Well, we're almost there. This Chapter, and Chapter 30 that will follow ( Next Friday, I hope, if everything goes as planned), are still introduction to the finale that will begin in Chapter 31.

I hope you'll understand then why was necessary to go through this night so thoroughly, and what I was trying to do.

After that huge Finale, epilogueS will be huge as well... unless I snap completely and kill them ALL, shrink their heads, and ride into sunset with Villacorta, who is, surprisingly, totally cool bad guy. Rich, handsome, merciless, and winning... and the most important, he DOES what I tell him to do, the thing I can't say for those five idots who are trying to make MY Chapter 31 a mix of Rundown and Frame up jobs. When I tell him to say 'yes', he simply say yes.., he doesn't have great ideas, why don't we try... *insert something utterly insane*.

If you've ever watched Pink Panther movies, just remember inspector Dreyfuss ( RIP), and you'll know my state of mind.

The fact that I'm rambling here could be a clue, too.

Thank you for your patience, btw, and your constant support that kept me writing this.

*neurotic author out*

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Chapter 29

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Parker was starting to have trouble with monitoring the police and 911 channels at the same time, so she had removed headset and let them all listen to the channels, occasionally translating and explaining the police codes, the reporting of many little crises, attacks, shootings and explosions all over town.

Nate had told Hardison to divide the attacks while putting them on the map; those that were initiated by other cartels and gangs he colored light blue and the Chilean counterattacks in bright red. The ones police couldn't identify he painted in yellow.

They were following the Hummer which had been spotted on a camera, and Hardison was busy with an ambush. He didn't explain what exactly he was doing, but Nate let him do his job, knowing it was the best he could do. If the hacker had an idea, they had to leave him alone to do it.

Nate let Sophie drive again, he was too busy looking at the map that was filling with little lights. He stared at the red ones until his eyes hurt, counting them all over.

The alarmed voices that were playing in the background were singing the song of chaos and death, with every single call and report.

"Hold on!" Sophie's scream caught him unprepared; when she did a U turn in the middle of the road, he flew into the other side of the van, slamming into the door with his hurt leg, missing Parker by inches. Hardison caught two monitors at the last second.

"What the h-" a long burst from some machine gun cut off his words, and he quickly jumped into the front seat. Sophie was avoiding a big black car that had intercepted them. He didn't need to see the graffiti all over the car to know who they were. "Get down!" he shouted to Hardison and Parker, but bullets went over the van this time.

The car that chased them was a lot faster than Lucille, and in just a few seconds the Chileans managed to align with them, making them the perfect target. Sophie just glanced at the car, waiting for the hands with the guns to stretch from the opened windows, and with a vicious twist of the wheel, slammed the van into the side of the car, forcing the other driver to quickly withdraw, giving them a little space.

"Another try in five seconds! Hold on!" she said, preparing herself for another impact, but when the car tried again, they all heard a machine gun that wasn't fired from the car.

Nate watched as the Chileans swerved on the road so close to them that Sophie barely avoided a collision, and then disappeared from their sight, left behind them.

"There's another one approaching, be ready!"

"No, wait, slow down." Nate touched her hand on the wheel, watching the rear mirror and the car that was closing in on them.

This one was dark blue; the windows were open as well, but no guns were seen as the limo slowly slid up and aligned with them in the same position Chileans had been in. It remained in that position for a few seconds, long enough for the men inside to observe them. Nate held Sophie's arm on the wheel, not making any sudden moves, keeping his other hand visible, showing that they were unarmed. For five seconds the men stared at them, without any expression on their faces, until one of them tilted his head to politely nod and smile. One hand in the dark blue suit touched the driver, and limo sped up and left them on the empty street. They both started to breathe again when the car dissolved into darkness.

"Who the hell are they?" Sophie whispered.

"Don't want to know," Nate murmured. "As long they hunt the Chileans, they can be whatever-" A phone ringing cut off his words. "Listening." He had to move it away from his ear when the loud sound of gunfire came through it. Hardison put it on speaker and again they heard bursts of machine guns.

"Patrick?"

"I'm here… just a second." They waited, breathless, until they heard the slamming of something that quieted the shots. "Yep, I'm here," Patrick said. "We are about to stop a pretty big fight between the Chileans and a group of Armenians in amok."

"God." Nate closed his eyes for a second, and slowly inhaled. "Those Armenians… are they wearing expensive suits, perhaps?"

"Nope, not these. You saw someone new, in suits?"

