The night was stormy, the humidity intensifying as lightning crashed in the distance and occasional downpours hammered Wapanjara's sturdy roofs. The soft whisper of the fans gave the house a breath all of its own, and the only bright lights in the house emanated from Effie's cavernous kitchen as she clattered about putting away her pots and pans. She also stowed away steaks and other essentials for the following morning's breakfast for the stockmen, although the weather would probably hamper the planned muster of fat bullocks from the Northern paddock.

The rest of the house was lit by small table lamps and wall-lights, giving the house a warm, welcoming aura in the dark, unsettled night.

Eliot, however, had other things on his mind. His wounds had been checked, cleaned and re-bandaged, and as a concession to his grouchy, cough-ridden complaints, Jo decided he could do without the strapping and instead wear a sling which kept his arm at the right angle to relieve pressure on the packed wound under his arm.

His cold was still running its snotty, phlegmy course, which he could do nothing about, but at least he could move a little easier. His other wounds were healing well and were now itchy and annoying, but Eliot could live with it, because it meant that as far as he was concerned, he had turned a corner and he was on the mend.

Sitting in his recliner on the veranda, warm and well-wrapped in a comforter despite the humidity and with a steaming mug of Mei's tea beside him, he began to work his way through Hardison's purloined CCTV footage of the team's meeting with Hardy Bushman.

Taken by the security camera from a nearby restaurant, Eliot, now able to use both hands – within reason – managed to zoom in on the meeting, watching Nate's enthusiastic gesticulating at the prototype bicycle now within the grasp of Tom Reid. The ex-policeman scowled at Bushman while pointing at various bits of the bicycle's dull grey frame. Eliot knew Tom had a working knowledge of bicycle construction – he had worked for fifteen months undercover as a young officer breaking up a narcotics cartel which was using cycle couriers in Sydney to carry samples and other messages within the frames.

Tom, whose Hawaiian shirt was even more glaringly horrid than the first one, was obviously relishing every moment of his new role. Eliot sneezed and then grinned as Tom turned to Parker and berated her for what he thought had obviously been a poor performance and then handed the bicycle back to Bushman, who looked furious.

Sophie, ever the placatory trophy wife, soothed Bushman's ruffled feathers while Nate calmed down Tom by showing him the spectacular times, and Eliot's trained eye saw Sophie straighten Bushman's tie and smooth down his lapels which made the man momentarily smile bashfully, his ire gone. Then Sophie clasped his arm, giggling, and suddenly the tension in the group had vanished.

Bushman signalled to a young man standing beside a glossy van sporting the words 'DARTFORD RACERS INC.' on the side, accompanied by the tagline 'Speed is the name of our game'. The bespectacled man retrieved the bicycle and stowed it away carefully in the van, and then sat in the vehicle to await his boss.

Bushman, now all smiles and friendly gestures, pointed at the camera and led the group towards the restaurant, obviously intent on schmoozing the deal over a decent meal. Sophie, still attached to his arm and simpering girlishly, hung on his every word even as she knew Hardison was listening in via the miniscule digital transmitter feed she had attached to the reverse of Bushman's lapel. Once Bushman returned to his business day after the meeting, hopefully Hardison would be able to keep tabs on the man as well as hear what he was up to, at least while he wore the jacket.

As they sauntered off-camera, Eliot sighed and took a sip of the tea, allowing the honey to sooth the soreness in his throat while he thought about the dynamics of the meeting. Tom did a great job distracting Bushman, involving Nate and Parker and shifting the focus from Sophie. Well, at least Hardison now had access to Bushman's cell 'phone, enabling the hacker to not only know who the man was contacting but also his location. Hopefully the tiny transmitter might give the team some idea with whom Bushman was meeting.

Setting the mug back on his side-table, Eliot decided he would now watch the footage again and study the background. This was something he did instinctively when he was on a job, but now, laid up as he was, he was on a sharp learning curve trying to keep his team safe from hundreds of miles away.

Rerunning the footage he ignored his team and Bushman, and checked for anything that made his 'spidey-sense' sit up and take note.

He was only seconds into the footage when he frowned. Pulling the images back to the beginning, he ran it again.

