Chapter 28

"Will ya just slow down a moment, son?"

Ever since he saw the notification that his team's com units had suddenly gone offline, Eliot had been frantic, moving from one place to the next with agitated motions. Even as he made calls to multiple sources, demanding information about this so-called hitter Nate had hired, Eliot rummaged through his drawers, pulling out jeans and shirts that he hastily through into his travel bag ready to jump into his challenger at a moment's notice.

That had been almost twenty-four hours ago now, and a completely different state, but Eliot was still practically vibrating as paced from one corner of his motel room to the other, feeling like a tiger trapped in its cage.

"I told you not to call me that," the younger man growled in frustration, his hands curling up into tight little fists as he turned in anger. "I don't even know why you came with me," he then added, just to push his dad further away.

But his father wasn't so easily manipulated. So digging his heels into the ground he stayed firmly seated on the bed as he stated, "yes, ya do... You want t' help your friends and I get that, but you're still not up to full strength kid, so I've come to help."

"I can manage just fine on my own." The hitter continued to prowl, his fingers itching to do... something, to help end this situation.

"Really?" Mr. Clark chuckled for a moment but stopped when he saw the stern look on his son's face. He then turned serious as he asked, "and how was ya plannin' on gettin' here?"

...

11 hours, earlier.

"Spencer, what are ya doin'?" Mr. Clark had watched his son for the last quarter of an hour, running around like a spooked filly as he picked up his stuff. At first, he thought that it was just panic getting the best of Eliot and once he'd taken the time to breathe he'd come to his senses, but that didn't seem to be the case. "You can't just go runnin' after them."

"Watch me," the hitter grumbled before turning again to carry on with his packing. He was muttering to himself, something about "idiot masterminds never listenin' to him" and "cartels that should have been avoided without proper backup", as he collected not only clothes and toiletries but also a boatload of weapons that were apparently stashed around his home in many different hiding spots.

"Son, you can't even drive," the older man tried to reason but nothing was getting through the thick fog of fear that surrounded his son's thoughts.

"I can drive just fine." It was a bald-faced lie and Eliot knew it, but maybe his dad didn't know the full extent of his injuries or the fact that his leg had been spasming on and off for the past couple of hours.

"Not with your leg twitchin' like that." Mr. Clark stated plainly as he pulled the keys from Eliot's weakened grasp. "And I'm pretty sure some of those pills you take are for seizures, so that's a double no on the drivin'." He then gave his son a pointed look (the one all dads just seemed to know) that said it was the end of the discussion.

However, this was Eliot Spencer, ex-black-ops soldier and best-known retrieval specialist in the world. Nothing stopped him, not when his brain was still functioning and firing on most cylinders. So with a quick moment to think and a slowly growing smirk, the hitter had a new plan of action, one that his dad couldn't refute.

"Fine, you can drive me."

...

"Look, Spencer, I just want ya t' calm down for a moment and think about things rationally. If ya go in there all guns blazin', all that's gonna happen is ya' gonna get in trouble and there'll be no one left to get your friends out."

"So what do you suggest I do." Eliot collapsed into a nearby chair. The stress of it all finally taking its toll on his abused nervous system, as his leg muscles started to cramp and seize right from under him. "I can't just wait here and do nothing."

"I know, son," the older man lowered his voice slightly, changing the tone to one that used to soothe his little boy at night when nightmares woke him. It always worked back then to calm the young Spencer down, so maybe it would help now as he tried to settle the older version. "But you're not doin' nothing, you're making a plan that will get everyone out safely. That's how you did it in the Army, right?"

Mr. Clark was never a soldier like his son, but after years of therapy and soul-searching, he decided to learn about the role his boy had chosen, talking to those that had made similar decisions, and see how it all worked. Because he wanted to be ready if his son ever came back to him, to know what struggles the kid may have faced and help him through. But after all those years, all he could ever really learn was that he would never truly know, he could never understand... but he could be there at least.

"Now tell me about your friends and what kind of a mess they got themselves into."

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"Why didn't your client just go straight to the police herself?"

Eliot sighed and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day and explaining everything to his dad had stretched further into the evening than he would have liked, but it seemed like they were finally getting somewhere. "She didn't have any evidence. Plus, she got into some trouble a few years back, and just being in this state could put her back in prison. So Nate suggested that she lay low, just until we can get her and her sister back home."

"I see... And this is what you and your friends do? You help people that can't get it anywhere else?"

"Pretty much," the hitter shrugged nonchalantly, it wasn't as if he hadn't been through this before with Aimee.

"Even if it means breaking the law?"

"Especially if it means breaking the law. That's kind of where our expertise lies." And it was such a weird feeling to say that to the man who raised him, teaching him right from wrong during the early years of his life. "Look. I know this is a lot to take in, and to be perfectly honest I don't really care at this point if you do like this part of my life. But that's what it is, my life, and it took a lot for me to get here, where I feel even the slightest bit comfortable."

