Howdy! I know, it's been a couple of weeks... Sorry! To make it up to you, here's the longest chapter of TFKJ yet. And it sounded like people enjoyed last chapter's breakfast for dinner and a little reprieve from the angst and action; I'm so glad! Thanks so much for reading, as always!

By the way, if you don't get the reference at the very beginning of this chapter (like Hardison, haha), allow me to point you to the awesome headcanon of mine that is Ginipig's "The External Contractor Job (Or, The IYS Job)". Nate hires Eliot to retrieve something in the pre-series days. I love it.

Chapter 21

"Nice place," muttered Eliot, casting a long, skeptical glance around the location Nate had chosen for the first meet with Carson McMaster: a poorly-lit corner of an underground parking lot. The lot was essentially empty this late on a Monday night.

Nate, standing next to him with crossed arms, smirked and shrugged. "What, you don't like it? I thought it was a little nostalgic."

"Seriously. What's with you and parking garages?"

"What are you guys even talking about?" said Hardison's voice on comms. He, Parker, Sophie, and Gray were one level down in a rented van that the hacker was calling "Lucille's French Cousin."

"Oh nothing," said Nate in that too-light, flippant tone he often favored for sarcasm. "Eliot and I just have an ongoing disagreement about who gets to be Deep Throat."

Someone on the comm channel snorted out a laugh; it sounded like Gray.

"Thanks for that incredibly detailed explanation," deadpanned Hardison. "Because that really clears it up."

"Okay, everyone in position?" said Parker's voice. With Nate here in a grifting capacity, they'd all agreed to formally defer to her as the quarterback for this leg of the con. "It's almost time."

"Three minutes," said Sophie. "And Morgan said he's punctual."

Before Gray could answer, Parker butted in again. "Hey, Morgan! Sophie called you by your first name! She must like you."

"Oh, what's in a name?" said Sophie much more warmly than Eliot would have liked.

"Not much, apparently," Hardison said. "Since Nate's still calling you Sophie."

"Yeah, see, Sophie isn't Sophie's real name," said Parker, and Eliot knew she was, yet again, talking to Gray. Parker's constant explanations to the CIA officer about the team's interactions had only increased in frequency since last night's "breakfast for dinner" ceasefire. The amount of information she was revealing to Gray was crossing the line from irritating to seriously problematic at this point.

"Parker…" he began, warning in his voice.

"I actually knew that," said Gray, not letting him finish. "Isn't it - "

Now Sophie was the one to interrupt. "Nate and I talked about it a few times, and we decided that… well, Sophie may not be the woman I used to be, but she is the woman I am now, isn't she? She's the one Nate fell in love with."

Eliot glanced sideways at Nate, whose poker face was slowly being ruined by a hint of rising color in his cheeks. If Nate's inability to control that subconscious reaction hadn't been so damn dangerous in a situation like this, Eliot probably would have given him grief for it. Right now, though, all he could think about was how a slip like that might blow the entire con. The last thing they needed right now was for Nate to be rusty.

"Nate," he said.

The mastermind blinked, met Eliot's gaze, and cleared his throat. "All right, let's cut the chit-chat. McMaster will be here any second."

"Hardison?" said Parker.

The hacker's keyboard clicked a few times. "Yup, there he is. Camera at the entrance just picked him up."

"Hey, Nate?"

Nate raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Parker?"

"You should say something dramatic now."

"Dramatic?"

"Yeah, like, 'Showtime!' or something. Like old times."

Old times. Yes, the past twelve hours had been a bit of a throwback. Sunday evening had been a moment out of time, with everyone, including Eliot, falling back into old patterns for the night. From Parker and Hardison's tag-team teasing to the late breakfast feast Eliot had prepared for them all, it had been a nostalgic reprieve. Instead of sitting through another stint of frigid silence or arguing about the job, they had actually laughed and swapped stories. Nate and Sophie recounted their lazy, month-long cruise around the Mediterranean on Nate's boat and described Sophie's London flat that they'd recently begun to renovate.

