A/N: So this is a little project of mine that I've been working on for several months now, and I'm a little nervous about posting it, but here goes! Please comment, criticize, or compliment if it tickles your fancy, I'd love to hear what people think!

"Come on, come on," Eliot growled urgently into the phone after the first three rings. "Pick up."

"This is Nate Ford. I'm not here, leave a message or hang up."

Eliot hung up. That was the sixth time he heard Nate's pre-recorded message. He shook his hair out of his eyes and shared a worried look with Hardison. The hacker's mouth was a grim line as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table top. He rested his head against the back of the booth, his migraine thumping against his temples to the beat of a mambo. Parker was at the other end of McRory's, changing her seat every couple seconds. She sat down, tapped her foot anxiously, stood up, and repeated the process in a different chair.

"Call Sophie," Hardison turned to his laptop and began to type. "I'm turning on his comm as we speak. We'll have his location in five." Screw his privacy, Hardison thought angrily, the man's been missing for three days.

Eliot hesitated. "You think she'll come back?"

"Of course she will," Parker said curtly, fidgeting on a bar stool. "She loves us." Eliot had his doubts, but didn't argue as he dialed the grifter's number. He listened to four rings before she picked up.

"Eliot," Sophie's voice was smooth as a fine wine laced with arsenic. "I'm in the middle of a massage by the world-renowned Feng Tsu so let's make this short and sweet, shall we?"

Fine. "Nate's missing," he said, both shortly and sweetly. He heard an audible intake of breath.

"How long?" Sophie said over a stream of disgruntled Mandarin in the background.

"Three days."

"Has Hardison-" Sophie was cut off by the hacker's loud exclamation.

"Nebraska? What the Hell is Nate doing in Nebraska?"

Sophie paused. "Was that..."

"Yeah," Eliot glared over Hardison's shoulder. Sure enough, there was Nate's signal. "Will you- I mean, he's missing..." the hitter choked, struggling with his pride. It wasn't every day Eliot Spencer needed to ask for help. "We just thought it'd be better to do this-" He huffed. "Look, are you coming back or not?"

"Am I coming back?" Sophie echoed, offended that he needed to ask. "Eliot, I'm on my way to the airport right now. Pick me up at Logan International tomorrow morning."

Parker's face lit up at Eliot's next words. "See you then."

Her flight came in at five in the morning, but when Eliot picked out her figure walking hastily through the early morning arrivals, not a single hair on Sophie Devereaux's head was out of place.

"It's her super power," Parker had responded when he pointed it out.

Eliot stood, arms folded across his chest, in the middle of Boston Logan International Airport as the tired, air-weary grifter rolled her suitcase towards him. Parker bounced nervously on her heels (Eliot was seriously regretting letting her drink the last half of his red eye) and grabbed his bicep. And squeezed.

"Stop that," he muttered, shrugging out of her petite bear traps she called hands. She found another part of his arm to cling to.

"You think she'll be happy to see us?" Parker stage-whispered and dug her nails into Eliot.

"Why don't you ask her?" Sophie said, stopping a careful distance away from the two. Parker released the hitter and inched forward. She tentatively petted Sophie's arm, testing the waters. Sophie gratefully pulled her into a hug: and if her eyes were wet when she opened them again, that was her own business. "So," she squeezed the thief one final time and faced Eliot. Regaining his trust could be difficult, she thought when she read his blank expression. "What happened?"

It took Hardison a while over the comms, but with help from Eliot and Parker, she finally pieced together the past four days while driving to McRory's.

It had started innocently enough. Five days ago, Nate had left to scope out a potential client while simultaneously gaining information on the mark. He had called the day after, saying he was headed back to Boston and they could expect him at the bar later that night. He never showed. After leaving messages on his cell and checking off all other means of finding out where he was, Hardison finally decided, "To Hell with it, he could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere." Before Sophie could argue that four days wasn't too long for Nate to be gone, Hardison interrupted.

"His signal hasn't moved," was all he needed to say. "Not even a little bit since I traced it."

"He could be sleeping," Sophie offered weakly.

"Maybe he was mauled to death by a pack of wolves," Parker suggested, "and all that's left of him is his ear."

Hardison gave her the look. "Parker, we're supposed to be thinking positive here, not giving me nightmares!" He stared wide-eyed at her. Parker shrugged. She didn't get what the big deal was, she just offered an explanation. Like Sophie had, but more with more realism and gore.

"I think," Sophie said loudly over the argument brewing between the younger members of the team, "I think we should go and find out instead of arguing about it here. Agreed?"

