Author's Note: This takes place immediately after episode 22(S1): Hunted. It's a fairly dark and moody piece so be forewarned. All show/storyline discrepancies are solely my fault. As are all typos. Feedback and comments are, of course, warmly received.
Her day starts with her waking up in a bed that isn't hers beside a man whose name she doesn't care enough to try to remember.
It ends that way as well.
Only this time, she's alone in the bed.
The other major difference is, she chose (however drunkenly so) to be in the first bed.
Not so much the second one.
She gets to the OSP headquarters well before anyone else does. It's more than a little unusual for her, but all she's thinking about is changing her clothes. She doesn't want the others to notice that she's wearing the same shirt she was wearing the day before.
She knows she could have gone back to her own place, but right now, being alone in the chaos of her own dwelling is about the last thing she wants to do.
She showers and changes into jeans and a shirt that she borrows from wardrobe. She's sure that Hetty will notice, but she's just as sure that Hetty will do no more than tilt her head in a show of concerned disapproval.
For now, Hetty will let her be.
Just as she's letting everyone else be.
She probably figures that they're all just trying to find their own ways to deal with the emotions of the last few weeks. She'd be right.
For Special Agent Kensi Blye, that means doing whatever she can to forget.
She's never been great at dealing with pain and loss in a healthy way. For her, the hard alcohol and rough caresses are a balm that seems to work.
Even if it leaves her feeling just a little bit empty afterwards.
"Hey, good morning," she hears as she comes down the stairs. She plasters on a smile as her eyes settle on the unshaven face of Nate Getz, the team's shrink.
"Morning," she answers.
"You're here early," he comments, glancing around and noticing that it's pretty much just the two of them. He looks up at the clock on the wall – it's about fifteen minutes after six in the morning.
"So are you," she counters.
He doesn't miss her evasion, but for just a moment, is willing to let her think she's won this little skirmish. "Coffee?" he asks.
"Would I like some or have I started the pot yet?"
"Both?" She shakes her head. "Okay, I'll start it."
"Thanks."
He walks towards the coffee pot, his back towards her. He puts his head down as he fiddles with the filter. When he speaks, there's a forced nonchalance to his tone, like he's trying to put her ease. Just have a normal conversation.
"So, why are you here so early?"
"Couldn't sleep. You?"
"Morning run. Nothing else to do besides come in."
"So you couldn't sleep either," she lobs back. She figures that if he's going to try to get the truth out of her, maybe he should start first.
Or maybe she's hoping that if she can get him off-balance, she can find a way to delay this whole conversation.
Again.
It's one of her talents, she realizes. Getting not only out of tight situations, but also squirming away from difficult conversations.
It's his job to make sure she's okay.
She understands that, respects that and if he would settle with being satisfied with her telling him that yes, she's just fine, well then she'd be more than happy to give him that. Give them all that.
But she knows better.
And he's too good to buy it anyway.
"I suppose," he shrugs. He turns back towards her and leans against the counter. Behind him, the coffee begins to drip down into the pot.
For a moment, they stare at each other. It's a game of chicken and she hates losing these, but knows she will. She hates trying to stare Nate down; it always makes her feel exposed. Losing to him doesn't take all that long, to be honest. She turns her head away, pretends to be glancing over at her desk.
"So," he starts again. "I was thinking…"
"Always a good start," she cuts in with a smirk.
He smiles, "True." And then he pushes on before she can get around to thinking that maybe she's pushed him far enough off course to end this conversation. Yeah, he thinks to himself, he knows her pretty well by now. "I was thinking about our conversation in Pierce's garage."
"What about it?" He doesn't miss the wary tone that has crept into her voice. She knows exactly where this is going.
Well, good then.
"We kind of got interrupted in the middle of it."
"No, we had a job to do."
"And I have a job to do, too," he says, his voice very calm and measured. He's trying to let her know that they're getting around to the point where they need to have a serious conversation about all of this.
"I know," she replies. She steps towards him, reaches out and touches his arm. It's a blatantly manipulative move and they both know it. She looks up and meets his eyes. "I'm okay."
"I believe that," he nods.
"Good," she sighs, relief in her tone. She releases his arm and steps over to the coffee pot. She pours two cups, putting two teaspoons of sugar in his and none into her own.
