This chapter's song is one of my current favorites, and an absolutely perfect anthem for Eliot: "Redemption" by Redlight King.

Also, as a happy note for me, this is the first chapter to go up on my brand new, actually fully functional laptop. Its predecessor had been my writing companion for 7.5 years. I'm oddly sentimental about, uh, everything, but I'm glad to let the old computer retire in honor before it couldn't post fic anymore!

Additionally, I want to give you all a warning up front – there will be strong physical violence in this story. And there will be people who are killed, sometimes brutally. I'm sticking to mainly canon-consistent violence here, but bad stuff is going to happen. If this makes you uncomfortable, let me know and I will gladly give you some more specific spoilers and trigger warnings.

(To be clear, I mean only physical, not sexual, violence. I NEVER write sexual violence. I may implicate it as a veiled threat, but I will never actually write it or include it as part of a story. Okay? That's a line I draw in every story I write, always.)

The violence is a couple of chapters off, but I figured I'd put out the warning now.

Back to the adventures of Eliot and Molly in a Venezuelan basement…

Enjoy!

Chapter 6: House the Sharks

Eliot didn't say another word until there was the banging knock at the door.

Molly looked up at him.

"Stay back here," he told her, and returned to his ready crouch.

The door opened just enough for a plastic mixing bowl to slide in on the floor. A pair of water bottles rolled after it.

"Hey!" Eliot yelled.

No one entered, but the door paused in the act of closing.

"Tell your boss to send down some paper towels or something. And a damn blanket while you're at it."

The door shut and locked.

"Paper towels?" Molly asked. "Are they some kind of secret weapon for our escape?"

"No." Eliot opted not to meet her eyes. "But eventually we're gonna need something for toilet paper."

Molly froze. She looked around as if for the first time, realizing the room was utterly devoid of anything resembling a toilet. Her gaze landed on the grate to which Eliot's chains was attached.

"Yup. Sorry, Botasky."

Molly closed her eyes and let out a deliberate breath. "Just like camping, right?"

Eliot quirked a half-smile. "Only if you camp in some pretty weird places."

"Shut up." Molly flounced across the floor to retrieve the bowl and water bottles. She brought the bowl back in her hands, tucking the water bottles under an arm. "I thought it would be, you know, gruel. It's always gruel in the movies."

The bowl held three different foods all scooped in next to one another. The first was a simple white rice, the second a mixture of black beans and something else, and the third a small pile of shredded meat.

"Not good for production," Eliot said. "We're probably not the only prisoners here, and it's easier to feed everybody the same moderate slop than have to cook two completely different meals for your goons and your livestock."

"Does the boss eat this stuff, too?"

"Probably not. His lieutenants will eat well too. And when the goons get rewarded, they get to share in it. But a place like this?" Eliot glanced around. "Most of the goons here will be so glad to get three square meals a day, they won't care what it is."

Eliot took the bowl from her and scooped up a bit of all three with his fingers. "Sorry. We're gonna be eating a little like barbarians here."

"Whatever. Like I really care at this point."

Eliot snorted at her, amused, and closed his eyes, focusing on the food, both how it felt on his skin and what he could taste when he put it into his mouth. He was by no means an expert in drugs and poisons, but there were a few he had cause to know fairly well. And he had learned that he didn't have to specifically be able to identify a contaminant to know there was something amiss. And he did know the taste of spoiled food, or meat that wasn't safe to eat.

On the plus side, the food appeared to be fine, if overcooked, poorly seasoned, and probably scraped from the bottom of the pot. On the minus side, he was absolutely certain it wasn't beef that had been shredded for them.

"Question," he said after swallowing his mouthful. "How badly do you want to know what's in here?"

"I...don't think I want to know. I mean, it's not...people...right?"

Eliot levied a glare. "Of course not. These guys aren't that bad." He shook his head. "I am burning every book in your house when we get back. This is ridiculous."

"Okay." Molly shrugged. "Then as long as it won't kill me, I'm just not going to think about this being secretly rat or something."

Eliot decided to leave it at that. "Good. Eat slowly, starting with the rice, and eat until you're not quite hungry anymore."

At her look, he rolled his eyes.

"You were drugged and you don't want to get sick, so the rice will help your stomach. And there's not enough here for both of us to get full, so we have to share. Plus, being a little bit hungry will keep you sharp. And it'll mean less...mess later."

Molly looked at the grate on the floor again. "So gross."

"Yep."

They passed the bowl back and forth, scooping up bites with their fingers. Molly left a bit more of the meat for Eliot – he privately thought she wasn't quite as open to the possibilities as she pretended to be – and he left extra beans for her in exchange. He also checked the bottles of water for tampering, but they seemed all right. He drank only a little of his own, and Molly copied him, throwing another glare to the grate.

