Eliot didn't know what was happening. One moment he was facing the three Floreses, scanning their hands to find the one with the ring, and the next he was just... waiting. Waiting for Flores to speak, to direct him, to send him to battle. Because it would have to be battle—that's what he did best. He told himself he was protecting people, but that wasn't the whole truth. He was a warrior, and the music swirling through him said that it was okay, that he could do what he was meant to do without holding back.

Without remorse.

Flores said to take off his ring, and he did so eagerly. He was ready to do more—he wanted to do more—but other people were there, talking to Flores and distracting him, and no more directions came. Eliot would have fought for him, if he'd been ordered. He would have killed for him. He would have taken on the whole world and everyone in it if it meant he could keep listening to that music.

But then the music screeched to a stop, strings and ligaments snapping as the lyre broke. He felt his bones crunching as the wood smashed against the concrete, let out a scream that never actually left his lungs—

—and then everything crashed back to him, and he was Eliot again, whole and free and angry. His muscles tensed and relaxed so suddenly that he staggered, dragging in a breath that felt rough in his throat. The three Floreses stood on the driveway below him, fighting with his brothers, and that was all Eliot needed to see. He launched himself off the dock and ran for the Flores with the cane, ready to snap the damn thing over his knee.

Flores saw him coming and threw another wall of fire at him, forcing Eliot to abandon the attack to roll out of the way. One of the other Floreses pulled a gun, and before he could get close enough one of his brothers was there, getting in the way instead of disarming him.

Jake. He wore boots instead of Converse, so it was Jake. And of course it was Jake, because Jake would be the one to put himself in the path of a bullet if it meant saving someone else. Jake was good, better than the rest of them. Sure, Alex had been an agent, but working that deep undercover did things to a person. Jake was still just Jake, excited about art, about traveling, about history. He was still good.

The gun went off, and Eliot was too far away to do anything but watch his brother crumple to the ground. He raced Jake's side, too late, absently marking the Floreses' retreat and Alex's pursuit as he ran. They could wait. This was more important.

One look at the wound told him all he needed to know: there wasn't enough blood for it to be an artery hit, meaning Jake had a little time. Time enough to get to the hospital, time enough for a skilled surgeon to clean him up and stitch him back together before he bled out. Eliot stripped off his shirt and pushed it against the wound, hoping to buy even more time, and cursed himself for not bringing any medical supplies.

"Flores?" Kai asked, kneeling on Jake's other side.

Eliot resisted the distraction. "They ran. I dunno where—"

"Go. I'll stay with Jake."

He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave Jake with someone he barely knew, and he didn't want to think about what would happen if he didn't get back in time. But Ernesto was still here, kneeling over the Flores that one of his brothers had knocked out, and the other Flores was escaping.

After all this, Eliot couldn't let Flores escape.

He didn't say any of the things biting at his tongue—You're gonna be okay. I'll be right back. Keep fighting. He just grasped Jake's arm and squeezed, listening to his weak breaths and trying not to think about internal bleeding.

And he went after Flores.

He wasn't sure which Flores he was chasing, but it didn't matter—Alex was going after the other one, so neither would escape. No amount of delay would help Flores now.

Eliot ran, following the only route available to him. The driveway wound ahead for a while before turning from the loading dock to join the parking lot, and since there were buildings on either side of the road, the only way Flores could have gone was toward the lot. Eliot couldn't see him yet, but he could picture his frantic movements, his labored breathing. After all, Flores knew Eliot's reputation. And if he was working off of Eliot's old reputation...

Well. He should just be thankful he was being chased by the reformed Eliot.

Less than ten minutes later, Eliot found Flores trying to break into a locked car. He gave a squeak when he saw Eliot and tried to run, but Eliot caught him at the end of the row and threw him to the ground.

"Show me your hand," he snarled, rolling Flores to his back and jerking his wrists up.

"It's not me," Flores cried. "I don't have the ring. I don't have it, I swear, it isn't me!"

Eliot didn't let go. "If you don't have the ring, that means you were the one that shot my brother."

The fear in Flores's eyes turned desperate. "I didn't know," he whispered.

Flores's pulse throbbed against Eliot's fingers, beating a rhythm that drummed at his memories. An echo of the lyre's music touched his thoughts, whispering, You were his warrior. You were his to command.

He felt the stirrings of an uneasier memory, of commands followed without question or thought. Commands to hurt people. To kill them. To ruin lives at the whim of a man Eliot feared and hated and respected. Flores had had the opportunity to make him into that person again. And Eliot... well, part of him wanted it. Part of him that was tired of fighting, of doing the right thing, of trying to make amends for sins he could never atone for. Part of him wanted to slip back into the darkness where his conscience was powerless, where he didn't have to find convoluted non-lethal ways to defeat his opponent. Where he could just go through an obstacle instead of having to find a way around.

"Stop—please," Flores breathed. Eliot blinked; he'd been squeezing Flores's wrists so hard he could already see a bruise forming under his fingertips.

Eliot threw the man's arms away from him. "You're coming with me," he said. "If you don't try to run, I won't hurt you."

"I won't," Flores said. His voice was rushed and trembling, and a sick feeling chased away the last of the lyre's music. Eliot cleared his throat, locking away the part of himself that the music had awakened, burying it under the years of restitution his team had helped him achieve. His job wasn't done yet, but he was farther away from his old life than he'd ever been, and he wasn't going back.

"Come on." Eliot gave Flores a light push, and Flores hastened to retrace his steps back to the loading dock. By now the ambulance should have arrived, and Jake would be on his way to the hospital.

Or...

No. No or, no what if, no I should have. No it's my fault. It wouldn't change things, even if it was true. It didn't matter than Eliot could have stopped this all from happening if he'd just been strong enough to resist the lyre—or if he had gotten the ring from Flores back in his hotel room. It didn't matter that it was Eliot's job to protect people. It didn't matter that he'd failed. Dwelling on it wouldn't change a damn thing.

What he had to do now was focus on the present. First he would bring this Flores back to Kai and Ernesto, and then he would make sure Jake was recovering.

And then he'd make sure Flores got exactly what he deserved.