Okay—so I promised bprice a story about six months ago, and she's been really, really patient while I worked through my newfound Sherlock obsession.

And I know the first thing she's going to say after she reads this first bit is, "Where's the dog?"

He's on the way, Bron. I swear.

This is a sequel to "If it's Worth Saving Me" and "If Today was Your Last Day," so if this chapter is a bit confusing, I would suggest reading "Saving Me" first.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Leverage, TNT, or the characters of that show. I also mean no disrespect to the producers, writers, or actors.

Eliot hadn't seen this coming.

He reeled back under the impact of an expert kick to the ribs, but managed to block the next one, grabbing an ankle and dumping its elegantly dressed owner to the concrete floor just in time to drive his elbow up and back into the throat of the thug approaching him from behind.

He turned to deal an uppercut that knocked the unlucky man cold before whipping around to see the martial artist execute a perfect kip-up and try again. Eliot spun out of the way at the last second and administered an insulting boot to the seat of the man's expensive slacks as he passed.

There was a crash and deafening clatter as his opponent stumbled into a display of metal garbage cans full of unfinished closet rods, sending them everywhere. The man came up wielding a six-foot rod like a bō staff. He straightened his lavender silk tie and smiled.

Eliot picked up a shorter rod as it rolled past and backed up into the main aisle to give himself room, taking a moment to wonder what the hell he'd walked into.

He hadn't expected trouble—he'd only dropped into DIYer's to pick up a length of baseboard for Nate's kitchen because he knew it wouldn't occur to Parker to repair the stuff she damaged and Hardison, who had given her the damn roller skates in the first place, was at some kind of nerd convention in Chicago.

He'd been so focused on getting in, getting out, and getting on with the repairs that he hadn't suspected a damn thing until the first of the three thugs tried to tackle him.

That ticked him off more than the unprovoked attack—that he'd been caught unaware. Had he really been dumb enough to relax his guard after taking down the worst of his personal boogeymen? That was death-level stupid for someone like him.

Sure, most of his private worries—about the team's safety, about his own survival—had disappeared along with Moreau's fortune. Nate was off the hook, the team was intact, and he'd found some closure. Things could finally get back to normal.

But normal didn't mean safe and worst didn't mean only.

"Mind telling me what I did to piss you off?" he growled, as the last thug standing stalked after him.

Silk Tie smirked, spinning the makeshift bō as if he knew what he was doing. "Have you upset so many, Mr. Spencer, that you can't remember them all?" His words were colored by a faint accent Eliot couldn't quite place.

Eliot stood his ground and centered himself. "Goes with the territory."

"But now you're trespassing on ours. Not smart."

"What? Who the hell are—"

The man charged.

Eliot countered a flurry of blows until his opponent's weapon snapped down, splintering his own in half. He threw the pieces aside and dodged another strike. This guy was a pro—he wasn't going let Eliot close enough to disarm him without making him permanently regret he'd tried.

Time to try something else.

Eliot snatched random items from the shelves and flung them at the advancing threat: a birdcage, a house sign, a flurry of banister spheres. Most were batted away, though a few scored direct hits, halting his attacker for a second or two.

His phone beeped—three short, three long, three short. Only ten people in the world knew the number that activated that ringtone. But they were going to have to wait.

Eliot hurled several pointed finials like rapid-fire darts and glanced around for something more substantial. Like pint cans of wood stain.

That would work.

He gathered an armful and aimed low to draw the other man's defense to his knees, one-two-three-four—and on five, the last can few straight at Silk Tie's unprotected head.

The rod snapped up to block ,but Eliot had already slipped down a side row, running as silently as he could and making a few twists and turns before finding a niche where he could catch his breath. It wouldn't take much effort to get away—this place was a rabbit warren, not a killbox—but he wanted answers. Far as he knew, he hadn't personally crossed anyone in Boston, though territory could mean damned near anything. . .

His phone beeped again and he yanked his Bluetooth out of his pocket and stuck it in his ear—not as good as an earbud, but it kept his hands free. "This had better be an emergency," he growled.

"It is."

"Not a good time, Dougie."

"Sorry. But it's bad, Uncle Spencer. I need help."

Dougie wasn't a hysterical kid. Bad to him was a damn sight worse than wrecking the apartment while his parents and little sister were out of town visiting Grandma. And he hadn't played the Uncle Spencer card since his voice had changed.

"Where are you?"

"Boston General."

"You hurt?"