"But you can be okay and still not right," he finishes after a moment or two.
She cringes just a bit as she hears his shrink talk. Oh, getting rid of him this time is not going to be easy, she realizes. She turns back around and offers him his cup. "Nate," she says, "I've been living with these…things…"
"Your father, your ex-boyfriend, your partner?"
She gives him a look that tells him that she's not exactly thrilled that he remembered all of that.
"Yes," she replies dryly.
He nods and takes his cup of coffee from her. Not because he's ready to drink it (she likes it much hotter than he does – just about scalding) but rather because he thinks she might be contemplating throwing it at him.
"You've been living with their ghosts for a long time, I know," he tells her. "But Kensi, that doesn't mean you've ever dealt with them. That doesn't mean that you're dealing with losing Dom, either."
"I barely knew Dom," she tells him, a sharpness to her tone. "None of us did."
"He was one of us," Nate counters. "And maybe we hadn't had the chance to really get to know him, but he was a member of this team and we lost him."
"No, we failed him," she shoots back.
"Kensi…"
She puts up her hand. "Nate, do you have doubts that I can do my job?"
"No."
"Then, let it go. I'm dealing with this my way." She softens her tone and adds, "Please?"
He takes a symbolic half step backwards. "Okay. For now."
"Thank you," she replies. They stare at each other for another long moment and then she turns away, silently cursing that somehow or another, she's managed to lose two rounds of this particular game within ten minutes. "I'm going to go work out," she tells him, moving quickly towards the steps.
"Sure," he answers. He brings his cup of coffee to his lips and takes a healthy swig from it. Immediately, he winces as the hot liquid fills his mouth.
On the other hand, she remembered the sugar so even though the coffee is burning the hell out of the roof of his mouth, it tastes pretty good.
Around here, he's learned to take what he can get.
Sam's one hell of a teacher, she thinks, as she slams her balled fist against the heavy bag. It sways frantically beneath the contact.
Problem is, she's not a great student.
He'd be furious if he saw her working out sans gloves. It's reckless and unfocused. It's about feeling pain and not getting it out, he'd tell her.
He'd probably be right.
After a few punches, she stops and stares at the swinging bag. She leans forward and grabs it, pulling it to her. She rests her forehead against. For a moment – just a moment – she lets everything wash over her.
God, they'd been so close to him the whole time.
So damned close.
In the end, they'd been just inches away from him. And it hadn't changed a damn thing; Dom had still been murdered right before their eyes.
No matter what Nate or Hetty or Vance or anyone said, they'd failed him.
In her moments when she's lucid enough not to be heaping all of the blame onto her already over-burdened soul, she wonders if Dom ever really had a chance.
And not just in regards to his capture and eventual murder.
He'd only been a couple years younger than her and yet their worlds couldn't have been more different.
He'd grown up reasonably happy with two loving parents and a wonderful extended family.
After her mother had checked out of her life when she'd been really young, it'd been just she and her father against the world.
Until he'd been gone, too.
Just one more tombstone to visit. One more set of photographs to cry over.
Her own extended family had dutifully taken her in until she'd turned eighteen, but she'd never been under the illusion that they'd ever really wanted her there.
For a long time after that, family had always been something everyone else but her had. Something she could pine after, but would never really have again.
Getting the gig at the OSP had changed that. This band of mismatched and somewhat broken toys seemed to fit perfectly together.
Almost like a family, she always thinks (though certainly, never aloud).
Dom's death reminds her just how easily it could all disappear again.
Dom had been a good work acquaintance, but not yet a friend and still his loss burns hot in her chest.
Another death
Another loss.
Another tombstone, another set of photographs.
She's starting to get damned tired of losing everyone.
That's a lie; she's been tired of it for a very long time now.
She steps away from the heavy bag and makes her way back down the stairs, flexing and un-flexing her now sore hands. She hears her left hand crack and winces as a flash of pain winds its way up her arm.
Looking around, she's relieved to see that Nate is nowhere to be seen. He's probably back in his office. Good. She's not in the mood for another round with him.