"Yeah," three voices grumbled

Parker decided she didn't like Nebraska. It was too flat and open. And boring. It was so boring that she had taken to blowing a dog whistle out the window of "This sorry excuse for a rental is Not Lucille" (Hardison's words) as they passed farms, just to entertain herself. Technically, she was seated in the back of the van with Sophie, but whenever she saw a farm silo looming in head lights and moonlight, she scrambled up to the front and rolled down the window, sticking her head out to unleash the chaos the whistle would cause. This meant that the two men in the front seats had to be clambered over, but neither of them really seemed to mind and Hardison had almost crashed only twice. So it was all in good fun.

"Parker, must you?" Sophie groaned in exasperation, still recovering from jet lag. Parker knelt on Eliot's lap, ignoring his grunt of pain as her knees came a little too close for comfort, and brought the silver whistle to her lips. Her hair flew into her face and tangled in the open window's vacuum-like pull. She thought about it for a moment.

"Yes," she decided and blew into the whistle. The effect was immediate and satisfying. Several dogs howled and barked from the farm. Another silent call from Parker's whistle had a lovely chocolate lab, a chain dragging behind from its collar, chasing after Not Lucille by the light of the van's taillights.

"Where did you get that thing anyway?" Eliot asked, looking anywhere but the woman in his lap, which left the van's ceiling and Hardison, the latter of which was giving him a lethal glare. The ceiling suddenly became very interesting.

Parker shrugged. "I found it. It's mine now," she told Eliot before climbing back to join Sophie. The grifter arched her brows.

"Can I safely assume by 'found' you mean 'acquired in a questionably legal manner'?" Sophie asked, her voice as dry as Death Valley. Parker toyed with the silver thing. It was shiny and pretty, with little engraved markings on it. Expensive looking, but that wasn't what had drawn her to the trinket. It was the man from whom she "acquired it in a questionably legal manner". He had been annoying so she stole his pretty little toy.

"It's mine." And that was the last she said on the matter.

"A'ight, gang," Hardison gulped down another bottle of Orange Squeeze and sneaked a glace at the GPS he'd hooked up to his locating program. "Nate's in an abandoned warehouse at the end of this super spooky dirt road. At night. Nothing shady about that."

Eliot unbuckled himself. "Parker, switch places." After a bit of maneuvering, the hitter settled next to Sophie. She refused to meet his eye. "Sophie, this is starting to look-"

"I know how it looks," she said sharply, "and it doesn't matter. We go in, we get Nate, we leave this God-forsaken patch of dirt."

Eliot retreated, all but waving a white flag. "Okay." It didn't stop him from preparing for the worst. His job was to keep the team safe, and that's what he'd do. Even if they found Nate... not alive. Or worse. Eliot could think of ten things off the top of his head that went under the Way Worse than Not Alive category. Most of which took place in abandoned warehouses at the ends of super spooky dirt roads.

Not Lucille's headlights cut into the gloom, illuminating the warehouse's decayed state. Something reflected back at them.

"Cut the lights," Eliot hissed. Hardison, for once in his life, shut up and obeyed a direct order that didn't come from Nate. A sleek vintage muscle car was parked outside the building. The team left Not Lucille around the corner and out of sight before edging closer to the car. It appeared empty.

"Parker," Sophie whispered. "How good is your car thief?"

A smile slowly spread across the blonde's face. It was the kind of smile you'd see on a suburban kid whose idea of a good time involved ants, a magnifying glass, and direct sunlight. It was the kind of smile Sophie hoped she'd never see directed at herself.

Parker took less than a second to break into the vintage car. That may have been because she was good at what she did, but was more likely attributed to the vehicle's owner leaving it unlocked.

"Sloppy," Parker muttered under her breath. Hardison sheepishly pressed the remote lock for Not Lucille. He regretted that action the moment the van beeped and flashed its lights at him.

"Damn it, Hardison!" Eliot fumed, gripping his hands into fists. "Do you want the people in there knowing we're outside?"

"Maybe they didn't hear?" Hardison prayed they hadn't. The team waited in silence. Nothing. Hardison released the breath he was holding. Someone Up There had his back. Or possibly someone Down There; the hacker wasn't picky as long as they kept sending him lucky breaks.

"Parker, get whatever information you can out of the car," Eliot took charge. "I'll go inside. Everyone else wait out here."

"Oh no," said Sophie, "there's no chance you're going in there alone and I'm definitely not staying out here."