"No, just… guessing. In fact, yes, maybe… if you see them, be careful. Just in case." He thought a few seconds. "Patrick, I'll call you once, maybe before the morning, I'm not sure exactly when. When I call you, I need you to come, no matter what you are doing. Take a few men you can trust, and be ready."

"What's up? It's almost dawn, Nate."

"I can't tell you now… but if you ever trusted me, trust me now."

"I'll be there."

"One more thing… when you finish with that fight, can you send someone to check my apartment and McRory's bar, to see if there are still Chileans waiting for us?"

"Nope. But I can ask the patrol that's already there in that quarter, some mess with the Irish from your neighborhood. They'll check when they finish with that, and I'll send you a message later. Planning to go home soon?"

"Sort of. See you later. And take care of yourself."

He ended the call and sighed. While he spoke with Bonnano, one more red dot showed up on the screen.

"What, exactly, are you preparing, Nate?" Sophie asked slowing down. "I see you're cooking something, but I have to tell you, you are still missing the main ingredient here. In case you didn't notice, we haven't found him yet."

"I owe you a few answers. How I knew he'd do this, and not just go for quiet assassinations, what you all thought he'd do."

"It's about the time," Hardison murmured. Nate noticed that the hacker didn't stop his quick typing, and his eyes were glued on the small images from street cameras on one screen.

"Because that wouldn't have been of any use, and he knew it. Killing Villacorta would just put one of his lieutenants in his position – remember, they knew that Eliot Spencer left the hospital – they would know he had done it, no matter that he wouldn't leave any trace. The hunt for us would continue, this time much worse. Besides, he would avoid killing. He would kill if he had to, but it wouldn't be the first choice, the first solution."

"That doesn't explain how you knew he'll start this chaos."

"He had an army to fight against, Sophie. What do you do when you don't have one? You borrow, steal, or buy someone else's. Haven't you all watched his fight on the warehouse recording?"

The silence after his words showed him that they were trying to connect what he said, and that it wasn't going to happen. "Hardison, put it on the small screen."

"I don't want to watch th-"

"You don't have to. I'll tell you what happened there, and what's happening tonight. And then you'll understand why I said he didn't have to go back into military mode to do it."

Hardison sighed and obeyed, turning away from the monitor, towards his street cameras.

"There were four of them. It's the same when you fight an army, and four opponents," Nate said when Hardison started the footage of the fight. "He is not fighting them, he is using them as weapons against each other. It's a dance, not a fight. Here, this short part is all that it takes to explain it… he threw the first one on the second, and it stopped his coming at him. He hit the third, and he staggered in front of the fourth. The second one came closer, but only to be hit and used as a shield from the fourth. He even used his hand still holding the gun to throw it in the face of the fourth. After that, he threw him on the floor, into the legs of the first which sent that one to the floor too. Here, he placed a tracking device, making that one useful for later, and hit him to fly into the third one… Do I have to continue? He did with those four, what he would do if they all were units on a battlefield, with him as the fifth one. Turn it off, Hardison."

"He had told me," he continued, "that Villacorta's strongest weapon is his control of everything, it's his priority. And he also told me about rearranging those priorities. He had too little time to go inside and try to repeat this fight inside the Chilean forces; that would take much more than one night, Divide and Conquer takes time to be played in full strength. So, he used shortcuts. Instead of making enemies inside the Chileans, he simply took ones that were ready, already in set positions. He couldn't make chaos amongst Villacorta's army, so he had to apply one around them. And now, Villacorta's priorities are rearranged."

"Okay, I got it," Hardison said. "But I don't see how that… rearranging his priorities cleared the way for us – as I can see, that damn web is deadlier than ever. They just shot at Lucille!"

"You'll see," Nate smiled. "It's still not the time for that, you'll have to wait."

"Typical," came the harsh response. The hacker sighed. "I have something, I think I'll be able to jump over a few steps. For now, following the green dots when the cameras caught him, is not enough, he's constantly a few steps ahead of us. When we get closer to the last dot, he has moved, and the best we can do is to be sure we are in the same part of town… not to mention that the coverage is not that good, I'm losing him all the time. I'm keeping all the cameras that I can hack activated, and I was spreading that net, making circles. I located him entering one of those circles, and instead of following him through it, I wait for him to exit, and we go directly to that spot. But, I have one circle, not so far away, that he entered awhile ago, and he hasn't exiting yet. He stopped. We can be there in a few minutes. If he leaves, the cameras that surround it will record that, and we'll go directly there. Very close."

"Perfect. Sophie, step on it, Hardison, send her the coordinates. Can you do one more thing while monitoring that circle?

"I'll manage."