Shit.

He took off his spectacles which were beginning to fog a little because of the humidity, wiped them on the comforter and put them back on. Managing to zoom in on the upper left corner of the screen, he slowed the footage down so that he could creep each image forward, and he swore, roundly and comprehensively, under his breath. He ran the footage back to the beginning and watched the first few seconds again, this time zooming in on his target.

A tall, lean man wearing what appeared to be svelte Ferragamo sunglasses was getting into a sporty little Audi coupé that Eliot knew was very expensive. In a split-second Eliot saw the distinctive cut of the jacket and knew there was a shoulder holster and weapon under the right arm. The man was left-handed, but that didn't matter recognition-wise, because Eliot knew who he was.

Shit-shit-shit

He reduced the footage on the screen and tapped the video-link icon. He knew Hardison would have his laptop with him, and sure enough, within moments the hacker appeared on the screen, apparently in the middle of shovelling something delicious into his mouth.

"Hey El –" he mumbled, and held up a finger telling the hitter to wait a minute until he had finished the mouthful. His Nana didn't approve of speaking when one's mouth was full.

It was obvious they were eating in a restaurant, and Tom's face appeared from Hardison's left.

"Eliot! Did you get the footage?" he asked cheerfully. The patterns on his shirt were making Eliot's eyes hurt.

"Are you all there?" Eliot hissed without preamble. "'Cause I need to talk to you!"

Tom's amiable face became grim and reaching forward, he manhandled the laptop so that Eliot could see his team, although Sophie and Parker were at the limits and he could only see half of their faces.

The table in front of them was awash with dishes of Thai food.

"What's up, Eliot?" Nate queried as he fished about on his plate for a large prawn.

Eliot struggled but managed to toggle the image so that they could see what he was seeing – a tall, suited man getting into an expensive car.

"Who is he?" Tom asked, putting down his chopsticks and sipping from his glass of soda. Eliot's obvious concern made him tense up.

"That is someone I don't want anywhere near you guys, so you get out now!" Eliot growled, "and I mean now. You pack up, leave Sydney an' we think of another way to take down Bushman." He took a steadying breath. "That's Tomas Ponomarenko. They call him The Confessor, 'cause you spend ten minutes with this asshole you'll tell him anythin' he wants to know."

Hardison swallowed his food and waggled his chopsticks at the screen, seemingly not too worried as yet.

"What is it with these people?" he asked. "The Butcher of Kiev … The Confessor … what do people call you, Eliot? You got some moniker out there among all of your punchy pals, huh?"

Eliot gave Hardison his Death Glare.

"Yeah, Hardison. ELIOT SPENCER. Remember?"

Ohhh yeah … Hardison suddenly remembered the reaction of the dozen or more really, really tough bastards protecting Damien Moreau the day he and Eliot had been tasked to find a way into Moreau's heavily guarded lair. And all it had taken for them to gain access to Moreau's inner sanctum was Eliot quietly telling them his name. Hardison's eyes widened slightly as he also remembered the looks of shock and even fear on the faces of the goons as they all drew their weapons as one and pointed them at Eliot. And the man hadn't turned a hair.

"Kudos, m'man …" Hardison murmured. "Point taken." He looked at his compatriots. "So … why is this Confessor fella hangin' around us? I take it he's with Kremic. But -"

"Parker. It's Parker," Nate interjected. "She's competition. Kremic can't have his competitor gaining the same advantages as his own rider. Damn," he added, and then he added a few less savoury curses under his breath. He sighed. "My fault. I underestimated Kremic's passion. You never get in the way of a psychopath's passions."

Parker was squinting at the images on Hardison's laptop but she started a little at Nate's declaration. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. She would like to see this 'Confessor' just try and take her out.

"So, where do we go from here?" Sophie asked, swirling the delicious Australian Moscato around in its glass as she pondered the problem. "D'you think this … this … Confessor will target Parker?"

"I don't friggin' care," Eliot growled, "because you are all gonna get on a plane and get the hell outta there and you do it quietly! No pretend earthquakes or … or goddamn hurricanes this time, Hardison! You keep it so far under the friggin' radar that even I couldn't find you!"