It had been the kind of reunion they'd all probably envisioned that night in the brew pub when Nate had announced that he and Sophie were leaving the game: funny, charming, and delicious. Hearing about Nate and Sophie's attempt at domesticity - selecting furniture for their flat, putting out a fire Sophie had started with a toaster, buying tickets for upcoming openings of West End theatre productions - had been almost comic in its contrast to the lives they'd used to lead. The former mastermind and grifter of the world's best crew were clearly well-suited to ordinary living in many ways, but there had also been a piece of each of them that had missed what they'd left behind - including the team. Maybe especially the team.

"You don't know how many times I picked up the phone to tell you about something," Sophie had said as she'd refilled everyone's wine glasses without having been asked. "But…" She'd looked at Nate, and they had a silent exchange before she continued. "We didn't want you to think we were checking up on you because we weren't confident in you. Of course we were."

Parker, swallowing an enormous bite of pancake, had replied, "And we didn't call you because we didn't want you to think we couldn't do it…"

Well, that had been why Parker and Hardison hadn't called, maybe. But Eliot hadn't voiced his… more complex reasons.

Eliot had caught himself smiling and laughing more than he'd expected to. He'd missed these people - including Parker and Hardison, who for the night glowed with some of the youthful frivolity that had drained from their relationship since the team had gone from five to three. Being with them all now, it was almost as if Nate and Sophie had never left.

Yet, as natural as being with them all felt, Eliot was yanked back to reality whenever his eyes fell on Morgan Gray. The odd one out, she smiled and laughed along with the flow of conversation, even though none of it applied to her, grifting her way into the background until everyone seemed to forget she was even there.

But Eliot never forgot about her. Gray was a constant reminder that this suspended evening in Paris didn't turn back the clock - it only paused it for a while. They were doing this job in the first place because everything had gone wrong. Nate and Sophie weren't here to rejoin the team; they were here to bail the team out. Once they left again, the reality of the broken team would come crashing back down.

And that meant Eliot's intention to leave hadn't changed, either. The past three months had proven that the trio version of the team wasn't enough, and that failed cons were more than just disappointments - they were dangerous. The only rational, safe course of action was to follow Nate and Sophie's lead and go their separate ways. Yet Parker and Hardison continued to insist that things would work out, and maybe they'd been secretly hoping that Nate and Sophie would return. But all the pancakes in the world didn't change the face that the mastermind and grifter were out. They were out, and, dammit, they deserved to be.

The Leverage team's time in the sun was over. And if Parker and Hardison weren't going to listen to reason, Eliot's leaving was the only way to force their hand.

He knew that they would hate him for it at first. But at least they'd be safe.

"All right," said Nate, bringing Eliot's attention back to the present. He was watching an approaching black sedan: McMaster. "Showtime."

"Yessss!" Parker stage whispered.

Eliot rolled his eyes, but a smile touched his mouth, too. Even if he was the only one thinking about the fallout once they nailed this guy, it was nice for things to be a little familiar.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

The sedan pulled into a spot maybe twenty feet away, and its driver emerged, walking over to Eliot and Nate's shadowy corner. McMaster was tall and blond, with the kind of pretty-boy face that Eliot would have liked to ugly up a bit, and his eyes darted around in the same exit-checking pattern that Nate had noticed Gray using when he'd first met her in the hotel lobby.

"Mr. McMaster?" said Nate, pitching his voice a little higher than normal and playing up his Boston speech tics.

McMaster smiled. His perfectly straight, white teeth seemed to glow a little in the dim light. "You must be Mr. Gill," he said, extending a hand. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

Nate tipped his head to one side before shaking the outstretched hand. "I don't usually take references from new clients like Ms. Copeland, but you were… eh… rather convincing on the phone this morning."

"I am a diplomat, Mr. Gill. I wouldn't be very good at my job if I couldn't convince someone of something."

"What did I tell you?" Sophie murmured. "Dangerous."

"More like smarmy," said Hardison. "Smarmy as hell. Here's an idea… let's take this guy down."

"Shhh," said Parker. "Let Nate talk."

Eliot kept his eyebrows from rising. The thief was actually doing a good job on point today.

Nate smiled with closed lips. "Quite. Yes, well, why don't we get straight to business? You need a financial manager. I'm a financial manager. Let's talk goals and accounts."

"Just a minute," said McMaster. He held up a finger, and for the first time he looked at Eliot. "Who's your associate?"

"This is Stephan," said Nate easily. "My bodyguard."

