A/N: You can all blame this one on Marlab. Also, huge thanks to frankie_mcstein for cheering me, listening to all of my complaining about plot things, and reading it over before I posted to make sure I didn't make too big a fool of myself.

Beyond that, nothing was officially betaed by anyone other than the Google Docs spellchecker, so you can blame it for everything else.

Standard disclaimers apply. Basically, I own nothing recognizable. Also, I tried doing a little research on Google Maps but I'm not 100% sure all of my distances and locations line up perfectly, so don't hate me too much if any of you are familiar with the DC/Virginia area and find any factual errors with my content.

"Hey, Noah!" The voice stops the young man in his tracks as he hurries down the office hallway.

"Um, hey, Dalton." It's still a little weird seeing a face along with the voice; Noah's used to talking to the team over a satellite connection. Honestly, he's almost forgotten they're back from deployment, and it's not until the other man's voice cuts into his thoughts that he really remembers. "How's it going?"

"Good," Dalton replies cheerfully. "Hey, I'm about to head into a meeting with some top brass guys, but I have a favor to ask you."

Errand momentarily forgotten, Noah nods. "Okay, sure. What's up?"

"You know how I brought the dog home from base with me?" Dalton begins.

"Sure."

"Well, Patton's getting a full checkup at the vet's, and they're quarantining him as a precaution in case he brought home anything nasty," Dalton explains. "It's just basic procedure, but they asked for a secondary contact in case they can't reach me." He smirks. "And with the way meetings are around here, I'm not sure that won't happen. Do you mind grabbing Patton when he's ready to come home if I can't for some reason?"

Noah isn't sure what he was expecting to hear, but this definitely isn't it. However, it won't be too hard to do, and Campbell has mentioned she's going to try to get the team through the debriefing process as quickly as possible. Besides, it's the least Noah can do to help out a guy who's averted international catastrophes more times than anyone can count.

"Oh, um, I guess so," he replies with a nod. He fishes in his pocket and comes up with a scrap of paper and a pen. "Here," he says, scribbling on the paper. "Give them my number, and they can call me if they need me."

Dalton grins and reaches out to clap Noah on the shoulder. "Great!" he acknowledges. "There's a spare key in a loose brick above the third step if you need it, and I've already got a crate set up for him in the laundry room. Thanks, Noah!" Then he turns and jogs back down the hallway.

If not for the phone call the next day around noon, Noah might not have thought twice about the exchange. He's just run out to grab lunch and is unlocking his car when his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. Glancing at the screen, he frowns when he doesn't recognize the number, but he presses the button to answer it anyway. "Noah Morgenthau."

"Hi, Mr. Morgenthau?" an almost-too-cheerful woman chirps on the other end of the line.

"Yes, this is he," Noah responds, swinging open his car door and shifting to toss his jacket onto the passenger seat. "How can I help you?"

"This is Tillie from Dr. Carlisle's office," the woman continues just as happily. "We have you down as a contact for Patton here."

Ah, so it's the vet's office Dalton had mentioned the day before, Noah notes to himself. "Yes, that's right," he says out loud, nodding absently as he ducks into the driver's seat.

"Yes, well, we left several messages for the primary contact on file, but Mr. Dalton did say we should call you if he didn't answer. Something about work responsibilities?"

"Mhm. Okay, when do I need to come get, uh, Patton?" Noah asks.

Tillie clears her throat. "Well, just before we close, but the sooner, the better. He's not a huge fan of the kennel," she adds with a chuckle. "We'll be here until six tonight."

After getting the office address from Tillie, Noah glances at the clock on his dashboard. He pauses for a moment, then sighs as he decides it's best to get the dog right then. There are no current missions he needs to get back to helping manage, but that doesn't mean nothing will come up. If he takes care of Patton over his lunch break, he'll be sure to complete the errand. Otherwise, the poor dog might end up boarded for another night—which is most likely not cheap. And he has promised Dalton…

Decision made, Noah drops his phone onto the passenger seat, then puts the car into reverse. He is fortunate enough to hit all green lights the whole way to the vet's, and before long, he's pulling up to Dalton's place. It's simple and nondescript, the left half of a duplex townhouse unit. Noah parks along the curb, then turns off the ignition and exits the vehicle. Circling to the sidewalk, he reaches for the handle of the back door. "Come on, Patton," Noah says, swinging it open.

