YEAH BABAY! TOLD YOU I'D BE BACK!

Geez, this took forever. School has been absolutely smushing me, so not a whole lot of time to work on this. But I'm here now! Have a 7k word chapter for your patience. Thank you so much for those who have reviewed or PMed me; they mean a lot and really help me keep motivation for writing. I hope you all haven't given up on me! But here you go. Hope you like it :)

Disclaimer. Nope. Also, this goes on my premise that Brandt and Clint Barton of the Avengers are twins. Don't own them either.

Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

The Connoisseur of Devil's Faces

Ethan looked almost as bad as Brandt felt. And that was saying something, because Brandt felt like he'd just been hit by lighting while going two rounds with an angry boar. Still, there was no one he would rather be seeing than his team leader, though anyone would have been better than the two creeps who thought it would be fun to drive too much electricity to be healthy into his body again and again.

"Hey, Ethan," he said casually, trying for nonchalance after his earlier outburst. Brandt had a manly reputation to maintain, after all. So what if the relief he felt was so powerful he doubted he'd have been able to stand even if he wasn't injured? "Just in the neighborhood, or what?"

Ethan's face could have been cut from stone; the momentary elation that had been there a moment before was gone. Brandt felt his grin fade. "Ethan?"

Without saying a word, Ethan reached out and felt carefully along Brandt's neck, behind his ears, and on the back of his head. Brandt winced as his fingers ghosted over the goose egg on his temple, but his confusion dissolved. "No masks, dude, I promise. Unfortunately, it's really me."

Ethan still looked wary. "Cobalt. You had to jump into an overheating computer main. What did you say when you got out?"

Brandt grinned tiredly. Like he could ever forget that. "'Next time, I get to seduce the rich guy.'"

An exhausted smile lit Ethan's face, one of his rare, truly genuine ones. "Just checking," he said, moving behind Brandt to cut his bonds. "People in masks have given us enough trouble in the past, after all." Ethan moved behind him. Brandt felt a serrated tug at his wrists, and a moment later the coarse ropes that had been biting his wrists for the last half hour fell blessedly away. He gently moved his hands into his lap, rubbing feeling back into his arms and wrists.

"Ethan, what happened?" he asked. "With the plane…"

"I'll tell you on the way," said Ethan, as he knelt next to Brandt and put Brandt's arm over his shoulder.

"The way to where?" Brandt asked, trying not hiss in pain.

"Anywhere but here." Ethan rose carefully, supporting nearly all of Brandt's weight.

"Ethan," said Brandt, grabbing his wrist to stop him. He looked into his team leader's face, taking in the paleness and gauntness, the hunted look in the dark green eyes. It was the best thing he'd seen all day. "It's really good to see you, dude."

Ethan grinned faintly again, clapping Brandt gently on the chest. "You too." They kept moving.

"How many were outside?" asked Brandt. He couldn't see any more bodies in the hallway.

"None," said Ethan. He sounded troubled.

"None?"

"Yeah."

"That's weird."

"I know. Don't you think it was a little convenient that there were only two guys on you? And that there was no perimeter guard?"

"None," Brandt repeated incredulously. "Seriously? It felt like an army when they brought me in."

"When was that?" asked Ethan.

"Just before dawn."

"You were conscious?"

"Mostly. Enough to feel way too many hands pawing me as they took me in here. I heard more too. It must have been more than just those two guys."

"Where are Benji and Jane?" Brandt was shocked to hear the shadow of a quiver in Ethan's voice. He was more rattled than Brandt had realized.

The analyst swallowed. "I don't know. We got to London around midnight; we were staying at Benji's uncle's place. He's a retiree, so don't yell at us for getting a civilian involved." Ethan scoffed lightly. "Walter and Benji were manning the security cams," Brandt continued. "Jane and I were trying to get some sleep. Next thing I know it's totally dark and none of us can breathe. I did see one guy, when I managed to get a flashlight on. I had about two seconds to drink his face in before some asshole increased my likelihood for dementia later on in life." He waved vaguely at the wound on his head.

"Did you recognize him?" Ethan asked. By then they were almost to the front door.

"No," Brandt replied lowly. "They were all masked. And I'm not happy about it."

Ethan leaned Brandt against the wall. "Did any of the others get out?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see." Brandt wiped blood from his eye.

Ethan pulled a handgun and cracked the front door open. "The yard's still clear," he said, sounding doubtful. "This isn't right."

"Who are these guys, Ethan?" asked Brandt, pressing his head against the wall as a particularly vicious throb jolted him to the bottom of his spine. "And what do they want with us?"