"Ok, son," Mr. Clark put his hands up as a sign of surrender, despite never really starting to fight back in the first place. "So, what's the plan?"

Eliot paused for a second before a few words clumsily fell from his mouth. "Well, I thought that maybe I could... I could... God, why is this so difficult?" He then shouted out suddenly, his body and soul sinking in defeat. "Every time I try and think of a solution, my damn leg or arm gets in the way. I used to be the world's top retrieval specialist, guys would hire me to steal million-dollar art pieces from warlords and mob bosses, and I wouldn't bat an eyelid. But now... Damnit!" Eliot slammed his fist hard onto the wooden table beside him. "I can't even get my friends back from some low-rate gang members and a pub owner."

As he watched his son fall deeper into his despair, Mr. Clark couldn't help but wonder what he was even doing there. Spencer needed proper help from people that knew him and understood how to lift him up when times got tough. But those people were missing, and probably in a lot of danger right now, so this sad old man would have to do. He may not know what his son was like nowadays, but he was well aware of how stubborn the Clark men could be. There was a time in his life when he needed a strong talking to, and he could still remember a few lessons he's been taught.

"Look, Spencer. Things have changed for you and that's difficult, but you can't let it defeat you." He paused, waiting to catch his son's full attention from where it was plastered against the floor. Eliot didn't look up, even when his dad started talking again, but the way his ears twitched under those soft curls told the older man that he was listening. "Now sometimes we have to adapt to survive, whether that means excepting help from others, or finding new ways to help ourselves it doesn't really matter as long as we keep on going. I haven't been around for all that long, but from what I've seen, you've made a lot of changes already so you can continue on with your life the way you like it. What with those fancy tools you use when cookin', or the way you plan your mornin' based on how you feel, you learned to adapt. This now, it's no different."

"You've changed as well," Eliot mumbled softly.

"I told you, I got therapy."

"You always said therapy was useless," the hitter laughed. "Said that you would never be caught dead talkin' about your feelings with some quack."

"Yeah, well I adapted. Had to if I ever wanted to fix things between us." Throughout all his sessions, that one goal had been his main focusing point to get him through the hour. "Now. Ya said that you'd worked with your team since the accident. How? Things must've been different. Mr. Ford must've changed his plans t' fit around ya, so how'd he do it?"

The hitter paused for a brief moment, his mind cycling back through the last few missions. "I worked mostly as a distraction. Keep the mark lookin' in my direction whilst the team worked behind the scenes." Thinking about it now, something like that would actually be quite perfect for this situation if only... "It's a good play when you have a team workin' with ya. But I can't pull that off alone."

"So then don't."

"I don't have time to bring anyone else in," the hitter sighed and shook his head. "This needs to happen today before the others get killed."

"I meant me, Spencer." The older man pushed himself forward, settling his hand on Eliot's thigh. "Use me." He watched as his son turned away scoffing at the idea as if it was a joke. "I'm being serious, son. I may not be trained for this like you and your friends, but I can at least give it a shot. Hell, I can still throw a decent punch." He demonstrated a pretty good hook and an uppercut before switching directions. "Or maybe I could at least distract these guys by playin' the dim-witted hick."

Eliot thought about it for a second before shaking his head yet again."No dad, I can't... You're not a con like me, you could get hurt, or worse. It needs to be someone else."

"Who else ya got?"

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"Here take this." Digging deep into the trunk of his challenger, Eliot pulled out a small plastic-coated box and passed it to his father who then handled it carefully, almost like a grenade that was primed and ready for explosion.

"What is it?" The older man asked, turning it over in his hands as he looked for markings.

"It's a taser. One of Parker's favorites, so don't lose it."

It was one of many weapons that Eliot had stashed in the vehicle, including knives, batons, nunchucks, and what looked to be throwing stars to Mr. Clark's very untrained eyes. It was those same eyes that spotted the police checkpoint as they where crossing state lines.

...

"What's happening, Officer?" Eliot asked calmly as the state trooper subtly asked him to roll down his window.

"Just doing some spot checks as people cross the border. I assure you, it's nothing to be afraid of."

"Oh, I'm not afraid." The hitter then gave his signature grifter smile to the stern-looking cop, in hopes of further conveying that message.

'Talk about your bloody self, Spencer.' Mr. Clark panicked from his spot in the driver's seat. 'Have you forgotten all the weapons you have stashed in this thing?'

The stuff was obviously hidden at first glance, but even a rookie cop would check to see if there was a false bottom (which there was) in the trunk of a car.

"If you wouldn't mind stepping out sirs." The cop asked politely, signaling both men to do as instructed.

