Nate and Hardison were waiting in the domestic flights terminal, Nate tapping his foot in irritation. He checked his watch, but when he looked up he sighed with relief.
"There they are!" he exclaimed quietly as Tom and Sophie, with Parker dawdling in the rear, strode into view heading straight for him.
"Done!" Sophie said decisively, kissing Nate lightly on the cheek.
"I had to kiss him!"Parker grumbled. She stuck out her tongue, giving it an airing. "Blech! Hairy!"
"Never mind, Momma," Hardison sympathised, giving Parker a one-armed hug. "You took one for the team, girl – I'll make sure Eliot cooks you somethin' nice," he continued, ignoring the fact Eliot had already promised to do so.
Tom raised an eyebrow admiringly as he watched Parker pulling faces.
"It's done, Nate. He never felt a thing." He gestured at Parker. "She's bloody good, mate!"
Parker grinned mischievously.
"Of course I am! I'm awesome!"
Nate dug out his cell 'phone and dialled a number, marshalling his features into a scowl. Waiting for a reply, he eyed his team and let out an unexpected grin. Now this was what made living worthwhile. His scowl returned full force when a voice answered.
"Bushman, you bastard!" he hissed. "You double-crossing sonofabitch! You tried to con me, you asshole!"
The rest of the team could hear bluster emanating from the 'phone, but Nate didn't let Bushman finish taking a breath before continuing his blast of ire.
"Some moron called Kremic called me! Told me to back off … that the design was his and I'd better keep my nose outta –" Nate paused as Bushman apparently was having a blustering hissy-fit on the other end of the line, but he didn't allow the man to get a handle on the conversation. "You're a thief, Bushman! A thief and a con man! You've got an hour, understand! You give me the design and half-a-million or I will end you! Now, I got my man to source Kremic's GPS in his phone. He's sending you the location now –" He nodded at Hardison, who pressed an icon on his tablet, " - to tell you where he is. You fix this, you understand! You fix this and call me!"
And with a sudden grin of relish, Nate cut Bushman off in mid-rant. He glanced at Tom, who brought out his own phone and made a call. When it was answered, he spoke only two words.
"Seventy minutes," he said and rang off.
Team Leverage looked at one another, and slow smiles widened on satisfied faces.
"Okay, people," Nate said, eyes bright with a job well done. "Let's go home."
Albert Pennicuik was a mass of nerves. He realised now that he had bitten off more than he could chew because he knew what Kremic was, and he was a fool if he thought he could pull Kremic's chain and get away with it. But, he realised, astonished, he had got away with it. Against all the odds, Albert Pennicuik, mild-mannered pencil pusher, had bamboozled two powerful – and in Kremic's case, highly dangerous – men out of millions of dollars. He felt a rush of pure adrenaline, and he couldn't contain the wide smile as he reached his destination.
Ordering the taxi driver to drop him at the end of the street along from the warehouse and telling the woman to wait, he gathered up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and made his way along the street, checking doorways as he went.
He finally arrived at a huge roller-door with a smaller steel door beside it opening outwards into the warmth of a late afternoon. Stepping inside, Pennicuik found himself in a large, echoing space with sunlight streaming in through overhead skylights. Dust motes shivered in the still air, and Pennicuik's smart leather shoes made a scuffing noise as he shut the door behind him and moved towards the centre of the warehouse.
For a moment he thought he was alone, until a figure stepped out of the shadows between two containers.
"Where is my patent?" Benjamin Kremic said.
Pennicuik made himself as tall as he was able, all five-six, 120 pounds of him, and he looked Kremic straight in the eye. When he opened his mouth, he tried his best to keep his voice from wavering.
"Here," he said, placing his hand on his bag. "Printed license, dated from today, and as soon as the money is in my account the approvals and legal processes will be sent to your digital cloud. It'll be all yours."
Steadying himself he kept eye contact, although Kremic's steel-blue eyes were hard and deadly.
Kremic stared at the little man for long moments, his lean face impassive as he stood, arms crossed. He appeared deceptively relaxed, but Pennicuik could see the tension in the man's tall frame.