Ethan's face darkened. "I don't know." He stowed his gun and pulled Brandt up. "And I'm not happy about it either."

"Where exactly are we going?" Brandt asked. "Do you have a car? You can let go of me, by the way. I'm okay, just a little weak. '" Ethan moved off slightly, but he kept his arm near Brandt's if he lost his strength again. Closer now, Brandt could see Ethan was actually hurt worse than he was. He was holding his right arm close to his body, and the skin around his eyes was tight with muffled pain. The way he was moving, too… anyone who didn't know Ethan wouldn't have noticed it, but Brandt could see the slight tenderness in his motions. He was favoring, and trying not to move his upper body too much. Ethan hadn't come out of the crash unscathed after all.

"Yeah," said Ethan said to Brandt's earlier question. They came to the porch. "I have a car. But we're ditching it. I stole it from mercenaries who tried to kill me."

Brandt's already concussed head spun further. "You have some serious explaining to do, dude."

"You too," said Ethan, giving Brandt an arresting look. "What exactly were the three of you doing in London?"

Brandt scoffed. "What do you think, Ethan?" He didn't need to bother explaining.

"Can't you guys just let me die in peace?" Ethan growled, but Brandt thought he heard an undercurrent of gratitude.

They were almost to the treeline when they heard the bushes rustle.

Ethan brought his handgun up almost too fast for the eyes to follow. That had been too loud for a small animal. Brandt followed his arm.

Someone was coming out of the shadowy trees, their features obscured by the foliage.

"Keep coming and I will shoot," said Ethan, threat clear in his voice. The shadow paused.

"Come out slowly with your hands where I can see them."

The figure moved out into the light.

Brandt gasp-laughed in relief. "Oh, thank God."

Ethan lowered his gun. "Benji–"

"DON'T MOVE!" Benji roared. He pulled out a handgun of his own and aimed it straight at Ethan's center mass. "Don't. Move."

"Benji…" Ethan slowly lowered his gun to the ground. "It's me."

"I can't know that!" Even from here, Brandt could see Benji's hands were shaking. His face was pale and scared, blue eyes wide. There was blood on his shirt, but Brandt couldn't tell if it was his or not. "I can't know for sure."

"Benji," said Brandt, in the same tone he would use to calm down that one psychotic dog he had when he was twelve. Granted, that dog ended up biting him and disappearing into the night never to be seen again, but same concept. "Put the gun down, man. It's okay."

"You're not Ethan," Benji repeated. "Ethan's dead. You're just some guy in a mask who wants to kill my friend." Brandt swallowed. There was a deep, agonized strain to Benji's voice, a terror in his eyes Brandt had never seen before. Something had put Benji close to the edge –close enough Brandt wasn't sure he wouldn't shoot Ethan, or him. Almost reflexively, he raised his own hands.

"Fine," said Ethan, stepping forward, hands in the air. "Fine. I'll prove it to you." Benji kept his gun up. His eyes were bloodshot and desperate and scared.

Ethan kept his hands wide, open, his stance relaxed. "My name is Ethan Matthew Hunt. I'm forty-five years old. My birthday is on the winter solstice, next week. You guys were planning a surprise party, which I pretended not to know about even though I've been hearing the three of you whispering behind my back for the last month. You're my teammate, Benji Dunn, and the guy next to me is Will Brandt, whom we all refer to by his last name because…you know what, I don't even know why. Jane Carter is our fourth. We all met last year when the Kremlin blew up and Cobalt tried to create a nuclear apocalypse. We've been a team since then, and I've gotten to know all of your guys' weird nuances since then. Benji, you like to put butter and cinnamon in your tea, even though the rest of us think it's totally weird. Jane talks in her sleep and has an unhealthy obsession with John Hughes movies, which she re-watches constantly. Brandt sings "Dancing Queen" in the shower when he thinks we can't hear." Brandt stuttered in protest, but Ethan rolled on. "You three are my team. You're my family, and you're all I have left." His voice softened. "So, you think you might want to put the gun down, Benji?"

For a blink, there was total silence.

Then, with a whimper, Benji dropped the pistol and stumbled forward. Ethan caught him awkwardly and the technician fell against him. "It can't be you," he kept muttering. "No. Can't be." Ethan grimaced, but the strain around his eyes had softened some.

Brandt patted Benji on the back, feeling the exhausted tension in the other man's body. He'd never seen Benji this bad, this…vulnerable. He was hurt, or drugged, or something had happened to reduce him to this tearful hug-topus.

Brandt blinked. Wow. The second they come across the Atlantic to find their missing teammate they get shot at, separated, and apparently, de-aged. Some rescuers they were.