"Wait a minute," Nate said, and Eliot, even as disconnected by distance as he was, could see the light of challenge spark in Nate's eyes.

"No, Nate! No plottin' or … or tryin' to figure a way around this! I want you all safe, d'you hear me? I got 'Lizbeth Grace to think of, 'cause if you idiots don't make it I gotta raise that little girl without the family she loves, an' I ain't willin' to try an' explain that to her because you fools won't listen! Y'hear me?" Eliot railed, and he sat up in his recliner, hissing with pain but ready to fight his corner. "If I gotta get on a damn' 'plane, fly to Sydney and haul your damn' asses out of that bastard's reach one by one then by God I'll do it, so help me!"

The effort of just sitting upright nearly took the breath out of him, but Eliot Spencer didn't let a chest infection and two bullet holes stop him from standing up … until he tried to stand and his legs failed him.

Dropping back into his seat the impact sent him curling into himself with the pain, and he heard the murmurs of concern from his team. He coughed enough to throw up a lung, but the pain faded a little and he controlled the wheezing, so when he glared back at his team they knew he was pissed.

"Look …" he rasped, "please … just get out of there. Ponomarenko ain't a man you cross. Believe me." He paused for a second, trying his best to get his temper under control. "Him an' me … we've met before. I beat the shit out of him … but it cost me, Nate. It cost me a lot. And I'm not easy to deal with, so he's good. So pleaseget out of there." He was trying to keep his voice low so that Lizzie, who was inside the house looking through the small but comprehensive Wapanjara library for a book to read, wasn't disturbed by the anger and frustrated desperation in his voice. "You promised me you wouldn't do this, Nate. You promised 'Lizbeth Grace that you would drop it if you couldn't be safe."

The team looked at one another, and Eliot waited, his nerves on edge and the agony of not being with them to protect them tearing his heart apart.

Nate finally nodded.

"Look … Eliot … we can't get on a flight until tomorrow – "

"Tomorrow night, Nate …" Hardison murmured as he checked flights on his cell 'phone, "not unless we charter a 'plane. An' we'll still have to wait until tomorrow anyways to get runway space an' a time slot, since we don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"Fair enough," Nate replied. "Everybody okay with this?"

The returning nods, however disgruntled, made the decision unanimous.

"I'll return the bikes I borrowed in the morning," Tom said, and Eliot could see the man was disappointed. But Tom Reid was a pragmatist and was also a firm believer in living to fight another day. "I think we should put safeguards in place until we leave." He raised a hand before Eliot could say anything. "I've got it. Don't worry. I'll keep 'em safe," he added with a grim smile.

Eliot knew he would have to be content with that, but he also knew Tom was very able and could handle himself. His calmness and organised thinking was a boon to a team right now, and Eliot knew he could trust the man.

"Okay … okay, that'll have to do. Watch 'em, Tom. It's like herdin' frikkin' cats. 'Specially Parker."

Smiles broke through the dourness Eliot could feel oozing from these people he loved.

"I like cats," Parker said, carefully arranging her noodles into a neat little coiled pyramid on her plate. She studied them carefully. "Huh. Looks like intestines," she said.

"Okay, man. I'll call when we're on our way – oh hey, baby-girl!" he grinned in greeting as Lizzie appeared through the doorway to stand beside Eliot. She had a book in her hand but it was forgotten as she let out a squeak of delight.

"Alec! Mama!" She flung herself in the chair next to Eliot, who held the tablet steady for her. "When are you coming home?" She waved at her family, and snuggled into Eliot's good side.

"Soon, my darling," Sophie crooned, delighted to see her daughter. "Very soon."

"What're you up to, sweetheart?" Nate asked, his face suddenly crinkling up with love at the sight of his precious girl. "Have you been behaving yourself? Because you have a birthday coming up, remember, and if you want a party you know you have to –"

" – be good, yes Daddy, I know!" she sighed dramatically. She held up her book, which Eliot recognised as a hefty tome about Aboriginal symbols. "I'm doing research!" she whispered loudly, as though it was a secret, "and it's very important! Isn't it, Eliot?" She looked up at her guardian for confirmation.