"It could get ugly in there, we have no idea who's in that warehouse," Eliot warned, always the voice of reason. "You're not going in unless I know I can keep you safe."

"Eliot, I'm going in after you whether you take me with you or not. Wouldn't it be safer to know where I am?"

Though it made his blood boil, Eliot forced himself to nod. An argument now wouldn't help get their mastermind back. "Fine, but if I say run, you run. Got it?" Sophie sighed. The hitter decided to interpret that as a yes.

"Uh, you know what?" Hardison glanced around the open fields, feeling very exposed. "I should probably go with y'all. For back up."

"What about Parker?" Eliot crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the hacker.

"I've got a taser," Parker stuck her head out of the driver's window.

"See? She's got a taser, she's fine." It wasn't like this looked like a scene from a horror movie or anything like that. No, it took more than the decrepit remains of the industrial boom in the middle of nowhere to scare the likes of Alec Hardison.

Eliot almost smiled. If the situation wasn't so serious, he'd be teasing his friend right now. A cold dread guillotined the hitter's warmth. That was a close; he'd nearly let himself forget their purpose in being here. That was mistake that could get him-or worse, one of his team- killed. Only Sophie noticed his brief lapse and chose not to remark on it. Eliot turned his back purposefully on the others so they couldn't see the tight lines of worry that no amount of meditation would erase. He would just have to trust Sophie and Hardison to do as he said.

It was even darker inside the warehouse without the moonlight's weak glow, but Eliot didn't dare turn on a flashlight. Sophie stuck close behind him and Hardison stuck even closer to her. The hacker had seen enough Scooby-Doo episodes to know that entering the dark, empty building usually ended with a montage of chases to music of the Flower Power persuasion. At least he hoped this would turn out like that and not, for example, like a scene from My Bloody Valentine (the original, of course: Hardison couldn't stand the remake).

The three had inched their way through the first hallway when Eliot froze.

"Oof!" Sophie collided with his back and Hardison fell against her own.

He gave them both a withering glare that was completely lost in the darkness. After a minute or two, they heard what had stopped the hitter.

At first it sounded like a man arguing with himself, but as the small group got closer, it became apparent that the man was just swearing. Maybe not just swearing. This man was cursing God, His mama, and His mama's mama (also, oddly enough, someone named Mr. Muffin). Even Eliot winced at a few of the curses. A second voice spoke softly in comparison and Eliot couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. The hitter rounded a corner and motioned for the others to duck down. Behind a half-destroyed wall, flashlight beams illuminated two figures and what looked like abandoned IV stands.

"Dean," the soft-spoken man was saying. "Shut up and stop acting like a two-year-old."

"Two weeks, Sam. Two friggin' weeks spent in that friggin' B'n'B with that friggin' old lady and her friggin' rat all because of this friggin' Djinn and his friggin' taste for rednecks. And for what? That's right, an empty nest. Nice going, Einstein." (It should be mentioned at this point that the loud man, Dean, never actually said friggin' but used a far more expressive vocabulary).

"What?" Sophie mouthed at Hardison. He shook his head, as confused and speechless as she was. Weren't they supposed to be rescuing Nate from some kind of Nebraskan drug cartel?

The one called Sam wearily sighed like this wasn't a new topic of discussion. "Okay, so Mrs. Franklin's chihuahua chewed up your jacket. Get over it. It's not my fault you left it where the dog could get at it."

"Nuh uh," Dean said. "That thing is not a dog. It's possessed."

"Are you done?" Sam threw his hands up in the air, causing a beam of light to momentarily flash over their hidden audience of three. "'Cause I think the missing genie trumps your bitch fit."

Hitter, hacker, and grifter shared matching looks of bewilderment. Who the Hell were these people?

"Whatever, let's get out of here."

Eliot tensed. If the strangers left now, the team would be blown. If Parker's cryptic muttering over the comms could be interpreted as anything, then she needed more time.

"Wait," Sam said. "What's that?"

"What's what?" Dean glanced over his shoulder.

"That," Sam knelt, his focus trained on a small plastic thing on the grimy concrete. He picked it up and held it out for the other to inspect.

"Some kind of hearing aid, maybe?" Dean suggested. "Which is weird, 'cause-"

"None of the vics are over thirty," Sam finished grimly. "We've got another victim, Dean."

A long pause followed their realization. Sophie nudged Eliot. He nodded, telling her she'd heard correctly. These two men, talking about "vics" like characters on a bad daytime cop show, had found Nate's earbud. Which made Nate the other victim.