McMaster's eyes narrowed just slightly. He smiled again, but his gaze didn't waver from Eliot's. "Bodyguard," he repeated.

"Mr. McMaster, I don't think I need to tell you that I know some dangerous people," Nate said. "Stephan makes sure that those people and I can continue doing business without any… misunderstanding."

Nodding slowly, McMaster finally looked away, returning his attention to Nate. "I trust that you and I won't have any misunderstandings."

"If we do, you should know that I don't really adhere to the 'customer is always right' mentality."

The quip seemed to put McMaster back at ease; the man chuckled and nodded. "Fair enough. To business, then." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper that he then handed to Nate. "Let's start small, shall we? I don't know you. You don't know me… so let's get to know each other. This is an account of mine in the Caymans. I want to see what you can do with it. I'll give you, say, a month? And if I like what I see, we can discuss a partnership moving forward."

Hardison made a choking sound, like he'd just inhaled some of that Fanta that Parker had stuffed in every available part of the hotel suite's refrigerator. "Wait, what? A month trial period? I just took away this dude's money guy, on the eve of his biggest score ever. When this attack happens, he stands to make millions, and I mean millions by betting against the market. He should be begging you to manage all of his accounts, like, yesterday."

"Maybe he already found someone else?" suggested Sophie.

"When? We've had tabs on him since Saturday," said Parker. "Nate, you have to find out what's going on."

Nate cleared his throat. Then he began to laugh one of those crazy character laughs that he was way too good at. "A month?" he said, the laugh tapering to a chortle. "With one account? Mr. McMaster." Abruptly, his tone went from jovial to biting. "I don't agree to midnight meetings to play around in your daughter's kiddie pool savings account. If you want to do business, then we do business. I'm either your man, or I'm not." The last word Nate punctuated by flicking the piece of paper out of his hand, and he stared down McMaster as it fluttered to the ground.

McMaster stared coolly back. "I don't know you."

"And I don't know you." Nate shoved a finger in the man's face. "And the longer I stand here, the more this stinks. I wasn't born yesterday, pal." He glanced at Eliot. "Stephan, we're leaving."

"Nate," came Sophie's warning voice. "Don't push him too hard."

"Boss…" Eliot began. "We don't want a misunderstanding."

Nate gave a heavy sigh and opened his mouth to say something else, but McMaster beat him to it, blinking and looking back at Eliot.

"Southwest?" he asked.

"... I'm sorry, sir?"

"Your accent… Texas?"

What the hell was this? Nate was about to walk away and this guy wanted to know about Eliot's accent? "Something like that."

"Hm." McMaster paused before turning back to Nate. "All right, fine. I'll tell you what. Let me make a call, and then we'll see about renegotiating." Before Nate could respond, he pulled a phone out of his jacket and took a few steps away, dialing and putting it to his ear.

Over the comms came a sharp intake of breath. Suddenly Gray said, "Get out. Something's wrong. Get out of there!"

"What?" said an incredulous Hardison.

"His voice. Something's changed. Do not let him make that call."

"Are you sure - " Sophie started, but Parker cut her off.

"Guys, you heard her! Move!"

Nate and Eliot exchanged a split-second look loaded with confusion and frustration, but Eliot did, in fact, move. Parker was, without ambiguity this time, the one calling the plays.

He reached McMaster with three long strides, fluidly moving from the third into grabbing McMaster's wrist in a vice-like grip and twisting the man's arm behind him. With a grunt of pain, McMaster dropped the phone, and Eliot forced him to his knees with a foot in the lower back.

"Ah," said McMaster through clenched teeth. "So this is what it feels like."

"And what's that, Mr. McMaster?" asked Nate. He was still using his con voice.

McMaster half sneered, half winced. "To be immobilized by the great Eliot Spencer."

Shock pulsed through Eliot's body. Eliot Spencer. Damn it… How the hell did McMaster know him?

He wrenched the CIA station chief's arm a little harder, eliciting a small cry of pain. But the sound didn't distract Eliot from the slow movement of McMaster's other hand toward his ribcage. Within the space of a breath that arm was also trapped in Eliot's hold.

"Grab his gun," he told Nate. "Holster on his left."

