Did they all just stand up a little straighter?" Pete sounded as incredulous as Eliot felt. "Like they would if the General walked in?"
Yes. Unlike when Eliot had name-dropped at the hotel in D.C., fear was not the base emotion for these men. It didn't even look like it had crossed their minds. Their gut reaction, after the initial astonishment, was respect. And not a grudging, fearful respect. This was almost reverential, as if they were in the presence of … well, someone like Juan.
What the hell had the Floreses been telling people about him for the past eight years?
"So it's true." The guard who had reached for his radio was awestruck. "He is back."
"What are you, some kind of legend?" Pete asked.
The two silent guards nodded like they were in some sort of trance, but the commander wasn't buying it.
"I don't care if you're the president himself. I have orders directly from Col —" His face softened, and the edges of his mouth quirked as he corrected himself. "General Ramirez not to let anyone through."
"Aw, Matty!" Pete gushed. "Your men are happy you're a general now, too!"
Ignoring Pete, Eliot said, "I know. He told me. That's why I'm here."
The commander still didn't lower his gun. He was good. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Eliot said, "that Matty gave me permission to come down here and test you. Make sure you're not lying down on the job just because everyone's at the party."
Eliot hoped that by using Matty's first name, rather than his rank, the commander would see him as less of a threat — as a friend of Matty, not some random guy trying to trick them.
"Even though you're actually both," Pete commented.
Eliot's ploy only partially worked: the other three men holstered their weapons; the commander did not.
Eliot had to try hard not to shake his head in disappointment. Don't holster your weapon until the suspect is neutralized or your commanding officer gives an order. At least the commander wasn't so easily fooled, although he did relax slightly.
Unfortunately, Eliot needed him to be fooled. But that could be rectified.
Eliot faked a smile. "I'm pleased to inform you, Commander Alvarez, that you passed with flying colors." He paused only slightly while he read the commander's name from his uniform, but Alvarez didn't seem to notice. "Matty told me you couldn't be fooled. He said you were one of his best commanders. Or did he say you were the best?"
Eliot frowned, as if trying to remember, then waved his hand dismissively. "I don't remember. Either way, he said I wouldn't be able to get past you, and he was obviously right."
Alvarez responded exactly like Eliot expected — his chest puffed out, he relaxed a little more, and he even lowered his weapon from its original ninety-degree position to about forty-five degrees relative to his body.
Eliot continued, "I'll be sure to tell him you and your unit responded exactly as you were trained."
He hoped that would turn out to be a lie on two counts. First, he had more confidence in Matty's training — and his own grifting ability — than to actually believe these men were acting according to their military instruction.
Second, he had absolutely no intention of ever speaking to Matty about this. In fact, if he had his way, Alvarez wouldn't either, and Matty need never know about Eliot's trip to the Tombs.
Eliot brought the con home. "Excellent job, Commander." As an added touch, he extended his hand to Alvarez, remembering the talk he'd heard Sophie give Vittori over the earbuds about people being hard-wired to respond to the gesture.
To Eliot's surprise, Alvarez holstered his weapon and shook Eliot's hand with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Spencer."
"Damn, Sophie wasn't kidding about the handshake thing!" said Pete.
Eliot agreed. He made a mental note to mention it to her later.
Out loud, however, he gave a sincerely awkward chuckle. "I haven't been a commander in years," he said, realizing how his response mimicked that of the General's when they'd spoken back in Boston.
"Once a commander, always a commander," Alvarez said with a wink. "Matty and General Flores have always spoken fondly of you, sir. Stories of your adventures. Or how you saved General Flores twice."
In spite of the numerous things that bothered him about those comments — "Sir"? Matty speaking "fondly" of him? Adventures? And Alvarez referring to Matty by his first name rather than his official rank warned Eliot that the two were closer than he'd previously thought or hoped — Eliot couldn't help the automatic response that escaped before he could stop it:
"Once and a half."
Alvarez laughed, and the other three men stepped forward eagerly. "Exactly. That's one of the stories."