"Call your delivery service – everything from the new apartment, including the hospital bed, have to be transported into my apartment as soon as Patrick says it's clear."

"Oh, wait," Parker jumped in. "We have a 604, I haven't heard that for years. It's code for Throwing missiles. It seems those Armenians added a little flavor to this."

"Great, Parker," Hardison sighed. "Just what we needed. Nate, what's up, why transporting the bed?"

"Because we're in trouble. Every single hospital in town is full of wounded and dead by now. And their escorts. You've seen what happened in Wheddon hospital, and this quickly escalates. When we find Eliot, if we take him to the any hospital, he's dead. And this time we won't be able to stop it, forget it. We can't take him directly into the hands of the Chileans, Irish, Mexicans, Armenians, and who knows how many more that we don't even know if they're involved. Every hospital in town is a war zone now, full of people that want to kill each other, because he pushed them into it. If any of them saw him…"

"Fuck," Hardison whispered. "I hadn't thought of that."

"But, you have one more ingredient you can add to this dish, while we wait for the main one," Sophie said with a smile, and Nate nodded, returning the smile. Then he took his phone and hit the speed dial.

"Good morning, Betsy."

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Eliot's phone said that the sun would rise at 6:19. Before that, he had one hour of semi darkness and still dark shadows that should be used wisely, but his mind was blank, his brain hurt, and he had no idea what to do next. When he finished his talk with Aghesanter, the one-eyed, old boss of the Armenians, he couldn't even count in the right order all that he had done, and not to mention thinking about some future complicated doings.

Aghesanter gave him two Armenians to take him to his car, or to take him where he wanted if they couldn't find it – it seemed that good first impressions went both ways. He guided them, trying to find something familiar in the surroundings. He had to find the Hummer to see what was with Tapia; although he was sure that he had been found and released, this time he needed the fact, not just a presumption. That would give him an idea of how much Villacorta now knew.

After fifteen minutes of useless trying to recognize something familiar in the surroundings, he told them to just circle around until they found the Hummer, and closed his eyes. He was already drifting away, and that way they would think he was just sleepy after a long, long night. He couldn't allow them to see how difficult barely staying conscious was.

Finding the nearest hospital would be the wise move, if it wasn't already too late, said the Commander in his head, bored to death. He was very alive in the darkness back in the slam, but he lost interest as soon as the Armenians approached him. The Specialist agreed, continuing with the well elaborated speech about finishing all this because he had already done more than enough.

He was entertained with their thoughts; knowing himself, and accepting himself, was always the crucial thing in every battle he fought – but those two were a surprise. No, they weren't actually… surprising, it was just the point of view. He was distant and separated from them, and he could objectively listen to both sides, thinking his own thoughts at the same time.

The thing that was the most surprising, though, was the revelation that his own inner voices didn't know him, and didn't understand him a bit. Wonderful. So much for relying on them. They were skillful, but they were stuck in the past, and their thinking was strange and long forgotten.

"If this is not strange, I don't know what strange is."

Damn, he had to open his eyes. He found that to be an awfully demanding process, but when he managed to focus on the thing one of the Armenians was pointing at, what he saw got him together in a second.

He couldn't say they'd found the Hummer, but they certainly found one piece of it.

The passenger seat of the Hummer was plodding along the street on two legs.

"Stop the car and stay inside, I think I know who this might be."

He stood in Tapia's way and waited until he almost bumped into him; he was still tied and seat was on his back, the same position he had been sitting in.

"Oh." Tapia straighten himself a little, only enough to peek at him. "You said you'd be back in fifteen minutes! I'd heard shots and thought you were dead and not coming back, so I decided to save myself. Not from you – I was not trying to escape, so there's no need to kill me."

"How long-"

"Friend of yours?" both Armenians closed in at his back, and he sighed. Only twenty minutes ago he pushed their gang on the Chileans, and now he had one of Villacorta's lieutenants right before their noses, as a present. Both voices in his head agreed that was the brilliant solution to his wondering about Tapia's usability – he could give him to the Armenians and seal the deal even more. But, somehow, it felt like tearing George's leaves apart – a thing he just couldn't do to the helpless plant.

"Yep, friend of mine," he sighed in response. "His name is…" His mind froze, he couldn't remember a single male name except dozen different variables of Alejandro, not even his own, any of them.

"Ted Shelby, at your service." Tapia peeked with a smile. "Can you release me now? Those who tied up me might return."

The Armenian looked at him and he nodded, and in the minute Tapia was cheerfully stretching his back.

"Excuse us for a minute," he waved to Tapia to follow him few steps aside.

