Work Text:
His phone didn't buzz until Ian reached his car. At the time, he didn't find that suspicious. The caller wasn't in his contacts, but he had enough military buddies who destroyed phones not to worry too much about that, either. He set his rifle case in the trunk, then took the call. "Edgerton."
"I need that favor." The voice was gruff, male, and yeah, Ian knew who was calling him.
“Already paid it." He leaned against his car, dark eyes scanning over the terrain and buildings around him. Spencer was a fair shot, but Ian wasn't catching reflected light where none should be. "I haven't hunted you down and shot you. What more do you think I owe?"
"Hey. One, you owe me and I didn't call that in. Two?" His voice dropped, as if he didn't want someone near him to hear it. "I don't... I don't work for him anymore. I'm doing something different. Changed hats."
Ian listened carefully, one eyebrow up even if Eliot Spencer wasn't in front of him to worry with it. "Easy to say, Spencer, but absence of proof is not proof of absence."
"Man, if I was still working for Moreau, I'd have shot Chapman months ago. He makes my skin crawl.” He paused again, his voice steadier and less strained when he said, “I'm out, Edge. I'll swear that on my mother's grave if you want me to."
The funny thing was, that, Ian believed. He did give his one warning, however. "If you're lying to me, I'll take that promise over yours. You still want to make it?"
"I'm out of that and doing better jobs, but I need a shooter. Specifically, I need you, and you're a short flight away. I buy the tickets, handle your room, buy your food. No wetwork, just a tricky shot." Spencer sounded relieved that Ian hadn’t started arguing yet. "On my mother's grave, man. This ain't for Moreau, it ain't an assassination, and I think you'll even like the full story when you get it. Gonna be a while on that, though."
Ian considered that for a few long seconds, unsurprised that he got the time. "You realize I work for the FBI now. You're wanted. The shot's one favor. Not arresting you is two. That's a problem."
"Yeah, well, check the records. My name ain't on Uncle Sam's blacklist. After you check, call me back. I need you here tomorrow if you're coming. If not, I'll find a fallback.”
Spencer sounded less stressed now and, interestingly, he wasn't playing up the good ole boy persona, one of his few poker tells for a bluff. (Sometimes. It depended on the set of his shoulders.) Ian considered all of that before he asked, "Why are you buying my food instead of cooking for me if I'm flying on no notice?”
"Because you know me. You don't know my team. Compartmentalization. Also, I don't have time to cook, these people are crazy," he grumbled. He sounded... fond, Ian thought. Human. Really not working as Moreau’s red right hand anymore, then.
"I'll call back in an hour," Ian said. "If you're not lying, we'll go from there." He hung up and went to check several databases, interested to see if he could find out who exactly had cleared Eliot Spencer's record.
The hotel room had had plenty of room until Spencer walked in with an army duffel over one shoulder. He let Ian decide where to put the rifle case concealed inside it, holding onto the map and building specs for the target to keep his hands full until Ian was ready to look over the situation. It only took a few minutes for Ian to sort out the plan, and that only because he was so surprised by what he was seeing that he had to doublecheck.
Ian looked up at Spencer and asked, precise and careful, "You want me to hit the window? Not a person. And I'm to make sure the only collateral damage is from falling glass, if anything. Spencer, I'm good? I can't promise you no ricochets. If I get a bullet through the window, it might bounce off that wall. Drywall over brick over granite? No promises. What then?"
"I want you to hit the upper right corner of the window," Eliot agreed. His hair was back in a ponytail and there were glasses in the pocket of his button-down shirt that Ian knew damn well he didn't need. "And I want you to use this rifle to do it." He pointed to the rifle case. "Use gloves. It's already got prints on it."
Ian could feel a frustration headache forming just beyond his forehead. "With a new-to-me gun, you want me to make this from half a mile out."
"I said I need you." Eliot shrugged and said, "Take a look at the rifle. You're gonna like this part." The faintest trace of a smile curled around his mouth and through his voice as Ian was already undoing the snaps of the case.
Ian stared at the SVD, at the boxes of 7.62×54mmR ammo, and, most importantly, at the faint, faint scratch marks along the top of the stock. "You're framing Kavalyow for this?" He couldn't keep the incredulous smile off his face. "Jesus. You have a death wish, but sure. That's why you need me to miss."
"Yup. Just enough wind gust down that canyon of buildings to make it believable, he's in the area, and I need him in jail for several reasons. Not least to ship the fucker to the ICC," Eliot said bluntly.
"And it's Kavalyow." Now the plan made more sense. "He misses high when he misses. He never has had enough patience for serious distance shots, and he's shit with storms."
Ian caught Eliot’s eye to repeat his warnings. "If I miss high... it might stick in the first floor ceiling, but I meant it: I cannot promise you no collateral damage."
Spencer tapped the plans. "Can you promise me you'll hit this corner from the designated eyrie? Because if you do, I am promising you: no collateral damage. A partner went in and added another couple layers of acoustical tile across that section. It looks water-damaged, to explain the extra layers, but it's there. It'll be enough. I ran the calcs four times, Edge."
"Good. I'll pick up a baseball cap," Ian said. "No trace evidence includes my hair, thanks; I do not owe you that big a favor.” This was making more sense, though; Kavalyow was about his height and weight, also dark-haired. Unlike Ian, the Belarusian’s hair had red highlights in the sun, and some curl to it. No, Ian could play him well enough for a distant view….
Ian kept studying the plans, then said, "I wait for your signal, then shoot. Yes?"
"Yup. I'll give you as much slack time as I can -- might be as much as five seconds -- but that’s the outside limit. If you can take the shot within three, that’ll be better. If the wind allows.” Eliot shrugged. “Nature happens to all of us. After the shot, leave the gun and the case, and try to act like someone refusing to panic on your way out. Hotel's paid through tonight, shuttle will get you to the airport tomorrow, and," he dug out his wallet and handed over folded twenties, "here's dinner and drinks on me."
He deliberately let Ian see the full motion, into the pocket and back out, rather than make Ian think a weapon might be coming up with the wallet.
Ian chuckled, picturing the consternation this was going to cause. "I can do that. I'd point out the possible questions about my overnight trip, but if you're going to tamper with official records, I want plausible deniability. About that, anyway."
The amusement in the other man's eyes changed one thing -- Ian used his first name finally. "Eliot? How the fuck did you manage to steal this gun?"
"Compartments, and need to know, and plausible deniability." He smiled, however, and said, "Tell you that part when I tell you how many people this screws over in a year or three, Ian. But I mean it: You're gonna like the story when you get it. Okay?"
Ian considered Eliot Spencer, catching the lack of shadows in his eyes even if he had the start of bags under them. The laugh lines beginning to show around eyes and mouth again. The relaxed set of his shoulders and amusement in his voice that hadn't been there the last time they’d run into each other, after the CIA jobs that had ruined a promising intel and retrieval asset for the Army.
Ian nodded and relaxed. This Eliot Spencer he could work with again. "Okay. Favor's paid after this -- but I'll buy the first round for the story in a few years."
They shook hands on it and Eliot Spencer vanished out of his life again. For a while, anyway.