"Is it true that you and Matty single-handedly defeated a dozen of Moreau's men to save a fellow soldier while on a scouting mission?" asked the guard who'd reached for his radio.
"Aw, come on!" complained Pete. "It's not my fault I got knocked unconscious thirty seconds in. How come I'm not a legend?"
A pang shot through Eliot's heart with such force his vision started to blur. He'd forgotten about that mission. It had been one of the few times he and Matty had agreed on a plan without a word — get Pete to safety, no matter what. When they weren't fighting, they actually worked together like a well-oiled machine, like this afternoon with the guards in the closet. Before he could stop himself, Eliot imagined what might have happened had Matty been with them that day —
No. He couldn't handle this. Not now. He hadn't expected to be greeted like a hero. He didn't want to be a damned legend. He just wanted to be left alone.
"Yeah," he rasped, before clearing his throat. He took a step forward. "Listen, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got orders to go down and talk to Moreau, so if you could just —"
"Hold it." Alvarez threw out an arm to block Eliot's path.
Shit.
"Orders from who?" Alvarez prompted. He was tense again, and his hand rested on his sidearm.
"Whom," Pete corrected.
"General Ramirez," Eliot answered. At the skeptical look Alvarez gave him, Eliot threw up his arms in surrender. "Hey, I don't want to be here anymore than you do. But given my … history with Moreau" — he paused slightly in an attempt to choose the most appropriate word — "President Vittori, General Flores, and General Ramirez thought it would be a good idea for me to be the one to interrogate him. Trust me," he added. "I'd much rather be upstairs partying."
Alvarez cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Because General Ramirez explicitly told us that no one was allowed to see Moreau except for him, and that wasn't going to happen until tomorrow."
"Change of plans," said Eliot. "They decided to take advantage of my expertise before I leave."
Alvarez reached for his radio. The man was damned good.
"Go ahead and call him," Eliot bluffed. "But when I left the ballroom, he'd finally pulled himself away from work and was dancing with his wife for the first time tonight. Something tells me he won't be too happy to be pulled away from that. And neither will she."
At the mention of Matty's potential annoyance, Alvarez paused. But Eliot didn't even have to speak Maria's name to elicit a shudder from all four soldiers that said, "Piss off our general? Eh. Piss of his wife? Hell no."
Alvarez stared at Eliot for what seemed like an eternity. Eliot could see his mind whirring, trying to decide whether to check with Matty and risk Maria's wrath, or to trust the legendary Commander Spencer. Eliot's heart pounded, but he forced his face to stay as impassive as possible. If he couldn't keep it together in front of Alvarez, he didn't stand a chance in the Tombs against Moreau.
Finally, as if against his own better judgment — Your instincts are good, Alvarez, Eliot thought — the commander sighed. "All right. But you have fifteen minutes. No more."
"Yes, sir." Eliot saluted as he stepped into the elevator. "See you in fifteen."
All four men saluted back — as if Eliot was their current commanding officer and not an American who used to work for Damien Moreau and hadn't been seen in nearly a decade — although Alvarez continued to look uncomfortable until the doors closed and Eliot could no longer see him.
Eliot let out an enormous sigh of relief. He did not want to have to explain to Matty, of all people, why he was down here.
At the same time, he was conscious of an immense disappointment. Alvarez should have called Matty. What if it hadn't been Eliot trying to get down here? Eliot knew more than anyone how capable Moreau was of bribing whomever necessary to get what he wanted. Maybe he did need to talk to Matty about security.
"Are you serious?" Pete asked. "Alvarez did what you wanted, and you're pissed at him. But if he hadn't let you down here, you'd be pissed at him, too. Poor guy can't catch a break."
As Eliot descended into the Tombs for the second time today, he closed his eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. In his mind, he found the box — or was it a new one, since the old one had exploded earlier? — and started to shove all his errant thoughts and feelings into it again. All his fears and anxieties and thoughts about Matty and Maria, and Juan, and Sophie, and Hardison and Parker, and Nate — everything went into the box. All the memories, good and bad, about Chapman, and leaving San Lorenzo, and —
"I'm going to need you to get out of my head for this," he said to Pete.