"I think we all have some explaining to do," said Ethan. "First things first. Back into the creepy house we go."

"Wait, what?" asked Brandt, as Ethan pulled one of Benji's limp arms over his shoulder. Brandt went to his other side and took the other arm. "I thought you said we were leaving? Why are we going back in the house? You said you had a car? What's wrong with a car?"

"Change of plans. We can't leave yet," said Ethan. They moved awkwardly up the porch and went inside. "First off, we're all hurt. I don't even know what's wrong with Benji. I'm trying to avoid the hospital, but we need to find out what's in his system in case it's something we can't fix. Second, those guys on you? Something tells me they're friends of the people who tried to off me in the first place."

"They were," said Brandt, wincing as he thought about how he'd been spending his afternoon until Ethan showed up. "That's why they were torturing me. They kept asking where you were. Ethan," he said, grabbing his team leader's upper arm, making him pause. "They know who we are."

"I know." Ethan's voice was dark.

"I mean, who we are. Why we're a team. They know how to get to us."

"I know," Ethan repeated, kicking open the door. "Which means it's time to get ahead of their game."

They stumbled into the house, passing the room with the two bodies, one dead and one unconscious. They made their way to the back, into another ruined room, this one somehow unlooted. It must have been a dining room once; a long, dusty table sat forgotten in the center of the space. Carven chairs, once shining with varnish, were knocked over or still shoved against the table or walls. A series of sofa huddled light frightened animals in the corner of the room. Brandt and Ethan made a beeline for the nearest one.

Benji's eyes had slipped shut and he was murmuring deliriously. Brandt tried to swallow his alarm. They laid him gently on the couch, and Ethan instantly began removing his bloodied clothes. Brandt knelt and started inspecting Benji as well, but in the corner of his eye he started to scan Ethan. He knew his team leader wouldn't treat his own injuries until the mission was complete or they were out of immediate danger, whichever came first. Right now, neither was the case. Brandt read the signs. The careful way Ethan was moving suggested abdominal damage; the slight rattle in his breath and the slow speed at which he inhaled–broken or cracked ribs. And he wasn't using his right arm much. In fact, as Brandt watched, Ethan winced slightly and tucked his hand against his chest to immobilize his arm, continuing to remove Benji's shirt with one hand. Wordlessly, Brandt joined in, eventually gently pushing Ethan out of his way. The other agent sighed almost silently and leaned against the sofa.

"Ethan–"

"I'm fine, Brandt," said Ethan, in his we're-done-talking-about-it tone. "Or at least, I will be."

Brandt scowled, but didn't look up as he finished removing Benji's jacket and shirt. He frowned. "What the–

Ethan's hand came blurring down to block the pin from activating the hidden bomb on Benji's torso, triggered by the removal of his shirt. Brandt froze, the words dying on his lips as he stared in shock.

It was a bomb unlike one he had ever seen before. It didn't even look like a bomb, with the typical blood-red digital clock counting down the remaining seconds of your life, or the packs of C4 and detonator. In fact, if it wasn't for the way all the remaining blood had drained from Ethan's face and the delicate way he was holding his hand on the mechanism, Brandt wouldn't have thought it was a bomb at all. It was almost completely flat and about the size and shape of a playing card, silver and smooth. There was a trigger mechanism on the top of it, where Ethan's pinky finger was now currently lodged. It looked like a miniscule firing pin that, had it not been stopped, would have penetrated the casing and activated its contents. Brandt didn't breathe.

"Don't move," said Ethan. "I've seen these before. They're sensitive, but easy to get rid of. Get my knife; it's in my belt. Left side. No sudden moves."

Brandt swallowed. He reached slowly under Ethan's jacket and drew out the six-inch field knife. "Good," said Ethan. "Now Brandt, I need you to stay calm. There should be a really thin wire running from the trigger mechanism to the inside of Benji's shirt. Find it. Be gentle."

Brandt breathed out, nodding and trying to steady his hands. He ghosted over Ethan's fingers still lodged in the mechanism and felt a single long strand of hair. No, not hair. But the wire was thin and delicate enough to almost fool him. Brandt could barely even see the damn thing. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, careful not to tug it. "I have it."

"Good," said Ethan. "Very carefully, without pulling on my end, cut the wire." Brandt did. "Okay. Now lift the shirt away." Brandt bundled Benji's shirt with the wire still inside and chucked it away.

"Is that it?" asked Brandt quietly.

"Not quite." Ethan looked up at him. "Brandt, you need to do something for me."

Brandt frowned in confusion. "What?"