Nate did as he was told, hurrying over to crouch and unsnap a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol from under McMaster's jacket, which he tossed a few yards away. But he didn't get up. He stared into McMaster's face.

"Stay committed, Nate," said Sophie. "Someone recognizing Eliot doesn't mean we're blown. I sold him being my bodyguard to the Milieu not three days ago."

Nate gave a little grunt of acknowledgement and said, still in character, "You'll have to excuse Mr. Spencer. He doesn't typically like to be identified as working for any particular client."

Eliot couldn't see McMaster's smirk, but he could hear it in his voice. "Oh, don't feed me that bull, Mr. Ford. I know exactly who Eliot Spencer works for."

Sophie and Parker gasped, Morgan Gray swore, and Hardison said, "Yeah, I guess that means we're blown. Son of a frickin' bitch."

Nate scowled. "So," he said as he stood, the accent - but not the con - gone from his voice. He was still trying to salvage this. "You know who we are. That doesn't have to change our deal."

"Oh, please," spat McMaster. "What deal? You're a con man trying to trick me out of my money. And you almost had me, too. Faith Copeland… hell, that was Sophie damn Devereaux, wasn't it? And, let me guess… you've got Parker and Alec Hardison probably sitting around the corner, don't you?" McMaster began laughing, but it turned into a strangled yelp as Eliot stomped on his ankle.

"Nate…" said Parker, her tone strained. "How does he know about us?"

"Oh God," said Gray in a voice so small that it took Eliot a second to even realize it was hers.

"'Oh God,' what?" growled Eliot. "How does he know, Gray? How the fu - "

"Gray?" murmured McMaster, and some of that audible smirk was back. "Not… Morgan Gray? Oh… this does get better and better."

"Eliot!" cried Parker. "You just blew Morgan!"

Eliot's stomach dropped as he realized she was right; he'd said Gray's name. But his anger was hotter than that small flare of guilt. "Blew her? Ask her how the hell this guy knows who we are!"

He expected some response from Gray at that, something flat and combative like, "Ask her your damn self." But the CIA officer was silent.

"Uh, guys," interjected Hardison. "Hold up for - for just a sec… we've got some more guests."

"What?" Nate demanded.

"The cameras just picked up another vehicle entering the garage. Y'all about to have some company."

Rage surged through Eliot, but he tried to force it down and focus on what Hardison had just said instead of what Gray had said. "What kind of vehicle? How many people?"

"Black SUV. Seriously tinted windows, so I can't tell how many might be inside."

For a second, Eliot was no longer in the parking garage; he was back in McMaster's apartment, looking outside for an approaching response to the motion sensor he'd set off. A black SUV with tinted windows… a strange car for the heart of Paris, especially without diplomatic or government plates… he'd seen one parked on the street, thinking it was a private security team. But it hadn't been. McMaster had come alone.

There were a lot of things Eliot had stopped believing in over the course of his career. Coincidence was one of them.

He jerked up on McMaster's arms, forcing the man to his feet, and spun them both around so that McMaster faced the entrance to their floor of the garage. "Nate, grab the phone and the gun."

Now that he had some leverage back, McMaster began struggling against Eliot's hold. In response, Eliot slammed the other man face-first into a concrete support column. The impact generated a cracking sound, almost certainly from McMaster's nose breaking, and a smear of blood was left on the rough surface. The resistance subsided, but McMaster shot Eliot a withering look over his shoulder.

"You'll live," Eliot muttered, smirking a little.

Five seconds later, the SUV appeared, coming slowly down the ramp from aboveground into the empty garage. It rolled to a stop maybe thirty feet away, keeping its bright headlights on. Eliot instinctively lowered his gaze to avoid being blinded by the glare, while Nate held up a hand against it and squinted.

He heard both of the SUV's front doors open, and then the first bullet whizzed just wide of Eliot and his human shield. Fortunately, before his brain even had time to process the shot, his muscles were reacting. He yanked McMaster with him behind the nearby column as two more bullets dug into the wall behind where they'd just been standing.

A thrill of fear seized Eliot once they were safe, and he wondered whether Nate had been so quick, but the fear subsided at the sound of heavy breathing in the earbud. A glance around the column revealed Nate hunched behind McMaster's sedan.

"Nate?" came Sophie's breathless, terrified voice in his earbud. "Eliot?"