"Why didn't you tell them you're hostage, and ask them to release you?" he asked only to check, he knew the answer.

"They are Armenians, you idiot. They would eat me alive if you told them I'm Chilean. I must say, your itinerary tonight seems very interesting. What will happen if I tell them-" Tapia thought for a second. "Nah, I can't think of anything to tell them that will put you in trouble and save me."

"Where's the Hummer?"

"Few blocks right from here. I escaped at the last minute – you were right about the things that could crawl out of the holes. I saw them, they were sneaking in the shadows. I was only one hundred meters away when I saw them getting in the Hummer and looking all around; can't imagine what would they do to me if I haven't freed myself."

Tapia had no idea he hid from his own men who could take him to Barclay; Eliot spent a few seconds thinking about the huge amount of luck that he had just spent – everything could have been destroyed. He rubbed his forehead, trying to think.

"Friends of those two?" Tapia glanced towards Armenians.

"Yep, probably."

"What shall we do now?"

We? And in what part of tonight did he start to discuss matters with someone who was supposed to be just a half-dead body in the trunk before he thought of the most useful way to kill him? He thought about reminding Tapia that he was a Chilean lieutenant, the same Chilean whose cartel swore revenge and was trying to kill them, but it hit him when he realized that Tapia wasn't the one who should be reminded of that. Tapia was just going with the flow, choosing the lesser of two evils, simply hoping to survive the night. It was him who was problem here.

Yes, what would they do now, indeed?

If he was in Barclay's place, he would made an ambush around the Hummer in hopes of catching him when he returned for it, or blow it up to chase him into the open on foot, and force him to find something else to drive – whatever, the Hummer was now completely compromised and useless for him.

"Now, those two will drive us to your place, and we'll take your Lamborghini. You'll sit quiet. If you say just one word in that car, I'll have to kill all of you. Is that clear?"

Tapia frowned, thinking. Eliot knew he was trying to figure out why he would kill the Armenians as well, and that was exactly what he wanted.

"I don't understand any of this," Tapia murmured, going back to the car. Eliot just moved his jacket, showing him the gun at his belt, and he closed his mouth and hurried.

He wasn't sure the distant sound of an explosion was the Hummer being blown up, or the Armenians doing something useful to the Chileans.

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Driving through town in the upcoming dawn revealed the strange events that had been going on all night. The streets were almost empty. Every few minutes they were passing police and ambulance cars, heading in all directions, and the sound of distant, and not so distant gunfire could be heard almost constantly.

Tapia was sitting like a statue, only his eyes were moving, but Eliot couldn't allow himself to relax and stop watching him. They were in the backseat, the Armenians were sitting in front, and no one spoke.

Tapia sank in his seat only when they entered his street, and he saw the remains of his Lamborghini. The explosion had destroyed half of the street. His face was almost green.

Eliot tapped the Armenian on the shoulder and gave him another address, not so far away. They were just ten minutes from McRory's bar, where he left his Challenger parked three – no, now four days ago, when they went with Lucille to finish the last job.

It wasn't a clever move and he knew it, but he couldn't plot mayhem in the back seat of a taxi, with Tapia in a large bag beside him. He needed a car, and though it was stupid to continue this in the car that could be directly connected to him and the team, he had no other options left. At least not now, when time was running out.

He regretted forbidding Tapia to talk, because he was drifting away again, with the voices whispering nonsense he didn't want to hear. He had nothing concrete to concentrate on, and every thought was heavy as if he had to pull it from the mud. He checked his watch – seven hours had passed ten minutes ago. He was now officially dead. Congratulations.

Perhaps the Commander was right with his suggestion about the hospital.

When the Armenians left them in the street – he gave them an address one street behind McRory's, not wanting them to connect the bar to him – he had to steady himself before trying to walk.

The two main problems were in a close race: blood loss, and the filling of his lungs. His calculations about blood loss, no matter how inaccurate they were, were a solid base, nothing more. He knew the ordinary prognosis couldn't be applied to him – not once he was able to run with the same wounds that knocked other men down. It would finish him in the end, of course… but that particular end could be prolonged. This other shit was worrying him much more. His breathing was a ragged wheeze that he barely managed to hide, only because it was already too shallow… and it was getting worse.

It was a good time to stop deceiving himself. He could pull off one more move to be sure all the Chileans were engaged, maybe the Mexicans again, but that was it. With all the time he had lost with this last fiasco, he had no idea how things were going, and if it was enough.