His answer came as a short, curt nod.
Turning, he lifted a hand and gestured towards the containers, and another man appeared. He was urbane, grey and well-suited, and he had a slim laptop tucked under one arm. He came to stand silently beside Kremic and waited.
Pennicuik blinked and then understood it was his move. Gently dropping his bag to the floor he leaned over, brought out a large brown envelope and handed it to Kremic. The man handed it to his associate, who opened it and pulled out the papers within. He riffled through them and slid them back into the envelope. He nodded. Kremic smiled.
"You have done the right thing, Mister Pennicuik," Kremic murmured, his soft voice in contrast to the arctic blue of his gaze. He turned to the anonymous-looking man beside him. "Mister Stanley, please await Mister Pennicuik's account details, and then transfer the money. After that, you will supervise the transfer of the patent confirmation and design blueprints to me. And then …" he smiled coldly at Pennicuik, "… we are done."
Pennicuik almost dropped his own small electronic notebook in his haste to comply.
Slow down, he thought, don't look too eager! He hesitated for a moment.
"What's to stop you killing me once this is done and hacking my account to get your money back?" he asked Kremic, a little amazed at his own audacity.
Kremic let out a short bark of amusement.
"I could, couldn't I? Very easily." He took a short, amused breath before continuing. "However, my greedy little friend, you are far more use to me alive. Who knows? I might need your services again."
Not in my lifetime, Pennicuik thought, but he smiled at Kremic and thought of Bora Bora.
It took less than two minutes to complete the transaction, and the glow from Pennicuik's tablet lit the fire in his eyes as he watched the balance of his off-shore account increase substantially. Looking up, he saw Kremic in quiet discussion with his associate. They studied the laptop and Stanley appeared to understand the blueprints scrolling before him and the various legal documents and plans which popped up on demand. Then both men relaxed. Stanley snapped the laptop shut and stepped back from Kremic, who looked like an amused shark.
"Well done, Mister Pennicuik! Well done! This design will certainly give my riders an exclusive advantage. It may be, my friend, that you have opened the door to an Olympic team gold. I am … very happy." Kremic unfolded his arms and gestured at Stanley, who walked past Pennicuik and through the small door.
Pennicuik looked at his watch. If he left now, he would have plenty of time to get through customs and security, and then board his flight. First class, he thought smugly. All the way to Bora Bora.
What he wasn't prepared for was Hardy Bushman crashing through the small door, fury on his well-fed face and a gun in his hand, pointing the weapon directly at Benjamin Kremic.
Eliot checked the time on the old, wooden-framed clock hanging above the mantelpiece in Wapanjara's roomy old living room.
His team would be on a flight to Alice Springs within thirty minutes, he knew, and Nate had promised to 'phone him once they were in the air. Eliot's shoulder and side hurt and for the first time in days the tremor was back, and creeping, snarling whispers were beginning in his head. This inability to protect his people was tying him into knots, and a headache throbbed behind his eyes, the worry eating away at his temper. But he knew the worry was fully justified – any involvement by Tomas Ponomarenko, The Confessor, was something about which Eliot Spencer was seriously concerned.
Lizzie was busy helping Effie, and for the first time he fully understood that he really, really needed her presence to keep him grounded. She was his balance when he was incapacitated like this, and it took all of his willpower not to yell out, which he knew would bring her running, worry on her face in case he was hurting or feeling unwell.
Eliot Spencer was not and never had been, a weak man. Even seriously hurt as he was he could usually defend himself, and had done so many times, often lethally. While he had long ago resigned himself to being a member of a team, he still jealously guarded his independence and relied on no-one other than his family here at Wapanjara. Even now, his nomadic life meant he didn't see them as often as he would like, and, he was secretly ashamed to admit, he sometimes returned when he needed some urgent patching-up.
But now there was a new factor in his life. Lizzie, since the day he had delivered her, held her to his chest and promised to guard her with all of his being, was not only his to protect, but after nearly seven years, he suddenly had to concede that she was the saving of him in more ways than one. With Lizzie, he could unbuckle and let fall the heavy armour he wore to protect his heart. He could be free of the weight he had carried for most of his life.