"Yeah, Soph," Eliot said. "We're here."

"Nate?"

"I'm fine, honey," Nate coughed. "But I think, from now on, I'm going to leave the stunt double stuff to Eliot…"

"Yeah, well, you may have to wait a little longer for that," Eliot said, peering around the column again. Behind the headlights, he thought he could see four silhouettes, but he couldn't be sure. "I'm going to need you to lay down some cover fire."

"Cover fire? Eliot, I wouldn't know the first thing about - "

"Just shoot toward the light and count to ten. Then shoot and count again. Don't empty the clip too fast, but keep anyone from coming toward us. Don't worry. If you do this right, no one's going to get hurt. I just need time."

"Time?"

"Nate."

Nate swallowed. "All right, then." After a moment, the Browning went off, joining the cacophony of gunshots coming from the SUV.

Eliot's brain shifted to the next tactical move. "Hardison? You there?"

"Yeah, man."

"Listen. These guys have us pinned down with their brights on… I can't see anything, and we're sitting ducks. I need you to bring the van up to our level. The SUV is parked about halfway down the straight part of the ramp, so there's plenty of room for you to come up and around the corner. Keep the lights off until the last possible second, so you only blind the other guys, but give it all you've got once you're facing them. Can you do that?"

"Um, yeah. Sure thing. I'll - "

"I'll do it," interrupted Parker.

Hardison made a small squeaking sound. "Uh - "

"We need to do this fast. Right, Eliot?"

Despite the situation, Eliot felt a small smile on his lips. "Damn right."

"Roger that, Sparky. Hardison, move over."

"Wha - I - ow! Woman!"

"I told you to move over."

"Morgan," said Sophie. "You're going to want to… buckle your seatbelt."

As Nate fired harmless shots at ten second intervals - answered by rapid fire from the SUV - and the rest of the team audibly shuffled around in Lucille's French Cousin, Eliot returned his attention to the man in his hold. He forced McMaster to his knees again and wrapped an arm around his neck, applying gradual pressure.

"You've maybe got until the next time Nate Ford fires your gun before you black out," he said in McMaster's ear. "Unless you talk. How many men are out there? Who else is coming?"

But McMaster just chuckled. Or, he choked, but it was clearly intended as laughter. "You marshal your troops well, Spencer. You were a soldier once…" He hacked out a cough. "For your country… then for San Lorenzo…"

The tension that shot through Eliot at the mention of San Lorenzo tightened his hold on McMaster's windpipe so suddenly that the other man gagged and started flailing. It took actual concentration for Eliot to convince the bicep to release. McMaster gulped air as it became available to him again.

"How do you know all of this?" snarled Eliot. "What do you know about my team?"

For the first time, McMaster's cocky veneer was beginning to crack. As his breathing normalized, his eyes widened at Eliot's face next to his, though he quickly set his jaw again. "Do you know who I am?" he said hoarsely. "What I can have done to you?"

It hit Eliot all at once - what it was about Carson McMaster that made him want to beat the guy to within an inch of his life.

Cocky, smug, handsome, dangerous…

San Lorenzo.

This bastard was just like Damien Moreau.

Not as sadistic, obviously - no one was as bad as Moreau. But the cold, cruel aloofness that allowed McMaster to profit off of disasters and terrorist attacks reeked of Moreau. And the two had actually been associated in the past - hadn't Hardison had brought that up at the briefing? Now that made perfect sense. This man and Moreau must have been a match made in hell.

Eliot's teeth clenched until they hurt, and he let his arm clench again, too. In a matter of seconds, McMaster was out cold.

"Woooooo hooooo!"

Parker's exuberant whoop of unbridled joy over comms, coupled with squealing tires from further down in the garage, signaled Lucille's French Cousin's arrival to the party. Moments later, the burgundy van violently peeled around the corner, teetering on its suspension like it might roll over if someone so much as breathed in its direction. Somehow Parker managed to keep the vehicle upright, though, and as voices behind the headlights of the SUV began yelling to one another, she straightened out the van and flipped on its brights.

"We be the cavalry!" shouted the thief with a maniacal laugh.

Eliot couldn't see through the van's tinted windows any more than he could the SUV's, but he could definitely picture the looks of awed terror Sophie, Hardison, and Gray undoubtedly wore just then.