He means well and she genuinely likes him and trusts him (and if he only knew how very few people she actually trusts, maybe he'd realize just how much she really thinks of him) but sometimes he gets too close and she fears her reactions if he were to push too hard too fast.
She fears that she could say – or do – something that would cause their friendship to break.
And perhaps that wouldn't lead to another tombstone, but it sure would give her another set of photographs to look at wistfully.
She makes her way over to the couch in the bullpen and lays down on it. She slings an arm over her eyes and closes them.
In the moments before sleep hits her like a runaway train, she has time to hope that this rest is dreamless.
It's not.
It rarely ever is.
When she wakes up, it's just a few minutes after nine and the once nearly empty Mission that serves as the home for the OSP is now crowded with people. She blinks and rubs the sleep away.
"Good morning, Kensi," a cheerful voice says from above her. She looks up and sees Special Agent Sam Hanna watching her, a wide and somewhat amused smile playing across his face. He's casually reclining in his chair, tapping a pencil almost rhythmically against the flat surface of his desk.
"Mm," she grunts, pushing herself into the sitting position. "Sam."
"You fall asleep here last night?"
"No, got in early."
"Oh. Long night?"
"Something like that."
"Date?"
"Not exactly," she replies.
He nods, understanding exactly.
At the same time, they both look across the room.
"What's Nate talking to Callen about?" she asks, a note of suspicion in her tone.
Sam shrugs, "No idea. I just got here."
"How long have they been talking?"
"Since I got in."
"You and Callen didn't carpool?"
"No. G had something else going on."
"Something else?"
"Yeah. I think the same kind of something you did."
"Oh." She stands up and makes her way to the entrance of the bullpen, angling for a better view of Callen and Nate's conversation.
"What's wrong?" Sam asks, coming to stand next to her.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." She turns to look at him. "Really."
"So why are you watching their conversation with so much interest?"
She considers trying to evade the question, but Sam's not like Nate. He's knows exactly what's going on and he's not going to be pushed off with false assurances. "I just…Nate's kind of on me. I want to make sure he's not telling Callen anything, you know, weird."
"Weird." It's not a question, but nor is it exactly a statement.
"I hate when you do this," she growls, turning to look at him.
He smirks, but doesn't say anything. She has a fleeting (and admittedly childish) moment of wanting to kick him in the shins.
Thankfully, before she's able to move her leg even a little, a loud whistle from above gets her attention. She winces just a bit as the sound crashes through her skull. For the first time, she thinks about the rather copious amount of hard liquor that she had consumed the previous evening.
She's the daughter of a Marine, which pretty much guarantees that she can handle her alcohol. The reality is, she can probably drink most men under the table. That fact doesn't save her from a few nasty hangovers, however.
She looks up and sees the team's techie Eric Beal leaning casually against the second floor rail. He smiles and shrugs. "Director Vance on the line in thirty."
"Minutes?" Sam asks.
"Seconds," Eric counters. "Fifteen now." He smirks at the multiple glares he receives for that. "And ten…nine…"
"You want to kick him instead of me now?" Sam asks.
"Yes," Kensi replies. "Hard. And higher up."
Sam chuckles.
"Five seconds," Eric sing-songs.
She groans and for the third time this day, she makes her way towards the stairs.
"You're fifteen seconds late," Director Leon Vance says, face serious.
"Apologies, Director," Hetty puts in immediately, taking just a second to shoot her team sharp reproachful looks. Her eyes skim over the clothes that Kensi is wearing. Kensi offers her a small smile. Oh, there's going to be a conversation about this, that much is clear.
Vance lets the agents in front of him squirm for a few moments before his face changes into an expression that somewhat resembles a smile. "It's quite all right, Hetty. As for why I've brought you all in here so early, we have a situation that requires immediate action. Eric, you should have the file I just sent you."
Eric glances down at his data pad and nods. "I do." He punches a button and his data pad and on the big screen, a picture of a fairly handsome man in his early thirties comes up. He's wearing Marine Corps dress blues.
"Good. For the last six months, we've been tracking the activities of a Major Paul Suffolk. We believe that he's been acting as the middle man for a drug smuggling operation out of Iraq."
"Why is this the first we're hearing of him if you've been watching him for so long?" Callen asks, brow furrowing. There's a touch of irritation in his tone; he hates coming into a situation late and already behind.