We'll see how long that lasts, my friend, Damien Moreau's voice said beside his ear. You can't protect her forever. One day … one day she'll be mine.
Eliot snarled, and his knuckles whitened as he clutched the arm of his chair. He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths to slow his heartbeat. He bit his lip as the pain hit, but he wouldn't cry out. No, he had to control this … this … nonsense. He just had to.
Lizzie's voice when it came made him twitch.
"Eliot," she said, wandering into the room with a sandwich on a plate, "Effie says you need to eat more."
"Um …" Eliot said, and he hated that his voice came out as a croak," … 'm not hungry, 'Lizbeth Grace. Not really. Maybe in a little while –"
Lizzie studied him for only seconds before she placed the plate on the table and was instantly behind him as he sat, tense and shaking, in the chair. As gently as she could she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, resting her head on his.
"Wibbly?" she whispered.
"Maybe … just a bit …" he answered, and then he reached up with his good hand and patted hers as they lay over his upper chest. "It's better now," he added, and it was. Moreau faded and the tension eased, and his chest didn't ache quite as much.
Lizzie sighed and relaxed, content to hold her wolf close to her heart. She knew he would feel easier in himself once their family returned, safe and sound.
"They'll be home soon," she murmured, and held him tighter, careful not to hurt him. "They promised."
"They sure did, sweetheart. I just wish I was with 'em to make sure of it," Eliot grouched, feeling more able to do a little growling.
So Lizzie soothed and Eliot worried, and both knew that it would be tough until their family came home.
"You shit!" Bushman yelled, the gun wavering slightly in his hand. "You tried to steal my design!"
Kremic, a little surprised but unafraid, raised an eyebrow in enquiry. Then he gave a small wave with the fingers of his right hand, even as Bushman let out a faint squeak of terrified annoyance at the man's apparent lack of interest in the fact that he was waving a gun about.
Bushman was startled as two men appeared as though from nowhere, emerging from the shadows. Both men held Glocks and both guns were pointed at Bushman.
Albert Pennicuik stood, mesmerised and petrified, as guns were pointed and unspoken threats were made, and he shrank away from both Bushman and Kremic. An unbidden thought ran rampant through his panicked brain. Just what had he got himself into? A Mexican standoff, he thought. I'm in the middle of a bloody Mexican standoff and I'm going to die, right here, right now, in a bloody warehouse, when I should be getting on a 'plane to Bora Bora.
"Now," Kremic said icily, "Just what the hell are you talking about, you stupid bastard?" he snapped at Bushman.
Hardy Bushman's eyes flicked nervously from Kremic to the two armed men and then to Pennicuik and back to Kremic. He was obviously on the edge of hysteria, but he fought to regain control and firmed his grip on the little snub-nosed thirty-eight held in his sweaty grip. He didn't like to admit it, but he was not only furious but terrified.
"This idiot –"he gestured slightly at Pennicuik with his gun –"sold the design to me! Exclusively! So how do you get off screwing up my business by telling my client to back off? Did you strike a deal with him –" once more the gun was waved at Pennicuik, " - and cut me out of the loop? Huh?"
Kremic frowned.
"Ah … contact who, exactly?" Now he was a little intrigued.
"My client!" Bushman insisted. "The patron of that skinny kid from the States … Darcy Burnham. He wanted to use the system for her bikes!" Bushman's voice rose slightly until it began to approach a shriek.
Kremic's face creased in mild puzzlement.
"I have no idea what you are talking about, my friend. However …" Kremic smiled slightly. "I must tell you that I now have exclusive rights to the design, so if you wish to use it, then … sorry. I'll have to say no." His smile widened.
Bushman's gun wavered. Now he was confused.
"No … no, that can't be right …" he murmured to himself. "I have the patent. Pennicuik assured me –"
Kremic looked thoughtful, if a little amused.
"I do so hope you didn't hurt Mister Stanley," he said. "The grey-suited gentleman you must have encountered outside before you came barging in here waving a gun around. Because he assured me that the paperwork Mister Pennicuik here gave me was genuine and very legal."