"Yep. Pretty important," he agreed and smiled, eyes suddenly warm and endlessly patient.

"That looks … impressive!" Tom countered, studying the little girl on the screen holding an early 20th century academic publication that would daunt any but the most bookish scholar.

Lizzie nodded eagerly.

"Grandpa Soapy and I found it in the lib'ry, and it has pictures!" she opened it at a page tagged by a bookmark and held the book up awkwardly to show Tom what she meant. Tom hitched an eyebrow at the beautifully tinted engraved plate of Aboriginal symbols with notes on their meanings. "I want to find one that helps me decide what 'home' means!" Lizzie added helpfully.

Sophie could see Eliot's face turn from weary pleasure to pride, even though he was obviously very tired and in pain. She had no idea what the pair of them were up to, but she always marvelled at Lizzie's endless curiosity and her ability to soak up information like a sponge.

"Well now," she added, "you can tell us all about it when we get home, can't you?" Sophie said with a smile, her dark eyes alight with love.

But Lizzie's face became serious.

"Oh, I can't just yet, Mama! It's a secret and I have to decide by myself with no-one to help … not even Eliot! It's very important!"

The team looked at one another and then turned back to Lizzie, who was very carefully closing the book and placing the bookmark back between the pages, because Eliot had taught her from her earliest reading days that you never ever turned over the corner of a page as a marker. That, and licking your fingers before you turned a page, was a sure way to get Eliot Spencer in a very dangerous mood, because you just didn't do that. Respect the book was one of Eliot's little mottos which Lizzie had taken on board very quickly.

A sudden crash of thunder suddenly made Lizzie jump, startled, and the blinding flicker of lightning several seconds later made the tablet frizz.

Eliot knew it was time to end the conversation before the link began playing up, so he raised a hand and jabbed a finger at his team.

"Okay … gotta go. But remember what you promised, y'hear? What you promised!" he reiterated, growling like the wolves he carried in his heart.

Nate nodded.

"We hear you." He couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice, but they had Lizzie to think about too, and she was far more important right now. He smiled at his daughter. "See you soon, sweetheart. Love you."

Lizzie sent lots of kisses through the ether to her family, and switched off the tablet.

Another downpour began, and Lizzie shrank back into Eliot's side, taking comfort in his solidity and warmth. She desperately missed her parents and team, and she dearly wanted them to come home. But she had her guardian and protector, wounded though he was, and she was glad of his love.

"Want to go inside, 'Lizbeth Grace?" Eliot whispered, seeing the dejection in the little girl's face.

Lizzie, her dark eyes bright with the mirrored light of the storm now fast-approaching from the distant hills, nodded wordlessly.

And so with Lizzie's help, Eliot managed to stand without too much effort and Lizzie dragged his comforter out of his grasp so that he could more easily make his unsteady way into the house.

Lizzie tucked the book under her arm and picked up the tablet, ready to follow to make sure he didn't hurt himself, but another rumble of thunder made the windows rattle, and she flinched. While she enjoyed watching thunderstorms, this was a little too close for comfort.

"Want a hand, nipper?" Effie asked from the doorway. She reached down to lift the comforter from its place beside Eliot's recliner. "I'll take this."

"My Mama and Daddy will be home soon," Lizzie said shakily. "I miss them, Effie. All of them. I wish they were home right now," she stated, and wandered past Effie but not before leaning into the old cook, who held the little girl to her side for long moments, and then they both let themselves be absorbed by the love and warmth of Wapanjara.


"So … what do we do?" Hardison asked as they finished their food. "I mean … I know we gotta leave, but hell, Nate! This ain't right!"

Nate shrugged helplessly

"Eliot has a point – we can't risk it, Hardison. We always knew that one day we'd have to back away from a job because we can't risk Lizzie or leave her without her family."

"Look," Tom said, his grey eyes dark with thought, "we have until tomorrow midday, at least. Alec? Is that about the amount of time we have?"

Hardison nodded. "Maybe a bit longer, depending on how soon we can get a charter. Unless you want to fly coach, an' we'd probably have to split up our flights … or drive? We could drive, maybe? Tom, how long –"

"Thirty-two hours, give or take," Tom answered thoughtfully. He raised an eyebrow. "How well would you lot manage a long drive in one car together?"

