"Beware the man who does not talk and the dog that does not bark."-Cheyenne proverb

An aroma of fresh-scented tomatoes encompassed Eliot Spencer's hotel room in Cincinnati, Ohio. With the simplistic fragrance, the hitter was taken back to the short time he spent in Florence, Tuscany. Though he had been on the job, he remembered stopping by a quiet restaurant just off his motel. Its small circular tables were covered in dull pink cloths, and the walls next to it were overgrown with ivy. The disheveled look deterred most of its patrons. But Eliot Spencer didn't come for the ambiance. The food was what brought him back. His face lit up when a plain elderly woman who smelt of roast coffee, greeted him. Her wrinkles were hidden behind a warm smile as she would shuffle toward him. Her hands were surprisingly steady around a polished white bowl while she served him her signature Tuscan stew. "Dolce bambino," her voice was coated in empathy and her soft hands would rest on his cheeks. He lent into her embrace, and for once the hitter was at peace.

He grumbled when the buzzing of his phone drew him back to reality. Fishing the device out of his pocket, he answered without looking at the caller ID.

"What," he growled. He was disrupted by his irritation by the soft sound of labored breathing.

"Eliot. . ." the voice came out as a fearful whisper yet Eliot instantly knew who it was.

"Aimee?" his voice cracked slightly.

A forceful pop echoed in his ear, and the labored breathing stopped. His movements were swift as he raced out his room. The team was there finishing up a rip job against another corporate guy stealing from his company. The next few doors were filled with the small team. He crossed the hallway to the opposite room door, pounding his fists on the frame. It felt like ages before the familiar hacker slowly opened up.

Alec Hardison groggily answered, "Hello?"

Eliot pushed past him, entering the room as he said, "Triangulate, track, do whatever the hell you do, on a number for me."

"Hmm…" Hardison trails off half asleep.

"Hardison!" Eliot paused for a moment not wanting to wake everyone up yet. "Please. . .this is important." That's when the hacker saw the crack in the man's personal exterior.

Hearing it was enough to jolt Hardison awake. He crosses the room towards where his computer rested. Typing hurriedly he pinpoints the woman's phone to her home in Kentucky. That was all the hitter needed. He took off at Mach speed to his Dodge pickup, speeding down the back roads and praying to multiple Gods that the woman was okay. He swerved past civilian cars, slowed for known speed checks, and raced down the small street until he pulled up to the home. Slamming on the breaks he jumped from the car and sprinted to the ranch, taking two steps with each stride. The door to the study laid cracked open. His brows furrowed as he slowly opened the door and peered inside, afraid of what lay in front of him. In center stage he saw her. Strands of hair scattered over her forehead, caked in sweat and blood, and her temple was blown to shreds. Brain matter covered the shoulders of her shirt. Her hands were still clutching the frame of the chair, preparing for an impact that already passed.

Eliot crotched down to his knees. He cupped her face in the palms of his hands, resting his forehead against hers, and he sobbed. His body shook uncontrollably as he wrapped her in his arms, her body weighing him down and causing his feet to crease in his boots. He rested with her until his eyes swelled. Then he gently pulled her from his chest and placed her back in the chair. In his peripheral he saw a card stuck to the floor. Lifting it with the nubs of his fingertips he picked up the card and turned it over, there it read Leverage Consulting & Associates with Eliot's reference number.

Before he could read further groaning came from the left of them. He paused, cursing himself for allowing his guard to be dropped. He stood up from his crotched position and crossed over to the couch. There he lied, the drunken body of Nathan Ford. The sounds of sirens alerted Eliot that they needed to leave. Eliot paused for a moment, debating if he wanted to bring the other man with him, but it's better if he could question him instead of the cops.

Nate's breath hitched as Eliot helped him to his feet. His body clumsily sways back and forth as he stumbles to his feet. His balance is screwed and faulty.

"One foot after the other, Nate-y boy," he slurred.

A small laugh escaped the mastermind's mouth as he steadied himself with Eliot's help. Not realizing the anger radiating from the hitter. Nate's legs wobbled while he formed a continuous stride, one foot after the other. "Come on, Nate. Pull yourself together," he heard Sophie vexing in his thoughts. The two made a fast pace toward Eliot's pickup. Nate's fingers graced the side of the car. He assisted the hitter and reached down for the knob, and with a harsh swing, the door flew open. Nate used his gelatin legs to stumble forward, falling over the front seat. Eliot grumbled something before assisting the man further into the seat. Shutting the door behind him he ran to the other side of the car and peeled off. The familiarity of a blackout began shutting Nate down but in the isolated silence, someone let out a muffled cry.

