A/N: It's about damn time I updated, huh? *chuckles* Sorry for the long wait! I truly am. Despite its length, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Something was different in the air. His hand paused on the doorknob, his eyes roaming the darkness of the house. Click, click, click. The cat came up to his feet, rubbed itself against his expensive slacks. A purr radiated up his leg, tickling his calf. Despite his unease, a soft smile touched his lips. Sweeping the cat off the floor and into his arms, he kicked the door shut and wandered through the house, maneuvering himself with ease. He hadn't lived there long – he was always changing homes – but he knew what was supposed to be where. The cat purred quietly in his arms, claws kneading his blazer. He almost chastised the animal, but the fact that he had four identical suits hanging in his closet upstairs kept him from hitting the cat across the nose.

The stairs rose up to his left, glowing with soft, white luminescence as the moon crept through the window and poured through the slats, pooling at the base of the stairs. His hand rested on the smooth banister, his head tilted down to smirk at his cat. His foot came down on the first step, a clear tap against the wood.

The hair on his nape prickled. Rocking back on his heels, his foot coming back down from the step, he glanced up the stairs, eyebrows furrowing. The purring stopped; the cat leapt from his arms. Her claws scrabbled across the wooden floor as she scrambled to the other side of the house, leaving all manner of claw marks in the polished wood. He cocked his head, strained to listen, fixed his gaze on the top of the stairs. A shiver inched down his spine, settled in his gut.

The feeling passed, left him with nothing but a shudder that shook off his unease. Everything was locked, so the alarm system said. The cat had greeted him, and she was prone to running off for no reason at all – perhaps chasing imaginary ghosts. The house had once been notorious for paranormal activity, but that had proved to be invalid information once he moved in. Nothing was as it seemed.

He descended the stairs as quickly as his aging bones would let him. Things had gone well that night. Everything had been done as planned, and the package had been received not one minute late. He would've loved to indulge himself in opening the package, but sleep dictated otherwise, and the opening of the package itself was not what he was waiting for. There were other more important things that the package would cause. He only needed to sit back and wait.

Something clamped around his mouth. An arm hooked around his neck. A fist rammed into his gut. Fire exploded through his abdomen; a groan of agony came muffled through the hand across his lips. His teeth sunk into flesh, drawing a well of blood onto his tongue. Shouting, cursing – a punch to the mouth. White stars burst in his vision.

Dragged, carried, shoved into a chair. Strapped down to the arms and legs. The sound of duct tape uncoiling filled his ears. He was used to its familiar, metallic, sticky sound. He had grown fond of it since the first time he had heard – but he had been on the other end, not the one tied down and manhandled. No longer a field agent, he found that he was, for the first time in his life, out of shape. The ache spreading through his body, blossoming from his stomach, caused the waves of regret to crash over him.

Blinding light. His vision washed out. He winced, cringed against it, jerked at the sharp jab behind his eyes as his vision tried to autocorrect itself. His head pounded. He was sure a bruise was already spreading out across his face, mottling his skin. If he was lucky, that would be the only thing he'd get.

"Where is she?"

Low, guttural. Barely contained anger. Squinting against the light, he rolled his head in the direction of the speaker. The voice was familiar – too familiar. But it was just the voice he wanted.

"Mr. Barney," he managed to say, his voice calmer than expected. "I was expecting you."

"Where is she, Church?"

Mr. Church couldn't see anything past the beam of white light piercing the darkness. "Such ancient methods, Mr. Barney. I figured you for a modern man. Or am I just thinking about Mr. Christmas?"

Christmas darted into the light, his face inches from Church's. He yanked the spook forward by the tie, tightening the silk band around Church's neck. Red blossomed in the man's face.

"Don't fuck with us," Christmas snarled, voice lower than Ross's. "Where the fuck is she?"

"Where do you think?"

Christmas's fist connected with Church's already sore jaw. The latter jerked in the chair, strained against his restraints, felt blood well up in his mouth and trickle over his lips. Christmas wavered in Church's vision, a blur weaving in and out of two or three merc clones of Lee. The tie wrapped strangle-worthy tight, pinching off his ragged breathing.

"I swear to God, I will kill you." Christmas leaned closer, purposely spitting on Church's face as he spoke. Rage rolled off him in waves, the cords in his neck taut with fury. His light, cold eyes reminded Church of a sharp icicle.* "You'd better tell me where she is, or I will strangle you with this tie, and while I'm doing that, I'll gut you too, you miserable son of a bitch."

Ross placed a hand on Christmas's shoulders. His fingers pressed into the man's still-tender bullet wound. Lee grit his teeth in pain, turning on Ross with hatred flaring hotter than the wildest wildfire in his eyes. Ross met his gaze, stared him down, gave a small shake of the head. As pissed as he was himself, he wasn't going to let Christmas gut the man before he told them what they needed to know.

"You guys got a pretty little paycheck for Vilena," Church stated, sensing the dissension in the ranks. "I didn't expect you assholes to thank me this way."

Christmas stepped out of the light, leaving Ross silhouetted. The lines in his face, deep enough as they were, took on a darker, sinister side. His normally complacent, unreadable face now tightened and creased with restrained anger, although Church was sure it could become unbridled at any moment to a point far past what Christmas had displayed.

"Erin is missing," Ross growled, stepping out of the light to blind Church again. "She was kidnapped. Where is she?"

Church, despite the light, managed to keep his eyes peeled open and his gaze steady. "Tell me, Mr. Barney, what is she worth to you?"

Christmas's voice from the shadows, hot with impatience: "Where IS she?"

Ross remained silent, arms crossed across his chest, brow furrowed. Church looked past the light, tried to locate him in the darkness, found nothing but black – but still talked anyway, sensing that the man was right there. Church cleared his throat, his eyes unblinking.

"Is she worth your life?"

* Reference to Die Hard 2: Die Harder, although Bruce Willis (aka Mr. Church) was the one in that film, not Jason Statham (Lee Christmas).