Bushman was becoming more and more confused. He had clipped Stanley across the ear with his gun and the man was out cold, sprawled in the late afternoon sunshine just a few feet from the warehouse door.
"But … but I have the paperwork too," he blustered. "So … I don't understand …" The gun in his hand sagged so that the barrel began to point at the ground.
Kremic's face hardened.
"Bushman … I think you've been played. Probably by Mister Pennicuik here. I suspect your design is inoperable. I do so hope you haven't given him any money, because I have no doubt that you paid him for a dud. I have the genuine design, and the patent to go with it. Any paperwork you have is illegal and a forgery." Kremic gave a small bark of amusement. "Actually, it's quite funny. I didn't think the little fool had it in him." He shrugged. "No matter. I have my design, bought and paid for, and I don't really care what you do to Pennicuik."
Both Kremic and Bushman both suddenly turned to look at the little, sparely-built man quivering with terror, exposed and vulnerable in the daylight streaming in from the overhead windows.
"Mister Pennicuik," Kremic asked quietly, "did you give Mister Bushman here illegal and inoperable designs? Not that I care, but I am a little curious, I have to say."
Pennicuik's adam's apple was working overtime as he swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his mouth so that he could somehow talk himself out of the impossible – and probably lethal – situation in which he found himself.
"Wh … who? Me?" he managed, croaking aridly.
Kremic sighed, slightly amused.
"Yes, Mister Pennicuik. You."
Pennicuik opened his mouth and then shut it again.
"Um …" he said, eyes wide and darting.
Kremic snorted.
"Thought so."
Bushman suddenly realised he really had been double crossed by a shitty little upstart who was a nothing but a greedy desk-jockey with big ideas.
"You … you greedy, dirty, thieving little bastard!" he yelled, and once more the gun was pointed, but this time straight at Pennicuik.
Shaking and frightened beyond belief, Pennicuik scrabbled backwards, dropping his little tablet, which bounced and then shattered, but he didn't care. All he saw was the ever-yawning barrel of the thirty-eight, framed by Bushman's twisted features.
"I … I didn't … you don't understand …" Pennicuik stammered, and he knew … knew … deep down in his gut that he was going to die. Right now.
"I must leave you two gentlemen to your 'discussion'" Kremic said smugly. "I have an appointment with my engineering team. Show them the designs for my new, fully-patented on-frame micro-computer." He lifted a hand and wriggled his fingers. "Farewell, Mister Bushman." He nodded at Pennicuik, who had backed himself into a crate and could go no further. "Mister Pennicuik." He turned away, but then hesitated. "I, ah … I'm afraid I will have to renege on our agreement. I'll be clawing back my money. But then … I doubt you'll need it."
Pennicuik let out a terrified wail.
"NO! NO! Please! Don't leave me here with him!" he screamed but Kremic turned his back on the little man, and Bushman gave him a feral grin.
"Where's my money, Pennicuik? You sold me a lie. You owe me!"
Pennicuik cringed. He stared at his shattered tablet.
"I … I can fix this!" he sputtered, "Just … just get me to a computer, and I can –"
But the world exploded into a plethora of shouts and orders and armed men in black wearing Kevlar vests emblazoned POLICE. They were all armed with Colt M4 assault rifles, and every one of those rifles was pointed at the five men in front of them. Kremic's thugs reluctantly lowered their Glocks.
A stocky aborigine stepped forward from the group, lowering his rifle and gazing at Pennicuik. He reached out and rested his hand on the little man's shoulder.
"Are you alright, Mister Pennicuik?" he asked.
Pennicuik, bewildered but relieved, nodded vigorously.
"Yes … yes, I'm fine, but –"
The policeman ignored Pennicuik's words and turned to Kremic and Bushman. Kremic was seething, but Bushman just looked horrified.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "I am Federal Agent Rob Munmie, SSC Financial Crimes Squad. And you are under arrest."
