The 3 Hitter Job

Author's Note: Leverage and the awesome characters are not mine. Thank you for letting me borrow them for awhile. The songs and lyrics in the soundtrack also, are not mine, but have inspired this story and deserve to be mentioned.

A few warnings… first off, I'm not real good writing the con part. Have trouble thinking that way I guess. And secondly, this story is pretty much full of self-indulgence. There are characters I want to write and scenes I want see. Kind of my own personal farewell to the show. I might meander a bit because I'm not sure I can fit all the characters in to the main storyline. But, if you enjoyed my previous fic, The Retrieval Job, I think you'll find some enjoyment here. Third, I'm doing my best at editing, but only have so much time for writing and editing. Some things might slip through because I'm focusing on writing new stuff more than editing.

I welcome feedback and reviews. Thanks!

One: You Won't Feel A Thing
Soundtrack: You Won't Feel a Thing by The Script

Eliot was surprised to make it to his loft without having to fight for his life. He keyed in his code on the pad and Hardison's security system reported that his loft was safe. He paused with his hand on the door knob. The system had never failed him, but the attempts on his life were becoming more sophisticated with each passing day.

He took a deep breath and opened the door. After a moment with no movement, no sound, and no fade to black, Eliot exhaled and crossed the threshold. He hit the dimmer switch and did a visual check of the lower floor. Nothing out of place. He closed the door, pressed a button on the security pad, and headed directly for the refrigerator.

He opened the door intending to grab a beer but an apple rolled off the bottom shelf and hit the floor. He knelt down to retrieve it and heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by the sound of a high caliber round drilling into the freezer.

Eliot dropped to his stomach. Another round tore into a cabinet. He rolled against the island for cover and looked up just in time to see two more bullets rip into another cabinet and the range hood.

He eased around the corner of the island and looked at the large windows that made up a majority of the west wall. "Damn it, Hardison! I told you those were dangerous!" he growled. He strained to see any movement on the building across the street. He saw nothing.

He stayed on his stomach watching and listening for several minutes. Nothing happened. He turned and looked at the refrigerator. He couldn't do much about a sniper. But he had a refrigerator full of beer and raw meat and security measures that would keep anybody from breaching the perimeter. He wouldn't have to leave the loft for seven days. He could definitely win a siege.

He rolled back towards the open refrigerator, grabbed two bottles of Sierra Nevada, and closed the door. He sat up and put his back against the refrigerator, the island still serving as cover. He was just finishing the second beer when he heard a commotion in the hall. It sounded like a good old fashioned fight.

He was debating whether to go check the hallway or get a third beer when someone pounded on his door. He almost laughed out loud. Did they really think he was going to answer that?

"Eliot! Open the door!"

Just the sound of her voice was enough to snap him to his feet. The pain he heard in her voice had him running for the door. He turned off the lights and looked through the security peep hole. His chest tightened at the sight of her.

He hadn't seen or talked to her for almost a year.

She was dressed for combat in all black, wearing a Kevlar vest, her hair hidden under a cap. She was bracing herself against the door with one arm and the other arm was down at her side, most likely holding a weapon.

It wasn't a coincidence that she showed up when people were trying to kill him. But which side was she on?

He had pushed her away. He had done and said things that he regretted. He had hurt her. Was it enough for her to take a contract on him?

He hesitated, his hand over the security key pad, still watching her through the peep hole. She glanced down the hallway then back at the door. "C'mon, Eliot! We don't have long before somebody calls 9-1-1."

He punched in the code and yanked the door open, catching her off guard. As she tumbled through the doorway, Eliot grabbed her outstretched arm and put his hip into hers. With a quick bump, she was airborne. He tried to ease her fall as he reached for her gun hand.

"You dumbass!" she growled.

He found a pistol in her right hand, easily broke her grip on it, and took the weapon. She hit the ground with a sharp exhale of breath and a curse involving his manhood. He checked the safety and finding it on, tossed the pistol out of her reach.

He kicked the door shut with his boot and positioned himself over her. He straddled her hips and pinned her wrists to the floor. She didn't resist.

"Was there ever a time that you trusted me?" she snarled. "For real?"

"People are trying to kill me," he said.

"No shit."

"It wouldn't be the first time you…"

"Don't!" she barked. "Don't you dare finish that sentence Spencer!"

He stared at her for a few moments, trying to make out her features in the darkness. He couldn't make out anything except the angry set of her jaw.

"Get off me," she said. "Get off me now!"

Something in her tone went right to his core, making him feel like an ass. "Jocelyn, I'm…"

"I'm going to be sick…!"

He rolled off her and watched as she rocketed off the floor and stumbled down the hall. "First door on your right," he called after her.

She didn't slow down to find the lights, and in a moment he heard her heaving. His stomach turned at the sound. It was more compassionate than he was.