"Because until recently, all we had were statements from two of his ex-platoon mates and no hard proof. Last night, we intercepted a series of emails between he and a partner that allowed us to locate an incoming shipment of cocaine. We took Major Suffolk into custody this morning."
The team exchanges confused looks. "What is it you need us to do?" Sam asks.
"Not all of you, just Agent Blye."
"Me…me?"
"You. Major Suffolk specifically asked for you. Told the interrogators you're the only one he'll talk to."
Kensi blinks. "Why?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I…I don't know…I don't know him." She looks at the picture again and then shakes her head. "I don't. I'm sorry."
"That's okay. I've asked that he be brought to you. The MPs will have him at the Boatshed within the hour. Talk to him. Find out what he wants and then find out what he knows. His partner is still out there."
"Yes, sir," she replies.
"Director, if I might ask," Callen asks, "What is it about this case that requires immediate action as you called it?"
"Eric, bring up the last email between Suffolk and his partner."
"Up now," Eric says, fingers playing across his data pad.
On the screen, an email appears. Callen steps closer, reads It aloud. "I've done everything you've asked me to do. It's your turn. Let him go."
"Suffolk's being forced to smuggle the cocaine," Sam notes.
"That's our thought. Until we got this, we assumed he was an equal partner."
"If his partner knows Suffolk's been taken into custody, the hostage could be in mortal danger," Nate suggests. Kensi turns towards him. She hadn't even been aware that he was in the room with them.
"Right. So as I said, the situation requires immediate action."
"Understood," Callen nods.
"Good. Keep me looped."
And then the video feed snaps off. It's not lost on any of them in the silence of the few moments after the screen goes dark that they're chasing another hostage who could be killed at any time.
Another man just like Dom.
The others turn to face her. "Nothing?" Callen asks.
"No, nothing. I've never seen this guy before in my life."
"Okay." Callen turns to face the rest of the team. "I'll go with Kensi to speak to Suffolk. Sam, you work with Eric and Nate, let's try to find out everything we can on Suffolk and see if maybe we can't figure out who his partner is."
"Right," Sam answers.
To Kensi, Callen says, "Let's go."
He exits the room. She holds back for a moment to look at the picture of Major Suffolk that's still up on the screen. She racks her mind, looking for a memory, anything that might explain why this Marine would specifically request her.
"Kensi?" Nate asks, stepping towards him. "You all right?"
"Yeah," she replies quickly, tearing her eyes away from the screen. With that, she turns and slides past Hetty (making sure to avoid the worried look the older woman is giving her), moving quickly after Callen, who is already down the stairs. The last thing she hears is Hetty reminding Nate to be patient.
She can't help but smile just a bit.
It'll take the patience of a saint to wait her out, she thinks.
And Nate, while he's a hell of a guy, he's no saint.
None of them are.
It's about ten minutes into their drive to the Boatshed before she finally decides to ask him what she' been thinking about. "So," she queries, trying to be casual. "What were you and Nate talking about?"
He turns his head slightly and gives her a half-smile. He's so on to her. "You," he answers easily.
"Me?"
"Yup." To her annoyance, she realizes that he has no intention of offering up the information. No, he's going to play with her, force the answers out.
"What about?" she asks gamely.
"Ah, but that'd be telling."
She purses her lips. "Callen."
His smile widens.
"Tell me," she demands, punching him on the shoulder for good measure.
"Ow," he chuckles, his hand going up to rub at the spot where her closed fist connected with his shoulder. "You hit hard."
"I can hit harder."
"I know."
"So tell me or I'll hit you a lot harder."
"Maybe you should talk to someone about that violent streak."
She offers him a predatory smile.
Callen chuckles and holds up his hands in a show of surrender. "All right, all right. He's just concerned about you. It's his job to be concerned. About all of us."
"I know, but I'm fine. You know that, right?"
"I know that," he agrees.
"Good."
"But if you weren't fine, that'd be okay, too."
""No," she says shaking her head. "It wouldn't be."
"Yes, it would," he answers.
"We're here," she cuts in, pointing into the parking lot of the Marina.
They park and get out, moving towards the nondescript Boatshed that hides their interrogation room. A few steps away, Callen reaches out and catches her arm.