The dog wags his tail and barks happily as his leash is clipped onto his collar. As soon as Noah steps back from the door, the dog bolts out of the car, practically dragging the man down the sidewalk. Noah tugs back against the pull on the leash. "Nuh-uh, Patton; come on. This way." They stride up the three steps from the sidewalk to the front door, and Patton scrambles to go faster—then suddenly stops in his tracks. The hair along the middle of his back rises noticeably, and his entire body stiffens.

"What is it, boy?" Noah asks. The animal seems to be fixated on Dalton's front door, and Noah glances that way. "What…" He trails off as he notices the door is hanging ajar.

Stomach sinking, Noah steps forward slowly. He reaches into his pocket for his phone even as he eases the door open with his elbow. Patton is whining and growling deep in his throat, but Noah holds the leash tightly so as not to let the dog go rushing into the foyer before he has a chance to take it in himself.

The sight of an overturned floor lamp, its bulb shattered on the floorboards around it, sets butterflies fluttering in his gut. As his eyes adjust to the dark interior of the house, the very obvious spatter of blood on the far wall and crushed coffee table meet his gaze. It's enough to send him back down the steps, pulling a howling Patton with him and dialing Campbell's number as fast as he can pull it up on his phone.

Dalton wakes with a start, his quick intake of breath setting him to coughing even before he can open his eyes. He winces and rides out the fit, then takes in a slow, ragged breath. There is a dull ache somewhere in the back of his head, but he pushes past it in favor of concentrating on keeping his lungs on their best behavior. Once his breathing is back under control, he opens his eyes—and then promptly squeezes them shut again.

There is a bright light somewhere above him, which only serves to intensify the pounding in his head. All at once, his pulse is roaring in his ears, and his stomach is churning like it's about to expel all of its contents at once. He takes another series of painstakingly-controlled breaths, desperately trying to put everything back to rights. The last thing he needs is to be sick. His head is already pounding, and he knows throwing up will do him no favors.

The thought of his team flashes to his mind, and he feels as if his heart has just dropped into his roiling stomach. They are nowhere to be seen, but that makes it even worse, because the moment he wonders if they are in trouble is the moment he suddenly realizes he has no idea how he's gotten where he is. His memory is a blur. The harder he tries to concentrate, the worse his headache gets, until he has both hands on either side of his head and his eyes shut against the pain. Dalton takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He needs to focus, and he needs to do it now if he hopes to get out of… wherever he is.

And he needs to get out of wherever he is so he can find his team.

If they're hurt, Dalton is going to kill someone.

Even as he fights to regain control of his senses, his mind is busily cataloguing the things he can make out. He's lying on what feels like a cold, concrete floor. Judging from the difference in temperature between the portion of the floor underneath him and the concrete a little farther out, he's been there for a significant amount of time. He instinctively moves to check his watch, but when he cracks one eye open to glance at his wrist, he realizes the device is missing.

Dalton groans and lays his forearm over his eyes. He racks his brain, trying to recall some detail to tell him what is happening, but he cannot remember much from… when was it? The night before? He has no idea how long he's been unconscious.

Also, it is freezing. Dalton isn't sure if it's because he is in shock or if the room really is at an extremely low temperature. Either way, he can already feel the goosebumps prickling at his bare arms. It had seemed plenty warm enough for his simple black t-shirt and jeans when he'd donned them to go in for the round of meetings, but now, the thin fabric is doing nothing to block out the frigid temperature in the basement. Dalton shivers again as another chill runs up his spine.

Forcing his eyes back open, he squints against the harsh lighting. Once his vision adjusts, he can see the source of the illumination is coming from a single, exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling. He pushes to a sitting position, moving slowly and carefully, using the wall behind him for support. Once he is upright, he rests his left elbow on his knee and puts up his hand to block the bulb from his line of sight. It helps a little, at least enough for him to study his surroundings.