Sophie chuckled.

"I wouldn't go there, Tom, honestly! Same with buses. I am not sitting on a bus with these three. You I can deal with because at least I get some sense out of you, but … anyway, I don't do buses."

There was a short burst of vehement objection from her team, but the grifter raised an elegant hand and dismissed objections.

"Seriously, Nate – Parker on a bus? Do you value your sanity that little?" Sophie said faintly.

Parker grinned.

"I could tell you jokes," she crowed, delighted at the idea. "I know lots," she added cheerfully.

Nate, secretly horrified, took the hint.

"Okay … flying it is. Hardison … do what you can, but try and do it in the morning. The less electronic footprint we have –"

Hardison's eyebrows hit his hairline.

"'S'cuse you? Since when have I ever left an electronic footprint? And …" he waved a forefinger in the air, "d'you really think I'm gonna allow anyone to hack my tech? Huh? Since when has anyone cyber-tracked us without me lettin' 'em do so? I'm wounded, Nate! Wounded!" he added indignantly even as he poked at his dessert, digging sweet sticky rice out of a section of bamboo.

Nate grinned unrepentantly, but then sobered a little.

"We need somewhere safe for tonight. Hardison, can you find us another –"

"I know somewhere we can stay," Tom said quietly.

The team all turned to the Australian, surprised.

Tom was hesitant but he continued, his voice soft.

"I, ah … I have a little place out in the suburbs. I use it when I come to Sydney. When my boy's home we meet up there and hang out for a while. It's quiet, anonymous … we can stay there until tomorrow."

Nate considered the proposition for all of a second and then nodded.

"Okay. Sounds like a plan. But we have to get our stuff – we can't chance leaving anything behind. Hardison has his tech and -"

"Yeah … I get it," Tom replied, a smile creasing his grey eyes. "Let's finish up here and head back to the hotel. Keep it light, keep it relaxed. Unaware. Then I'll go get us some transport and we leave the SUV at the hotel. I'll be no more than an hour, and we can clear out. How does that sound?"

"Works for me," Nate murmured. "Okay … eat up, people. Things to do, places to go." He sighed regretfully. "I didn't get to say it."

Tom, finishing his coffee, frowned.

"Say what?" he asked.

And as one, Team Leverage replied.

"Let's go steal a speed record!"


Eliot was gazing into the unlit fire in Wapanjara's spacious living room. The thunder rumbled threateningly outside, but he knew the storm would slowly move away to the east and the temperature had dropped ten degrees, which made the humidity a little less oppressive.

As he sat sprawled on the big old couch with his comforter pulled up to his chest to keep warm, he kept an eye on Lizzie as she sat with Jo at the dining table. The little girl was working through the big, red-bound book about aboriginal symbolism, studying designs and making laborious, carefully-written notes and sketches of her own in her project book. Jo sat beside her, helping her understand the dry, academic wording of the book as well as avoiding the overtly patronising references within the dense text.

But Lizzie was only interested in the beautiful engravings and their meanings, and Jo shifted from her chair to go to the wall-to-wall bookshelves, running her finger along a section until she found the book she wanted.

"Ah-hah!" she exclaimed, "this might help," and brought the colourful publication back to the table for Lizzie to look at.

The little girl's eyes widened. It was a book published by the local aboriginal community especially for children, and it was full of stories from the Dreamtime as well as legends and tales that explained many Warumungu and Warlpiri beliefs.

"Eliot! Look!" she cried, waving the book in the air, and her eager eyes sought out her guardian. "Will you tell me a story before bedtime?"

Eliot raised his head and smiled at his best girl, and for a moment he put aside the desperate worry about his team.

"I reckon I can do that," he said, and Lizzie squeaked with delight. "How's the research going?" he asked and coughed a little.

Lizzie's face fell.

"I don't know," she said, somewhat crestfallen. "I know what I want – I just haven't found anything to describe it yet."

Eliot nodded, understanding.

"It ain't easy, Lizbeth Grace, trying to describe what's inside you. You get a feelin' you know is the right one, but sometimes it's tough finding the words or pictures to make it real."