Whatever he did, it wouldn't be enough. There would always be one more move, one more try, one more step that he could take, and he had to stop that sequence. The morphine's whispers were not convincing anymore, he knew he came to the end of his strength. Merely standing was difficult.

Get started, don't quit. Damn, he had to learn how to quit. How to stop.

If he spent all his remaining strength on one more try to draw the Mexicans onto the Chileans again, he would die, he wouldn't be able to wait a few more hours to finish Villacorta. The only thing that could end this. But, nothing could guarantee him that he would live those hours anyway, and that way he would at least do the last useful thing with the Mexicans.

Do something, and die, or spare his strength for something bigger, and risk dying anyway before it even happened? Choices, choices.

And what about going to the hospital, saving your life, and then trying again?

He didn't even bother to guess which voice said that, because he didn't have enough strength to explain to them that this had to be finished now, there was no other way. This wasn't a game of trial and error. He had one night, and if he didn't succeed, there was no way he could just repeat it some other night. If Nate used the opening to do his… whatever he did… that would cause serious trouble for Villacorta. In the long run, maybe it would even save Them, if their luck held. But there was no guarantee of that.

He could finish this successfully, if he lived long enough. And if someone didn't kill him before that. And if Villacorta didn't kill him during that. And if something else didn't involve themselves in all this. And if the Mexican, Irish, Italians, Armenians, and probably some Chinese, didn't kill him before he even reached Villacorta. And if… He snapped out of it. He knew all the difficulties, he didn't need reminders.

"That will kill you, you know that?"

He blinked a few times, half ready to growl at the voices, when he realized that Tapia had said it. The Chilean was patiently standing two meters ahead of him, waiting for him to move. Every normal gangster would try to attack him seeing him drifting away, but no, he was stuck with the only specimen who was unable to defend himself. Great.

"What?" he whispered, unable to steady his voice. "What will kill me?"

"The drugs. You were drugged the whole night, I couldn't not notice. You should ask for help."

Okay, that was it. He was thinking about letting him drive, but no. He was going into the trunk. Preferably with an entire roll of duct tape over his mouth.

"You're not very bright, are you, Matio?"

"I'm good looking, very organized, and very good with numbers. I'm so good in gambling business that's almost legal." Tapia frowned again. "I'm just not bright in these… violent things. Renan was trying to toughen me up a little, he sent me with the rest of the lieutenants to do something, a while ago… it didn't end well."

"Seriously? I could never tell."

"Nah, now you're sarcastic," Tapia sighed. "They called me Princess after that. I puked on Bugueno. Repeatedly."

This time, remembering earlier, Eliot managed not to roll his eyes. What the hell he was supposed to do with this man? And he couldn't blame anyone, he had brought it upon himself. The chances were, if he put him in the trunk, there'd be no one who could release him and he would die in it. If he left the trunk half open to let some air in, he would escape and ruin everything. If he called Bonnano and gave him Tapia to arrest, Bonnano would push Tapia away and grab him instead.

"Walk," he sighed. "Three meters before me, slowly, and don't look back."

Tapia obeyed without arguing, which was a great accomplishment.

Trying to follow Tapia in a straight line was very interesting test – sitting in the car was lulling him, but walking showed him the shape he was in, in terrifying clarity. The ground beneath his feet was way too soft, and he had to search everything around him, which wasn't an easy task with slightly moving shadows. He was certain that Villacorta had pulled out the men that were waiting for them to show up in Nate's apartment, but the check was inrremissible.

He searched his pockets for the keys he took from the hospital cupboard along with his wallet and other things, and found it after plucking through three hundred damn phones. The keys of the Hummer were there as well and he tried to think about it – throw them away, or keep them? Which would be useful, and which would be dangerous? He had no idea.

"Slow down and stop by that orange car." he said to Tapia who was almost ten meters ahead of him, and he stopped, turning around. The sky was now completely dark gray, and diffused light added more shadows, breaking the dark in the street. The first street light was far away enough to just slightly color Tapia's face in yellow.

"You're gonna kill me now?" he gulped watching him approach. "Why?"

Eliot just sighed, and unlocked the car, then went around it and opened the trunk. Tapia followed his every move with growing fear.

"Get in."

"Won't. You'll kill me."

He had no time for this. He circled around Tapia, making him back off from him until his back almost touched the car, then took the gun with his left hand and pointed it at Tapia's head. Tapia swallowed and closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet.

Perfect. He wasn't sure if he would manage to avoid his blow – he was slow, and fear could make Tapia do surprising things. With his eyes closed, he just squeaked when he hit him with the gun, sending him unconscious directly into the trunk.