"I'm going to name it," she said suddenly.

"Name what?"

"That." She pointed at the grate. "I have to call it something so I can hate it." She pushed to her feet to cross to it, perching above it like a hungry hawk. She studied the metal bars as closely as Nate would the screens of data on a mark, and Eliot smiled.

"If you name it something stupid, I reserve the right to make that your new nickname," he warned.

"I'm calling it Dexter," she said. She faced him, crossing her arms. "Acceptable?"

"Works for me. So, got one for our Russian friend?"

"What, the boss guy?"

"Yeah." Eliot offered her the bowl of food and she returned to grab a scoop of rice. "He didn't introduce himself. We gotta call him something." He glanced at her. "And I owe him one for that." He indicated the slight bruising on her cheek.

Molly flinched slightly, but then asked, "How'd you know who did it?"

"You kept your face out of sight when he was here."

She nodded. "It didn't even hurt that much."

Eliot drew in a deep breath. It was either that or explode. "I'll pay him back for it, though. I promise. And that will hurt."

That earned him a small smile. "Deal."

"So what do we call him?"

"How about Gogol?"

"As in the Bond villain?"

She nodded.

"I'm still burning all your books and movies, and maybe your computer while I'm at it," Eliot said.

Molly grinned at him. "What? Are you telling me that James Bond isn't an accurate portrayal of espionage? Of good versus evil locked in combat to the death?"

Eliot glared. Molly responded by giggling and flicking a pebble in his direction.

A little after they'd wiped the bowl clean with their hands, there was another knock on the door. Molly rose, but Eliot took the bowl from her and shoved her back behind him. He adjusted his position slightly.

When the door opened, he threw the bowl, banked it off a wall, and sent it rolling out the door with pinpoint accuracy, where it was met with a surprised Spanish expletive. A moment later, a slightly battered roll of paper towels and an armload of blankets were dropped inside the door and it shut again.

Only when the door was locked did Eliot move away from Molly. "Okay. Shake out the blankets over there and look for fleas or bedbugs. Bring them over when you're done."

Molly separated three thin blankets and shook them as far away from herself as possible, only holding them with two fingers. Eliot didn't see any bugs when he examined them, but he made a mental note to check them both for fleas periodically anyway.

"Okay, Botasky. What have we learned so far?"

"That you know way too much about dealing with prisons and possible rat meat," she said promptly. At Eliot's look, she shrugged, settling where she could sit on a blanket across from him. "That they're not going to kill us? At least right away?"

"That's a good start," he said, nodding. "We've also learned that it's not a Russian who is bringing us things, at least some of the time. So probably somebody paid to follow orders, but not a direct threat."

"That's good, right? That means it'll be easier to get past him?"

"Exactly. We've also learned they're willing to negotiate with us, or we wouldn't have this stuff."

"So?"

"So we might be able to get something else we need."

"Lockpicks?"

"No."

"A chainsaw?"

"No." This time he poked her with a foot.

"A phone?"

Now Eliot's face bent in a smile. "You're not wrong, but that's not what we're going to ask for."

Molly was surprised. "We're getting a phone? So we can call for help?"

"In a manner of speaking." Eliot ran a hand through his hair. "Look, you wanted me to be straight with you, right?"

"Duh."

"Okay. Well." He let out a breath before he met her eyes. "That means I have to tell you that we can't get out right away."

"We can't?"

"No. I have to do something before we can leave."

"So...when we get a phone, you're going to tell your friends not to come."

"Not...exactly." Eliot considered his next words carefully. "If I tell them that, they'll be here ten minutes later when Hardison tracks our location. They'll run in here and these guys will…" He forced himself not to think about it. "I have to slow them down. Just long enough for me to get out of these damn chains and have a talk with Gogol."

"What if Gogol isn't here when you get out of the chains?" Molly asked.

"That's why I have to create a delay. I have to make sure to time it so I get loose when he's here. Otherwise, I could miss him."

"Okay. Let me see if I've got this." Molly held out her hands, ticking off her points on her fingers. "You want to ask them for something specific, and somehow that'll get us a phone."

"Right."

"And then you'll use the phone to do something so your friends won't get here for a while."

"Yep."

"And then...at some point when you know Gogol is here, you'll figure out how to get out of the chains and go 'talk' to him and then we can get out of here?"

"Basically."

"Couldn't you figure out how to get out of the chains now and just pretend you're still chained up until you talk to Gogol?" she asked.

Eliot shook his head. "The only way out of these things is with a key. There's only going to be a few keys that work, or maybe just one. Stealing it won't be easy. If we get it today, but I have to wait until tomorrow, somebody's going to notice it's gone."

Molly frowned. "How are you even going to steal it if it's out there and you're in here?"