"Kensi."
"What?" she asks, blinking in surprise.
"We all lose people," Callen says, his voice soft. "It hurts us all."
She clamps down on her first response and goes for the more sensible second one. "You seem to be doing all right."
"So it seems," he agrees.
"I'm part of this team, right? You trust me, right?"
"With my life," he answers, his blue eyes meeting her dark ones. They both know that it's a hell of a thing for him to say. After all, his issues with trust make hers look almost small and petty.
"Then don't ask me to do what you wouldn't. I don't see you or Sam walking around crying about what happened. I don't see you guys falling apart. Don't ask me to and don't worry about me if I'm not."
"Fair enough."
Satisfied with that, she strides quickly away from him, hoping that this will be the last time they have this particular conversation.
He's pretty sure it won't be.
It's about fifteen minutes later when the MPs arrive with Suffolk. They hustle him into the interrogation room and then stand stiffly around, hands on their guns.
Callen looks over at Kensi, "You're on."
"Right." She spares a glance back at the MPs and then makes her way into the interrogation room. Suffolk glances up as she enters, a look of unmistakable relief crossing his face.
"You're Agent Blye, right?"
"I am."
"Thank God."
"Maybe not. Why did you want to talk to me."
"James said to."
"James?"
"McClain."
She feels her body stiffen and her hands are suddenly digging into the wood of the table. "James…James has been dead almost two years now. What does he have to do with this?"
"It's just…I need help. And James always said if something insane needed to get done, you were the one to go to. So I'm coming to you now."
"James had a way of speaking out of his ass," she replies and then immediately chastises herself for cursing. It's not that she's afraid to let a few salty words fly from time to time, but she's fairly good about not doing it on the job and especially not around suspects. She needs them to know that she's in control and sometimes, harsh words show too much frustration and irritation.
She can't allow anyone – especially this man – to see inside her so easily.
"Yeah, probably, but I'm hoping not this time," Suffolk replies.
"What do you need from me?"
"Your help to save my brother. Please."
"Fine, but if you want my help – our help – you have to tell us everything." She leans forward, makes sure she's got his eyes and then hammers home the point. "Everything."
She steps out of the room almost an hour later and makes her way over to Callen. "You think we got enough?"
"Probably. Who's James McClain?"
She'd expected the question. "You didn't ask Eric to look him up yet?"
"Not yet. I was hoping you'd just tell me."
She shrugs. "He's just someone I used to know. Do we have a plan on how to rescue Suffolk's brother?"
"We're working on it. Sam, Nate and Eric have been going over Suffolk's file page by page, line by line. Nate thinks it's likely that his partner is actually someone that Suffolk knows fairly well."
"Makes sense. This guy seems to know exactly what pressure points to hit to make Suffolk do whatever he wants."
"Right."
There's an awkward moment between them and Kensi fights the urge to fidget. She knows that Callen wants to press on James, but isn't quite sure how to go about it. "Should we head back to Ops?" she asks.
"For now," Callen agrees. He meets her eyes and she can tell that he's got questions he's going to find a way to get answered.
For a moment, she wants to call him out on his hypocrisy. They all have secrets; things they'd prefer stay well hidden. They all hate when these little skeletons jump out of the closet. She wonders then, why it is that none of them respect each other's secrets. Why they insist on pushing to find out truths that should probably stay hidden.
Of course, she doesn't call him out, though. Mostly because she knows that if their positions were reversed, she'd be the one wanting answers.
Hypocrisy be damned.
When they get back to Ops, the looks that Nate and Sam give her tell her that they already know her secret. Silently, she curses the surveillance equipment that allowed them to listen to her conversation with Suffolk.
"What do we got?" Callen asks.
"We started researching Suffolk's brother, Daniel. He's got a rather long rap sheet," Eric says, bringing up the picture of a man in his twenties. "Mostly drug stuff. A couple of B&Es."
"Possession or selling?" Callen asks.
"Possession," Sam notes. "Everything in his file reads like a typical junkie."
"So Daniel Suffolk gets in trouble with the real dealers, gets grabbed and they use him to force Major Suffolk to import the cocaine?" Kensi offers up.