Lightning cracked outside, the sudden blinding light searing through the windows, and the lights flickered for a moment.

"Hmm," Jo murmured thoughtfully, "I think I'll go and help Effie sort out our bedtime hot chocolate before the lights go off, hey?"

Lizzie looked up at Jo, curiosity rife in her brown eyes.

"You … you mean all the lights might go out? And everything will be dark?"

Jo smiled indulgently.

"Yes indeed, young Lizzie. We have a generator but Jacko might need it for the barn tonight, seeing as one of the mares is due to foal. We can use storm lamps. Besides …" she added, "storm lamps are ideal for story-telling!"

Lizzie contemplated the idea, and decided it sounded bonzer.

Jo studied Eliot for a moment. He was definitely on the mend, despite his chest-cold, but she knew he was worrying himself witless about his team. She also knew there was more he hadn't told her just yet, but she trusted that he would do so when he could.

"Righto – I'll just warn Mei the lights could go out," she said. Mei was bathing Jamie and Rose in the big bathroom. "I tell you, Eliot. This house is getting far too small!" she continued, smiling. "She's decided to stay, you know."

Eliot twitched a tiny grin.

"I thought she would. Are you an' Soapy alright about it? An' Eff?"

Jo snorted, amused.

"Soapy wanted them to stay from the moment the babies were born, you know that!" she retorted, "and as for Eff? Having two more babbies to spoil? She's in heaven." She paused for a moment, before continuing. "And you, Eliot? What about you? Are you okay with this, because Wapanjara is your home too."

Eliot held out a hand and Jo took it. He kissed the back of her hand and then laid it over his heart.

"Couldn't be happier, darlin'. This house has always needed children in it. I know you got Kip an' now 'Lizbeth Grace, but more won't hurt, huh." He glanced up at Jo and stifled a cough. "What about you, Jo? Would them stayin' make you happy?"

Jo's eyes were suddenly wet with tears.

"Oh, Eliot - more than you can ever imagine. Although ..." she took a deep breath. " … how we fix it legally, I have no idea."

Eliot patted Jo's hand where it lay on his bandaged chest.

"I can guarantee there will be no problem, Jo. Hardison'll make it right, you'll see."

Jo shook her head in mild disbelief, but leaning over she kissed Eliot on the top of the head.

"No worries, boy. I'm sure we can sort something out. Now then … do you need a hand back to your bed? Soapy'll be back in a bit and he can –"

"I'll be fine, sweetheart. Lizzie an' me … between us I'll get this beat-up pile of bones off this couch. You go do what you need to do, an' I'll keep an eye on 'Lizbeth Grace."

Ruffling his hair, Jo left the hitter to his thoughts and headed to the kitchen, and Eliot let himself relax a little more. Lizzie bounced off her seat and slid down beside him for a moment before pulling the comforter a little further over Eliot's chest.

She studied her friend. He looked better, if a little tired and worried. The lines between his drawn-down brows were a dead giveaway.

"Are you okay, Eliot?" she asked in a concerned whisper. "No wibbly feelings?"

See? She knows, Eliot, Moreau whispered in his ear. She sees your weakness, my friend. You let her in. Should've done what I said and cut the little bitch's throat

"Jus' worried about everybody, 'Lizbeth Grace, that's all," he replied quickly, shifting so that he could pull himself upright.

"No! No, don't do that!" Lizzie caught Eliot's good shoulder and stopped him moving, "you'll hurt yourself!" and she sighed as Eliot took the hint from both Lizzie and his body, which objected to the pull on stitched wounds. Lizzie, relieved, cocked her head quizzically. "Why are you worried? Are they in danger?"

Eliot couldn't lie to her … he just couldn't.

"Not any more, darlin'," he whispered. "I made sure they're comin' home, and Tom'll keep 'em safe. That's what we were talkin' about earlier, so you don't need to worry."

Lizzie bit her lip, thinking about Eliot's words. In her short life she had seen her family in danger many times. It was the nature of the job, and she had dealt with it. But usually Eliot was with them to watch over them, and it made her feel safe to know he was there. But now he was here, with her, because he was too hurt to even get off a couch on his own.

