A/N: Howdy, fellas! for those of you who have read my other story, Don't Pry, Molly Booker will make an appearance and I promise to start working on a sequel after I see the movie tomorrow (Eep!)

Anywho, thanks for reading!

Barney Ross rubbed his eyes tiredly. He had been rudely awakened by his phone ringing off the hook. When he finally drug his sorry ass out of bed to answer it, he found a rather frantic Tool. Well, as frantic as the old man could get. Barney was pretty sure his friend was still riding out his weed smoking, post mercenary days.

There was no other way he could be so mellow all the time.

"Barney, brother, you need to round up the boys and get over here. Church has a job, and he's not asking."

"Shit, what is it this time?" Barney cursed as he began to pull clean fatigues and a t shirt from his dresser drawers.

"A kidnapping."

Barney closed his eyes once, fighting back the memories that threatened to surface.

"How bad?"

"He's not being very forthcoming," Tool said patiently. Barney yanked his socks on, pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear.

"You call the rest of the guys?"

"You want me to?"

"We can't waste any time on a kidnapping job," Barney said firmly, recalling what had happened during that fateful day in the Fall of 1989.

"Yeah, alright. You want me to call Molly and Billy? To let 'em know what's going on?"

Barney paused. God, Molly would handle this job so much better than he ever could. She could compartmentalize more than he would ever be able to.

But she was a mother now, and not exactly in prime condition. He would would cut his heart out if he took Billy away. There was too much risk that the young sniper wouldn't return. Barney couldn't scar a family like that.

"No. We can handle it. Let 'em have their peace."

Tool understood his meaning.

It was four o'clock in the morning when Barney stumbled into Tool's. His eyes burned with exhaustion.

Church was standing in the middle of the garage, looking as he usually did in his neatly tailored suit, but as Barney got closer, he could see the dark half moons under the CIA agent's bloodshot eyes.

The usually unflappable man had been shaken. This made Barney anxious.

"Church," he said in the way of a greeting. Blue eyes met brown.

"Barney. I'm glad you're here. The daughter of a Russian mob boss has been kidnapped," Church handed him the file.

Barney flipped it open and barely restrained a curse. He flung it back at the agent, startling his team.

"No. No fucking way!" Barney spat, closing his shaking hands into fists. It was far too late, though. The picture of the little girl was already branded into his mind. Her big brown eyes and broad smile. She looked too much like the girl from '89.

"Her name is Natalia Karov. She's seven years old-"

"I don't do jobs with kids, Church!" Barney seethed. Church cocked a brow.

"You do now. What happened in 1989 was a tragedy, Barney, but-"

"You better quit while you're ahead," Tool's voice cut him off. The ex mercenary still retained his easy going posture, but his eyes were distant and cold. He remembered that mission, too.

"She needs your help. You were poorly equipped and ill prepared for that mission. This time, you're not going in blind. Pay off is three mil."

"And how am I not going in blind?" Barney sneered. Church smiled thinly.

"I'm bringing in another team."

At that moment, the door to the garage opened and hands immediately twitched to the guns at their hips.

Two people were shepherded in by a CIA man.

"You are fucking wasting my goddamned time, Max Drummer! I don't need another fucking team!" a Texan voice snarled. The owner was thrust into the circle of dim light and Barney's jaw nearly dropped.

Standing there in unlaced combat boots was a lean woman in her mid thirties, dressed in a loose tank top and basketball shorts. She had obviously just been roused from an alcohol induced slumber. He could smell the Jack on her from seven feet away.

Black hair was cropped in a careless manner and hung in her face. One side stuck up at an odd angle.

Barney glanced around at his team. They were still trying to pick their jaws up off the floor.

The woman ran an agitated hand through her hair, jerking it back from her face. She had a pair of gold- green eyes that were framed by thick lashes and deep crow's feet. If Barney were to hazard a guess, the wrinkles weren't from smiling.

"Ah, Miss Martin, nice to finally see you," Church greeted amiably. Fury ignited in her eyes and she stormed forward.