"Sounds about right," Callen agrees. "How long has Daniel been missing?"
"Give or take, about seven months," Nate answers.
"So right before intelligence starting watching Major Suffolk," Callen nods.
"Right," Sam confirms.
"And we still have no idea who it is behind this?"
Sam shakes his head. "Not yet."
"Great."
There's a beat where no one moves, no one says a thing. No one's quite sure what their next step should be.
Finally, softly, Nate says, "What about McClain."
Kensi snaps around, "What about him?"
She almost feels bad because for a moment, Nate looks almost afraid. It's close to that moment she's been worried about.
"Sorry," she says immediately. "I just don't see what McClain has to do with this."
"He and Suffolk were in the same platoon a few years ago," Sam says. "Do you remember him ever saying anything about Suffolk?"
"Not off-hand," she replies shortly.
"What am I missing?" Callen asks.
She takes a breath. She'd hoped to hold this secret for a bit longer, but so much for that. "James and I were together for about two years. He was killed in action."
"You called him an ex-boyfriend," Nate notes. She shoots him a look, but this time, he doesn't back down. She'd almost be impressed with him if she wasn't so damned annoyed with him.
"We had broken up a few weeks prior to his death."
"Why?" Callen presses.
"Does it matter?" she pleads.
"Only you know that," Hetty says from the doorway. "If it does, you'll tell us. If it doesn't, that's yours to keep and everyone in this room will respect that." She shoots looks around to the others, makes sure they understand that she's not making a request, but rather giving an order instead.
"Okay," Callen agrees, eyes on her. "It's your call."
She thinks for a moment, starts and stops twice and then finally says, "James had a drug problem. He developed it after his first tour in Iraq. He couldn't sleep so he started snorting cocaine to calm him down. It got worse. I told him that he either quit or I was walking. He didn't quit. I walked. He died two weeks later."
"You think maybe he and Daniel had the same supplier?" Sam asks, not just to her, but the whole room.
Kensi's head jerks up hard, like this idea had never occurred to her.
"There's a good chance maybe Daniel hooked McClain up," Callen answers.
"There's no record of anyone that sold to Daniel or McClain for that matter," Eric notes. "Neither of them ever talked."
Kensi's barely listening, her eyes up on the blank view screen. She knows that both Nate and Hetty are watching her. She also knows that the only reason Callen and the others aren't is because they're trying to break down their current problem and figure out who the bad guy is.
Quietly she says, "If they're the same guy, I know who it is."
"You do?" Nate asks.
"Yeah, I…when I realized he was using, I…I went to find out who was selling to him. I may have…threatened him that if he ever sold to James, I would kill him."
"You may have?" Callen presses, lip quirking with just the barest hint of amusement mixed with pride. One of the things he likes about this woman the most is how insanely ballsy she is. Ballsy and a bit insane.
"I…did. And then James found out, we fought, he left and he died. End of story."
"Do you remember the guy's name?" Sam asks.
"Sure. Javier Morales. Goes by the nick of J-Mo. Very original, right?"
"Original enough," Callen replies. "You think he could be our kidnapper?"
She shakes her head in the negative, "He's not nearly smart enough. But he might know who is."
"Then let's go pay J-Mo a visit."
"Address is already on your phones," Eric says. When the others turn to look at him, he smiles. "I'm just that good."
"Yes, you are," Callen agrees and then turns to exit the room. He stops when he notices that only Sam is trailing after him. "Kensi, you coming?"
"Yeah," she nods. "Of course."
Her eyes, however, are back on the screen. She hadn't noticed before that Eric had put McClain's military file up. Now, staring up at the picture of a man who she had for a brief time thought she was going to marry, she wonders how she could have ever been so wrong about someone.
She wonders when she's going to stop losing everyone.
She turns her head and looks at Nate. For half a moment, she considers walking into his arms and accepting the non-judgmental comfort and friendship that she knows that she'd find there.
But if she did that, if she let Callen and Sam see her weak, she'd never forgive herself. Never.
They need to know that she can be strong. They need to know that she is strong.
So she takes a deep breath and then turns and exits the room with Callen.
She wonders why all of the drug dealers in Los Angeles seem to hang out in garages. It's more than a little cliché.