He glanced at the windows and considered her appearance. If she were here to kill him, she wouldn't have brought it in close. It would be an intensely personal kill for her. She couldn't look him in the face and pull the trigger.

He got up, grabbed a Pepsi and a beer from the refrigerator and headed to the bathroom. The toilet flushed just as he reached the door. He walked in and found her bent over the sink splashing water on her face. After a moment she grabbed the towel, and straightened up.

He stood behind her, watching her through the mirror as she dried her face. He saw fresh wounds from a knife over one eye and across her neck. Her lip was split and the entire right side of her face looked swollen.

Her eyes met his and they stared at each other for a few moments.

"Migraine?" he asked finally.

"What else would it be?" she snapped.

He held the Pepsi up. "This still help?"

She nodded. She hung up the towel, turned to face him, and took the can.

"Why take the job if it makes you sick?"

She opened the can. She gave a quiet snort and shook her head slightly. "Technically it's not the job," she said. "It's you."

He felt like she had punched him in the solar plexus. She held his eyes for a moment, and then pushed past him.

A familiar anger built in his abdomen, and he took a long drink of beer. Then he followed her. She opened the door to the coat closet. She took a long drink of the soda and then held the can to her temple. When he stopped at her side pointed at his exit bag, and then abruptly walked away. She set the Pepsi on a side table and retrieved her gun.

He put his attention on his exit bag - a medium sized leather bag that held essentials needed for a quick exit as well as a few sentimental items that he couldn't stand to leave behind. He took another drink of the beer, thinking about his options.

He had spent a lot of time thinking about… no, fantasizing about their reunion. When they came together in the past it had always been thrilling. Murmansk. Kalispell. Chicago.

But now… this…

She returned to his side and stared at him for a minute. "What are you doing?" she growled.

He took another long drink of the beer. This reunion was spoiled by their failed relationship.

"What are you doing, Spencer?" she repeated with the same mother bear intonation.

He couldn't remember her ever calling him by his last name.

"Thinking," he replied, not bothering to look at her.

He could feel her anger. "What's to think about?" she asked through clenched teeth. "Survivors move. You stay here, you die."

He didn't move.

"Holy shit! You do have a death wish!"

He turned to look at her. She stared at him waiting for an explanation. She deserved an explanation. He opened his mouth to start one, but she cut him off.

"We're done here," she said. "Time to pack up team."

He'd spent enough time wired into a team communications network to understand.

She moved toward the door. "I'm on my way out now. Dex, what have you got on the security cams?" She opened the door and checked the hall. "No, he's not coming…"

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and when she spoke her voice was softer. "Goodbye, Eliot. I won't stay here and watch you die."

She disappeared into the hall, but he could still hear her talking to her team. "You're getting paid, aren't you, Winger? Quit your bitching!"

Emotions rolled through him, and he hated it. He would rather eat a punch than be strangled by emotions he didn't want.

He exhaled sharply and tried to clear his mind. He punched the code into the keypad and grabbed his bag. He considered the beer in his hand, and decided to take it with him.

With a last glance at the loft, he walked out and closed the door. He was surprised to have to step over three bodies on the way to the stairwell. He saw no pools of blood and no visible weapons. Maybe she hadn't killed them. And maybe she had just done a good job of cleaning up after herself.

She was standing in the open stairwell door, watching him approach.

He nodded back towards his loft. "A bit dramatic back there, don't you think?"

She gave a small shrug. "Looks like Spencer changed his mind," she said to her team. "And he doesn't have a vest. Winger you take care of that shooter?"

She slipped into the shadows of the stairwell and he followed. "Well, it would be awesome if you could button him down before we hit the alley."

They moved quickly down the first flight of stairs, but she stopped suddenly on the ground floor landing. She put a hand on his chest and pushed him against the wall. She crouched down in front of him. He set his bag on the cement floor.

The door slowly opened and Jocelyn slid her pistol around it and without hesitation, pulled the trigger.

A man grunted in pain and fell into the stairway, his arms stretched out in front of him, a gun in one hand. A woman screamed on the other side of the door.

Jocelyn launched herself around the door and over the injured man's body. The man grabbed for her, but Eliot smashed the beer bottle over his head and took the gun.

Jocelyn turned her body and looked into the hallway where the screaming continued. "Get out of here!" she yelled.

Gunfire sounded in the hall, and Jocelyn disappeared from his view. The large man at his feet moaned, and Eliot paused long enough to grab the man's hair, lift his head and slam his forehead into the cement. The man stilled.

More gunfire from the hallway, and Jocelyn cried out. Eliot rounded the door, and raised the gun. He took in the whole scene and made his decision in a fraction of a second. A man, dressed in a gray suit was aiming a pistol at Jocelyn's forehead. Eliot pulled the trigger twice before the man even realized he was there. As he fell, the man pulled the trigger on Jocelyn, but his hand had slipped and her vest stopped the bullet.