"There's only one way to make that happen," Pete said almost gleefully. "And you haven't done it yet. Besides, Sophie said —"
For the first time since he'd arrived in San Lorenzo a week ago, Eliot shut Pete's voice out. He shoved it into the box and slammed the lid down hard. He knew the silence wouldn't last long, but it didn't need to. It only had to last long enough to get him through this conversation with Moreau.
His heart pounded so hard he thought it might explode from his chest. The elevator stopped moving. Just as he had before he and Hardison had talked with Moreau at the pool, he emptied his mind and wiped his face clear of any emotion. He cleared his throat to ensure it would sound steady and even, and took one last deep breath as the doors opened.
.
.
.
Eliot stepped out into the silence of the Tombs. Only one cell was occupied — the one at the far end, exactly opposite the elevator. Damien Moreau lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling, a forearm resting on his forehead. He had apparently given up his attempt to scream and shout his way out. At the sound of the doors, he turned his head in Eliot's direction just long enough to see who had entered. Then he returned his gaze to the ceiling with a sigh of disgust.
"I wondered when I'd be seeing you." Moreau's voice sounded lazy, but Eliot had spent long enough learning its every fluctuation to be able to hear the tension just beneath the surface. "Come to gloat?"
"Nah." Eliot was surprised at the lightness of his own voice. "That's Nate's thing, not mine."
As he walked down the narrow hallway to the far cell, Eliot observed the state of Moreau's appearance. Usually, Damien Moreau was the picture of a sleek, international business man — perfect hair, sharp suit, handsome face, charming smile. Not a stitch out of place. Even Eliot had never seen him look anything less than completely composed.
But now — now Moreau was an absolute mess. No suit jacket was even in sight; perhaps he'd taken it off before his arrest. A dark grey vest was balled up in a corner, as if he'd thrown it away. His hair was disheveled, and his white shirt, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, was stained with sweat. He was in his socks, and Eliot couldn't see shoes, a belt, or a tie — Matty had probably ordered them confiscated to prevent Moreau from trying to kill himself. While Eliot applauded the effort, he knew it was unnecessary. A man like Damien Moreau would never end his life in such disgrace; not when there was even a remote possibility for revenge. But seeing Moreau in this state — completely and utterly defeated — brought a grin to Eliot's face.
"You look like shit," he said as he approached the cell door.
Moreau shot him a glare that, in another time and place, might have caused a shiver to run down Eliot's spine. Now, without the money or power to back it up, it glanced off Eliot like a paper sword, flaccid and impotent.
"I thought you weren't here to gloat," Moreau snapped.
With a calm smile and a tone so bland that, had it been a sauce, he would have thrown it out of his kitchen, Eliot responded, "Come on, Damien. It's been too long. Got to break the ice somehow."
Moreau scoffed and looked back to the ceiling. "I saw your adorable little dog-fighting story on the news. The puppy was a nice touch." He glanced at Eliot from the corner of his eye. "What was it, a Rottweiler?" His lips curled into the taunting sneer that had come to define him.
In spite of everything else going on, the fact that Emma/Sparky/Gigabyte was part Rottweiler had not escaped Eliot's notice. Perhaps that had been why he'd taken such a liking to her; he, too, knew what it was like to be part-killer.
He shrugged. "Dunno. Parker found her somewhere. A mutt. She served her purpose."
They fell into a silence. As it stretched on, Eliot watched Moreau grow tenser and more uncomfortable; fidgeting, but making a concerted effort to avoid looking at Eliot. Finally, when he could no longer stand it, he exploded from his prone position, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the cot as though he'd been shocked.
He gripped the frame of the bed until his knuckles turned white and snarled, "We had a deal."
"A deal?" Eliot blinked. "A deal is when two parties come to an arrangement with jointly agreeable terms. What we had was a ceasefire — a suspension of hostilities that I was blackmailed into — that staved off a war. What we had was mutually assured destruction."
"And you fired the first shot. I met your little hacker friend." Moreau's voice dripped with disdain and condescension. "He was the same one who …" A pause, and that cruel smile was back. "… took a swim in the pool."