"Fuck off, Church. I should'a known. This fuckin' reeks of ya goddamned theatrics!" as she got angrier, her words were morphed further by her accent.

"Lord's Name, Debbie," the other man remarked in a thick Dublin brogue. She shot a glare over her shoulder at him.

Barney took that moment to give the other man a once over. The first thing he noticed was the paleness of the Irishman's eyes. The second thing was the obvious insanity that shone there.

The Irishman looked like your typical hooligan, torn fatigues, a black KISS shirt with the sleeves cut off and black hair that stuck up in every direction. Dark tattoos wound their way up and down his massive arms, curling in a script Barney didn't recognize.

The Texan shifted her eyes forward again and met Barney's gaze. Her tanned cheeks lost all of their color. The pissed off look faltered for a split second before she recovered.

"If ya wanted my help, ya could have called an' I would'a been out as soon as the plane was gassed up. There was no fuckin' need to drag me outta bed by my hair," she said coldly.

"Then you wouldn't have been able to meet your new teammates," Church remarked. Her full lips twisted into a sneer.

"I don't work with a team. Ya damn well know that. And ya ain't my handler. Drummer is. I don't do the mix and match shit."

"Sorry, Deb," the third man, the mystery CIA, finally spoke up. She spun and gave him a cold look. He shrugged, unfazed by her anger. "It comes from the top," he said simply.

"Every minute you waste is another minute Natalia's stuck with the Italians," Church added. Barney saw a muscle jump in her jaw.

"Get dressed, Debbie. We don't have time ta argue. The lass needs ta be rescued," the mick said calmly. Barney watched her exhale before storming out.

"If it's alright with you boys, Martin's going to take the lead on this one. She's used to these kind of jobs. She knows the mob like the back of her hand," Mr. Drummer seemed more reasonable than Church was.

But his use of the Texan's last name just confirmed Barney's suspicions. Deborah Martin was widely known throughout the industry. She had a very specific M.O. She only took jobs involving children, because every other mercenary was smart enough to stay back after the FUBAR of 1989.

Deborah Martin had spent the last few years raising hell in Arizona, fighting off the Cartel. Word had it, though, that she spent all of her off time drunk as a skunk. But Barney couldn't blame her for that.

After '89, he had spent a good six months on his ass.

There were very few female mercenaries. Barney had the good fortune to know two of the tamer ones. Yes, Reggie and Molly could be wild as hell if their feathers were ruffled, but they were nothing compared to some of the others.

Female mercs were batshit crazy and damn near impossible to control on PMS. And no sane man would run with one.

He wasn't sure if Deborah would conform to this stereotype or surprise him like Molly had.

"Natalia was taken from school in Miami because her daddy, Ivan Karov, was trying to move into Cosa Nostra territory," Church said.

Barney gave him a blank look.

"Italians, lads. Archenemy of the Ruskies," The Irishman spoke lowly. He was fingering a black rosary carefully.

"Why is the CIA interested in this?" Barney asked coldly.

"Because, we get little Natalia home and Daddy Karov turns rat. Nobody does somethin' for nothin'," Deborah appeared. She wore a gray t shirt and her woodland camo fatigues were bloused expertly into her now laced up boots. A black bandana kept her hair back out of her face.

Church smiled condescendingly at her.

"Not all of us can be saints like you, Miss Martin."

She sneered at him again.

"I'll work with your team, Church, but only if we leave in the next five minutes. Have the files and briefs sent to the plane. We'll go over them on the way to London," she said briskly, reaching for the manila folder he'd discarded onto a table.

Church caught her wrist in a vise like hold. Barney saw her twitch and knew she was fighting the urge to floor him.

"You should thank your lucky stars, Miss Martin, that I'm not your handler. You should treat the CIA with a little more respect."

Her eyes narrowed as if she were contemplating every possible way to kill him.

"When the CIA earns my respect, Mister Church, I'll give it," her voice was deadly calm, but her accent had twisted her words again. Deborah yanked her wrist away and strode past Barney.

She still smelled like stale whiskey.