"For what?" Kremic snarled as he was handcuffed. "My men have licenses for their weapons and they drew their guns in self-defence when this fool –" he gestured with an elbow at Bushman, who had been disarmed and was now protesting loudly that he had been tricked out of his patent rights, "drew a gun and began waving it around!"
"That bastard conned me!" Bushman yelled, jutting his chin at Pennicuik and struggling against the restraint of two officers.
Munmie smiled whitely, his dark eyes amused.
"Mister Pennicuik here has been assisting us with our investigation," he explained, his hand still firmly grasping Pennicuik's shoulder. His other hand reached under Pennicuik's jacket and pulled something away from the man's belt. He held up a transmitter attached to a clip. "He agreed to wear a wire. Didn't you, Mister Pennicuik?"
Pennicuik's watery eyes flicked warily at Bushman, and then he nodded.
"Um … yes … yes I did," he agreed. Suddenly, wonderously, there seemed to be a way out of this mess.
"You … you moron!" Bushman screamed. "You betrayed us!"
Kremic's eyes were smouldering with hate, and Pennicuik shifted until he was sheltered by Munmie's kevlar'd frame.
Munmie was handed Pennicuik's bag, and the policeman rummaged around inside. He grinned and pulled out a small, burgundy-coloured pen-drive. He held it up and waved it at Kremic.
"Everything should be on here. Records, emails, 'phone calls … the lot. I have you, Kremic. You and your associates as well as Bushman. We've been after you for a long time, and Mister Pennicuik came to us and offered us a deal in return for a reduced sentence, and, I have to say, he's done a sterling job."
Pennicuik blinked.
"I … I have?"
Munmie nodded, grinning.
"Without you, Mister Pennicuik, we could not have caught Kremic. Thank you. Now all you have to do is agree to make a statement and give evidence, and you could be out of prison in two years."
Munmie was careful to make sure both Kremic and Bushman heard every word.
Pennicuik swallowed and silently agreed.
"Good man!" Munmie said.
Kremic stared at Pennicuik.
"You are a dead man," he swore, before he was hauled away with his men.
Pennicuik had no idea what had just happened. Within minutes he had gone from Bora Bora to possible sudden death, and now he was destined to be a jail bird.
And then he got it. The girl. The horrendous Alf and his appalling family, including the clingy blonde daughter.
"Bugger!" he said, eyes wide with shock.
Bob Munmie grinned, motioning one of his men to take Pennicuik away. As he stood in the light from one of the overhead skylights, he brought out a cell 'phone and made a call. When a voice answered, he spoke.
"It's done," he said. Ringing off, he tucked away the 'phone and turned back to his work.
Team Leverage was sitting in the domestic flights V.I.P. lounge when the call came.
Tom Reid pulled out his 'phone and answered as he waited for Hardison to finish his mocha latte, Parker sitting beside him, her knee jiggling with impatience. Nate and Sophie turned as one and watched as Tom took the call.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. Listening for a second or two, he didn't bother replying to the caller and he ended the call, stashing his 'phone back into the pocket of his chinos. He looked at each member of the team who waited pensively. "Kremic, Bushman and Pennicuik are all in custody. It's finished." He said.
The relieved slump of four sets of shoulders made him grin.
Nate stood up and stretched, and then held out his hand to pull Sophie to her feet. Hardison grabbed his bag and unwound himself from the comfortable armchair. He was very tired. But Nate hadn't finished with him yet.
"Hardison, as soon as we're in the air, you're up. You still have access to Pennicuik's cell and his desktop. Tackle the patents first and then the money. Then we're done."
Hardison rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty after his overnight digging about on line, and he had a mild headache.
"Won't take me more than ten minutes, Nate. Then I am so gonna get me some shut-eye, 'cause Nana's baby boy is all wore out!" he quipped tiredly.
"God, yes!" Sophie added, "and then I can go home to my daughter. Do you realise this is the longest time we've been separated since she was born?"
Nate kissed her, his lips soft and wanting. He desperately missed Lizzie, but he also needed to spend some down time with his wife.
"Yeah …" he murmured. "Yeah … let's go home."
"Yes please!" Parker grumbled, touching her toes to stretch her back muscles. "And don't ever ask me to kiss hairy little men again!"