Well, that should put on hold his decision about him, he thought when he put away the gun and sent Tapia's arms and legs that were still hanging out in after him. He would close the trunk for now, and think about the air later, and his eventual escape. He couldn't concentrate on that now.

By the time he arranged his arms and legs, and closed the trunk, he was barely breathing, everything was spinning, and he had to lean on the trunk with both hands to steady himself.

It took him almost a minute before he was able to straighten himself without the danger of falling down. It was time to slowly crawl to the front seat, to sit and rest a little, and then decide what to do. To decide if he was able to do anything, heading very quickly to a core meltdown. They were right. He should stop this madness.

And then he made a mistake. He looked up.

He had carefully avoided, even forbid himself, to rise his eyes while he was searching around, and he had no idea why he slipped now, and looked at the windows of Nate's apartment.

All the windows of the A2 apartment were dark; dead holes carved into the wall. And he froze. That shouldn't have surprised him, even alarmed him, it was expected, but before he could think about it, his hand unknowingly reached to his ear, before he was aware of the move. Fuck. There was no earbud, no one who would respond to his usual check, no one whom he could ask what was going on, just silence and darkness.

Deep, dead holes. No warmth, no light, just… emptiness.

He stared into it, not paying attention to the Specialist and the Commander who were angrily hissing orders to move, to stop making a fool of himself, trying to convince him that was not important anymore.

Those two couldn't recall the sound of the voices, the warm yellow light – no, they could; but they didn't care. It hit him harder than he thought was possible – not just the simple memory, but also the realization that they didn't understand what it would mean if those windows stayed that way. If he failed.

They weren't fighting for that, they were simply fighting, without understanding why, forbidding him to feel. They couldn't care about the loss, because they knew nothing about what he had. What was his.

And they stopped him.

The realization hit him in a fascinating moment of clarity. They fucking stopped him. They stopped Eliot Spencer, those bastards convinced him that he couldn't continue with this, with their silent, perfidious, poisonous whispers, masked as reason and logic.

But, they certainly were right about one thing, he thought as something pulled back his head, and he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed at his neck.

He should have moved from here. They were professionals, after all.

But it was too late.

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The funny thing was, he did hear one quiet step behind him, but his mind was unable to process two different information at the same time. Too late to snap himself back into the street, too late to start thinking about possible moves.

"Amateurish move, Eliot Spencer, to come for your own car," an unknown voice purred into his ear. The gun moved away, giving him half a second to try… but that second ended when the man slammed his head into the car with vicious force.

His knees buckled yet his instincts overrode the disorientation, and he managed to turn around in one swift move, embedded in his brain. Only to realize how deadly that mistake, that exposing was. And again, surprisingly indeed, it was too late to stop it. It took just one elegant blow, one quickly raised knee that slammed into his chest, and sent him flying two meters and crushing into the wall.

And he fell like a broken doll.

The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth when he allowed himself one agonized gasp as the pain clawed at him, paralyzing every move. He curled up, protecting the wound with both arms, and rolled away from another blow that was aimed his ribs, but the wall stopped him, and he just remained there, gasping for air, unable to do anything except to swallow the cry.

"This is surprising," the man said calmly, without any hint of the effort in his voice. Eliot could see him clearly now, the bald head reflecting the pale street light. Barclay. "One hit and you're down. Who are you trying to fool? Get up!"

Just… breathe. Eliot tried to focus, tried to say something to buy time, but his jaw was clenched so tight that he couldn't make a sound, much less a word. Fire was spreading through his chest, and when he tried to inhale, Barclay simply disappeared before his eyes.

The darkness engulfed him, and white noise covered and dispersed Barclay's words, yet he could feel his hands being removed without any effort, although he was sure his grip was tight – Barclay dragged him away from the wall into the open. It seemed every other second was black and empty, he was aware only of fragments of time – one moment Barclay was opening his jacket and taking his gun, one moment his steps were meters away.

"So, you were shot, after all. That will make Cuchillo very happy - he almost lost his mind explaining that he didn't miss you. I wonder why you played that little game, just as much as I wondered about you and your doings in general. Renan wasn't interested in my objections, he was too busy with all this going on, but now he'll listen. Able to talk now?"

Not… exactly. But he forced his eyes open and looked at Barclay who was sitting on his heels, head tilted. It was the same relaxed posture he saw the first time in the spa; the threat hidden beneath a calm smile and immobility.

There was something terrifying in the calmness of that man.

"And, you have Tapia," Barclay continued. "Villacorta will skin you alive for that – yes, I'm not going to kill you now. You're coming with me, and you'll sing everything you know about tonight. I'm sure you killed Alejandro, not those Mexicans."