"They'll be home soon?" she asked.

Eliot nodded solemnly.

"Uh-huh. They'll be on a 'plane tomorrow, an' Tom'll keep 'em safe until then. He's good, 'Lizbeth Grace. Very good."

Lizzie stared at Eliot.

"As good as you?" she asked guilelessly.

Eliot opened his mouth to answer, but smiled instead.

"Well … no," he finally said, charmed as always by her utter belief in his hitter skills, "but I trust him, sweetheart, an' so do your folks. And I'm watching from here … checkin' out the footage, makin' sure I see what I need to see to keep Tom in the loop. So … we're doin' okay."

"Promise they'll be safe?" she said, as this was the first time Team Leverage had done a job without both Lizzie and their protector.

Eliot's mouth tic'd sideways.

"You know I can't do that, sweetheart, 'cause then I'd be lyin' to you, and you know what happens when you lie. I learned that the hard way, huh."

Lizzie nodded a little reluctantly, but she understood. Studying Eliot, she saw the tension in his body and a slight tremor in his hands.

"Is … is that man talking to you again?" she said quietly. "Y'know … the one in your head?"

Eliot gave Lizzie a sideways glance and saw the understanding in her face. It was ironic, he thought, when a six-year-old understood him better than his own father.

"Yeah, a bit," he said hesitantly. "Just a different voice is all." He inhaled as deeply as he could without setting off a coughing fit and continued. "Moreau. It's Moreau. But he's nothin', 'Lizbeth Grace. It's just … it's just my head's a bit mussed up. It's gettin' better, though." He gave her his Lizzie smile, and his eyes crinkled warmly. "You knowin' about it … it helps."

See? Alice said from her place in his heart. Not so hard, is it, you nerk!

The crash of thunder and the almost instantaneous streak of lightning made the house shiver, and a flare of blinding light flooded the room through the window and the lights instantly went out.

Lizzie let out a tiny shriek of both fear and delight, clutching Eliot's comforter in both hands.

Eliot couldn't resist a raspy chuckle.

"It happens during the Wet, 'Lizbeth Grace. It's just a strike on one of the power cables. It'll get fixed once the storm's over. That's why we have a generator."

Jo arrived within seconds with a wind-up storm lamp and she showed Lizzie how to make it work. The little girl was thrilled when the living room was lit by a warm glow, Eliot's eyes glittering in the limpid light. Lizzie managed to snuggle next to Eliot on the couch, warm and solid against his good side, and it was as they sipped their hot chocolate that Eliot drowsily began to tell his god-daughter about Namarrkun, the mantis-bodied Lightning Man whose lightning rods made the flashes that lit up the land and whose axes cleaved trees and shattered them in the depths of the great storms he created for his people.

And as he spoke, the tremors drifted away and Moreau vanished from Eliot's soul, washed clean by the warmth of the little girl he guarded with everything he had.


Hardison sat on the iron-framed veranda of a neat, turn-of-the-century house just off King Street in Newtown, four kilometres or so away from the centre of the Sydney business district.

The veranda was in shadows, the bright brassy lights of the busy street below keeping the young hacker almost invisible behind the ornate railings. Hardison was glad of it. Anonymity was the order of the night, but he also needed some air after a fraught day. Although Tom Reid had done a sterling job of watching their backs and making sure they got away from the hotel safely, they were all sorely missing their hitter.

Since the beginning of their association, Eliot had always been part of them. To do a job without him was unthinkable. But here they were, dealing with not one but two highly dangerous eastern European shitheads, and Eliot wasn't with them. It felt odd. No, Hardison thought … it felt wrong. No growls, no snarky remarks, no 'Dammit, Hardison!' Parker didn't have anyone to annoy and there was no-one other than Sophie to keep Nate's sometimes over-the-top suggestions under control. Not that Sophie didn't do a good job, bein' married to the man an' all, but sometimes … sometimes all it took was Eliot to stare the man down and inevitably Nate would sigh and finally understand he was pushing his luck – and the team – to beyond their limit.