"Parker," he said with urgency. "Get out of the front seat. They'll start to divide their fire between you and Nate now."

Parker's response was almost sing-songy. "On it!" That woman and adrenaline…

"Hardison?"

"Still here, E. With all my fingers and toes… thank sweet baby Jesus…"

"Yeah. Great. Use those fingers to open the van's back door. I'm bringing McMaster to you."

"Wait, what?"

"Hardison! We don't have time for this. I can't get close to these guys while dragging a hostage."

"Well what are we supposed to do with him?"

"Just watch him."

"Eliot, what the hell does - "

Eliot ignored the hacker's continued protests and burst from behind the column, dragging McMaster's tall frame behind him across the eight foot-wide stretch of open space to the van. Though the men from the SUV did fire once or twice in his direction, they were clearly just as blinded by the flood of headlights as the team was.

Hardison was waiting with both of the back doors open, his eyes wide and alert. "Seriously, how are we supposed to - Uh… is he unconscious?"

Ignoring the question, Eliot heaved the limp man's form into the van. "Tie him up."

"With what?"

"You're the frickin' genius. Figure it out!"

Hardison threw up his hands, but Parker, crawling past Sophie, started rummaging around in a gear bag and pulled out one of her harnesses. "Here," she said to Hardison. "Roll him over."

Eliot was about to leave them to it when he spotted the woman sitting across from Sophie, hunched over with her face in her hands. Gray's body language said it all: somehow it was her fault that they'd been made.

I'll deal with you later, he thought darkly.

"Uh, Eliot?" It was Nate. "I'm out of bullets."

Damn. If Nate was out of ammo, that left a maximum of ten seconds for Eliot to get behind the SUV's headlights before someone got cocky and moved in on the mastermind's hiding place.

"All right. Stay where you are," he told Nate, closing his eyes and ducking around the side of the van, creeping along its length. He stayed crouched until he reached the front, feeling for the smooth surface of the headlight and pausing right next to it so that he would be essentially invisible to anyone facing the van.

There wasn't time to think about what he was doing; no matter what Hardison had said back in Seattle about the whole Head/Heart/Gut dynamic, when it came to doing his job, Eliot didn't have the luxury of going through every option and evaluating all possible outcomes. That was the mastermind's thing.

The hitter's thing was to act on instinct.

Eyes still closed, he threw his weight forward, breaking into a sprint. By this point, the layout of the garage and the vehicles in it were perfectly mapped out in his mind, and his outstretched hand met the warm metal of the SUV's hood at the precise moment that he'd expected. One step later, when he knew he was past the headlights, he opened his eyes.

The SUV's passenger-side door was wide open in front of him - clearly the men had been firing from behind it, using it like a shield - but he darted around it. As he did, he spotted two men: one with a handgun and one with an automatic rifle. Both blinked rapidly at him, but, still obviously blinded by the brights of Lucille's French Cousin streaming from behind Eliot's approaching form, neither reacted quickly enough to avoid a blow to the face.

Eliot, who had no such vision problem after his closed-eye crossing between the vehicles, managed to deal them both an additional knockout hit before two other guys - shooting in Nate's direction from behind the driver's side door - noticed him. One called out to the other in French, and they both swiveled to point the barrels of their weapons through the SUV's interior. Before they could fire, though, Eliot slammed shut the door on his side, and, as he had hoped, the shots meant for him broke harmlessly on bulletproof glass.

Good thing he'd been right.

Hardison's the gut, my ass.

He stepped toward the front of the SUV, put a boot on its bumper, used it to step up onto the hood, and before the men could react and adjust to the new target - they were clearly struggling with the same vision-adjustment problems as their compatriots – he had launched himself from the perch, tackling one of the men to the ground. Eliot used the other's hesitation at firing toward his partner to wrestle the guy he'd clotheslined into a choke hold.

"Put it down!" he barked to the man he hadn't tackled. "Put your weapon down!"

The other man, a silhouette against the headlights of the van, hesitated.

"You shoot me, you hit him, guaranteed," said Eliot, tightening his hold. The man in his grip gurgled. "Put the gun down, or I snap his neck." That wasn't true, of course, but his adversary didn't know that.