"Of course officer," Eliot replied sweetly. "Could you just get my wheelchair for me, it's in the trunk?"

'Damnit, Spencer. Why would you ask them that? Do you want us to go to jail, is that your idea of revenge for how I treated you?' It wasn't like Eliot couldn't have just stepped out of the car himself. Hell, the chair was only in there for emergencies.

The officer nodded and made his way slowly to the rear of the vehicle, taking care not to let his charges slip from his sight. With a cautious hand already placed on his sidearm, the man then carefully lifted the challenger's trunk open and peered inside.

It took about a minute after leaving for the cop to return to Eliot's passenger-side window.

"Your all good sir. I won't make you leave the car. Have a safe journey."

And just like that, the two men were waved off by the state patrol officer, a trunk full of weapons in tow.

...

"Where'd you get all this stuff anyway?" Mr. Clark asked, finally being able to see the full extent of his son's stash.

"Here and there," the hitter motioned from side to side. "I have a Hanzo sword back at the apartment, that Nate got me for Christmas a few years back."

"Ok..." The older man stretched out the word, concern pretty clear on his face.

And Eliot couldn't blame him.

He even scared himself sometimes when he thought about how normal this had all come to him.

"Look, if this is all too much for you, you can back out, I'll find another way."

"No-n-no, I can do this." Mr. Clark shook his head quickly, before lifting the device he'd been handed and stating, "just show me how this thing works."

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The backroom of the Fisher and Son's Bar and Grill was built to be some sort of storeroom for stock or other items used in the restaurant trade. But its current owners had chosen to instead, set its purposes to something seedier. That's why a man was currently standing at its center, brandishing a knife toward four beaten and bloody hostages. For this man in particular, it was a pretty good gig. Easy, because no one was likely to come looking for a group of con artists that had been caught poaching in on his boss's business.

Still, there were sometimes surprises in this line of work.

"Excuse me, sir..." A taller guy with a thick southern accent, suddenly stumbled through the loading doors, that some idiot had left open to let in the breeze.

He didn't look dangerous, David thought to himself, in fact, he was pretty old looking, with greying hair and wrinkled skin where his smile had folded in creases. However, he couldn't be there, not while his boss was taking care of things.

"You can't be back here." The gang member shouted at the man as he walked further into the room.

"Oh, I understand, I'm just a little lost see. Was wonderin' if you could point me in the right direction, son." The stranger wasn't listening to his undisguised threats, and instead was coming closer, as if he didn't see the huge knife David was holding or the people he had tied up.

"I said, you can't be back here. Leave," he pushed the older man backward, turning himself away from the four people he was meant to be guarding. "Now."

"Hey now, no need to be rude. Didn't your mamma ever teach you any manners?"

"You leave my mum out of it," David shouted, his finger pushing harshly against the older man's chest. He was so enraged at the slight made towards his mother, that he didn't see the hitter as he slipped into the room.

"Look there's no need for pushin'." Mr. Clark backed off slightly, still making sure that the focus stayed on him and not the escape happening behind them. "I just wanted directions to the bus station, that's all. Thought people were s'posed t' be friendly up north." He continued to waffle on, pitching his voice a little louder to cover the small sound that came from Eliot dropping his knife.

"What was that?" David went to turn around, but the stranger gave him a light knock on the shoulder to keep his attention.

"Hey, look at me when I'm talkin' to ya. Don't be rude."

"You messin' with me old man?" The gang member suddenly flipped with accusation, his knife hand rising up to point at the other man's belly.

Mr. Clark started to back away again, mumbling as his feet shuffled back toward the door. "I don't know what your..."

"Leave him alone." The sound of a deep southern voice startled both men as they spun to face it, only one looking relieved whilst the other appeared confused.

"Who are you?"

"The guy that's gonna kick your ass if you don't lower that weapon." The new person commented confidently, his eyes taking a quick measurement of his opponent's body.

"Huh, how you gonna do that, cripple?" Dave pointed to the cane that Eliot was now leaning heavily on, smirking when he saw how fast the hitter's hand was shaking. "Gonna hit me with your walkin' stick?"

"I might do."

"Yeah, well it ain't just me you have to deal with." The gang member leaned passed them as he yelled into the other room. "Chicos, entren aquí"

Having a good grasp of many languages, Spanish being one of them, Eliot knew exactly what was about to come.

Smirking as he adjusted his grip on the cane. "Good, now the fun can really start,"

"You have a really strange idea of fun, you know that, boy." His father then responded, whilst he too changed his stance to that of a fighting one.

Apparently, the one guard had about half a dozen or so friends waiting in the other room, probably sharpening the large collection of knives that they were now brandishing. A year ago, this wouldn't be an issue for the hitter, hell it would actually be considered a slow day for him, but things were different now.

"Just stand behind me, and try not to get in my way."