The bare bones of a place that probably hasn't been used in years meets his eyes. The walls and floor are plain concrete. The ceiling seems to be constructed of old wooden planks with beams spaced every two feet along the length of the small room, and Dalton estimates the room is only about twenty feet by twenty feet. There are no windows in any of the walls, and a steep, narrow staircase on the far side of the room leads up to a solid-looking wooden door. Other than a dented, metal chair sitting against the far wall, the room is completely empty, and its only source of light is the hanging bulb. Water is trickling down the wall in a few places, and Dalton makes a face. Great. He's locked in a basement who-knows-where.

A blinking red dot high up on the wall near the stairs catches his eye, and he frowns. Tilting his head, he tries to concentrate on the source. He can't focus though; the room is relatively small, but between the bright light above him and his thundering headache, he just can't make out many details.

Dalton shifts his weight and winces at the stiffness of his muscles. Ignoring it as much as he can, he uses his right hand to push off of the ground, still keeping his left up between him and the offending light bulb. He makes it almost all the way upright before his head starts swimming again, but he clenches his jaw and continues slowly. Once he's on his feet, he stands still for a moment, steadying himself until he is sure he can make it across the room. Then he starts forward slowly and carefully and manages to get to the staircase without incident. When he is finally leaning against the wall beside the stairs, he squints up at the ceiling, able to see the flashing dot much more clearly now.

It's coming from a small, circular device mounted just under the right angle where the wall and ceiling meet. It has to be a camera, which only increases Dalton's apprehension about what he is doing in the basement. Shaking his head, he turns for the door. He's fairly certain whoever dumped him here won't have been careless enough to leave it unlocked, but he has to try.

There is no handrail on the flight of steps, so Dalton has to use the wall on his left side to keep him steady as he mounts the stairs. His right hand is out at his side in an attempt to keep his balance. With every step, his head spins, and he's forced to pause for a moment each time until he regains his bearings. After what seems like an eternity, he finally makes it up to the door. He tries the handle but finds it locked tightly. That figures. Dalton rattles the knob to try to dislodge it, then leans back and rams the door with his shoulder. It doesn't budge, and the only reward he receives for his efforts is such a disruption of his equilibrium he thinks he might go headfirst down the stairs.

Panting at the exertion, Dalton sinks onto the steps. He props his elbows on his knees and rests his forehead on his arms. His headache is a persistent little troublemaker and is back to hammering away full-force. He grunts and closes his eyes, trying to shut out the light in hopes it will help alleviate his headache. A sudden shiver runs down his spine, and he instinctively draws his legs a little closer to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. The damp cold of the basement is starting to seep into his very bones, and he can feel the goosebumps rising along his arms and the back of his neck.

Reaching for something to take his mind off the pain, he takes a shallow breath and tries to focus on how he's gotten where he is in the first place. He remembers going into the office for several meetings… and then he'd asked Noah to get Patton, he suddenly recalls. He isn't sure if he hopes Noah has gotten the dog already, because who knows how long Patton has been at the house by himself if so. Dalton sighs; hopefully someone has noticed him missing by now, for Patton's sake as well as his own.

With another deep breath, Dalton refocuses on retracing his steps. After what had seemed like an endless round of meetings, he'd headed home… had nodded a greeting to a young man passing by on the sidewalk… had turned for the stairs to his front door… had heard a noise behind him and started to turn… and then his knees had suddenly grown weak and given out on him! Dalton blinks as memories of stumbling for his door come rushing back. He can remember desperately trying to get inside before he was violently ill all over his front steps… but as soon as he'd opened his front door, someone had jumped him from behind… The memory of the fight that had ensued is a complete blur, and he knows he'd gotten in some good licks, but whatever had made him so sick had drained his energy at an alarming rate…

An image suddenly flashes to his mind. He's lying on his back on his living room floor, a dark figure looming above him. Oddly enough, he can vividly feel the pieces of what used to be his coffee table underneath his back and pain flaring up his spine into his head. Then he blinks, and the next thing he remembers, he's being dragged out of a vehicle with his hands tied behind his back.

He vaguely recalls stumbling through the woods, but it feels like he's grasping for wisps of a long-past nightmare. A figure had been behind him, shoving him forward along the path, and he knows he'd fallen a few times. Then they'd arrived at a small structure, and Dalton remembers nearly pitching down a flight of stairs—the same ones where he is sitting now, he realizes—before a strong hand had grabbed his forearm and manhandled him the rest of the way. The last thing he can remember is collapsing against the wall.