He heard Parker suck in a quiet breath. "No, Eliot - "

"It's okay," said Sophie. "He's just saying that to bluff the man with the gun." She paused before adding, "Right, Eliot?"

Shock hit Eliot like a blow to the gut, and he almost lost his grip on his hostage.

What?

Was - was that what they really thought? Did they honestly believe… after all this time - nearly six years… How could they think he would be willing to so casually kill a man?

"Well," said a voice in his head. "You have been pretty damned scary lately. Beating up innocent pickpockets… intimidating members of the CIA…"

Eliot swallowed the pooling saliva in his mouth that heralded a wave of nausea. There it was, the actual, most urgent reason that he had to leave the team: he didn't know if he could even keep them safe from himself. And, apparently, neither did they.

Shut up, he told the voice.

But the words burned. And, even though he shook his head to dispel them - to focus on the task at hand, protecting the team - they left their mark.

He said nothing for a moment, just choked up on his choke hold. He didn't take his suddenly moist eyes off of the silhouetted man. But he did grunt once, to dispel a growing lump in his throat. And hopefully the team would understand it as an affirmative response to Sophie's question, a signal that he, as had been the case since the day he'd become one of them, would do everything in his power to avoid the loss of life.

Slowly, the silhouette extended its arm and dropped its gun. Then it surprised Eliot by speaking: "Eliot Spencer?"

The voice was familiar, but it wasn't until Eliot adjusted his position so that he wasn't looking into any headlights that he recognized its owner.

It was, of all people, the Milieu boss from the banlieue, the one who Sophie had been forced to convince to let Eliot and Hardison go. The guy who had very nearly nipped their trip to Paris in the bud. Standing five feet away, putting up his hands, and yet… smiling.

"You," said Eliot.

The man raised his eyebrows. "So I am. Myself, I mean."

Eliot scowled, his eyes narrowing. "You know, you're a damn good liar. I believed you when you said you knew nothing about all this."

"This?"

"Eliot?" asked Sophie. "Is that… oh, what was his name… that fellow who almost murdered you?"

"Ebrahim," said Nate, emerging from behind McMaster's car and dusting himself off.

"Nate," Eliot warned. "Stay over there."

"Oh yes… Ebrahim," Sophie said. "Nathan Ford, how did you remember that?"

"Wait," said Hardison. "That guy had a name?"

"Nate's mind is like a Diebold bank vault with dual combination dials," said Parker in that cheerful tone that she had been using to deliver her Leverage Fun Facts to Morgan Gray, though no response came from the CIA officer.

Ebrahim turned his smile on Nate. "Do you and I know each other?"

Nate smiled back. "Not officially, no. But I'm an associate of Ms. Delacourt's. And I believe the two of you are acquainted."

Earbuds in the van picked up shuffling, and Sophie said, "I'll take that as my cue."

"No," growled Eliot. "Nobody move."

"Eliot - "

Ebrahim looked back at him with confusion. "Easy, monsieur. I am not going anywhere."

"I said, nobody move!" Eliot's sudden yell echoed through the nearly-empty garage, leaving silence in its wake. "Nobody's going anywhere," he added more quietly. "Not until Ebrahim tells us about the attack. I want time, location, brand of explosive… everything. Now start talking."

But Ebrahim didn't say anything. It was Nate who spoke. "He doesn't know anything," said the mastermind. "He's not working with McMaster."

"Not working with him?" snapped Eliot. "Nate, I saw this exact same SUV outside McMaster's apartment the other day. These guys have been following us."

"Following us?" asked Nate and looked at Ebrahim with infuriating calm. "Or following him?"

"Nate, what the hell are you - "

"The call didn't go through."

Eliot blinked as the words sunk in. "What?"

"The call." Nate pulled McMaster's phone out of a pants pocket, giving it a little jiggle. "McMaster dialed out, but the call never connected. They're not with him."

Ebrahim spat on the ground. "With Carson McMaster? Never. You are the ones working with that bastard."

"No, actually," said Nate, and he really did look perfectly at ease at this point. "We're just trying to con him."

"So, let me get this straight," said Hardison. Eliot could almost picture him rubbing his eyes in confusion. "These guys don't like McMaster, either?"