"Duck." And with that, Ethan ripped the entire thing off of Benji's chest. An enraged beeping came from the bomb, growing higher every second. Brandt hit the ground just as Ethan hurled it out the window behind and to the right of Brandt's head.

It cleared the sill just as the packet exploded, sending sparks and dregs of fire and a good deal of smoke everywhere. The remaining glass shards around the edge of the window blew in all directions. A chunk of the windowsill suddenly disappeared.

Jesus. That thing really packed a punch for such a small bomb. Brandt sagged against the sofa, feeling giddy and sick to his stomach at the same time.

"Good job," said Ethan, letting out a huge breath. He leaned against the couch as well, still pressing his arm to his chest. He closed his eyes in exhaustion.

A loud groan came from the couch. "What the hell…" Benji sat up, and Brandt felt his insides unclench with relief. "Brandt? Ethan? Wait wait wait, no, Ethan's missing. Presumed dead. OH WOW my head hurts. Where are we? And why does my mouth taste like a sixpence that's boiled in acid?"

Ethan opened his eyes and patted Benji's knee. "Nice to see you back in the land of the conscious, Benji."

"And before you try to shoot him again," said Brandt to the techie, "it really is Ethan. He's alive. Chill out."

"What the…" Benji rubbed his eyes. The color was returning to his cheeks, and he seemed steady for a guy who had just had a bomb glued to his chest. "When did I try to shoot Ethan? And how did I end up on a couch, and where did you both come from?" Benji was rubbing his hands through his thinning hair, wide blue eyes taking in the details of the room.

"Benji," said Ethan slowly. "Settle down. I am way too tired and my head hurts way too much to answer all of those in order and accurately."

"Wait a minute…" Benji's brow furrowed. "Did I–hug you?"

Ethan grinned, some humor returning. "Like my estranged lover."

Benji groaned and fell back onto the couch. Brandt just chuckled, feeling some of the tension that had been choking him for the last week ease. Jane was missing, they were in rural England in the winter with no phones, a hostage, a handful of weapons and very little chance of getting out alive, but one thing had gone right. He had Ethan and Benji back.

()()()()

"Okay," said Ethan. "Start from the top. You arrived in London, went to Walter's house. Then what?"

Night had fallen. The three of them were huddling around a tiny fire in the center of the dining room. They had shoved the table away and broken the legs off chairs for kindling, igniting it with a pocket lighter Brandt had that miraculously still worked. Ethan had been reluctant to light the fire, but the temperature was dropping quickly, and the sky had clouded over as the afternoon faded. The last thing they needed was to be snowed inside this pile with no way of keeping warm. Brandt kept one hand unconsciously on the gun Ethan had given him, glancing out the broken windows every now and then, waiting for the time he would look and find a face. He'd rolled his sleeves past the burn marks on his wrists where the electrodes had been attached, letting the cold night air cool the abused skin. He'd also fashioned a sling for Ethan's arm, which, as he'd suspected, had been dislocated and badly put back. Benji was okay, still a little shaky, but it seemed whatever had been impeding his brain function had blown up with the bomb. There was a pinprick mark inside the reddened skin of his chest, and Brandt was willing to bet there had been a drug in the bomb that impeded Benji's perception of reality.

Brandt shivered nearer to the fire, wrapping his still-bloodied coat around him. He let out a breath, hoping some of his exhaustion and low-level anxiety would be dispelled with it. "Jane and I went to bed. Walter and Benji were on watch."

"We saw them coming," Benji said, eyes in the fire. "We had cameras. We all got armed; Walter had an arsenal in his broom closet."

"He had an arsenal in the broom closet?" asked Ethan incredulously. "Damn. I want to meet this guy."

"We were ready," continued Benji. "Then the whole place blacked out. They had cut the power to the entire apartment complex."

"We heard the doors get broken down," said Brandt. "We couldn't see. We stood together. Then there was tear gas everywhere, and we couldn't breathe. Things went downhill from there."

Benji coughed. "That's putting it a bit mildly. Shall I go first, then?"

Brandt knew what he meant. He leaned back on his couch, which they had dragged over to the fire. "By all means."

"Right," said Benji. "After they fired the tear gas, I grabbed onto Jane's arm. We were separated almost instantly. They weren't trying to kill us, I don't think, but they had no qualms about mangling us up a bit. I took a blow to the stomach and fell, then I think I got hit in the head, because after that I was waking up on a table. I was blindfolded and tied down, but I could hear voices. They were speaking in a language I don't know, but if I had to venture I guess I'd say it was–"

"Very badly-pronounced German?" asked Brandt, hoping he was wrong.