"Mister McCoy?" A smart young woman approached, smiling. "Your charter is ready. If you and your group would like to board now?"
"At last!" Nate said under his breath, and gathering up bags the team as one headed along a short corridor, through a door and out into a large hangar. Beyond the hangar, a Learjet 60 waited for them, the silver fuselage gleaming dully in the late afternoon glare.
Tom grinned cheerily as he walked beside Parker.
"I could get used to this!" he commented, and Parker shrugged.
"S'pose," she answered, "but in our job the comfort's worth the money, especially if Eliot's a bit banged up or it's been a tough deal. We don't have the safety net most people have, so … what the hell?" her voice trailed off and her eyebrows drew down as a man appeared around the side of the hangar.
Nate and Sophie wandered to a halt in front of them, and Hardison ranged alongside Nate, wary now.
The man was tall, lean and beautifully dressed, and as he came to a halt in front of them he took off his Ferragamo sunglasses, revealing warm hazel eyes.
Nate cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips.
"Tomas Ponomarenko, I presume?" he said.
The Confessor smiled, his eyes alight with humour, and he bowed slightly. He was a handsome man and he knew it.
"Mister Ford," he replied, his voice slightly accented and soft. "We meet at last!"
"SNAP!" Lizzie yelled triumphantly as she slammed a three of hearts down on the small table beside Eliot, covering the three of clubs sitting on top of the pile of already-revealed cards.
"Dammit, 'Lizbeth Grace!" Eliot growled uselessly. This was the fourth game of SNAP! Lizzie had won in a row. Granted, she was taking advantage of her guardian's lack of a manageable left arm, but this was getting ridiculous!
Lizzie frowned for a moment, her dark eyes suspicious.
"Eliot! Are you letting me win?" she demanded as she gathered up the cards and took the remaining few out of Eliot's tenuous grip.
Eliot was outraged.
"Hell, NO!" he snarled and glared at the child kneeling on the floor at the other side of the table. "Since when have I ever let you win, you pest! I'm just not up to par yet, is all! I'm shot, remember?"
Lizzie huffed.
"So I won fair and square then!" she declared, laboriously sorted the cards and began to shuffle them carefully.
Eliot's eyes narrowed.
"'Lisbeth Grace Ford – are you cheating?" he growled. "Has Parker been teachin' you how to cheat? Huh? "
Lizzie's eyes widened indignantly, even as her ears began to tinge red.
"NO!" She declared, "I beat you all by myself!"
"Show me your sleeves!" Eliot grouched. When Lizzie hesitated, he smiled evilly. "You cheated, you little rat!"
Lizzie's face became defiant.
"I'm practicing, Eliot!" she explained hurriedly. "Parker says I have to practice my slime of hand!"
"I knew it!" Eliot rumbled, happy with his deductions. "and it's sleight of hand, 'Lizbeth Grace, not slime! Sheesh … Parker an' me … we're gonna have words –" Eliot shifted and had to stop speaking as his wounds decided to remind him of their presence. He couldn't stop a keening groan and Lizzie was beside him in seconds, peering into his eyes and touching his chest gently.
"I'll go get Grandma Jo," she whispered, eyebrows drawn down in concern. "You shouldn't be moving too much. Are you in pain? D'you need your pills?"
Eliot grasped her hand in his and shook his head, trying to ease her mind.
"No, sweetheart. I just moved wrong, is all. I'm okay." He gave her his Lizzie-smile. "Stop worryin'. I'm doing better, I promise."
The two friends sat quietly for a few moments, but Eliot decided enough was enough. He had to make himself move, to get back on his feet and begin his regimen of exercise to regain his mobility. He knew it was too soon, but he had to do something before he went crazy. This latest debacle which had brought him to the edge of death meant he had to try even harder to keep his team safe and guard Lizzie.
"C'mon, girl – help me up," he said.
Lizzie's frown didn't alter his decision one whit, and he leaned forward, hissing as the pain hit but determined.
"But –" Lizzie objected, but Eliot was having none of it – he was going to get out of the chair and move.