Dalton groans again and closes his eyes. His headache has only intensified the more he's tried to concentrate on his memories; his head feels like it is going to explode at any moment, and he can't do anything about it. He just hopes there's enough evidence and witnesses for the team to track him down, because he's realizing with sickening clarity that there is no way out of this basement.

He's trapped.

"What do we know?" Patricia is talking before the door closes behind her. She strides down the short aisle between her team's desks until she comes to a stop next to the large display at the front of the room.

Noah and Hannah are already on their feet, both ready with information the moment she looks at them.

"Well, we went back through all of the camera footage we can find around Dalton's street," Noah says, nodding to the video still paused on the large screen. The image is of a large black truck running a red light; the timestamp indicates the video is from the night before. "A traffic camera down the street from his place caught this vehicle," he gestures to the image of the truck, "circling the block several times."

"Lost driver?" Patricia arches an eyebrow.

Noah shakes his head. "Not unless that lost driver suddenly had reason to speed through a red light about ten minutes later."

"We ran the plates," Hannah jumps in before Patricia can voice the question. "No go there; it was reported stolen from the parking lot of a local store the day before yesterday. The owner has no connections of any sort to Dalton or any criminal organizations, so it's probable whoever took the vehicle is the one behind Dalton's disappearance. I've read through the report," she continues, "but the cops have no idea who took the truck. There were no cameras and no witnesses."

As Hannah is speaking, Noah reaches past the crinkled bag of pork rinds lying on his desk to tap a series of keys on his computer. A new image pops up on the screen. "The police may have hit a dead end, but we do have a few more resources at our disposal. We were able to track the truck to a house about twenty minutes out of the city, in McLean, Virginia. Belongs to one Anton Galkin." He glances at his leader. "Any guesses to who he is?"

Folding her arms, Patricia fixes him with a stare. When she speaks next, her tone is short and clipped. "Noah, the rest of the team is waiting in the conference room for what they think is one final debrief. I haven't told them what's going on because I didn't want to worry them until I had all the information. Would you care to go play guessing games with them or would you like to tell me what you found?"

"Right," he replies, nodding nervously. "Okay, so, he's the son of, uh, Timur Galkin, who was killed during one of our ops years ago. Anton moved the States shortly afterward; he's got a degree in mechanical engineering and was able to get in on a work visa."

Patricia blinks. "So this is revenge?"

"It seems like it," Hannah says with a nod. "Their target was a trafficking ring operating out of a border town in Russia; an American college student on a summer trip had been kidnapped and Dalton's team at the time was assigned to get her back. Several of the traffickers were killed during the operation, including Galkin—and according to all of the after-action reports, Dalton's the one who fired the shot that took him out. At the time, Anton was still living in that same small town near his extended family," she continues. "He never applied to move to the US until after his father was killed."

Sighing, Patricia fidgets with the pair of glasses in her hand. "Do we have any other evidence Anton Galkin is the one at play here?"

Her question prompts Noah to lean over his keyboard again. "Actually, yes. After we found the info on the truck, we went back through other security cameras in the area. There's nothing concrete, but Dalton's neighbors have one set up to cover their porch that happens to have a view of the street. The quality is nowhere near good enough to get an actual license plate, but it captured this from shortly before the truck ran the light."

Patricia slides her glasses back on as she looks up at the screen. There's a grainy, green-tinted video now playing of a dark truck pulling up to the curb and a shadowy figure exiting the driver's side. The figure glances around furtively before heading out of frame. Noah taps to fast forward the footage, then again to play the video in real time as the figure reappears—this time, lugging a still form immediately recognizable as Dalton's, even with the low quality of the footage.

Her expression hardening, Patricia looks to Noah. "Any chance the footage was clear enough for an ID on the driver?"

"No," Noah shakes his head morosely. "We got a twenty-five percent match to Anton Galkin, but that's nowhere near a positive identification."

"It's good enough to question him," Patricia says firmly. "Are we sure the truck hasn't left the house since it pulled in last night?"