Dean counted aloud. "So that's four empty juice pouches in the other room, the mummy in the old church basement, two disappearances in the last month, and a geezer missing a hearing aid. I'm really starting to dislike this blood junkie."

"Looks like you're going to be spending some more quality time with Muffy the jacket slayer," Sam said with a deadpan expression. Dean's right eye twitched.

Sophie hoped Parker was having more luck than they were.

What Parker was having was the time of her life. Only during her brief cameo as a car thief with Kelly had she ever seen a car (Impala, Parker observed, manufactured sometime in the 1960s) so loved as this one. And even then, that particular vehicle ranked a close second to the vintage Chevy. She sat shotgun, letting herself be immersed in the new environment. She closed her eyes and breathed in the odd cocktail of old leather, gun powder, and adult male. It felt safe, almost homey. She would have been happy just to sit there in the worn seat, but she had to move fast. Timing was everything. Timing was survival.

She started with the glove box. She hummed in surprise at the treasure trove she found in it. Pre-paid cell phones, a cigar box of identities (many of which were law enforcement of some kind). She closely examine several. She let out a single bark of laughter.

"Fake," Parker crowed, checking her volume immediately. "Fake, fake, fake." She tossed the IDs back. They looked homemade but were passably, if unprofessionally, realistic. If you stood back a few feet and didn't look too closely, that is. She gingerly pulled out a handgun: loaded, by the feel of it. She tisked. "Nasty habit, leaving guns around where just anyone can get to them."

The comms were silent, except for Hardison's noisy mouth-breathing, which Parker took as a good sign. She stuck a small flash light in her mouth and dug under her seat with both hands. She came up with an old, dusty journal with a brown leather cover and a box of cassette tapes. She didn't recognize any names of the bands, except for the one named after electrical currents. Archie had been more of a classical kind of guy and Eliot wouldn't let her near his music collection. She wrinkled her nose in distaste when she thought about what Hardison called music. So nothing worth her time in the tapes, not even some spare change. The journal turned out to be far more interesting.

She skimmed some of the first lines. Most of them were names and addresses, but a few pages in things started getting weird. She devoured the information written in several types of pen, pencil, and -in one memorable entry- crayon. Things even she didn't believe in, things that lived in closets and under beds, things that belonged in nightmares, were identified and cataloged in the yellowing paper. Parker shivered and glanced outside the windshield, suddenly feeling like a thousand eyes were watching her.

She tossed the book aside and promised herself she'd come back for it. For now, she had a trunk to break into.

Again, she hadn't needed to do anything illegal to open it. Either these people were incredibly confidant, or terrifyingly stupid. At first glance, the trunk looked pretty normal, if a little bare. But Parker wouldn't be Parker if she let appearances deceive her. She felt along the edges of the trunk until - there! A handle tucked discretely away. She tugged it up.

Her mouth fell open.

She snapped it shut.

It dropped anyway.

The trunk was a friggin' arsenal. Parker's hands drifted cautiously over the knives and ammo, touched on the sawed-off shotguns and machetes, and itched to hold the single grenade tucked in the back. Eliot would hate this, she thought, too many guns. The hitter didn't need half the stuff in the Impala's trunk, except maybe the grenade. Maybe.

Her gaze fell on the crucifixes and little handbooks with Latin titles stenciled into their covers.

Who were these people?

She pulled out a silver flask. A liquid sloshed inside. She unscrewed the top and sniffed. It smelled a bit like the water in Nate's preacher friend's church. Which is to say, exactly like normal water, but Parker got the feeling it was special like Sophie said the church water was.

"Parker!"

The interruption made her hands spill the special water over the bumper.

"What?" she huffed.

"Get out of there," Eliot whispered harshly, "Two guys headed your way. Nate isn't with them."

"Well, where is he?" she asked, tightening the flask's lid and throwing it back into the disorganized pile of dangerous toys.

"Not here."

Parker slammed the trunk shut with more force than she needed to, momentarily forgetting she should be quiet. Her instincts took over and she slunk towards Not Lucille's hidden parking spot. She paused mid-slink. Her eyes were drawn back to the Chevy. If she was quick, and she was always quick, she could snag the journal and still make it to the van. Indecision had her shifting back and forth.

With an oath she learned a decade ago from a girl in juvie, she sprinted back to the Impala. Her hands fumbled for the journal in the passenger seat, only to find empty space. She frantically patted down the driver's seat and even the floor before spotting it in the backseat. She hesitated again.

Twin beams shined through the warehouse's door. She couldn't choose both without getting caught: it was the journal or the van. She weighed the options in her mind.

And chose.