Benji looked startled. "Yeah. It sounded German, hand of harsh and angry-sounding. I mean, that makes all German-speakers sound like harsh and angry people, which is actually really xenophobic and offensive. Sorry about that. I haven't really been exposed to much German, I mean, just Russian and the occasional French–"

"Benji," said Ethan, sounding, as he almost always did, completely calm. "Focus."

"Right," said the technician. It may have just been the firelight, but Brandt thought he saw Benji's ears turn red. "So yeah, I think it was German. And like I said, not much German in my life. But there was definitely one guy who sounded different from the others. Like it wasn't his first language."

"Any guesses as to what was his first language?" asked Ethan.

Benji paused. "If you put a gun to my head–which, yes he did–I'd say American."

Brandt and Ethan looked to each other. "Williams," said Brandt. "His friend Jurich was Austrian, or he sure sounded Austrian. And since German is Austria's official language–"

"It makes sense they would all use it," followed up Ethan. "But why such a major language? Lots of agents know it, it's hardly code."

"Yeah," said Benji. "I mean, I'm not the best with foreign language, but I took German in secondary school."

Ethan's eyes narrowed. "They spoke English to you, right?" he asked Brandt.

Brandt paused, dread sinking in his stomach. "Not all the time. They bounced between English and Russian."

"Russian?" Ethan frowned. "You're sure?"

Brandt scowled. "I may have flunked out of Spanish, Hunt, but my Russian is perfect. It and Swahili are the only foreign languages I do know –"

Brandt felt his eyes widen even as he saw Ethan stiffen. "Oh, shit," whispered Brandt.

"What?" asked Benji, sounding equal parts faintly bewildered and slightly indignant. "You're doing that thing again, the whole mind-meld, figuring-things-out-at-the-same-time-and-not-telling-Benji thing."

Ethan rubbed his eyes. "Two things," he said. "One, we're not dealing with a single-nation organization. Whoever these people are, they come from all over, and don't fall under one flag. Which makes them harder to place and harder to predict."

"And two," said Brandt, the dread from earlier solidifying, "they don't just know our agent files. The fact that we're a team. They knew the only foreign languages I'm fully proficient in are Russian and Swahili. And now that I think about it, I heard traces of that earlier on, when they were transporting me. I just caught snatches, but enough to know that those were the only two languages they used. I thought I was lucky at the time; now I'm not so sure. And Benji, they only spoke English and German around you, which means they knew that you would be able to understand them. That's not coincidence. And the fact that you took German when you were in high school?" Brandt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus. They know everything about us. They know back to before we joined the IMF." Brandt slapped a hand angrily on the floor. "God damn it! Who the hell are these people!?"

"Settle down," said Ethan, but Brandt thought he sounded rattled. "We're going to figure this out, but we won't if we panic. That's clearly what they want."

"Clearly," snapped Brandt, "as they seem to know everything about us. Including the language classes we took in high school."

"Brandt," said Ethan, in his if-you-don't-shut-up-right-now-someone's-going-to-bleed-and-it-won't-be-me tone.

Brandt crossed his arms and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. I just…"

"I know," said Ethan quietly. "It's okay. We just need to stay calm. Whoever these people are, they know us. They know our methods, and they know our weaknesses. Which means they're going to try and get inside our heads. We can't let them. I know you guys are spooked. I'm spooked. But this is our job, and we need to do it, and we need to do it well. Okay?"

Brandt sighed, stressed, but nodded.

Benji said, "Oh, sure yeah. I'm not scared. Who's scared?"

Ethan looked him right in the eye and said, "I'm plenty scared, Benji. And not for myself."

Brandt's stomach lurched. No. Julia Hunt was dead, and she was staying that way to the rest of the world. But there were others…

Brandt struggled to quell the rising fear in his gut. If they had found out this much about them…had they found their histories? Families?

Clint…Brandt swallowed. If they had brought his twin into this…

Actually, what was he thinking. Clint was fine. If he got taken, he had a team of fully-funded, highly trained superheroes coming after him, the lucky asshole. Brandt and his little band? They were on their own.

Ethan's dark green eyes flickered with the light of the fire. His brow was furrowed in the way the made Brandt want to take immediate cover. "Benji," said Ethan. "Keep going. You got knocked out, you woke up with people speaking German. What then? Give me any details you got."

Benji sighed, his cheeks puffing out. "Okay. So, yeah, I woke up on a table. It was bright, like a doctor's office, or a surgery, or something. Which I guess it was. But I couldn't see very well, and my head hurt a lot. I was tied down, and they'd taken my shirt off. I guess there were about three people around me, and they sounded pissed off, like they were having an argument. But like I said, not a lot of German in my life, so I had no idea what they were talking about. Then someone decided to put out a very large cigarette on my chest and that's the last thing I remember for a little bit."