It was still painful to take a bullet that way, and Jocelyn was sucking air through gritted teeth. Eliot scanned the area, and finding no other threats went back to the stairwell to get his bag.

She was still lying on the floor when he returned. He knelt beside her, looked over her. "You okay?"

"No," she grimaced.

He saw where the vest had stopped two bullets. "You hit?"

She nodded, "Just grazed me."

"Where?"

She patted her right thigh. He examined it quickly and was relieved to see that it was shallow wound.

She grabbed his arm and pulled herself to sitting. He helped her to her feet. "Dex, tell me that's all of them…" She bent over, put her hands on her thighs and took a few jagged breaths.

"Son of a bitch that hurts" she muttered.

She started toward the back hallway, moving slower now. "Winger, it's all you. We're 15 seconds from the alley."

Eliot stepped in front of her and led the way. He walked down the hallway, towards the service entrance, alert for unexpected sound or movement, his eyes constantly scanning the area.

When he reached the door, he paused and looked back at her. "Winger?" she called. After a moment, she nodded at him and he opened the door and walked into the alley.

Tail lights flashed to his left and he headed for a black SUV. Jocelyn followed. He walked to the passenger side; she headed for the driver side. As they got closer, Eliot could see a large figure in the driver's seat.

They got in and Eliot dropped his bag on the floorboard. Jocelyn leaned back into the seat, closed her eyes, and started breathing deeply.

Eliot assessed the driver as he slowly turned to look at him. He had the presence of a freight train. Big, dark skinned with lots of tribal-like tattoos creeping up his neck and over his thick arms. Dark hair in a close cropped cut, and large dark eyes.

"So this is him?" the driver said. "The legendary Eliot Spencer?"

"The one and only," Jocelyn responded quietly, her eyes still tightly closed in pain.

"And you're the computer guy?" Eliot asked.

The large man shrugged, "Just a hobby."

"We call him Dexter," Jocelyn said.

There was a sudden thump on the roof, and all three of them reacted.

"Just me," a man crooned.

A long, lean figure dressed in black slid off the roof and landed next to the passenger door. He opened the door and tossed a large case on the floor, then slid into the seat.

"Why don't you just take the stairs like a normal person?" Dexter asked.

"Where's the fun in that?" the new arrival asked with a cocky smile.

Jocelyn exhaled and leaned back again. "That's Winger," she said.

The driver put the vehicle in gear and pulled into the street.

"Winger because I survive on a wing and a prayer," Winger said with a smile, looking at Eliot.

"Winger because that's your name," Dexter replied.

Winger moved his eyes to Jocelyn. "You okay?"

"I'll live," she said. She put the safety on her pistol and set it on the seat, then began pulling at the Velcro on her vest.

"Let me," Eliot said, putting his weapon safety on and setting it down.

"Well, you look like hell, Joss" Winger said.

Eliot bristled at Winger's familiarity with Jocelyn.

Jocelyn tried to laugh as Eliot undid the vest. "You always know just what to say, Troy."

Eliot knew by the tense muscles in her face that she was in intense pain. When he finally got the vest off, she exhaled forcefully. She looked Winger. "We clear?"

The man pulled off his cap, exposing a shock of white-blond hair. "As far as I know." He turned his bright eyes back to Eliot. "So, let's hear it Spencer."

"What?"

"Why do you want to die?"

"Troy," Jocelyn gave an exasperated sigh.

"No, we've got a right to know," Dexter said.

"Plus we've got a case of beer riding on it," Winger said with a grin. "I say it's a terminal disease."

"And I say it's a lifetime of regrets," Dexter said, making eye contact with Eliot through the rear view mirror. "Probably including a woman."

There was a moment of silence, then Jocelyn looked at him. "I'll tell you one thing, boys, Eliot Spencer cannot be undone by a woman."

Eliot clenched his jaw and gave a minute shake of his head. Acid burned up his throat.

Winger looked back and forth between them. "I dunno… maybe if she was part of a series of events… you know like…" he began to sing, channeling Blake Shelton, "Candy, she left me for my brother Hank… and took my old dog, I guess she's a…"

"Enough thanks!" Jocelyn said cutting the kid off.

Dexter gave a hardy laugh. "Please tell me I can download that on iTunes!"

Eliot watched as Jocelyn pulled off her cap, her hair flowing down to her shoulders. He wished he could tell what color it was. He continued to stare until she looked at him. He searched for the connection they once had, where he could tell what she was feeling by just examining her face. After a few moments he gave up.

She had never been a stranger to him. Not even when they had first met in that cell in Murmansk. But she was now.

She turned away from him and looked out the window. "Take us home, Dex."

'Cause I will take it on the chin, eh, for you
So lay your cuts and bruises over my skin
I promise you won't feel a thing, no
'Cause everything the world could throw I'll stand in front,
I'll take the blow for you, for you
~ You Won't Feel A Thing by The Script ~