It's Hannah's turn to shake her head now. "No. According to everything we're seeing, the stolen vehicle is still parked in Galkin's driveway. Of course, we can't fully track its journey from Dalton's place to there, but it has definitely been there a while."

Frowning, Patricia pinches the bridge of her nose. "The question is, how did Galkin find out where Dalton lives?"

Noah gives a shake of his head. "We're not sure…" he says slowly. "Maybe a leak?"

"We need to find out before any more of our people are put in danger." Patricia looks from Hannah to Noah and back again. "Dig into anyone who would have known about that op or had access to be able to find out, and see if they've ever even thought about Anton Galkin. We need to know how he knew Dalton killed his father and if he's talked to anyone who would have known where Dalton lives." She uncrosses her arms and turns to head back through the door. "I'm going brief the team. Our window shrinks more every second he's missing."

A few minutes later, she's standing at the head of a conference table in one of the DIA's meeting rooms. The four members of Dalton's team had been lounging back in the rolling chairs when Patricia had walked in moments before, tossing around banter and waiting for the meeting to start. Patricia knows they had all noticed Dalton was missing, and she also knows none of them had suspected exactly why—until she had told them.

Now they were all deadly serious, leaning in as if their next breaths depended on the deputy director's next words.

They also all look like they want to shoot something.

"So you're saying this lowlife has Top but we don't know where?" McG growls.

Gesturing to printouts of the stolen truck and Galkin's passport photo—showing the sturdily-built, clean-shaven man staring seriously at the camera—spread out between the team members, Patricia replies, "We have reason to believe Galkin is the one who took Dalton, and our intel shows the truck hasn't left his house since last night." She looks around at the four teammates again, noting with satisfaction the determination on their faces. That's good. Now she just needs them to channel their anger into the mission.

Then she sighs; they aren't going to like this next part. "However, there are a few rules we are supposed to play by since this op is taking place on American soil."

She is right. The team does not look happy.

"They've got Top," Jaz speaks up, glancing around the table. "He'd do whatever it takes to get any of us back if it was him here," she adds with conviction.

The reference to what happened with Jaz in Iran is not lost on Patricia. The older woman sighs. "Even still," she says, "there are a set of policies and procedures we're supposed to play by. Technically—legally—that's what I have to tell you. Follow the rules, don't do anything risky, keep your noses clean." She looks around the table at the team, painfully aware there is one more empty chair than there should be. "But within the confines of this room, I will say you all have whatever support you need to do whatever it takes to save Dalton."

The four relax slightly at her words, and Patricia gives them a tight smile. "Here." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out four black identification cases. "DIA badges with fake names. Someone may have learned Dalton's true identity, but that's not going to happen to the rest of you if I can help it. Use them as needed on this op. Now go on; get out there. Find out what you can from Galkin, and get Dalton back."

She isn't even done with her sentence before the team shoots up from their chairs. McG barely catches his before it topples backward to the floor. Patricia shakes her head and removes her glasses. "And try not to kill too many people?" she adds in parting.

The looks the four exchange are not lost on the deputy director as they pause and then continue toward the door. She sighs as she watches them go, then massages the bridge of her nose with her free hand. "They're going to kill everyone," she mutters.

The door at the top of the stairs creaking open sends Dalton's head up so quickly the room spins around him for the umpteenth time. He's since moved back to the corner where he'd awoken earlier and now has his back against the wall and his knees drawn up against his chest. He's done his best to stay alert, knowing whoever had left him in the basement could be returning at any time. However, the light overhead had only served to exacerbate the constant pounding in his head, so he'd dropped his forehead onto his knees and closed his eyes.

He isn't quite sure when he dozed off, but now he finds himself groggily blinking to bring the room into focus. Someone is coming down the stairs, but Dalton can't make out any details past the bright light and his screaming headache. All he can see is the shadowy figure of a sturdily-built man somewhere in the midst of his blurry surroundings.

"Hello, Adam Dalton," the man intones, his footsteps thudding solidly on the steps as he descends. "Good to see you awake."

Dalton frowns. He immediately places the light Russian accent behind the man's words. It sounds Americanized, as if the man has spent more time in the States recently than overseas, but the lilt to his voice is definitely there. That is a clue—to what, Dalton doesn't know yet, but he files it away in the back of his mind. The footsteps continue, and now the man steps down into view. He's in his early twenties, but even from across the room, Dalton can see how well-built the young man is.