Instead of shooting him at once, he was taking him alive. Instead of shooting, he was talking and explaining. Sounded like a typical, stupid bad guy mistake… but this was Barclay. And he could allow himself to do that, he knew the odds. Four meters away, out of reach, with a gun aimed at him even when he was obviously unable to do anything, except to clutch his chest to stop the agony that was burning its way out.

Barclay could talk freely, talk for hours if he wanted - because he won.

This wasn't supposed to happen; Eliot stared at him, desperately trying to move, to get up, to… but he could only lie there, curled up, and breathe, and stay conscious, and it took all his strength just to concentrate on that. But he could think, and it was devastating, not the pain. All he had done, just by one mistake, would turn into nothing, if Barclay went to Villacorta, with or without him, and made him to listen to his suspicions. All in vain. They would die.

All in vain.

He repeated that, tasted those words in his mouth, mixed with the blood, tried to feel something – rage, fear, anger - anything that would help him to get up and do something, but that part of him was missing, and he knew he was beaten.

It's not a defeat, it's just a tactical retreat; regroup, get together, and wait for another opportunity, the Commander stated calmly, knowing there'd be more chances later. The Specialist just shrugged – failures were a common thing in business, and it wasn't like he was paid for this. It wasn't as if he hadn't done everything he could to save Them. Shit happens, and people die.

Yes, they were right. About everything.

Full of reason and logic. Fucking clever.

He couldn't move. He just stared at Barclay who was silently watching him, waiting for his response, patient and collected, having all the time of this world.

He couldn't fucking move. And he couldn't fucking feel.

But the windows behind Barclay's back were black and empty.

When he heard the quiet laughter in his own head, he first thought the Commander was mocking him, but this was a different sound, it silenced them both.

Beaten? the Hitter whispered. That's cool. Always wanted to try it.

That quiet laugh was so ominous that it made him shiver; it took five seconds before he realized that he was making that sound. Curled on the ground, barely alive, breathing blood, he was laughing.

And Barclay knew, that experienced son of the bitch, he knew, and he was on his feet in one quick move, his hand outstretched, the gun aiming at his head. Four meters away.

.

.

.

He knew there was a reason he had left those two behind, he thought as he slowly relaxed his arms; he was right when he realized they stopped him, convinced him he had to think of his limits - what fucking limits? They had no idea who he was. Who he is. Who was now - using the pain to push him up on his knees - grinning at Barclay who stood stiff and alert, ready to kill him at any dangerous move. Barclay said nothing, his eyes were narrowed and attentive, finger ready to squeeze a trigger.

"No need to jump," Eliot said slowly, ignoring the urge to cough with controlled, counted inhaling. Ignoring the tickling of the blood in his throat, the pain, everything except the man before him. One shallow breath every five seconds. "You took my gun… you know I don't have another one."

He had almost allowed them to teach him how to fucking quit.

Goodbye, voices. And he felt alive again, after all those hours. He knew once again for whom he was fighting. And why this man had to die.

And he finally felt fear – not anger or rage – just the fear of knowing what was at stake.

"That's better," he whispered again when he managed to get on his knees and straighten his back, facing Barclay. "They said I should stop, ya' know? To go to a fucking hospital… and wait. They said…" he stopped when his voice threatened to give out, and spat blood. Then smiled again. "Just a second."

Pain was ripping through his body when he pushed himself up and he bit back a groan, but he was standing; his vision settled enough to see Barclay taking one more step back. "Five meters won't save you." he whispered. "Do you have a phone, Gary Barclay? I need one more… to add it to my collection." Slowly, he reached in one pocket and took out the first phone. "Ah, the silver one. Called Villacorta with it. Used him to draw your goons onto the Mexicans." With just a quick twist of the wrist, he threw the phone before him. Then he took another one, again slowly.

"It's Tapia's," he went on, forcing the words to come out. "It would take too much time to explain to you… how I'll use it to finish your boss." Another phone followed the first. He swayed and almost stumbled a step forward, but he regained his balance and stood in the same place, not decreasing the distance between them.

"I had to leave Alejandro's phone in Marco's tavern… or else it would have been here too. But, let me give you an unused one – I'll think of the best use for later." The third phone crashed to the ground. "Oops, maybe not. Cheap model, low quality."

"This one, green, I used to call Don Lazzara. Dear Renan will be delighted, don't ya' think?" The green phone hit Tapia's and flew into the wall, crushing with a cracking sound.

Barclay flinched.