While Eliot could hardly blame anyone for finding McMaster to be the scum of the earth, things still weren't adding up. "Nate, he basically admitted to us that McMaster had been visiting the refugee camp."

"Yes," said Ebrahim. "He had. And after your… visit… we began watching him a bit more closely." He looked back at Nate. "We have been shadowing him ever since. We know all about what he is planning."

Finally. Finally they were getting to it. "The attack?"

Ebrahim frowned. "Attack? Mr. Spencer, as I told you three days ago, we know nothing about any attack."

"Then what do you mean?" asked Nate. "What's he planning?"

"To infringe upon our territory," said the Milieu boss, warily glancing between Nate and Eliot. "He is trying to establishing a black market network with the Libyan refugees. Were he to succeed - "

"You'd lose a huge chunk of your business," Nate finished. "Because refugee extortion is an awfully profitable enterprise for you."

"Mr… Nate, was it?" said Ebrahim. The pleasant smile was back. "We provide the Libyans with protection. The international community does not care about them. The French government actively resents them. Without my enterprise, as you call it, those people would not be able to eat."

"Unless Carson McMaster swoops in to underbid you."

"Carson McMaster is an American looking to make - how would you say - a quick buck."

"So… what? You came here to…?"

Ebrahim shrugged. "To kill him."

"Ah." Nate's gaze flickered to Eliot. "Eliot… can I have a word?"

"Just one?" said Hardison. "I'm thinking this is going to take at least a couple paragraphs - "

"Hardison," growled Eliot. "Shut up." He pushed away the man he'd been borderline choking, letting him stumble a few feet toward Ebrahim before saying, "Sign of good faith."

Nate raised McMaster's empty Browning handgun and kept it trained on Ebrahim and his recovering colleague. "Just a moment," he said before lowering his voice as he came and stood next to the Eliot. "All right, guys. What do we think?"

"I think I'm pretty damn confused," said Hardison.

"Me, too," said Sophie. "What on earth is going on here?"

"Do you believe him, Nate?" asked Parker. "About following McMaster around but not knowing about the attack?"

Nate rubbed his chin. "Either Ebrahim is a very good liar, or we're missing something."

"He has to be lying," murmured Morgan Gray. It was the first time she'd spoken since her boss had recognized Eliot and Nate. "Gérard Nejem tailed McMaster for weeks. That's how he found out about the attack in the first place. McMaster's been going to the Libyan refugee camp, all right, and Nejem had evidence that it was to coordinate with extremists."

"Nejem?" said a groggy voice. McMaster had woken up. "That… bastard…"

Faint scuffling came over the comm channel, and then Sophie cried, "Morgan! Morgan, stop!"

"You killed him, you son of a bitch!" Gray's tone was dark, touched with hysteria. "He was onto you! When is the attack?" Another sound: a muffled thump like she'd landed a blow. "Tell me when it is! Hey! Dammit, get your hands off me!"

"Hell no, woman!" said Hardison, who must have reached to restrain her. "Calm the hell down!"

"Morgan, stop!" exclaimed Parker, but Eliot was only half-listening at this point.

"You killed him, you son of a bitch!" Gray's words rattled around in his mind. Why? Why did that sound… wrong?

Because McMaster was like Moreau, too aloof and careful to do his own dirty work. If he'd been behind Nejem's death, he would have -

Then the answer hit him, and Eliot suddenly felt like he'd been doused in cold water.

"McMaster didn't take out Nejem," he said. Even though he hadn't raised his voice, the altercation in the van seemed to freeze with his words.

"What? What are you talking about?" said Gray. "Of course he did."

"No." Goddamn it. I'm such an idiot. "He was going to, but he didn't. We heard him, remember? In his apartment. He was on the phone."

Now it was McMaster's words that echoed in Eliot's mind: "No, I won't be requiring your services any longer. … The target is already dead."

"The target is already dead," Eliot repeated softly. "McMaster set up a hit… but it never happened. He didn't kill Gérard Nejem. Someone else did."

Stunned silence swallowed the comm channel.

"But… but, what does that mean?" said Sophie finally.

Nate cleared his throat and looked at the ground, breathing out through pursed lips. "In light of what our new friend Ebrahim just told us…" he said, "I think it means we've got the wrong guy."