There were a lot of things Eliot Spencer disliked.

Lukewarm beer, dull knives, people who lied through their teeth. None of these garnered a very high opinion from him.

There were, however, only a handful of things he truly, utterly, absolutely hated. In his line of work, hate was dangerous—hate made you do things. Reckless things. Dangerous things. Things that could get you maimed; things that could get you killed.

Well, any emotions of any kind were perilous, but for Eliot, hate was the most hazardous, because it made him throw caution to the wind, made a red film fall over his eyes that only lifted after everything but what he'd come for had fallen in a flurry of fists and feet.

Eliot hated guys who used children, plain and simple. They were cowards, some of the lowest forms of life, if they could even be called that. To involve the most innocent of victims—that was unacceptable in Eliot's book. Also, he liked kids.

Lorne Young was very much a coward, which was why he had had no qualms about putting his hostage, eight-year-old Tammy, between him and the sniper's bullet meant for his heart. Tammy's father had forked over the obscene amount of cash Young had requested, but the lowlife hadn't bothered to turn over the little girl. He'd holed himself, the girl, and countless hired goons up in the father's mansion and demanded a helicopter.

In a panic, the father had called in the cavalry. The father was some hotshot government type, while Young was on the Most Wanted lists of several law enforcement agencies, so local PD, state troopers, FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and even some Interpol agents had arrived.

Much good that did little Tammy.

Twenty hours passed by fruitlessly. Young was both very clever and very lucky. Almost everything was in his favor. The house was a veritable fortress. It boasted a state-of-the-art security system that was meant to protect the house's occupants; it was now what the criminals barricaded inside used to ensure they wouldn't be subject to a surprise attack.

Furthermore, the herd of people milling around the property were in the throes of a jurisdiction struggle, meaning that even if a sniper was able to get a lock on the jerk, he'd have to waste precious moments waiting for someone to okay the shot.

And, most importantly, he was worth more alive than dead. Eliot didn't know the details (details weren't his department), but the guy knew things that were important enough for the DA to demand assurance that he would be allowed to continue breathing. Things about an organized crime syndicate apparently.

And of course, no one wanted little Tammy to get hurt, although it seemed to Eliot this was the last thing on everyone's mind. Even the FBI agent who'd called him in (an old contact who was at his wits' end as to what to do in the situation) seemed more concerned with getting Young to a safehouse than about getting the eight-year-old out alive.

This was all good news for Lorne Young. Too bad he was so much of a lunkhead, he'd gone ahead and kidnapped an innocent little girl for a silly ransom. He was bound and determined to leave the country, more afraid of his former bosses than of anything the law could throw at him, and since his funds were frozen, he'd decided the best way to score a large amount of cash was to nab little Tammy.

Silently, Eliot scouted out the house, looking for any way he could breach it quietly and quickly. He made sure not to draw attention to himself, since he wasn't there in any official capacity, and he didn't want to waste time answering any unnecessary questions. He understood the gravity of the situation; when an FBI agent dials you and says only, "Retrieval", he means business.

A half hour later, Eliot was sighing at the stupidity of criminals as he rappelled off the roof after disabling part of the security system and silently entered the house. Of course, there was a guard at the window he entered through, but he was handled quietly and with a minimum of fuss.

Eliot walked assuredly down the dark corridor, his night vision goggles wrapped securely around his head. The blueprints he'd studied earlier and committed to memory had shown a crawlspace that allowed access to the corridor just outside the room where Tammy was being held. He was just about to hunker down and fit his muscular frame inside when he heard a rustling noise behind him.

Lightning-quick, he spun around in the direction of the noise. At that moment, a brilliant beam of light overwhelmed the field of his night vision goggles and he swore as he turned away from its source. He ripped off his goggles and blinked rapidly to clear the pain from his eyes. As he was regaining his vision, a fist connected with his jaw. He swung out, connecting with bone and flesh. A relatively silent struggle ensued in the dark, Eliot against three or four guards; he wasn't certain of the exact number. The light (and from its intensity, Eliot guessed it was a xenon beam) that had been shown into his eyes had temporarily impaired his vision. He was fighting more or less blind, but he'd been in more dire straits before and it didn't particularly bother him. In fact, he was more than holding his own. He'd felled at least two of his attackers, when he heard a voice blare out from one of the minions' walkie-talkies: "Tell whoever it is that if he doesn't surrender immediately, I'm cutting off one of these sweet little fingers. Shall I start with the pinky?"

It didn't sound like a bluff. At any rate, even if it was, Eliot couldn't risk it. Grunting, he let go of the goon he had in a chokehold and held his hands up to indicate he was giving in.