"WAKE UP!"

Nate awakened to knocking at a door, not remembering the early morning, or how he stammered into his hotel room. He grimaced at his pounding hangover. Sophie entered the room and sighed at the reeking man. "Isn't it a little early to be drinking, Nate?"

He waved her off. "When is it ever early, Sophie?" She crosses to the window without a response and he let out a chuckle. "No, smart remark?" The uncomfortable silence only shifted the drunk to a sitting position. He looks up to see her staring emptily out the window. He matched her blank stare with his confusion. "Sophie, is everything okay?"

"Eliot wants us in the living room," she says instantly as she draws the curtains to the blinding light of the morning.

She mumbled something about being tired as she collected his disheveled garments from the floor. Nate kneaded the crust from his eyes then reached over to his nightstand for his flask. She grabbed it before it could reach the edges of his lips. She gave him a look to 'get up.' He huffed as he staggered out of bed.

He was instantly met with clothes thrown at his face. Raising an eyebrow he stared at her, perplexed at her attitude, but he didn't have the energy to question it. He just slowly, but steadily made himself presentable. He shot her a crooked smirk. But she scowled before leaving the room.

Sighing, he followed Sophie out of the room. The first thing he picked up on was the unsettling tension in the air that grew heavy with every step. Seconds after walking into the room he heard the crash of a chair and in a swift movement he was dangling in the air by the scruff of his collar. He had forgotten, for a moment, just how monstrous the hitter could be when he was angry. His eyes were soulless as he did "that thing with his eyes that scared people", as Tara had once put it.

"Eliot," Hardison began but the look Eliot gave him caused him to quiet in fear.

The room fell silent, everyone afraid to speak, all out of the fear of what the hitter would do to them in his wrath. Nate swallowed the tightness in his throat, wanting to ask Eliot if they were okay, but afraid of the answer at the same time.

"Answer, Nate. Why were you with her?!" When the man hesitated, not really knowing what to say, Eliot put some steel in his voice, and growled, "Now!"

"I-I don't know, what you're talking about" he answered, and the fear in his voice was palpable. He knew that Eliot heard it there, and filed the information away for later use, should it be needed.

"You were with her when she died, and you don't know what happened?"

The mastermind shook his head. "I don't remember."

"Then think."

There was another pregnant pause as nervous sweat dripped from the mastermind's face. Sophie was the first one brave enough to speak. "I can help him remember…if that's okay with you. It just has to be when he's sobered up. Is that okay, Eliot?" Her voice was soft and angelic the same voice she would use when conning a mark.

His nostrils flared but he slowly lowered the man. He gave the rest of the team a menacing look, but sat himself down on the loveseat. In an instant everyone took in a needed breath of air. Sophie walked over to Nate and helped him adjust his collar.

With a worrying tone Nate asked, "What did I do?"

"This morning, police found the body of Aimee Martin, from our horse job." Like a bucket of ice water, the news was all it took to sober Nate up. He straightened up immediately and his eyes locked on Eliot.

The man's knuckles were washed white from tightly clenching them. His breathing was alarmingly steady as he tried to regain his composure. Though his body was stiff as if he had been hit with multiple blows.

Hardison resumed: "Eliot received a strange call from who he believed to be Aimee around 5am. Eliot and I traced the call, and that's when he found her," Hardison paused trying to word it as gently as he could, "She died from a shot to the head. Off the record, Eliot found our reference card on her person. A murder with our card and the killer allowed her to call Eliot, something is off. Not to mention the cops receiving an anonymous tip."

"But why would someone kill her? She was just some client" Parker asked. The blunt response received a look from Sophie. "Sorry, I mean . . . I'm sorry," she chewed on the inside of her lip while she thought about her words carefully. ". . .she knows nothing more than our names and how we work."

"Yeah, but she knows Eliot." Hardison chimed in.

Sophie turned to Eliot, who's been silent the whole briefing. She studied him for a while. Trying to see if this calmness was merely an act or if he would pounce again. "Nate," Sophie said after facing the mastermind, "what do you want us to do?"

The man turned his attention back to the screen where Aimee's smiling face was plastered. "Let's go catch her killer."