And the Hitter smiled. Lazy, lazy smile.

"This one, a burner is the connection with the Armenians." Another one went flying.

"This one…" he looked at the cheap phone in his hand, and put that one back. "This one is important. Won't risk damaging it. But, this other one will call the Irishmen to dispose of your body."

He stopped and counted them, smiling. "Do you know why I'm telling you all this?" he asked gently, taking and throwing another one.

"Because it's better to tell me now, than let us draw it from you by force?" Barclay responded harshly, straightening his hand.

"No, Barclay," he smiled, slowly reaching for another phone. Taking the scalpel instead. "Because you're dead," he breathed. It was the same move, the same twist and throw as with the phones, and Barclay didn't have a chance to even blink when he saw something flying at his head, instead before his feet.

The blade almost disappeared in Barclay's left eye, killing him instantly, before his finger could reflexively pull the trigger. He fell backwards with a dull sound.

Good. He didn't squash the phones.

.

.

.

The first step was the hardest thing he did in those three days. He couldn't say the second was any easier, though. Or the third.

He just stood and watched the body at his feet. Barclay who died not knowing that he had killed him, with that blow in the chest. There was no hospital that could save him now.

It would be one hell of a race, the hitter grinned again. Very alive.

He couldn't bend, so he had to kneel down to pick up the phones, and it was almost like falling, he barely controlled it. Barclay's too, of course, and Barclay's gun. And Lady Killer's gun. And his scalpel – not that he needed trophies, he just had to get rid of the murder weapon. He was right when he said he'd need a damn bag for all the loot. He didn't disconnect Barclay's phone, just put it on silent mode as he did with Tapia's.

Then he called The Pissed One, while he was still able to talk without choking with every word.

"You still need something… that would secure your position as the new leader?"

"What have you got?"

"Dead Barclay, still warm. Close to McRory's bar. You know the place?"

"I know it."

"If you get here first, it's your kill. Use it wisely."

"What about you?"

"Goin' back to Texas, my job here is done."

There. Problem solved. No one would connect the dead Chilean with McRory's and the team.

He remained on his knees, sitting on his feet just like Barclay had a few minutes ago, and then slowly searched his pockets again, taking the syringe with the last dose of morphine. He carefully wiped all the prints from it, and then shattered it into pieces with a gun. It wouldn't help him, nothing could help him now. It was only driving him mad, making him dismiss the memory and faces of the people he loved. No, even worse… making him decide by himself to dismiss them, instead of using them to keep him sane, and alive.

No more voices, no more strange, unknown people in his head. He knew who he was, who he only was, for good or for bad… and he knew what had to be done. All or nothing. That thought brought back that calm, inner part of his brain that guided him through the hospital.

The deceiving part was over, as well. The other cartels would have to manage by themselves, without his help – he was dead. Before he went down, he had to deal with Villacorta, and all his willpower had to be directed to only that. All or nothing.

The ripping pain was stronger than the damn morphine overdose; he didn't bother to imagine the amount of this bleeding – he didn't have to, he felt it. Barclay had killed him, but he was apparently too stubborn to die when someone else said to. He'd die when he decided he should, thank you very much.

Now he would see if Betsy's last advice was something worth trying, and if it could help him in buying more time. He just needed a couple of hours for Villacorta. The overdose would cease, his brain would be just his, oh what a joy, and he would finish all this tiring shit.

He slowly reached down and touched the bandages under the shirt. The fire was still burning out through his flesh; it wouldn't stop. The black suit would absorb the blood that flowed and soaked the shirt; that's why he chose something so dark. But the blood that was flowing inside was the thing that would kill him. Hiding that would be an interesting task.

He dared not get up, he remained on his knees, staring right in front of him. He was so damn tired.

He needed the team now, here, at the end of everything, he desperately needed to remember them.

One more minute of peace and an empty mind, of rest, before he collected all the scattered pieces and rebuilt himself again. Just one more minute of remembering what they'd meant to him. If you know why, you'll know how.

He always knew he wouldn't simply die, he would get killed, and sometimes he wondered how he'd lasted this long. The team was part of the answer; he could say with certainty that the last five years of his life was a gift from them. They kept him alive.

This was just repaying of that debt. Those five years he didn't think he could have, he'd simply give back.

After all, dying for something good, something he loved, was much better than anything that had been waiting for him. More than he deserved. And for the first time during the night, Eliot knew there was nothing that could stop him from finishing this for good. There was no one who could kill an already dead man.

Nothing to lose anymore – and everything to gain. Four lives that were everything to him.

Death would simply have to wait.