He stared at Eliot, waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one, his smile evaporated. "You tried to con me," he snapped. "Me. You know what I'm capable of. Why?"
"I do know what you're capable of," Eliot said. He kept his voice calm and even. "But my team didn't. I wasn't lying in the hotel when I said that I hadn't told anyone about you. It just wasn't for that bullshit client confidentiality reason I gave."
"No? Why then?"
Eliot took a slow breath and briefly looked away. "Guilt. Shame. I was ashamed to have ever been associated with you. Ashamed of the things I did for you." The last part was barely above a whisper.
Moreau tilted his head to one side. "You know, I've always wondered — when exactly did you grow a conscience? You used to attack, torture, and kill at my beck and call without even batting an eye. What changed?"
Eliot was silent for a moment. His body tensed, and he gritted his teeth so hard he had trouble speaking. But he met Moreau's eyes as he said, "They were children, Damien."
Moreau's face lit up with his characteristic smug smirk. "Ah, I see. Innocent children. So you always had a conscience. You just deluded yourself into thinking that you were doing something right. Probably the whole 'just following orders' thing. But innocent children — you couldn't delude yourself anymore." He paused as if thinking. "Is that when you decided to turn traitor, then? When I told you to exterminate the Perez family?"
Eliot clenched his fists and was unable to keep his eye from twitching at the word exterminate. Perhaps it was the way it rolled off Moreau's tongue, like he was relishing every syllable.
Moreau's smirk morphed into a full-blown grin. He could see that he was getting under Eliot's skin.
Eliot took a deep breath and forced his voice to remain steady. "No. I actually convinced myself that I wanted to work for you, even after I —" He faltered, but forced the words out. After nearly a decade, he was ready to confess. "After I killed the Perezes. I was ready and willing to kill for you again."
"So when exactly did you change your mind, then?" In spite of his cavalier tone, Moreau sounded genuinely interested, as though he'd been waiting for years to ask that question. "When you were captured?"
It was Eliot's turn to look smug. "I wasn't captured, Damien. I made a choice."
"When?"
"When he refused to get on his knees."
Moreau popped to his feet eagerly, approaching the bars of his cell with a surprised and delighted look on his face. "You made it, then? You had him? My good friend Escobar" — another cruel smirk — "told me you got to Flores's room, but he was a little light on the details." He nodded approvingly, and his smirk grew into a sick smile. "You could have killed him that night?" He clapped his hands excitedly. "I knew you could do it. You were the best. We were the best." He spoke the last sentence with a sort of sad nostalgia, and the smile melted into a frown. "So, you had him there, right in front of you, and what? You told him to get on his knees so you could kill him, and he refused? That's what changed your mind?" He laughed mirthlessly. "I had no idea you were so weak."
He lingered on the last word, drawing out the w, savoring the vowel, and ending with a short, sharp k. It was his favorite insult, reserved for those who earned his greatest disdain and spoken with the derision that had always been one of his most powerful weapons.
In spite of himself, Eliot flinched. That word — along with coward, which Matty had called him earlier in the day — was among the few that could elicit such a visceral reaction from him. Perhaps because of his time with Moreau and how often he'd heard it hurled at others — and occasionally himself. It was a word that always seemed to find its way through his armor and hit closest to home because, deep down, weakness had always been one of the things of which he was most afraid.
But no more. He refused to allow himself to be a victim of Moreau's disgust. Somehow he forced his voice to remain soft and calm as he asked, "Weak?" He took a step closer to the bars, and Moreau eyed him warily. "You still haven't actually done it, have you? You've never killed anyone yourself. Sure, you order it like some king on his throne, but other people do the dirty work. You've never heard them beg for death. You've never seen the light in their eyes go out, knowing you're the one that snuffed it. Well, let me tell you something I've learned through years of doing your dirty work."
He grabbed the bars of the cell and leaned in close; Moreau took a step back. When he spoke again, Eliot's tone had dropped about twenty degrees. "It is a hell of a lot easier to kill than not. The difficulty comes in making the choice not to kill, and following through. The Eliot Spencer who worked for you, the Rottweiler … he was weak. That night was when I finally found the strength to say no."