Eliot sighed. "That's the part you're not going to like."

"Okay. Assume I don't like it. What is it?"

"I'm going to need to get them to beat me up."

"What?"

Eliot shrugged. "It's the simplest way. I can piss them off and they'll come in here and I'll get the key in the middle of the beat-down, assuming they have it on them."

Molly shook her head. "You could get hurt that way! And they might not even have it anyway. What if I try to steal the key for you while you're being a distraction?"

"No." Eliot reached over and grabbed her arm. "Molly, whatever you do, do not steal anything from these people. Promise me."

"Uh, okay?"

"I'm serious!"

"Okay, I seriously promise. But why?"

"The Russian mob, they come out of a bunch of alliances between thieves going back to the Russian gulags. They lived by a code of honor once, though it's mostly been abandoned. But it means they still have a bunch of rules about how things are done that they can enforce if they want to. Right now, your dad has been contracted to them in exchange for your safety. As soon as he does what they ask, he'll belong to them for the rest of his life. But you're still an outsider. You're a civilian to them."

"And if I steal something from them?" She wrapped her fingers around a fraying edge of the blankets, twisting and pulling with her nervousness.

"Then you'll owe them. And you'll be in the exact same position as your dad. And they will make you pay them back." He held her eyes. "If you don't want to be forcibly initiated into the ranks, don't steal from them. Okay?"

He felt badly about scaring her, but he would rather see Molly a little scared than make a mistake that got her pulled into the mafia. He tried to give her the steady look that would quiet those nerves, and after a few slightly-quick breaths, she started to settle again.

"Okay, Eliot. But...can't we come up with something you can do that doesn't involve you getting beat up?"

"I'll work on it, but no guarantees. All right?"

She sighed. "Sure. But that's part two. Part one is still getting a phone so your friends don't come right away."

Eliot nodded.

"And how do we do that? Gogol is the only one who's even come in here."

"That's what we need," Eliot said. "We need somebody to come in here."

"What, like we pretend I'm sick and they come check it out? Yeah, right." Molly scowled. "Don't you read the internet or books or anything? You can't just assume that the bad guys will do something dumb like that. Especially when they've been smart so far. That's, like, six different incompetent bad guy tropes right there."

If anything, that made Eliot smirk. "Exactly."

"You're glad they're smart?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

Eliot settled back. "Watch and learn, Botasky. Watch and learn."

-==OOO==-

Eliot's inner clock told him it had been about less than an hour since the delivery of blankets when there came a bang on the door again.

That was good – otherwise, he might have to adjust his plan.

He already knew that Nate and the team were probably on their way to Venezuela by now. He knew his team, knew what they could do when they were motivated. The flight from Portland to Boston would have almost exactly corresponded with their own airlift to Caracas. Assuming they made fast work of Connell and didn't bother with commercial flights, Eliot figured they would need about two hours in Boston to figure out where to go and then set off right away. Which meant he was now only four or maybe five hours ahead of them.

He had to put some things in their path as soon as possible or they might get too close.

Eliot's priorities had undergone a few shifts since he left Portland, but now they were set in stone.

First, keep Molly safe.

Second, keep Nate and the team safe.

Nothing else mattered.

In order to attain either of these, Eliot had to get control of the situation, both his own captivity and the trap Gogol was setting for Nate.

Which meant playing by a different set of rules for a while.

With a price on Nate's head, Eliot had to move cautiously. He couldn't just grab Molly and run at the first opportunity. He had to make sure he knew who had put that bounty out on Nate in the first place. Only then could he get Molly to safety before tracking down whatever idiot had threatened Eliot's team. To do that, he had to get Gogol to talk.

But Eliot knew Gogol was the kind of Russian boss who didn't live in the slums. He would have an apartment in the middle of the city, and a respectable outwards appearance, even a lucrative day job. He would make only periodic visits as required to where Eliot and Molly were being held. In fact, Eliot was fairly sure he wouldn't see Gogol again until it was time for him to be sold, or for the man to gloat over having bested Nate Ford. Any other time spent hanging around would only endanger the entire operation, and this operation ran too well to be bungled so easily.

And if Gogol was smart enough to run things this well, he was also smart enough to spring his trap on the team someplace else, someplace they wouldn't see it coming, someplace too far for Eliot to reach them.

Ideally, Eliot would throw a few mines into Gogol's path to slow him down, maybe even make it impossible for Gogol to deal him to whoever the highest bidder was going to be. Only then would Gogol return but the team would still be safe, and then Eliot could move.

But that was unlikely. He'd do it if he got the chance, but he couldn't count on it. The only thing he could do was delay and disturb the team enough to keep Gogol off balance and unlikely to move against them.

So Eliot had control both their timetables and keep them all in the air without letting either of them know about it.