"Gettin' up, 'Lizbeth Grace. I'm tired of just sittin' and doing nothin', so you an' me … we're going for a walk along the veranda … an' I promise not to do any more than that. I just need to do somethin', darlin'." He glanced for the umpteenth time at the clock. Nate should have called by now, telling him his team was safe and that they were heading home. But the telephone stayed stubbornly silent, even though Jacko had repaired the transformer and Wapanjara was once again connected to the outside world.
Lizzie thought about it and then agreed.
"As long as you don't try and do anything silly," she scolded. She noted his glance at the clock. "Are you worried, Eliot? 'Cause Daddy hasn't 'phoned?"
Even as Eliot rested his right elbow on the chair arm so he could lever himself forward, he sighed.
"A little. There's still time, an' the call's not too overdue. I'm just … it's because I'm not there is all. Your dad knows to call as soon as they're in the air, an' they've got time yet." Eliot saw the worry on Lizzie's face. He grinned at her. "C'mon, you little card sharp. Let's you an' me do this, and Jo said now the lights are back on she can help you stitch your pouch."
Lizzie, cheered by Eliot's words and trusting in his judgement, helped him get to his feet. Eliot stood straight and steady, Lizzie by his side. He hurt and he was stiff and his side was on fire, but he had made it. He was healing, and he would regain his balance and fitness so he could continue to guard his team and his 'Lizbeth Grace with all he had.
He tapped Lizzie on the shoulder.
"Lead the way, kiddo," he urged, and as the telephone remained silent, Lizzie and Eliot made their way outside into the warmth of the sun.
"What do you want, Ponomarenko?" Nate gritted as he eyed the steps leading upwards into the aeroplane. Turning his gaze back to Ponomarenko, he noticed the almost imperceptible bulge in the man's suit, despite the beautiful cut of the garment. The gun he carried was a very real threat.
The Confessor was relaxed, even amiable, and Sophie's hackles rose as he perused her shapely figure appreciatively. Nate, however, allowed himself a tight smile and cocked his head to one side, waiting for Ponomarenko to decide when to speak.
Tom edged sideways a little to give him a clear view of this man who had appeared out of nowhere in what was supposed to be a secure area. He wanted to make sure the team he was here to protect was within his sight line, and where he could attract Ponomarenko's attention without endangering his people in the process.
Ponomarenko made a small shrugging movement of one shoulder and clasped his hands in front of him before replying.
"Don't worry, Mister Ford. I am not here to threaten or hurt any of you, although …" he paused thoughtfully as he spotted Parker, who glared at him, "… I wouldn't mind having a little … fun … with Parker there."
Parker's eyes narrowed dangerously, but Hardison touched her arm and she settled a little, quivering with tension.
Ponomarenko smirked.
"Not going to come to her defence, Alec?" he taunted politely.
Hardison let loose a wide, mirthless grin before answering.
"Me? Nah," he said, his long frame deceptively relaxed. "Parker can take care of herself, man. She don't need me gettin' in the way. Isn't that right, babe?" He raised an enquiring eyebrow at Parker who looked like a panther on the prowl. Hardison could almost hear the growl. "I wouldn't hassle her if I were you. You're liable to lose important body parts."
Ponomarenko waved a dismissive hand, his eyes swivelling back to Nate, although he gave Tom a quick appraisal before doing so. For all that the Australian was not young, he looked hard and dangerous. Hmm, he thought. This man is not to be underestimated.
"So …" he continued, "I'm not here to cause you any harm, Mister Ford."
Nate guffawed, blue eyes full of menace.
"Look, Ponomarenko – will you get to the point? We have a 'plane to catch."
Ponomarenko's face finally settled into a more serious mien. Team Leverage waited patiently, calm yet poised for any change in the situation.
"I have a message for you," Ponomarenko said finally. When no-one answered, he continued serenely. "My employer has asked me to take care of a certain … situation … which has arisen involving Benjamin Kremic, which I will deal with in good time, but I was surprised to see you and your team here," he nodded at the group of people in front of him, "somewhat involved with Kremic."
Nate held up a finger.