Moreau swallowed but recovered quickly by cocking a smug eyebrow. "And Flores did that? By not getting on his knees?"
Eliot gave the slightest of smiles. "That night was also when I learned why you were always so afraid of him." At Moreau's scoff and accompanying eye-roll, he added, "Oh, you were definitely afraid of him. Otherwise you wouldn't have kept trying to kill him. And I finally figured out why. He's very persuasive."
"Persuasive?" Moreau jeered. "You're kidding me, right?"
"Not everyone rules through fear, Damien. Juan can sense the strength, the good in people, and he tells them. People want to do good. They just need someone to tell them they have the capacity."
Moreau lay back down and resumed staring at the ceiling, hands behind his head. "Wow. You're a lot of things, Eliot, but I never pegged you as a sanctimonious asshole. You and Ford" — he spat the name as if it were a nasty taste in his mouth — "really do make a great team. But as sanctimonious as you are, nothing's really changed." He turned his head to Eliot and fixed him with a knowing smile. "I know what you did in that warehouse in D.C. Fourteen men. You kill for Ford just like you killed for me. The Rottweiler is still alive and well, he just serves a different master now."
Eliot tilted his head, considering. "You know, I've been thinking a lot about that since what happened in the warehouse. You and Nate are really two sides of the same coin. You're both manipulative bastards who search for the weaknesses in others. You both know how to use those weaknesses to exploit, and you both understand that the cruelest punishments are much worse than death. The difference is, he uses his power for good."
Moreau snorted. "Good? Watch how this country falls apart without me controlling things."
"We'll see about that," said Eliot. "But at least the people have a choice now."
Moreau shrugged. "Choice is overrated. People want someone to tell them what to do, and how to do it. Makes things easier." He gave an evil grin. "It did for you, didn't it? Until you grew that conscience."
"People don't always want what's easy, Damien. Like I said, people want to do good. They want what's best. That's what you took from them, and what we gave them back."
Moreau chuckled. "You have an interesting idea of what's 'good.' You rigged an election. And you somehow got Flores and Ramirez and her" — his eyes glinted with a hatred Eliot had rarely seen there — "to go along with it. Apparently they're not as honest as I thought."
"They understand that sometimes you have to fight fire with fire."
Moreau rolled his eyes. "Well you're just full of all sorts of fortune cookie wisdom today, aren't you? Do you and Ford sit around, throwing cute little quips back and forth about thieves and stealing elections and good versus evil?"
"You keep going back to Nate," said Eliot lightly. "Why? Because he beat you?"
In an instant Moreau was on his feet. He thrust his face between the bars and snarled, "I am not beaten."
Eliot glanced around the Tombs. "Coulda fooled me."
"I have allies all over the world —"
"And we've been taking 'em down, one by one."
Moreau actually growled. "I'll be back. You'll see."
Eliot raised his hands in mock surrender. "You're getting awfully defensive. I just came down for a chat."
"About what, exactly?" Moreau snapped. "Because all you've done so far is gloat and preach. Did Ford send you here? Or Flores? To taunt me?"
"They don't know I'm here. In fact, if they did, I'd probably get my ass chewed." Eliot winked. "And as you know, an ass-chewing from Nate is not enjoyable."
Moreau's jaw tightened. "You can be as flippant and cutesy as you want, Spencer, but you know as well as I do that you've just sold your soul to a different devil."
Eliot raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean Nate? The Devil? That's interesting, coming from you." He looked away, pretending to think. "The two of you really are similar. And if Nate applied himself in that direction …" He gave a concessionary nod. "Yeah, he could do that — though he'd be better at it than you, if today is any indication." Moreau's eyes narrowed, and Eliot smirked. "Yeah … I've got my eye on him, in case he turns that direction. He's gotten close, but never crossed that line. But he could. His father did."
Moreau scoffed.
"Surprised?" asked Eliot. "Nate's father was a small time gangster and loan shark in Boston." He chuckled to himself. "You two really are similar. Massive daddy issues."
