A/N: The idea of Nadia's 'protectors' was partially inspired by a conversation with SpySis fans at SD-1. I don't know anything about hockey, but I think the Rangers play for NY.

Thanks for reading, if anyone still is.

from Chapter 3:

"What do you want?" she said at last.

PART I

Chapter 4

Weiss blinked. "Come again?"

"Are you with my father?"

"Your . . . Look, señorita," Weiss said, backing up a little with his hands in the air as she stepped forward a pace. "I know nothing. I want nothing. You took me, remember?"

"Answer the question. Are you with him? Do you . . . know him?"

"I promise you, I don't know anything about your . . ." He paused, wondering if revealing his complete ignorance was a good thing to do. If her father was on her side, saying he worked with him might cool her down a bit and get her to point that gun somewhere else. Then again, anyone who thought their own father was involved in the spy business needed a turn with Oprah and Dr. Barnett, because it must be one dysfunctional family. "I have no idea who you are or what went on back there," he said finally.

"You're telling me you just wanted to try the rum?" she snapped.

"No. I'm telling you I was supposed to be in, then out. Like a K-mart shopper. No shooting involved. No you involved, whoever you are. No blue-light special; no trouble."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe a word." Her trembling was more pronounced, now, and her eyes were wider. She did believe him. She believed every word; she just didn't want to. This was one confused woman, Weiss thought. More confused than me, and I'm the one who got hit over the head. "You're with him," she told him stubbornly. "I know you are."

"I swear I'm not. On my grandmother's brisket recipe, I swear it."

"Then how come you protected me? Why did you . . . ?"

"Call it instinct. I don't know." Weiss shrugged. Saving someone who he'd thought was a civilian who had a laser sighted on them had seemed the clearest, most necessary thing in the world to him at the time. He hadn't even thought that he was risking his life; instead, he'd been thinking about Casablanca and Ingrid Bergman.

Weiss suddenly realized that apart from him and Mike—and hopefully apart from Huang and Devlin—the situation was not so clear cut to everyone else. Saving people was simply not in their line of business. "Look, the shot was meant for me. I thought you were an innocent by-stander. I saw the laser sight and boom, that's the end of it."

"And later?"

Later, when he'd risked moving his gun off her while she had hers (technically his) pointed at him? Or later when he'd thrown himself out into the open to cover her? Later, when he'd gotten the gun she'd been pointing at her head and didn't point it right back at her? "You didn't shoot at me; I didn't at you. Fair's only fair, you know." He dropped his hands and smiled a little. "I didn't exactly have a plan; I was sorta making it up as I went along."

He saw the truth of it mirrored in her eyes. In her glistening eyes. Oh crap. She was going to cry. He hated it when women cried; he never knew what to do.

She waved the gun, putting one hand to her face, and Weiss stepped back. She didn't look quite in control of her movements, and he didn't like the way that gun was flailing around. What if her finger slipped after all? "They're coming for you. He's coming for you. My father," she insisted, not admitting the truth of what was in her eyes—that he knew nothing, that no one was coming. "They're coming for you and I'm going to be ready, this time."

As if she was more ready here, alone, than she would have been walking straight into his team? Yeah, the girl was a loon. But he felt sorry for her. She obviously had some . . . problems. "No one's coming for me," Weiss said. "They don't know where I am. Now, if you have a phone or a radio in this place, I could—"

"No. No radio. No communications. They will find you, I know. They always find me. They've always been here . . . silent, in the background, protecting me . . . and waiting to take me away. I want it to end. I want to face this."

Weiss pursed his lips, trying to make sense of what she was saying. She seemed to think he was someone working secretly—with her father?—to take care of her. Maybe she'd had a lot of luck getting through training so far and thought someone behind the scenes was helping her? Whatever she thought, he could tell she was on the brink of breaking down. Even if this wasn't her first job, it had to be her first in which things went seriously wrong. She'd made too many mistakes for her to be really experienced, because otherwise, she had an obvious skill for the business, even though she was so very young.

And him? To an extent, he was in the same position. He'd made plenty of slips, too, most of which he'd probably never have made had he been prepared for this situation at all. If she was in anything like the boat he was in, today was the first day she'd seriously been shot at, maybe had friends and people she worked with shot at, too. Today was the first day she'd made cars crash. Today was the first day she'd taken human lives, and neither of them would ever be the same again.