The two guards still standing frog-marched him to the stairs at the end of the hallway, a little more roughly than necessary since he wasn't putting up a fight. They were obviously paying him back for the bruises he'd inflicted.

Eliot carefully took note of the number and design of windows and doors he passed, seeing if any could serve as an escape route; he was so engrossed in this task, he barely noticed they'd reached their destination until he was shoved rudely forward into a brightly-lit room. Quickly taking in his surroundings, he ascertained that they were in the study. Bookshelves lined the chocolate-colored walls and a massive, wooden globe stood off to one side, in front of a fireplace that currently had a small fire going. A large painting of a girl sitting at a piano hung above the fireplace, in front of which were two velvet armchairs; in one of them was a bound and gagged little girl in scuffed-up jeans and dirty t-shirt. It made Eliot beyond furious at the signs of abuse heaped onto poor little Tammy, but he knew he had to focus if he was going to get the two of them out alive.

Dominating the room was an ornate mahogany desk, behind which sat the man himself—Lorne Young. The animal that sprang to mind when looking at him was weasel, although Eliot conceded it wasn't an unbiased assessment.

Young studied him like a little boy watching a parade of ants, magnifying glass at the ready. He stood, and gestured for the guards to leave, apparently comfortable that he could take care of Eliot on his own, if the need arose. With Tammy in the room, of course it wouldn't.

Young rounded the desk and came to stand before Eliot. "And who might you be with? CIA? FBI? DEA? Or am I guessing from the wrong side of the law? One of the New Jersey families, maybe?"

Eliot stared unflinchingly at him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hope blossom in little Tammy's tear-filled eyes.

Eliot imagined all the ways he was going to hurt this loser scumbag. His intention must have been clear in his face, because Young stepped back slightly, as if shocked, but then, his face shifted into a parody of a smile. "Well, I don't care who sent you…"

A commotion from outside drew his attention away from Eliot. Before Eliot could take advantage of his lapse, however, the door banged open, and the same two guards who had led him in entered holding a man by the arms.

Their captive was in a neat, blue three-piece business suit, a matching fedora perched on his head. Eliot felt a jolt of astonishment as the man was pushed forward and his face became visible.

The newcomer took in the scene before him, his countenance wholly unperturbed, even when his eyes flickered over Eliot with a short flash of recognition. He asked, almost conversationally, "What are you doing here, Spencer?"

"I'm here for the girl," Eliot pronounced through gritted teeth.

Nathan Ford smiled. "I'm here for the painting."

Of course. A painting. Why else would the top man at I.Y.S. be here if not for some priceless work of art or some other similarly absurdly valuable gewgaw or doodad?

They'd met…Eliot couldn't actually remember where; possibly somewhere on the African continent, though he wasn't certain. Much alcohol had been involved. Then a scuffle in an alleyway that had involved daggers and their shoes.

They'd run into each other a handful of times, always in different locales. At first blush, Ford came off as a paper-pusher pleased as punch to be away from his desk. He was an insurance man, and he knew his stuff.

Over their repeated run-ons, Eliot came to realize his stuffy by-the-book-persona was just that; a persona. Beneath the tailored suits was the mind and soul of a gutter fighter, a man more than ready to fight down in the dirt, if the need arose. Eliot respected that.

What he didn't respect was the ruthless corporate mentality. It was always about the bottom line with Nate, always about policies and claims. Money and things, when it came down to it; for Eliot, it was people—always and only people. He was no knight in shining armor, but he had his own brand of chivalry.

Taking Eliot's silence for a lack of comprehension, Nate volunteered, "It's a Degas."

"You shouldn't be here," growled Eliot.

The sound of Young clearing his throat made them both turn in his direction. "I'm sorry to break up this little reunion, but for all intents and purposes, I'm the host here, and I'd appreciate knowing the identity of my…guests."

Nate turned to the criminal, his demeanor assured, a professional smile on his face. Eliot had to admit to being slightly awed by his unflappability. He was also curious as to how an insurance guy had penetrated the top-of-the-line complex security system that had required Eliot to enlist the help of two tech experts.

Extending his hand, Nate said, business-like, "I'm Nathan Ford with I.Y.S." When Young didn't bother to shake it, he shrugged, and went on. "I apologize for barging in like this, but you just happen to be in possession of a painting I need. If you could just point me in its direction, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Silence reigned for a few seconds. Then, Young burst out in a loud guffaw that startled Tammy, who whimpered behind her gag and struggled slightly as if trying to break free of her restraints. Eliot wanted to bash the jerk's head in.