Moreau's eyes flashed dangerously, but Eliot continued.
"Nate's father was a crook, and he rebelled by going to seminary school and almost becoming a priest. Kinda the opposite of you and your daddy, huh?"
Moreau paled, and his lips formed a thin line. Eliot knew he'd hit the mark.
"What?" He allowed his voice to drip with condescension, like Moreau's always did. "You think the old man didn't talk? You really should have taken care of him yourself. But we both know you're not actually capable of doing the dirty work, right?" Eliot stared vacantly, remembering. "Yeah, he talked. That was an interesting job. I couldn't figure out why in the hell you'd want me to kill a little old minister of a church in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere, San Lorenzo. But like you said, the Rottweiler does as he's told, follows orders, no questions asked." His brow furrowed slightly. "He surprised me because he wasn't afraid. I had quite a reputation by then, so I couldn't believe it. I'd never seen anything like it. He started talking, and I let him. And he had a fascinating story to tell." He lingered on the word fascinating and widened his eyes as he said it. "He told me all about little Damien, and how he used to be such a good boy, but somehow he'd fallen away from God. He prayed that God would forgive him for not helping you see the light. He prayed that God would forgive you. And me," he added, almost as an afterthought.
While he spoke, Eliot watched Moreau's face. The man's eyes bore into Eliot with a loathing that might have, years ago, made Eliot backtrack. But not today.
"Nate Ford went after his father, too. But he did it himself. And when he finally got the chance to finish him — not even to kill him, just send him to jail — he couldn't do it. He showed mercy. But you — you were too much of a coward to go after your own father." Eliot spat the word like the insult it was, then hissed, "And I don't think you even know what mercy is."
"And you do?" Moreau's voice was quiet, but he raised his eyebrows in a way that implied he highly doubted it.
The question caught Eliot off-guard. Moreau hadn't spoken in several minutes, and Eliot hadn't expected him to interrupt. But as always with Moreau's questions, he didn't have an answer.
Did he know what mercy was?
Moreau chuckled. "You come in here, preaching from your moral high ground, as if what you and Ford do is so much better that what I do. But it's no different. Does he show mercy to his victims? I know what you did to Larry Duberman, and Alexander Moto, and John Keller, and Mark Vector. Did they get some of that mercy? Did I?" He glanced around the Tombs as Eliot had earlier. "And you. Do you ever show mercy? You certainly didn't in that warehouse. You killed them all, in cold blood, and then blew up the evidence." He leaned into the bars and snarled, "So don't you dare lecture me about mercy."
Eliot took a step back. Moreau was right. Nate didn't show mercy — and neither did he.
Then a memory surfaced, from long ago. It should have been trapped in that box with all the others, but somehow it alone had escaped. He was back in the barracks, at the San Lorenzo army base, and Juan was speaking to him.
"So you disobeyed orders," Juan said, almost to himself. He looked at Eliot. "You were ... merciful."
"Merciful?" Eliot snarled. "You have a funny idea of mercy."
"We both know full well that there are worse things than death, Eliot," Juan said. "In those cases, yes, death itself is merciful."
"That doesn't change anything," Eliot said quietly.
"Nor should it. You have a lot of blood on your hands, Eliot Spencer. You will never be clean of that."
Juan stood. Eliot looked up at him as he moved to leave. Their eyes met.
"But that doesn't mean you aren't capable of doing good."
Eliot's vision blurred. Juan had said those things less than twelve hours after Eliot had tried to kill him. He'd seen Eliot show mercy — to the Perezes, to his men, to him — and had known, in that moment, that Eliot was capable of so much more. Thanks to Juan — no, thanks to Moreau, without whom, as Sophie had so eloquently said, Eliot would never have become the man he was today — Eliot did know what mercy was.
"Yes, Damien. I do," he said with a conviction he hadn't felt since long before he'd joined Nate, or Juan, or even Moreau. "I know what mercy is. And so does Nate. And part of mercy is knowing when to show it, and when it's not deserved."
He took a step forward, closing the distance he'd put between Moreau and himself at the man's question.