There was a play that worked, a single thread he could tug that could keep the pieces moving into and out of each others' way. But tugging that thread was the hardest part of all. He knew how to do it, but putting himself into the position to reach it was the problem.

He could always get somebody to beat him up, but he had told Molly he would try to find a way out of that one. Besides, that was a tactic that only really worked once, and he intended to save it if he could.

Molly had been checking over the blankets thread by thread for fleas just to pass the time, but scrambled back into her place behind Eliot as the door clicked open.

Eliot smelled opportunity.

"Stay behind me, Rats," he said sharply.

Molly jolted, then jumped to her feet. She planted herself directly in front of Eliot and blocked him from view.

A thin young man appeared in the doorway, holding a phone. He stopped as soon as he saw Molly.

"Rats, I said get down," Eliot growled.

Molly threw her shoulders back, though he could see from behind that her chin was shaking slightly.

The man took a few steps into the room. "Move," he said, and his English was heavily accented.

Molly shook her head. "What do you want with him?"

Eliot could have cheered at her improvisation.

"Picture," the man said. He paused, considering the words. "Truth of life."

"You mean proof of life," Molly shot back. She adjusted her angle so she stood directly between the man's camera and Eliot.

"You're gonna get hurt, Rats," Eliot said.

The man advanced, lowering the phone and starting to look both angry and desperate. "Move now."

"Not a chance."

He took one more step forward, lining up a punch aimed at Molly's face.

And Eliot moved.

Molly spun sideways and Eliot tackled the man. In three quick moves, he got the man into a simple hold, the chains serving nicely to put pressure on the man's throat.

"Now." Eliot let his voice go as low and deadly as possible. "Here's what we're going to do. Molly, don't."

She looked longingly at the open door, but stayed close.

"What do you need?"

"Grab his phone."

The man squeaked in fear.

"Listen." Eliot released his grip slightly. "Is your boss around?"

He shook his head.

"Okay. Then nobody needs to know this happened. Right? Nobody needs to know you almost let us get away. And I'll let you go without hurting you, but only after she sends this one text."

The man squeaked again.

"Not a cry for help. Not giving away your boss. Nothing that could possibly hurt you." Eliot gentled his tone. "I don't want to get you killed here. If I did, you'd already be dead. But you're going to do this for me and then you can have your picture and nobody will have to know you messed up."

"Who am I texting, Eliot?" Molly asked.

Eliot rattled off the number from memory. Then he gave her a second series of numbers and a very short message.

"See?" he asked the man in his grip. "Nothing bad about that. And you can check the coordinates. They're not even on this side of the globe. There's nothing there to hurt your boss. It'll never get back to you. Unless you tell somebody you let us use your phone."

And he tightened his grip warningly.

Molly giggled. "Are you seriously using the same tactic on him that they used on my dad?"

"Gotta go with what works, kid." He released the man's throat and turned him so their eyes met. "We got a deal? I won't tell nobody you gave us your phone, and neither will you."

The man gave a terrified nod. "Okay."

"Good." Eliot released him entirely. "Take your picture."

The man snatched the phone back from Molly and pointed the phone's camera. He had to take four versions before he could stop his hands from shaking so hard the results were too blurry to use.

Eliot didn't quite smile. This was going to have consequences, immediate and long-lasting. If he even got out of this alive, he was going to be subjected to a great deal of yelling, at least. That was the best-case scenario – months of yelling. Worst case didn't bear thinking about.

And that was if he lived to the end at all.

But Eliot wasn't too bothered by that possibility.

It was, after all, a more than fair exchange. For all that he had done in his bloodied life, Eliot deserved death – dishonorable, inglorious, and painful. That was the reality. But somewhere in the last few years, Eliot had dedicated his life to preserving four lives more precious to him than anything in the world. His team – whatever they were, and he didn't always have words for it, but he could feel it and it was the only feeling worth keeping in his withered heart – keeping them safe was the only thing that mattered anymore. He would die a thousand times and more for any one of them.

That was a gift they had given him. Reason to live, as he'd said to Nate. But so much more than that, too. Friendship, loyalty, purpose. They let him live the illusion of goodness, when he knew he was still the devil's own creation walking. They let him act on behalf of the angels when he was a monster himself.

And they gave him something to protect, something to love, something to serve.

Any consequences were worthwhile if they came about for the betterment of those four people, those four lives worth anything.

He would die eagerly in their service and be grateful for the chance to atone one more time for that which was unforgivable.

But he couldn't die yet. Not while they were in danger.

Not while Molly was a prisoner and a price hung over Nate's head.

He would pay in blood to extract them from this if he had to. He would spill it all without hesitation, and he already knew that was an inevitability, one way or another.

But for now, all that was needed was one simple message.

"You owe me."