He watched the smooth and slightly scuffed white ball glide across the fuzzy, red felt and connect fully with the yellow nine-ball. In turn, the nine clunked into the corner pocket and spun slightly in the small cup. Moving on to his next target, he smiled slightly to himself as his opponent seemed crestfallen.

Eric loved playing pool—that he remembered—but most of all he liked hanging out with people. They fascinated him. They amazed him. Especially when they started trying to get out of bets that they had made.

The man began making excuses as Eric clipped the fifteen-ball with the eleven, sending the striped, maroon ball into the pocket.

Plucking the money from the edge of the table, Eric shoved it in his back pocket and said, "Look. We played by your crazy rules, I even took the odds over evens to be nice, and you've lost. So, see? It really isn't my fault. Now, please, you're only making it worse for yourself."

A man came up behind the sore loser and told him more or less to get out of there before he made a scene. Eric sized the guy up and Vanna White-ed the table which the new mark accepted the challenge and began to set up the pool balls for a new game. It was a great tribal dance—whose hut was bigger and who would collect the most brides' kind of thing—and Eric was not going to be the first one to falter.

The greenie took a cue and broke the rack, sinking a few balls in the process.

"What are the terms?" he asked, scooting around the table and sending the three-ball to its new little home. "I guess I should ask how much money am I going to take from you."

"Cute. We're playing twenty a round. But, I'm willing to make it more interesting. I'm Eric."

"Michael."

"Nice to meet you."

"So, as I mentioned early, I have a solution to our problem, or at least, one of them," Marshall said, flopping onto his swivel chair and scooting a few feet across his office. He coyly slid back to in front of his computer as if nothing happened. "Sorry if I got your hopes up about getting Agent Weiss's memory back. I'm still working on that. But as for the computer problem, I figured out a temporary solution. Do you remember the Paris mission back working for SD-6 when you put the relay on the phone which ended up being a double relay because you had the same mission for the CIA? That was one of my better attempts—the bug was in the wire—anyway that's what I did to Agent Weiss's computer. It's kind of like a mini-echelon. So, any document he tries to retrieve with any kind of agency lingo, we'll get it and he'll get something else."

Nadia had gotten use to Marshall's rants long ago and knew how to handle him now. One word questions and commands were the easiest way to control him but sometimes she liked to humor him when she thought he felt under appreciated. Usually, it just took a small gesture like inviting him out to lunch to make his day. She wasn't in the mood for humor today though. "What kind of documents?"

Marshall grinned, "Fun things. Fake letters to his family, facts sheets about economics, and boring stuff. Research for vacations, love letters to you."

"Marshall!"

"What?" Marshall asked with a blank look, "I, uh, well, he just seemed so lost. I thought I'd give him something to hope for. But, the good news, I think he's doing better. I think he's keeping his anger in check at least."

"I told you not to ask that any more, man," Eric said as his fist connected with the man's jaw just as he had watch the cue ball connect with so many others. The lesser man stumbled back a few steps and met the small of his back with the edge of the bar. "The answer is obviously 'no'."

Michael scooted away from the counter and said calmly, "Now, Eric, let's talk this out. There's no need for such hostility."

"Bull crap!" Eric shouted, knocking the brown-headed man back with a punch to the left eye. He was tired of the guy and needed to show that anyway he could, although his fist was starting to ache and he couldn't wait for a surge of adrenaline to hit him.

"Is using your fists the best way?" Vaughn asked, licking the corner of his mouth were blood was fresh and looking Eric square in the eye.

"Probably not. But it sure is fun," he said, squaring up to land another punch. It quickly came when the man with too many questions came at him again and Eric punched him in the same spot, spinning the man around and knocking him out. The smaller man fell to the ground, knocking over a few bar stools in the process.

"How's that answer your question?"

Nadia watched the blank feed from Eric's apartment and decided he must still be at the bar with Vaughn. Mike promised to check back in with her as soon as he left Eric so hopefully, since she hadn't heard anything, things were going well.

It was hard to not have Eric to vent to the night before as she tried to figure things out and came to some harsh conclusions. She had spent most of the day researching and watching the surveillance of Eric's home, which they had set up before allowing him to move back in.