"They were attaching the bomb to you," inferred Brandt, nodding.

Benji rolled his eyes. "No, Brandt, they literally had the world's largest cigarette and they decided to put it out on me because, hey, they don't make ashtrays for giants." Brandt held his hands up in surrender.

"So yeah," said Benji, continuing. "Next thing I knew they had tossed me out of a car. I thrashed through those woods for a while–I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking at all. Then I was outside the house, Ethan was there and, like I said, I wasn't thinking. I would've shot anyone I ran into in that state, I think." He looked at them both gratefully. "Thanks for talking me down, guys. And sorry I tried to shoot you, Ethan."

Ethan cracked a grin. "Forget it, Benj. We've all wanted to shoot me at some point."

"No problem, man," said Brandt. "What are friends for? Especially agents. It's our job to stop us from shooting one another."

Benji shrugged. "And, now we're here. So, I bring nothing useful to the equation. I wake up in the setting for a kinky fanfiction and have a bomb glued to my chest."

"A kinky–never mind. I don't want to know," said Ethan. He raised his eyebrows at Brandt. "How 'bout you?"

Brandt sighed again, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring at the fire, recalling the events of the last few days.

"Well, my experience was decidedly less fun. When they broke in to the apartment, I was closest to the arsenal. I had a gun by the time the tear gas hit, but I lost it quickly. I couldn't see. I tried to stay with the others, but someone whacked me, and the lights went out. I don't know how much time I lost, but I woke up a few times. They had a bag over my head, but I could hear them. Swahili, Russian, like I said before. Which, apparently, they were doing on purpose. Which means anything I heard is probably faked and useless."

"Any information is good information," said Ethan. "What did you hear?"

"Not much," admitted Brandt. "They mentioned the house they took me to–this house. Williams and Jurich were there too, and one other guy. He sounded familiar for some reason. I couldn't place it, though." Brandt scowled. He prided himself on his near-eidetic memory, his ability to match voices to faces. But the identity of the third man in the vehicle still eluded him.

"After they carried me in here, tied me to a chair and got to work," Brandt continued, wincing at the thought of the electrical torture the two had employed. "They wanted to know where you were, Ethan. Something about dead men not shooting up entire squadrons and stealing their SUVs."

Ethan's eyes glittered mischievously. He nodded for Brandt to continue.

"Then said dead man burst in and starting kicking ass," said Brandt. "Killed one, knocked out gagged the other, and tied him up against the wall." Brandt pointed to the far side of the room, where Williams was still slumped against the wall. Ethan and Brandt had dragged him as Benji set up the fire.

"And here we are." Brandt fell silent, his end of the story finished.

The fire crackled anxiously as the silence between the three men expanded. Ethan stared intently into it, his brow still furrowed in that way that foretold recklessness.

"So that's all we know," said Benji, looking at the floor. "Basically, we have no idea who they are, where they're keeping Jane or Walter, or what they want with us. We're at a dead end." He tugged on the ends of his thinning hair, the exhaustion and stress of the last few days finally wearing him down.

Ethan stood suddenly. "No, we're not."

Benji frowned in confusion. "What do you mean we're not?"

Ethan strode to the other side of the room, where a silent figure slumped against the wall. "Because I know just who to ask."

Williams, gagged and bound with the very ropes that had secured Brandt earlier, glared up at Ethan. One side of his face was still purple from where he'd been kicked. His olive skin was pale, curly black hair bloody and tangled, but his eyes, a startling pale blue, were fierce. Ethan grabbed his arm and dragged him bodily over to the fire.

"Ethan," said Brandt warningly, his stomach dropping. He knew what Ethan had done, what he was willing to do to protect his team. But Brandt's stomach still soured at the thought of torture. "Don't–"

"Relax, Brandt," Ethan said cooly. "We're not there yet. Whether or not we get there is up to our fine friend here." He ripped the gag out of the prisoner's mouth.

Williams spat onto the ground before Ethan and ran his tongue over his newly liberated lips. "Fuck you."

"You too," Brandt said succinctly. "You ever had electricity deliberately pumped into your body, on top of a concussion, on top of goddamn jetlag? It still feels like five o'clock in the afternoon to me." Now that Brandt was hearing the dickwad's voice again, the voice that had passively grilled him as he and his partner tried to turn his body into a battery, holding Williams's feet to the fire a little–literally–seemed a lot more appealing.