As he relaxed on the comfortable padded wicker chair he idled his time scrolling through a wealth of telephone calls from both Pennicuik and Bushman as well as working his way through a multitude of emails from both men. He didn't expect to find much in Pennicuik's official email account, but the burner 'phone … it certainly looked promising.

He felt a presence settling into the chair beside him, and a hand offered him a cold beer.

"D'you have everything you need, Alec?" Tom asked quietly.

Hardison accepted the bottle of Foster's and nodded before easing a crick out of his neck.

"Yeah … yeah, the broadband width's good an' I can access what I need easily enough."

The two men sat in companionable silence for a few minutes as they drank their beer.

"Nate and Sophie have gone to bed," Tom continued somewhat needlessly. "Is it normal for Parker to sit cross-legged on the kitchen surface and fill her gob with popcorn?"

Hardison gave the Australian a wry smile.

"Oohhh yeah," he agreed, "an' it drives Eliot crazy! But … he puts up with it these days. I guess Mister Punchy's mellowing a little. He used to grab her, take her outside and throw her in the dumpster once in a while, but she never learned." Hardison shrugged. "That's Parker."

Tom took another swig of his beer.

"You know Ponomarenko was watching the hotel?" he said softly.

Hardison's eyebrows hitched a little, but he wasn't really surprised.

When the five of them had returned to the hotel, Tom had disappeared, only for his voice to whisper through the team's earbuds thirty minutes later that he had their ride and they needed to come down the back stairs and around the corner to the next door hotel's parking lot. They were not to be seen in the Old Clare's subterranean parking area.

Splitting up, all four members of Team Leverage made their way to where Tom waited in a nondescript ten-year-old double-cab ute. In less than a minute, they were gone. Their suites were booked for a further three nights at the Old Clare, and their rental SUV sat gleaming in the parking lot, but they would spend the night at Tom's small house, located on the corner of a block of old buildings that would not look out of place in New Orleans.

Leaving them to settle in, Tom had made his way back to the Old Clare and pulled up a few hundred yards behind the little sporty Audi, parked across the road. He spent twenty minutes watching Ponomarenko watching the Old Clare Hotel, before brazenly driving past and noticing Ponomarenko was busy texting someone on his cell 'phone.

Dropping the ute back at the home of one of his retired police officer friends, he walked along the block, watched his friend's house for another half hour to make sure no-one was following, and then he had taken a taxi back to Newtown. He left the taxi in the centre of town and walked a meandering route back to the house, and arrived with late-evening pizza just as Nate and Sophie were thinking of heading to bed.

The pizza was good, the beer cold, and everyone began to relax.

But knowing Ponomarenko was watching the hotel put Hardison back on the alert.

"You sure it was him?" he asked, hoping against hope that Reid was wrong, but the ex-policeman nodded.

"He didn't seem too attentive, I have to say," Tom added thoughtfully. He frowned. "I don't know … why do I get the feeling something's not adding up?" he added, puzzled.

"Is that your extra-special policeman-y hunch-thing goin' on?" Hardison asked a little nervously. To have some murdering S.O.B. nicknamed 'The Confessor' on your tail wasn't exactly reassuring.

"Maybe," Tom replied. "Any way we can call Eliot?"

Hardison shook his head.

"I tried. Looks like the storm's affectin' the connection an' the 'phone line's out too. We're on our own."

Tom pondered the problem.

"Yeah, well … Wapanjara isn't the most reachable place on God's earth," he said, smiling ruefully. "I'm sure we'll be able to get through in the morning. One of the stockmen'll fix the tranformer and we can call them then. They're never out of touch for long." Tom finished his beer. "Want another?" he asked the young hacker, and Hardison nodded even as he returned to his laptop.

Hardison couldn't get the feeling out of his bones that Tom was right. Something didn't add up, but he was damned if he could put his finger on what it was.

As he waited for Tom to return, he began looking at Bushman's call records, checking the numbers alongside Pennicuik's calls from his burner 'phone. He frowned. He ran the records again and then he grinned.

"Well butter me sideways an' call me toasty!" Hardison muttered gleefully, and began to highlight one particular number. He paused for a second, and then checked his watch. As he began to run further call record comparisons, he lifted his cell 'phone and called Rebecca Hines.

To be continued ...