As they enter J-Mo's garage in East L.A, she's thrown back almost two years. To the day she walked in, strode up to the owner, shoved a gun against his forehead and promised him that he'd never be found if he ever sold to James again.
Suffice it to say, he's none to happy to see her when she comes walking in with Callen and Sam.
"You again," he spits.
"Me," she replies. "How you doing, J-Mo?"
"I see you brought bodyguards this time, huh, bitch?"
"Watch your language," Callen snaps. He pulls out his badge. "NCIS."
"Who?"
Neither of them choose to clarify. Sam steps towards him, "When's the last time you saw Daniel Suffolk?"
"Who?"
The threesome exchange a look. None of them are in the mood for this.
"Why don't you skip the bullshit and tell us what we want to know," Callen demands.
"I don't know what you want to know."
"Really?" Kensi challenges. "So Daniel didn't introduce James to you?"
He grins at her and it takes everything she has not to pull out her gun and empty a clip into him. "James? Who's James?"
She grits her teeth. Before she can do anything, however, Sam reaches out and slams J-Mo against the wall. A tin calls fall off a nearby ledge.
"See here's the thing, you can tell us everything you know and we can all leave and pretend we never spoke to you or you can keep being a punk bitch and we can make sure every dealer in the valley knows you're working with the feds."
J-Mo swallows. He knows this isn't an idle threat.
"Fine, fine. What do you want to know."
"When's the last time you saw Daniel?" Callen repeats.
"Maybe six months ago. He was jonesing pretty hard for a fix, but was already in pretty deep. In fact, he had people looking for him to pay up."
"So what'd you do?" Sams asks, hands still on J-Mo's chest.
"I told him I knew a guy who could maybe help him dig out of this."
"Dig out how?" Kensi growls.
"I'm not talking to you."
"Yes, you are," Sam counters, tightening his hold on J-Mo.
J-Mo glares at her, but wisely answers the question. "Let's just say this guy I know, he knows how to facilitate things."
"Like major drug smuggling operations out of Iraq?" Callen queries.
"Maybe."
"You got a name for this friend?" Callen presses.
"Depends. I give you the name, you leave me out of it and keep her the hell away from me, you understand?"
"You afraid of me?" Kensi taunts. He doesn't reply. "You should be."
"Your boy came to me. I didn't make him use. He did that all on his own."
She swallows hard. She knows what he's saying is true, but that doesn't make her hate this man less. Finally, she grits out, "I'll be outside."
Callen nods.
She steps past him and exits the garage. Clear of their view, she drops back against the wall and puts her head in her hands.
James hadn't been a bad boy when she'd met him during one of her weekend trips to Camp Pendleton. He'd been a good ol' Marine Corps Officer who liked to use words like duty and honor. And he'd meant them, too.
But war had screwed him up something awful and she hadn't been nearly strong enough to make the nightmares go away.
She'd lost him because of that lack of strength.
She'd promised herself after that she would never fail because of strength again.
Dom had died because they hadn't been quick enough, not because she hadn't been strong enough to try to save him.
It was a small consolation, but a consolation just the same.
She hears footsteps and looks up. "Did we get a name?"
"Yeah," Sam answers.
She can see that they're both worried, far more now than before. She plasters on her more determined look. "Let's go finish this," she says. And then strides away, back towards the cars.
She pulls the bullet-proof vest tight, securing the straps. She checks her rifle and then rechecks it just for good measure.
"Ready?" Callen asks, coming up beside her. They're standing just outside a large metal warehouse in Van Nuys. Rumor is that porn used to be filmed here.
"Yeah," she nods.
"I called over to Bernhardt at the LAPD, they're going to pick up J-Mo this afternoon. With what he told us, they've got plenty to put him away."
"Good."
"Did you really tell him you'd bury him where no one would ever find him?"
She chuckles, "Yes."
"My kind of girl."
She reaches out and squeezes his arm to show her appreciation.
"We're in on five," Sam says, joining them. They stack up in a formation, several other NCIS agents behind them. Callen counts it off and then they charge forward, entering the warehouse, shouting out warnings.
It's a blur of motion and activity for her. She hears gunshots and then screams. She hears heavy thuds and wet slaps.