"Williams," said Ethan, standing over the other man and holding his gaze, "whom do you work for?"

The man's face twisted in derision, but Brandt thought he saw a flicker of apprehension. A quick glance at Ethan's face told him why. Brandt's team leader's face was deadly clam, but his eyes were arctic. For the hundredth time since meeting him, Brandt thanked whatever gods were left that Ethan was on his side.

"Tell me," Ethan said softly, nearly whispering. There was no other sound in the room besides the moody crackle of the fire.

William's façade slipped, panic shining through, but he kept his mouth shut.

Ethan sighed quietly, sounding almost disappointed. He stood, hands clasped behind his back. "You know, when I was in prison," he said, as he began pacing around the fire, "I met a lot of bad guys. Murderers. Rapists. Human traffickers. The true scum of the earth had ended up accumulating there, and I was with them. I spent over a year with them. And I learned what bad men, men who have let their professions or obsessions take over their humanity, look like." Ethan kept walking, not looking at their prisoner. Through his hands on his upper arms, Brandt could feel Williams begin to shake.

"I had a lot of time on my hands," Ethan continued, "so I studied the men around me. I became an art critic of bad men, a connoisseur of devils' faces, if you will. I know what true evil looks like."

Ethan knelt in front of Williams, lasering in on his eyes. Williams, making no effort to hide his fear now, flinched back. Brandt held him fast, but could hardly blame him. Being on the receiving end of the look Ethan was giving him was something Brandt hoped he never experienced himself.

"You're not a bad man, Williams," Ethan said in the same soft tone. Brandt opened his mouth to question him–this was one of the men who had been playing Operation on him earlier, after all –but Ethan silenced him with a look that said Trust me. "You're not dark, not yet. I can see it in you still. You haven't been in this game very long." Ethan lowered his eyebrows in a question. "And since you're not a bad man, you didn't ask for this." Ethan had leaned forward, opening his hands, relaxing his shoulders, and Brandt realized what he was doing. That was the body language of a man who was not a threat, a man looking for trust.

Ah. Not torture. Fear, followed by coercion. Brandt should have known Ethan would use a method to mess with people's heads and draw out information without laying a finger on the one being interrogated.

"Which means," Ethan continued, "that your employer, whoever that may be, has something on you. Leverage. Not threats to you yourself. If you were worried about self-preservation you wouldn't have gone after IMF agents, who you and your employer clearly have enough information on to know what we are capable of. Which can only mean one other thing." Ethan narrowed his eyes. "You have someone you need to protect."

Williams broke at that. He sobbed and slumped in Brandt's grip. "Please," he gasped. "Please don't. You can't bring him into this."

Ethan sighed again. He suddenly looked very tired. He rubbed his eyes. "It's your little brother, isn't it?"

Williams, still sobbing, nodded.

Brandt felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. Suddenly all he could see was Clint, his twin. See him chained to a wall somewhere as someone threatened him with Brandt's life. He held down on the pain the image garnered and frowned at Ethan. "How did you know?"

Ethan looked at him with a sadness Brandt knew he would never show anyone outside of his team. "There were a lot of older brothers in that prison too, Brandt," he murmured.

"Please," begged Williams again. "He's the only family I have left. I have to look out for him."

"Let him go," sighed Ethan. Brandt released William's arms but continued to kneel behind him guardedly.

Ethan sat cross-legged. "You need to tell us everything if we're going to help you. What's your first name?"

Williams sniffled. "Casper."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

Brandt's eyebrows climbed. Though he could hear the honesty in the guy's voice, backed up by the fact that lying wouldn't do him any good at this point, he was still struck. Williams'–Casper's– face was lined for his age, his eyes aged with weight. "You look a little older than twenty," Brandt said skeptically.

"My parents died when I was seventeen," Casper said. "My brother was thirteen. My mom worked for some bad people. My dad didn't know. It got them both killed." He wiped his nose, taking deep breaths. "I have no immediate family. After my parents died, the people my mom worked for basically told us to disappear. They said my mom was dead, so she never existed, and if we wanted to stay alive, neither could we."

A tiny suspicion started to itch at the back of Brandt's mind. He ignored it as Casper continued.

"They gave us plane tickets to London and we left. I lied about my age; we found a place to stay. I got Logan in school; I got a job. Things were okay." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then in March this year, some people broke into our apartment. They kidnapped us and took us somewhere. It wasn't London, I can tell you that much, but I still don't know exactly who they are or where they're based. Every time they sent me out they blindfolded me and dropped me off hours away. They all wore masks when they talked to me, gave me orders. I don't know what they look like. If I wasn't on a mission or training, I was in a cell. They never let me see my brother, but they told me he would suffer if I didn't do what they wanted. I knew they could be lying, but I wasn't going to take that chance. I couldn't."