If he could make her break down completely, that would be a good thing—as long as it wasn't the ballistic, shoot-everything-in-sight kind of break down and more a cry and let-go-of-the-gun kind of break down. If he could loosen her up, some, wait for the trauma they'd experienced today to catch up with her, maybe he could get the weapon out of her hands and . . . he didn't know. Get a radio or something.

Still, as edgy as she was right now, he wasn't sure he could make her break either way. First of all, he was not in control of the situation. Second, she seemed like a very . . . well, in control person. But there were those tears in her eyes, and these weird delusions about her father. He'd just have to try, and take it slow-like.

"Hey," he said at last, his voice the gentle, coaxing voice he used on his sister Rachel, when she was upset. "Earlier today? You were awesome. Especially in the car, taking out those guys. But—uh—as kick butt as you are, señorita, I was really thinking about saving my own ass. Protecting you? Well . . ." he said, shrugging. He found he had backed up far enough to learn against the far wall, and then found that he needed to lean up against it to support himself. "Protecting you wasn't in my job description. As far as anyone coming to get me goes, I think we'd better wait until these people you're talking about come and get you."

She clenched her jaw, her body becoming rigid. "Then we wait," she said.

Weiss listened to the sounds around them. In the far, far distance, he could hear cars speeding along the road, and around the farm, a wind was picking up. That was all. Safe house or wherever, she'd picked a good spot to lie low, and she was actually determined to sit here waiting for the guardian angels she'd somehow dreamed up to come flitting down through the chimney. She could have that gun pegged on him for the next three days and no one would come.

She can't possibly last that long, Weiss thought. She was injured; he could see the lines of fatigue on her face; he could see hysterics held tightly in reign below the surface. The best way to play this, he decided, was simply to wait her out. Grimacing against the pain in his shoulder, Weiss shut his eyes and slid against the wall to the floor. "Looks like we're gonna be here for a while, then." He cracked open an eye. "Mind if I catch up on some shut-eye?"

She stiffened. "You're going to sleep?"

"Yeah, why not?"

The gun wavered some more, and Weiss drew in a deep sigh, closing his eyes again so he wouldn't have to see how loosely her finger rested on the trigger. "It's unhealthy to sleep if you have a concussion," she said, after a moment.

Weiss yawned. "I don't think I have a concussion."

"If you do you could slip into a coma if you go to sleep."

He cracked open an eye again. "Well, then do something to keep me awake."

She looked genuinely confused. And now, it wasn't the deep, soul-searching, desperate confusion she had evinced when she spoke of her father. Or her 'protectors.' Or whatever. She was even cuter, he thought drowsily, when she wasn't being over-dramatically melancholy. He wondered if she ever laughed. "A gun pointed at you isn't enough to keep you awake?" she asked finally, the puzzlement showing in her voice.

"After today? Are you kidding? Does Parcheesi keep me awake?"

Hooking the leg of a chair behind her with her ankle, she drew it towards her and sank down, sighing. She frowned at him and adjusted how she was holding her gun—but didn't stop pointing it at him. "I never played Parcheesi. My mother, when I was growing up in Guatemala, never let me play games."

"Hmph," he muttered, closing his eyes again. "And I thought you were South American."

"Why?"

"Accent."

"Oh. I didn't think Americans could differentiate."

"How did you know I was . . ." He trailed off as she glared at him. 'Give me some credit,' she said with her eyes, and he chuckled to himself. "So, you think all of us Yanks think South Americans and Latin Americans all live in the venerated nation of Hispanica?"

"I once knew a guy from New York, when I studied in France. He thought Bolivia was the capital of Brazil."

"New York? Figures. Probably played for the Rangers."

She shifted uncomfortably, looking down, as if noticing for the first time the cuts in her arm and stomach. She didn't expend any time examining them. They both needed first aid if they were going to avoid infection, but she didn't seem inclined to do anything but sit there rigidly and point the gun at him. Good, he thought. The more tense she was, the more focused she was on him, instead of herself, the more she'd wear herself out.

Now, if she'd been the type of broad to consent to dinner and a movie, maybe even a snack, he'd say her odds of staying awake—or staying sane, whichever went first—were a little better. As it was, he was going to have to deal with hunger and nurse the idea that sooner or later, she'd wear out.

The shadows were lengthening in the room, and soon she would have to turn on a light. He hoped she wouldn't. He really was very tired.

"Who are you?" she said, after he'd just started to drift off.