She watched the clock click off another minute and wished she could go back in time. Stop what had happened from happening. And then she glanced across the hall to her sister who was thick in paperwork, trying to figure out a way to save Eric. Tears came to her eyes as she realized that someone truly cared for her and wanted to help her because she loved her.

Sydney looked back over the transcript between Sark and the mystery man whose voice had been altered and couldn't be identified yet. Something just wasn't making sense to her. But what? And then it hit her. She ran across the hall to Nadia's office and startled her from her daydream.

"How did Sark's accomplice know that you and Weiss were engaged?"

"What?" Nadia asked, coming out of her haze.

"The man talking to Sark said that you would start by killing the fiancé. Who else knew besides me?"

"No one. Well, except for my father."

"Then we've got a problem. Somehow, they knew. How long ago did Eric ask you?"

"Literally hours before we left for the mission. When did we pick up the conversation?"

"Just after we came home. So the person can't be in this office since everyone close knows Eric inhaled the substance and not you."

Nadia was thankful that someone else was thinking as she. Only, she hadn't come to the same conclusion as Sydney, apparently. "Unless the person doesn't want Sark to know that he screwed up. Sydney, I was thinking, what if we have a mole?"

"What? No. You don't know these men like I do. Even Sloane wouldn't do something like this. I know them."

"Are you sure? Look at our fathers' pasts. They thought they knew each other but when father started SD-6, Jack stayed with the CIA and my father, well Jack did what was right by becoming a mole at SD-6."

"Nadia, it's not your father. How many times do I have to say it? Your father would never do anything like this to you."

"No, he wouldn't," Nadia confirmed, waiting out Sydney's thought process. She knew the answer but wanted her sister to figure it out. Nadia, however, added, "And it is not your father either."

"Then who?" Sydney asked, taking a seat across from her sister.

"There' aren't that many more to choose from."

"Well, it's not me. And it's definitely not Marshall," Sydney said with a small grin, trying to imagine Marshall gathering the courage to go against them.

"It's obviously not me. That leaves Eric and."

"Vaughn. You think it's Vaughn? You must since Weiss was hurt and he's fine. Well, you're wrong. He and Weiss are best friends. He would never hurt him. No, it's not Vaughn."

"Sydney, I don't think it's him," Nadia said, putting up a halting hand to Sydney's rant.

"You're missing something in the transcript or rather missing the fact that something's not there in the transcript."

Sydney read back over it. "Dixon's not listed. You think it's Dixon? You think he's guilty?"

"Maybe not completely."

"What do you mean?"

"I think he did it, but I don't think it was his entire fault. I think there's something more."

"So what are you thinking?"

Eric dipped his hand into the pitcher of ice the bartender gave him and looked down at the man by his feet. "I guess we should call the police."

Michael joined him at the bar, stepping over the man lying on the floor in the process. The man, who they had officially nicknamed the idiot, had gotten a cheap shot at Vaughn when Mike tried to intervene in a date gone awry. His tooth had split open his lip, oozing blood down his chin which he was now trying to take care of. He gratefully took a towel from the bartender and pressed it to his lip. "I still say I could have taken him."

"I'm sure you could have, but I was in the mood for a little scuffle."

"Feel better?"

"Yeah. Hey, you and I make a pretty good team," Eric said, rotating around on his barstool to survey the room. The poor woman who had received the first punch from the idiot was sitting, shaken, at a booth with a group of women who were man-bashing. Eric had made sure she was okay before tending to his own needs.

"We do," Vaughn said, turning around as well to face the same direction as Eric.

"Then, as a friend in my new life, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Does the name 'Julian Sark' mean anything to you?"

Vaughn shook his head. "Why?"

Eric chuckled, "I had this computer guy ask me and I haven't been able to shake it from my brain. I think I should know who he is but it just makes me more frustrated to think about it."

"I wouldn't worry about it. And hey, don't push your memory. It'll come."

"You think? I don't know. I'm getting worried. But, what can I do?" He asked to no one in particular. "Hey, do you think I had a cute girlfriend in my past?"

"A nice guy like you? Yeah."

"I wonder where she is."