Nate didn't even blink. He merely stared ahead politely.

Young asked, "Are you confused or just crazy?" He gestured to the two thugs hovering by the door, watching for funny business. They came forward, their hands on their sidearms. The way they gripped their guns told Eliot everything he needed to know about them—ex-military, and all business.

Eliot sighed inwardly. This was giving him déjà vu about the night he'd met Ford; the bits and pieces he remembered anyway.

Nate put his hands up. "Hey, no need for any of that. I just want the painting. I'll get that and be on my way."

Young chuckled. Even the thugs looked slightly bewildered. Eliot couldn't stop himself from hissing, "This is a hostage situation! A little girl's life hangs in the balance!"

Nate continued to appear unfazed, and Eliot started wondering what exactly he was up to. Claiming some painting in the middle of a kidnapping seemed like too much absurdity, though he wouldn't put it past the crafty insurance man.

The thugs and Young studied Nate for a few more moments, Eliot apparently forgotten for the moment, before Young traipsed over to the fireplace and removed the picture hanging above the mantle. He came over to Nate and held it out to him. "This painting?"

Smiling, Nate reached for the canvas; Young held it away from him. "This thing is important?"

Nate nodded. "You see, this little Degas is worth…oh, a tidy sum. I know for a fact you don't plan to take it with you. Art theft isn't part of your established M.O. See, little Tammy's father has to worry about his daughter, but we have to worry about his art. We insure it, you see, and if anything were to happen to this little beauty….well, we'd be shelling out quite a bit."

Young set the painting down on the arms of the velvet chair opposite Tammy as Nate continued. "So my boss decided it was just best to confiscate it before anything could happen to it. Getting caught in the crossfire and all that."

So Nate had been aware of the situation, Eliot realized. Exactly how insane did someone have to be to charge into the midst of danger for a work of art? Then Eliot remembered their first meeting and decided—Nathan Ford was definitely that level of crazy.

Young smirked down at picture of the little pianist, done in vivid pastel colors. "Just exactly how much is this worth?"

Eliot was more than ready to kick someone's head in. How could they be standing around talking about the price of a stupid painting with a frightened little girl in the room?

Just as he took a step forward, however, intent on inflicting violence on the smug kidnapper, he caught Nate's eye. A brief flash of understanding sparked between them; in that instant, Eliot knew with precise clarity what the other man planned to do. It made him smile. He gave the tiniest nod to show that he understood the game and tensed, adjusting his stance so he was ready to grab Tammy.

Nate stepped forward, picking up the canvas. "Ah, the most important question of all. How much is this worth? Is it worth more than the life of one little girl?"

He turned to Young, who was staring with an expectant smile. Nate gave him one of his own grins—one Eliot had seen before, one that was a portent of the storm to come.

In one swift movement, Nate brought the painting down over Young's head. The canvas tore with a sickening sound and the wood of the frame splintered across the kidnapper's brow, cutting it in several places.

Eliot moved quickly, grabbing Tammy under one arm, and twisting out of the way of the hired goons' weapons. He ran for the closest exit, the little girl sobbing and screaming for her father, the sounds muffled by her gag. A hail of bullets erupted behind them, but adrenaline and training served Eliot well, ensuring his safe escape with the terrified child. He was so concerned with her welfare, he didn't even turn to see if Nate had made it out after them.

He appeared later, of course, when Tammy had been safely returned to her father and the various law enforcement guys had finally realized where they were and what they had to do. They breached the house, no longer worried about inadvertently hurting a hostage, and grabbed Young. Eliot couldn't help but grin with satisfaction to see the scumbag led away in handcuffs. Of course, he was probably being taken to a safehouse, but with Tammy's father's clout, he wouldn't be safe there for long.

Eliot was getting ready to leave when Nate showed up. They broke off from the small crowd gathered on the lawn.

Eliot was the first to speak. "So the painting…?"

Nate grinned. "It had to be written off anyway. It was a fake."

Eliot wasn't sure what to make of that. "What if it hadn't been?"

Nate appeared to contemplate this for a few moments. He shrugged. "I guess we'll never know." He winked and walked away.

Eliot smirked; Nathan Ford was capable of being a good guy even when expensive objects weren't involved. It was a fascinating insight into the man—his brief turn as a white hat and their surprising ability to work together so seamlessly. It felt…Eliot didn't know quite the word for it, except right. Playing good guy with Nate Ford that evening had been highly satisfying.

Too bad Eliot could never be a good guy.

He hated that about himself.