"No, not much. But Parker—"

"Not much?" Jo was going to go ballistic. "If Parker took you to a hospital-"

"No." Dougie's voice was flat. "The ambulance took her."

"Accident?"

"No. And all I've got to keep her safe is a Taser and a call button to the nurses' station."

He cursed under his breath. "Call Nate."

"I tried—right after I called you the first time. His phone's off and so is Sophie's."

Eliot saw a flicker of movement through the open shelves in front of him and slid out of his hiding place, moving quietly in the opposite direction as Silk Tie. "Sit tight and keep trying. I'll be there soon as I can."He ended the call and muted his phone, but left his earpiece in, just in case.

Time to get end this.

He turned a corner, and another, and found himself in an aisle full of unfinished furniture legs. Hefting one that ended in a large block of wood, Eliot went still, listening.

Up ahead—soft footsteps, moving away from his position.

He bared his teeth and went hunting.

oooooOOOOOooooo

Eliot charged into the hospital, moving too quickly for the automatic doors. He shoved them out of his way, not caring about the whining gears—he'd already broken every possible speed limit to get here, he wasn't about to slow down now.

"Spencer!" Dougie appeared in front of him, in that way he and Parker both had. The relief on his face made him look younger than sixteen.

"You okay?" Eliot gave the kid a once over. His white t-shirt looked like he'd been rolling around on fresh blacktop, but except for the butterfly bandage over one eye, he looked all right.

"I'm fine—a little road rash. But Par—Alice is still out." Dougie took in a shaky breath and lowered his voice. "She fell, Spencer. Parker fell. They cut her lines and she couldn't . . . We weren't doing anything!"

"Who're they?"

Dougie shook his head and Eliot squeezed his shoulder. "Where is she? The ICU?"

"No, this way." Dougie led him to the elevators. He moved stiffly, without his usual easy grace, and Eliot thought he might have some injuries under his shirt. "They just moved her to the second floor."

"You left her alone?" Never a good idea with Parker, but if the team was being targeted . . .

Dougie shook his head. "Mike showed up twenty minutes ago—Mom called him. She and Dad are already on the road, but it's a thirteen-hour drive. And Hardison is on his way to the airport."

"Good." Eliot hit the elevator button. "What's the story?" Dougie would have one—he hadn't grown up surrounded by grifters and thieves for nothing.

"Hit and run—She shoved me out of the way. Alice White is my Dad's cousin, and you're Spencer Dermott—Mom's brother." He grimaced. "Hope that's okay. I drew a complete blank and I couldn't remember if Hardison burned David Spencer."

"We'll make it work. Did you get Nate?"

"Yeah, finally. He's picking up Sophie." The elevator doors opened and Dougie bumped into a waiting nurse. He flinched back and apologized, edging past.

Eliot followed, sure now that the kids was hiding some kind of damage. Might not be deliberate—adrenaline was a powerful painkiller. Until it wore off.

Dougie wasn't moving any easier by the time he stopped by a closed door. He knocked shave-and-a-haircut before opening it. "It's us," he said, swinging the door wide to show a compact, muscular man with a bleached buzz cut standing guard between the hospital bed and the door.

Mike gave each of them a sharp glance before grinning, showing two gold teeth and a brand new incisor. "'Bout time. What kept ya?"

"Not sure yet. Thanks for picking up the slack, man."

"Slack. Right." He glanced at the hospital bed and his expression went grim. "Think I'll stick around until Jo gets here—maybe longer."

"Fine by me." If a five-time mixed-martial arts champion was willing to pull bodyguard duty, Eliot wasn't going to turn him down—especially since it freed him to go after the bastards who'd done this.

He moved to the end of the bed and looked at Parker. Her face was pale except for the dark smudges under her closed eyes, a trace of a bruise on one cheek. She was absolutely still—only the beeping machines told him she was still breathing.

It was so wrong to see her like this—even when napping, boneless as a cat, Parker seemed to keep one eye open and aware, her unpredictable energy ready and waiting, just beneath the surface. But he couldn't see a trace of it now.

He heard his knuckles crack before he realized he'd clenched his hands into fists.

He heard a soft shave-and-a-haircut at the door and didn't bother to turn around. He was too busy fighting the urge to go back to DIYer's and burn the place to the ground. If these sons-of-bitches didn't want him trespassing, they'd picked the wrong way to convince him.