"There's something you need to understand. I made a choice in that warehouse, just like the choices I made when I worked for you. The difference is, it was my choice. I wasn't given an order. In fact, Nate tried to stop me. He tried to figure out a way to get us out of that warehouse without any bloodshed." Eliot shook his head in disbelief at Nate's naïveté. "But he's not like you and me. He doesn't understand that sometimes bloodshed is the only way. So maybe I did trade the devil I knew for the devil I didn't. But know this —"
Eliot grabbed the bars of the cell and leaned in as close as he could. In a calm, cool, yet menacing voice, he said, "Nate Ford is nothing like you."
He blinked, tilting his head, and looked away from Moreau to a spot on the wall. He frowned, but after a moment his lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. He returned his gaze to Moreau as he pushed himself off the bars and away from the man responsible for a past he'd spent the past eight years running from.
"And neither am I."
Moreau sneered. "Well congratulations on your little epiphany. So glad I could help. But I still don't understand why you're here. To mock me? To tell me you've changed your ways? To lecture me about mercy and how wonderful you are?"
Eliot smirked. "Like I said: the important thing about mercy is knowing when to show it, and when it's undeserved."
Moreau paled, and his eyes flashed with something Eliot had only seen there twice before — fear. He gulped, and in a moment it was gone, but it was replaced with only a shadow of his earlier smug sneer.
"Are you here to kill me, then?" Moreau's voice actually shook, and it gave out completely on the last word.
"No, Damien." In contrast, Eliot's voice was steady and calm. "I'm not here to kill you. Because as you know — and Nate knows, and Juan Flores knows — the true punishments in this world are so much worse than death. Death ..." He smiled fondly. "Death is too easy for you, Damien. Just like it's too easy for me. Killing you would be the merciful thing. But people like us don't deserve mercy."
Moreau's eyes widened. The fear was back, and it wasn't a flicker this time.
Eliot had finally realized what he'd come down here to say.
"I'm here to give you a warning, Moreau. No, not a warning — a threat. I know you. Like you said, you're not beaten. You still have allies. But if you ever come near my team; if you ever even think about hurting Juan, or Matty and Maria, or their family; if I ever hear of some 'accident'" — he made quotes with his fingers — "related to any of them …"
For dramatic effect, he paused for two full seconds.
"I will come for you. No — the Rottweiler will come for you. Because you're right. He does serve a different master now." Eliot smirked. "Me. And I'll give him free reign. You saw what he did in the warehouse. That was just the tip of the iceberg. He's been dormant for eight years. He's pretty bloodthirsty. And he's learned an awful lot. From you. From people like Chapman." Eliot's lips curled into the Rottweiler's terrifying grin. "I'll make sure he combines everything he's ever heard of or seen, Moreau, and it'll be just for you. And he'll do it until you beg him to kill you, and then he'll continue until he gets bored. When he's done with you, he'll kill you in the slowest, most painful way he knows how. Then he'll dump your body someplace where no one will ever find it."
Moreau's eyes were wide with horror, and Eliot relished it.
He took a few steps backward, teeth still bared in the Rottweiler's most menacing smile. "You know how these things are done. Or at least, you used to."
He made his finger into a gun and motioned pulling the trigger before turning on his heel and walking back to the elevator.
Moreau's panicked cries followed him. "No! Spencer, listen! Spencer ... ?"
Eliot entered the elevator and pushed the button. "Sleep tight."
He crossed his arms and winked. The Rottweiler grinned at Moreau until the doors closed.
.
.
.
The moment the doors closed, the Rottweiler's sick smile evaporated, and Eliot nearly collapsed against the wall of the elevator. He gasped and gulped the air like he'd just emerged from underwater. His heart raced and his entire body felt like jelly, as if he'd just run a double marathon. But as he brought a trembling hand to his face, one thought kept flashing across his mind, like a neon sign, and in spite of everything, he laughed. A genuine, relieved, happy laugh.
He was — finally — done.
"Ah-ah, not quite." Pete's voice returned as chipper as ever. "You still have one more thing to do."
"Yes," Eliot murmured. "A long overdue visit to an old friend."