A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, alerted and favorited this story. I'm so glad you like it. You are all terrific!

I started writing this one a very long time ago. This is one of a few one-shots and other things I started a while back and am planning to finish up this summer. There will be a couple more here in Thinking of Her, an unrelated one-shot, and I'm working on an Epilogue to my story It's Called Enjoying Yourself. Anyway, I hope you like this. Please review and let me know if you do, or even if you don't. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I do not own 39 Clues.

One False Note: After the Music

Ian woke to the sound of stomping feet and angry voices. There was the acrid smell of smoke and explosive of some kind. He realized he was lying on something cold and hard, his body in an awkward position. He tried to turn his head, but when he did a sharp pain caused him to groan and stop moving. He instantly heard what sounded like several rather large semi-automatic weapons chambering their rounds. They sounded close, extremely close.

Ian painfully cracked his eyes open a slit, seeing only dark blur. He shut his eyes. One of the irritatingly loud voices barked something that sounded like an order in a vaguely familiar language. He tried opening his eyes again. This time he could see a little better. Sure enough, there were four extremely muscular guys surrounding him, pointing their unnecessarily large weapons at his face. He tried to turn his head again, and again the pain forced him to shut his eyes.

He needed to assess the situation. Where was he? What had caused his current situation? He couldn't remember. The language, it was…Italian. Yes. So he was in Italy somewhere. The smell meant there had definitely been an explosion. Had he set it himself, or had he been caught in someone else's trap? This was maddening. It would be easier to think if he wasn't in so much pain and didn't have angry muscle-men shouting at him in a foreign language.

Without warning Ian was jerked up by one of the armed men. He hissed as the pain shot through his head again, but then he realized he was able to see his surroundings and began to take stock of the situation. The dissipating wisps of smoke revealed what looked like the remains of a piano splattered about the room. Piano…

There was Natalie, crumpled in a heap next to him, apparently unconscious, more Italian gunmen bent over her. One pulled a small dart out of her shoulder. That dart was from Natalie's own gun. How had that happened? Natalie was deadly with her dart gun, and practically invincible. The guards started to pat her down roughly, checking for more weapons. Ian wanted to yell, "Get your filthy hands off my sister!" but he couldn't make his mouth work. The guards took her gun and a small china doll they'd found tucked inside her jacket.

The brutes surrounding Ian had started checking him too, confiscating his phone and his poison dart pen. Thankfully they didn't take his watch, with the secret communication device and homing beacon. If he had a chance he would activate it and help would be on its way.

As the guards continued their revoltingly invasive search of his person, Ian took the opportunity to observe and try to regain his memory. Ah, there was a sign across the room near what used to be the piano. He squinted, and made out a word that looked like "Mozart." So, the charred mess in the middle of the room had been Mozart's piano. No, it was a harpsichord. And then Ian's memories began to return: The Clue Hunt. He and Natalie had been following those annoying orphans, Amy and Daniel Cahill. They'd tossed them into the canals of Venice. Venice…Oh yes, that's where they were right now.

Those Cahills, they just kept coming back, like persistent, unwanted weeds in the Kabras' well-manicured gardens at home. They had followed them to Fidelio Racco's house and discovered Mozart's harpsichord. Ian had started to play KV 617, the clue from Benjamin Franklin. He'd played the priceless antique instrument with expertise, of course, noticing admiration in Amy's eyes as he'd played. And then…Ian frowned, trying to remember what had happened next, grimacing at the pain just frowning caused. What happened next? Someone had yelled. Who? Amy, it had been Amy. She'd yelled as she flung herself at him. He didn't remember anything after that. He was used to having girls fling themselves at him, but Amy Cahill had never been that type of girl. She was more of the mousy, pretending-to-be-invisible type. She could barely speak in his presence – not that he wasn't used to that, also, but she was a severe case – and he'd certainly never heard her yell. Why, then, had she acted so out-of-character? Ian struggled to focus his fuzzy memory. Slowly it came to him.

Amy had yelled, "Don't!" and then shoved him just as something exploded. If Ian didn't know better, it almost seemed as though she had been trying to save him, but that couldn't be. Cahills don't save each other from explosions, they push each other into them. That must have been what had happened. The Cahill girl had been trying to explode him, a perfectly understandable action, considering the situation. Quite right of her to try, he mused approvingly, though of course she hadn't succeeded. A mere amateur peasant had no chance against Ian Kabra, heir to the Lucian dynasty.

The guards had picked up Natalie and were carrying her out of the room. They jammed their guns into Ian's back, forcing him to follow. As they made their way around the harpsichord wreckage Ian noticed a strange, square hole in the floor that looked like it could be some sort of secret chamber. He could tell it was empty. What had been in there? Had the Cahills found the next clue? Where had they gone? Ian had to do something to get Natalie and himself out of this mess right now so they could get back to tailing Amy and Daniel and find out what they'd discovered.

The guards pushed Ian into a small, dark office and forced him into a chair. Natalie was dumped in the one next to him. Ian took the opportunity to make his move.

"Excuse me, may I please have my phone in order to call my lawyer and begin the process of making remunerations*?" he asked, in his most authoritative business voice. Apparently the armed muscle-men had never taken the time to learn English. They ignored him. He tried again, using the most important Italian words he could remember.

"Mi scusi. Telephono, per favore? Avvocato. Un sacco di soldi per voi."** He was given his phone.

"Hello, Byron. It's me. We have a bit of a situation…"

The End

*Remunerations means to pay money back for a large expense, like destroying a priceless antique harpsichord. I figure Ian talks like that when he wants to impress or intimidate someone.

**"Excuse me. Telephone, please? Lawyer. A lot of money for you."