She remembers pulling the trigger on her weapon numerous times.
And then there's silence.
She thinks later that maybe she should have known better, been more suspicious of the silence.
She hears the sound of her name being screamed just before she feels the hard impact against her chest. It's like concrete slamming against her ribcage. She thinks she hears a dry crack.
For a moment, she's swaying in the air, neither standing or falling. She thinks she can hear her own breath and nothing else. Her hand goes to her chest.
And then she feels the ground as her head connects with it.
Above her, there's more gunshots and more screaming, but she's aware of very little of it. All she can think about is whether or not she's dying.
The pain she feels is intense, but it's oddly not sharp like she expected it to be. It's more dull, as if deep in her ribs. She tries to exhale and the pain overwhelms her. She starts dots dancing in front of her eyes.
Then there's a face above her, hands touching her.
"Kensi, Kensi, Kensi…"
She wonders why someone keeps saying her name.
She feels a hand clutch hers, squeeze it tight. She blinks, just barely recognizing the faces above her.
"Come on, come on, don't do this," she hears one of them say.
Callen. And Sam's right next to him.
God if they don't look terrified.
It's the last thing she thinks before the pain swallows her whole and all she sees is darkness.
It's a few hours later when she comes to, the pain in her chest now just a thudding dull ache. She winces as she tries to sit.
"Easy," she hears a voice say.
She turns towards it, her vision clearing. "Callen?"
"Yeah," there's tremendous relief in his tone. "You scared the hell out of us."
"I'm…sorry. Where…"
"Hospital," Sam answers.
She blinks again and confirms his words with her own eyes. She's lying in a bed, far too many tubes attached to her.
"Why?"
"You got shot," Callen tells her. It's funny, but she thinks he almost looks angry.
"I did?"
"Yeah. You took a shotgun round to the chest. You're lucky, the vest absorbed the majority of it," Sam tells her.
"Oh." She looks down at her chest. She runs her hand over the hospital gown and can feel the rough bandages beneath it. "Am I hurt?"
"Three broken ribs," Callen confirms. "You're going to have some nice color."
"What every girl wants. Did we…did we find Daniel?"
The two men exchange a look.
"Oh, no…"
"Daniel has been dead for a couple months now. He never had a chance," Sam tells her softly, hand reaching out to stroke her pillow.
"Most of us don't," she whispers.
The two men exchange another worried look. She'd be irritated if she wasn't too drugged to care.
"Let her sleep," she hears Hetty say. She glances up and sees Hetty and Nate standing in the doorway. She turns away from Nate's far too knowing eyes. Even so, she can feel his gaze - penetrating and invasive, cutting through. She closes her eyes.
"Right," Callen replies, sounding like it's the very last thing he wants to do.
"She'll talk to you when she's ready," Hetty continues.
"Right," Sam mutters, clearly not believing her. He pats the pillow again, then moves away.
"You, too, Nate."
Right.
She hears footsteps as the men exit the room.
It takes her a moment before it occurs to her that she only heard three pairs of footsteps. She turns over, wincing a bit, and looks up at Hetty.
"You're not allowed to scare me like that," Hetty softly admonishes.
"I'm sorry."
"I know you are, dearie."
"I'm so sorry." She feels a tear trace down her cheek. She's relieved when a moment later she hears the door to the room close.
"Shh, I know," Hetty tells her, reaching out to take her hand.
There's so much that she thinks she wants to say, needs to say, but in the moments where she can, in the moments where it seems like it be easy to let everything out – all of the pain and all of the loss – something inside her refuses to. Something inside her refuses to let down. Let go.
To not be strong.
She knows that it means that instead of maybe finding forgiveness and reprieve, she'll continue to stare into her wrecked soul every time she looks into a mirror, but she truly knows no other way to be.
She reveals nothing, but cries just a little – mostly for Dom and somewhat for James – and then she drifts off into a pained and restless sleep.
Before she does, she asks in a quiet voice if Hetty will stay with her.
"Of course," Hetty replies, without pause.
Her eyes close slowly, the drugs taking hold.
As they do, it occurs to her that she'd woken up that morning in a bed that wasn't hers and now finds herself falling asleep in one that isn't hers as well.
-FIN