"So they're using your brother to blackmail you into doing what they want," summed up Brandt. "Why you? You're a kid. You're not even legal drinking age in America. Why go to such lengths to get a freaking kid to work for you?"

Casper winced almost imperceptibly. "My mom," he answered. "In the beginning they told me, before the training started, that they wanted revenge for what Agent Elena Williams had done to them three years ago. That's all they told me. I still don't know exactly how she died. I never saw her body, or my dad's."

But Brandt wasn't listening. He had stiffened in shock and was staring at the kid in front of him, horrified. He looked up at Ethan and saw the same reaction plain on his face.

"Elena Williams?" asked Brandt, stunned. "Your mother was Elena Williams?"

Casper looked between him and Ethan, eyebrows wrinkling in confusion. "Yeah. Why?"

Ethan swallowed. "Because we knew her. She was one of us."

"Casper," said Brandt gently, "Your mom was an agent. She was IMF."

The blood drained out of Casper's face. "What?" he whispered.

Ethan nodded, his usually unflappable countenance suddenly drawn with sadness. "She was a field agent," he said. "She died three years ago, right?" Casper nodded. "We went to her service. She was declared killed in action, but the body was never found, Casper. They buried an empty coffin. Your dad disappeared shortly after." Casper glared at the floor, eyes brimming, but Ethan continued, uncharacteristically gentle. "He was never found either. The IMF monitored him, but he disappeared just two weeks after Elena was declared dead. We never found him. The reason you were never told the true circumstances of their deaths is because your mom was NOC. Deep, deep cover. Brandt was a chief analyst for years and he never even knew her status or missions. The bereaved aren't told that kind of thing after their family member dies." Ethan looked down. "They tried to give you a story right? About your mom and dad?"

Casper nodded again. "I could tell they were lying. When I asked they just repeated it. I never got the truth. About her, or my dad." He fell back, then scoffed. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his eyes. "So they weren't lying," he said, his voice rough. "All this time I believed them, but there was still a part of me that wanted this whole thing to be a mistake."

"Casper," said Brandt. "Did they ever mention exactly what your mom did to them?"

Casper sniffed again. "No. They never told me the details. Just that Elena Williams had messed them up and hurt them. Nothing else."

Brandt swore. "So we're still at a dead end."

Casper frowned. "What do you mean?"

"We don't know who these people are either," said Benji, loosening up and plopping down next to Brandt. "They blew up the plane Ethan was on. He survived. They came after him with mercenaries. He survived. Brandt and I and our teammate Jane were told Ethan was dead, but we came to the UK anyway to look for him."

"We were captured in London," said Brandt. "But we didn't get a look at any of them. You and your friend with the electrodes are the first actual enemies I've seen all week."

"Jurich wasn't my friend," snapped Casper, suddenly defensive. "He was my handler. He was there to make sure I didn't mess up."

"You seemed pretty upset when I knifed him," said Ethan dryly.

"He's the first face I've known in months," Casper said. "And you startled me. But he wasn't my friend. He threatened me constantly. That's why I had to torture you, and act like I wanted to," he said, turning to Brandt. "I'm really sorry about that, by the way."

Despite the kid's story, Brandt was still feeling a little hostile. "You didn't have to do it."

"Jurich didn't threaten me," snarled Casper, glaring at Brandt. "He threatened Logan. It was my little brother's life at stake. What would you have done?"

Again Brandt saw Clint in his mind, and he couldn't meet Casper's eyes. "I would have done exactly what you did."

For a moment the only sound was the hiss of the fire as Casper's story sank in to all of them.

"There's something you need to understand about these people," Casper said lowly, looking at the ground. "They're not in it for money, or power. They want revenge. They want to hurt people. My mom did something to them. I don't know if it was them who really killed her and my dad, but they came after me and Logan to get back at her. If they want to kill Ethan, he must have hurt them too."

"Why would they kill me and then go after my team?" asked Ethan. "If they wanted to hurt me they'd kill me last."

"I don't know," said Casper. "But I do know this: you and everyone you've ever loved are in this now. I don't know how they do it, but these people can find anyone. They found me and Logan. They found your team when they came to England. And they're going to find you. They'll kill you and then go after anyone you ever knew or worked with. No one who remembers you will be left alive. They will erase your memory from the world."

Ethan had paled, and Brandt felt himself doing the same thing. "When you say everyone–"

Casper nodded, fear in his eyes. "I mean everyone."