"Not Kremic. Never Kremic. Bushman, yes, but not Kremic."
Ponomarenko pursed his lips before answering with a shrug.
"Point taken. Not Kremic. However, your appearance piqued my interest. I see you are a man down."
The only reaction Nate allowed was a clenching of the muscles along his jawline. But his attention was suddenly drawn to Ponomarenko's hands. They were enclosed in beautifully-made black leather gloves, skin-tight and sleek. There's something odd there, he thought.
Ponomarenko didn't bother waiting for Nate to decide on a reply, and continued.
"My dear friend Eliot Spencer is not with you. That can only mean he is somehow incapacitated. He would not abandon his charges willingly, I think, so therefore …" he turned to Tom, " … this is why you, dear Detective Chief Inspector Reid –"
"Retired," Tom said, smiling even though his eyes were steel.
Ponomarenko gave a charmingly toothy grin.
"Of course, of course … forgive my lapse. Nevertheless …" the smile faded, "it is a shame Eliot isn't with you, for I have a message for him. From both my employer and me."
Nate frowned a little, allowing his puzzlement to show. His eyes returned to Ponomarenko's hands, specifically his left hand. There was something not quite right … ah. Now he had it figured out.
"Is this about your hand?" Nate asked, his voice ringing clear in the hangar.
For the first time he saw anger in Ponomarenko's eyes and he realised he had hit a nerve.
"Your left hand is missing a thumb and two fingers. They're stiff and don't move with the rest of your hand. Eliot's work, I presume?"
Ponomarenko glowered for a split second before his face settled back into its impenetrable gaze.
"We, ah … we have had our differences. He detonated a nail-filled IED hoping to kill me. Unfortunately he was somewhat damaged and detonated it too soon and it ruined my hand, as well as causing other … less obvious … injuries. However, that is not the reason for my employer's interest."
"So what is this message?" Sophie asked flintily.
Ponomarenko studied her for long moments before answering.
"My employer wishes Eliot to know that he – and I – will be coming for him. Not now … not immediately. I am the weapon my employer has chosen to take care of this matter, due to my history with Eliot. I have other work to do first which may take some time."
Kremic, Nate thought. It has to be Kremic.
"Who is your employer?" Sophie interrupted. "And why bother warning us – and Eliot? Surely that makes no sense?"
Ponomarenko raised his hands helplessly.
"I am not at liberty to say, Ms Devereaux. Suffice that Eliot must know beforehand. That is my employer's wish. And I, of course, will be the instrument of Eliot's death."
"Jesus!" Nate heard Hardison swear under his breath, and Tom tensed, ready to do whatever he needed to do to protect the team.
But Ponomarenko relaxed and smiled genially at the people before him.
"I must go now, my friends. I will leave you to catch your flight and go wherever it is you wish to go. I know Eliot will be awaiting your arrival." He held up a finger and scolded them as though they were children. "Now don't forget to pass on my message."
Ponomarenko straightened his tie and nodded his farewell, turning away and walking towards the shadows from which he came. But he paused for a moment and looked back, staring at Sophie.
"Ms. Devereaux … I do believe you and Mister Ford have a child. A daughter. Is that correct?"
Sophie's iron resolve finally broke.
"You wanker!" she railed, furious. "If you –"
But Nate grabbed his wife and held her tight before Sophie could take any steps towards The Confessor, and the rest of the team closed ranks around both of them.
Ponomarenko smiled.
"Interesting," he said with satisfaction.
And within moments he had gone, hidden in shadows and leaving nothing but a faint echo of expensive aftershave.
It was Tom who broke the tension.
"Nate … we have to go, mate. We only have a short window to get in the air, and I want to get out of this bloody place."
Nate turned haggard eyes to the ex-policeman.
"Yeah … yeah, you're right." Lifting Sophie's hand he kissed her palm. "Let's go, people. Let's … let's go home. I want to see my daughter."
And with Tom herding his team towards the jet, they left Kremic, Sydney and Tomas Ponomarenko behind, and wondered how they would give Eliot the message The Confessor had so deftly delivered.
To be continued …