"Eliot?" said Sophie. "Is she—Oh, Parker." She rushed past, dressed in her version of weekend casual, more Saks than sweats, but her makeup was minimal and her hair was less than perfect, as if she'd dropped everything and ran without checking a mirror first. "Oh, my God," she said, reaching out to smooth back the blond hair. "She's always so careful with her equipment—what happened?"

"She was doing rig tests on the Hancock," said Dougie, "And—"

"The Hancock?" said Nate, from the door. He'd closed it behind him, but didn't step any further into the room. "The tallest building in Boston? In the middle of the day?"

"Yes, the tallest building in Boston in the middle of the day." The kid started to run a frustrated hand through his sandy hair, but hissed and lowered his arm. "It's tall enough for sudden-stop stress tests and the sun and the mirrors blind people inside and out. She uses the far side so the ends aren't obvious, but people will still be around if things go wrong—except they didn't go wrong. Someone cut her lines."

Nate rubbed his chin. "And you're sure it didn't just snap?"

Eliot shook his head, but Dougie beat him to it.

"Of course I'm sure—she was wearing three safeties! Parker takes a lot of risks, but she never takes chances with untested equipment and there aren't any decent handholds on that side of the building, not even for someone like her. The redundant line went first, which was weird, but then the second went, and she started zipping down as fast as she could, but then the other two let go . . ." He swallowed. "She was three floors up."

Nate said a very bad word, looking as if he wished hospital rooms had wet bars.

"Why didn't she break every bone in her body?" asked Sophie.

Dougie started to speak, but then moved his shoulders in a small shrug. "She knows how to fall."

"Still . . ."

"Did you see who did it?"

Dougie shook his head. "I was on the ground—All I saw were the lines dropping, and then . . . " He shuddered.

Sophie pulled him into a hug, but he gasped and struggled away. "Dougie?"

"That's it," said Eliot. He took two steps and yanked up the kid's t-shirt. "Holy—" The kid's entire torso was a riot of color, mostly red, purple, and black. "What the hell happened to you? You said you were on the ground."

"I was." Dougie stepped back and pulled down his shirt. "It looks easier when you guys catch her."

Mike whistled. "Geez, kid, maybe that's because we outweigh her by a hundred pounds each. And she's usually aiming for us on purpose."

Eliot stared at him. "You know that's the second dumbest thing you've ever done, right?"

Dougie's chin went up. "What was the first?"

"Telling me you were okay. You're not—you've got at least a couple cracked ribs, if they aren't broken. You don't lie to me about stuff like this. Ever. And you probably lied to your mama, too."

"Well, yeah."

Eliot shook his head, though he couldn't blame the kid. Jo wasn't an overprotective parent— though if anyone had an excuse, she did—but she did tend to go dangerous when her children were hurt, and a thirteen-hour car ride wouldn't help her temper any.

"Sophie, take Dougie down to the emergency room and get him X-rayed, please," said Nate.

"Right you are," said Sophie. "Come on—we'd better document the injuries before your mother gets hold of you. You can tell me the cover story on the way."

"Hey kid," said Eliot.

Dougie paused at the door. "Yeah?"

"Second dumbest . . . but third bravest."

The kid smiled. "Yeah? What were the first two?"

"You can think about that while you get your ribs wrapped."

Sophie shooed Dougie out the door and shut it behind them.

"Damn," said Mike, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "He probably saved her life."

"Yeah," said Nate. "Let's hope no one saw him do it."

"Cover story's a hit and run . . . police are gonna be sniffing around."

"I'll call Bonanno." Nate pulled out his phone.

"Wait—ask him about this guy." He pulled Silk Tie's wallet out of his jacket and tossed it to Nate. "He and two other guys ambushed me—this one called me by name and said I was trespassing on someone else's territory. Thought it might be my own problem. Now I don't."

Nate opened it, pulled out the ID, and frowned before going through the rest.

"Whose territory?" asked Mike.

"He couldn't say." Anything. "But I get the idea they think we're a threat to whatever they've got going on."

Nate's gaze shifted to Parker and stuck, his blue eyes hardening. "Well. They're right about that."

Before any Bostonians point this out, I know there's no Boston General. I made it up in case I need to mess with it later. There's also no DIYer's, which is good because the service there is terrible.

And I also know that the stabilizers on the 58th floor would make it difficult to attach jump lines to the observation deck of the Hancock—which is closed to the general public, but that's a good thing here. Parker could attach her lines to the stabilizers without much trouble, but I thought it was unlikely that our bad guys would be able to cut them without wrinkling their nice suits.

Research. It is fun!

But reviews, they are even better. Just sayin'.