"Juan," he said promptly, opening his eyes again. "Who're you?"

"Juanita," she retorted, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Well, I wanted to be Ernesto," he confided, trying to settle against the wall more comfortably. "But no, they picked Juan. Juan Gonzales. That's me."

"Did they pick that suit out, too? Or is that one of your own?"

Her delivery was so good he almost thought she was serious, for a second. Then he laughed. "Of course it's mine. I keep it in between my rhinestone leather jacket and my turquoise tuxedo, all fashion statements in and of themselves." She smiled. She actually smiled, and he was surprised at how triumphant he felt. "What about that dress?" he blurted. "That yours?"

Her smile turned to a look of disgust, and he suddenly remembered the aloof, cocky blonde he'd first seen at the bar in the club, when this had all begun. Funny, how much more nervous he'd felt standing next to that haughty bomb-shell than he did sitting unarmed before a woman with a gun in her hands pointed right at him. Funny, too, how much prettier she looked when she wasn't playing the pretentious cosmopolitan, despite her blood-stained dress, pale complexion, dirt-smeared legs and seriously screwed hair. Her face looked much more real—well, except she was giving him that same disdainful look she'd been giving him in the bar, when he'd worried she could see how much sweat was running down the back of his fluorescent leisure suit.

Maybe he shouldn't have asked her about her clothes. Rachel had told him once he should just keep his mouth shut in respect to women's clothing; according to his sister, he never said the right thing.

"This?" she asked, loathing evident in her voice. She swept a hand over the dress and tried pulling down the skirt farther, as if for the first time noticing how short it was. Looking at her, his jaw dropped slightly, and not because she was inadvertently showing more leg. Well, maybe it was partially the thigh he was glimpsing, but mostly it was the fact that it hadn't crossed his mind that the woman who'd hung out the door of her own Mustang shooting down armored vehicles chasing them—while dressed like that—would ever be self-conscious. "I wouldn't be caught dead in this," she said, giving up on the dress. She shifted the gun in her lap once again, her nose wrinkling.

"You very nearly were," he judiciously reminded her, snapping his jaw shut.

"I meant I wouldn't wear this. Normally. I mean . . . I wouldn't . . . cardigans. I'm a cardigan girl. Or I was. I don't dress like this."

"But you look really, really pretty," he offered.

And mentally kicked himself. Good God, he'd done it again. April First had been the first to hear it, but she hadn't been April Last. And it just kept getting worse, the girls he used that appalling line on. April First's only real problem was her unfortunate name. But now he'd said it to someone named Juanita who had a 47 across her knees and was holding him hostage.

Hey, maybe it was that whole falling-for-your-captor thing. There were actually classes about it, in training. About how to avoid it if you were a hostage and about how to use it to your advantage if you took a hostage. Not that he was falling for her, or anything, despite the fact that she was hot, good with a gun, and a bat-out-of-hell when she drove a Mustang. Moreover, there was this air of sorrow about her, this underlying melancholy, this troubled confusion that was . . . heart-rending, but endearing, too. And she was funny, though their mutual situation had really given an opportunity for her bright, sunny side to show itself.

God, what was he thinking? She must have hit him harder than he thought.

Yeah. That was it. She hit me, he told himself, and tried to use that not to . . . not to think whatever it was he was thinking right now. Situations involving intense emotional and physical stress activate hormonal responses. That's what they'd told him in training. She hit me.

"Thank you." Her voice was little, but she was looking at him funny. He suddenly realized she was trying not to smile. At his expense. Again. "You were saving that comment up since the bar, weren't you?"

"Yeah. Just never thought I'd get the chance to use it. The line always devastates the ladies, you understand."

"I can imagine." She shifted again and pursed her lips. "At least this thing had the desired effect, then," she said, indicating the dress.

"It's a nice dress."

"I suppose so."

"You got a little blood on it, though."

"Yeah, thanks for letting me know."

They were quiet for a while, giving Weiss's mind a chance to drift. He tried not to fall asleep, not to let the dizziness get to him, trying to focus. Inevitably, his thoughts wandered to the mission. Where were Huang and Sutton? Where was Mike? Were they as bad off as he was?—Worse? The image of his best friend—cut up, shot, bleeding, dying somewhere presented itself to his mind. Instantly, the spinning in Weiss's head increased and he felt uncontrollably nauseous. What was he doing here, anyway?