Shifting his weight, Dalton waits for the distance between them to close enough for him to rush his captor. He knew he won't be able to hold his own very long against the bigger man, not with the headache clouding his vision. Even if he were feeling a hundred percent at the moment, it would be a close fight. Dalton knows he will have to use the element of surprise if he hopes to make it out of here.

As the man closes the distance, Dalton counts off the seconds, then launches upward. He manages to catch the man in the stomach, and he pushes forward, forcing the man back a few steps and then following up with a right hook under the chin. Before he can land a third strike, however, his opponent whirls and drives his own fist toward Dalton's face. Although Dalton dodges, the quick movement throws him off balance, and before he can recover, the man lands a solid fist on his temple. Coupled with the headache already clouding Dalton's brain, it is enough to darken his vision and send him tumbling to the floor. He vaguely feels himself falling, but by the time he moves to catch himself, it's too late. He's unconscious before he lands in a heap on the unforgiving concrete.

When his eyes next flicker open, he finds himself staring into two blue eyes crinkling with a humorless smile. The man straightens. "Finally. There you are." He snorts a chuckle. "I was starting to think you were not going to wake up again."

If only. Dalton groans. He just wants to go back to sleep. Now that he's awake, his headache is back in full force. Trying to still his stomach, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, rolling his neck in an attempt to alleviate some of the aching from his muscles. When he tries to shift in his seat, he suddenly realizes he's sitting in the metal chair he had noticed before. It is now in the middle of the room, underneath the light, and he's strapped to it by zip ties at his wrists and ankles. A series of firm tugs tells him they aren't coming loose without help.

"Now," the man says, standing to his feet and crossing his arms, "let us get down to business, shall we? I need you to tell me exactly what I want to know—"

"Yeah? Well, I need a stiff drink and about three days of uninterrupted sleep," Dalton retorts. "But I guess neither of us are getting what we want, are we?"

Without warning, the man slaps Dalton across the face. The loud crack of the open palm against his cheek is nothing compared to the stinging pain that accompanies it and flares up through his head.

"Tell me about Timur Galkin," comes the demand. "I want to hear the story from your own mouth."

Dalton blinks. "Wha—" He clears his throat and tries again. "What?"

His words are immediately met with another blow, this one a fist to the stomach. "Galkin! Timur Galkin! I want to know how you justify what happened to him!"

Another punch, and Dalton can't hold back a guttural growl as he gasps for the air the man's fist has driven from his lungs. "Galkin?" Dalton pants, trying to think past the pain to place the name with a face in his memory. "I… I don't know."

"Don't play games with me!" The man leans down and glares in Dalton's face. His eyes flash in anger. "You were there. I saw you. I couldn't do anything about it then, but believe me, I have not forgotten you!"

The next blow jerks Dalton's head to the side, and he grunts in pain at the impact. He shakes his head to clear it, noting with an odd satisfaction the split skin on the man's knuckles. Dalton works his jaw, carefully making sure nothing is broken, as he meets the man's gaze with a steely one of his own.

This seems to make the man even angrier. "Admit it!" he exclaims. "You killed Timur Galkin."

Dalton just shifts his gaze to stare straight ahead and doesn't even blink at the words. At this point, he knows he can't offer any information that will calm the man, so he opts to stay silent, even as the man continues ranting.

"I was there!" The man is yelling now as he plunges a fist into Dalton's stomach with a blow that again leaves the other man gasping and coughing for air. "I saw you fire the shot!" His voice breaks momentarily, then his cheek bulges as he clenches his jaw. "You didn't think you could just murder someone and get away with it, did you?"

Dalton swallows hard against the roiling in his stomach and cleared his throat. "I promise… if I did… he had it coming."

With an unintelligible yell of anger, the man lunges forward. Tied to the chair as he is, Dalton cannot do anything to protect himself from the onslaught of blows raining down on him as the other man seems to let all of his hatred out at once. Curling in on himself as much as he can, Dalton retreats to a corner of his mind to wait out the man's fury.

And all the while, the little red light across the room just keeps on blinking.

TBC