Sam's Day Off
written for the NCIS:LA fic exchange
Season Setting: post-season 7
Disclaimer: Just paying homage to one of my absolute favorite shows. No infringement intended-just honor.
Today...early afternoon...
"Hey, think this guy has any idea his entire life is about to go from Easy Street to Shawshank Redemption?" Deeks asked over the earpiece.
"I'm guessing not," Callen said, muted. His back was to the doorway, body hidden by the bulk of the cement stairs beneath it. But Carlos Muñez, the drug smuggler who was seconds away from a life-changing encounter, stood only four feet away at the top of the steps, his bodyguards flanking him while he spoke on his cell in steely Spanish.
"I hate to see a sweet ride like that get impounded," Deeks said.
"You and me both." Callen had to take another look at the Maserati waiting for Muñez: a black GranTurismo with red spoke detailing on the hubcaps and a red trident emblem on the front grill.
Carlos Muñez was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. Smuggling drugs from Mexico by hiding them in fake rocks on eighteen-wheelers wasn't the smartest con, but it had obviously been lucrative for this bozo. Too bad his latest shipment had run afoul of a military transport just over the border, putting them squarely in the sights of NCIS.
Hearing footsteps were moving away from him, Callen edged over to the corner and peeked up and over the side of the stairs. "Hold position but get ready for movement," Callen said under his breath, finally finished checking out all the angles.
"Callen, the warehouse is empty," Eric noted over the comms. "No heat signatures inside."
"Good. Then the only guards are Frick and Frack there."
"Yeah. Get a load of them. Wife beaters, crown tatts on their necks, shoulder holsters. Nice to see gang members who appreciate the classics."
Deeks was stationed down the alley from Callen, watching from behind a loading dock. The bodyguards were both over six feet five, dressed in jeans and sleeveless Ts, and sporting tattoos that ringed their bulging arm muscles. They had paused on the bottom step as their boss finished up the call. The crown tatts indicated they were with the Latin Kings, an L.A. gang that supported drug running.
"But ouch-what's up with the spiderweb on the elbow?" Deeks wondered, "Big Spidey fans?"
Callen checked the detonator in his hand one more time. "That means they've done time-a lot of it. I'll take care of Frick if you've got Frack."
"Sure. And...which one is Frack again?"
"The one I don't get," Callen answered with a smirk. "Ready?"
Deeks huffed out a laugh. "You know, for some reason, Kensi never appreciates these sorts of plans. I'm on the move."
Callen pushed a button on the remote detonator, causing a small cracking report from farther down the alley in his direction.
"¿Que demonios fue eso?" barked Muñez.
Slow footsteps plodded toward Callen. Perfect. Both guards were heading his way.
"Going in," Deeks whispered.
Then Callen's cell phone vibrated. Damn. He froze.
There was the sounds of a scuffle and Callen realized that he had missed the timing completely.
"Callen!? You coming?" Deeks said breathlessly.
"I'm in!" Callen rounded the corner and plowed into the gunman that was just aiming for Deeks' head. They hit the ground, Callen wresting the man's gun away from him and giving him a quick, concussive blow to keep him down. Then he tossed the gun under the Maserati.
Deeks was still wrestling with his guy and two steps away, Muñez was drawing a gun. Crap.
Callen ducked low and charged up the stairs. Muñez managed to squeeze off one shot before Callen knocked the gun aside and laid him out with two punches.
Then Callen's phone vibrated again.
Callen cursed as he secured Muñez's gun and turned to check on Deeks.
"I'm fine. Shot went wide," Deeks assured him right away, correctly interpreting Callen's worried look. "And I got Frack. Or was it Frick? Doesn't matter." The detective was kneeling on the bodyguard's back, cuffing his hands behind him. "Dude, looks like you'll be adding to that elbow tattoo, or is that how it works? More rings outward means more jail time?" The man growled and shifted angrily. "Whoa, Tonto. Take it easy. If you can't take a little ribbing, jail for you is going to suck. Again."
Callen was cuffing Muñez when his phone vibrated again.
"Sorry. Gotta take this," Callen apologized as he grabbed for his phone. "No one moves." He stuck it between his ear and his shoulder, using his hands to steady the gun still on Frack (or was it Frick?) as he answered, "Callen here. Is there a problem with the...what?...Yes, I said the steak. A T-bone... No." By this time, Deeks was giving him a full-on what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. Callen gave him a half-shrug as if to say there's-nothing-I-can-do-but-have-this-conversation-right-now-so-shut-up.
Then Frack started to ease himself up off the ground.
Both Callen and Deeks saw him moving at the same second. Deeks pointed with his gun. "Don't move, man."
"Don't do it," Callen agreed, then had to explain to the person on the phone, "no, no, Chef, not you. Yes. I want the T-bone. Wait-don't do it," he warned Frack again. "Don't do it!" But Frack was already running. Callen cursed loudly.
"I got him," Deeks yelled as he took off in pursuit.
"Agent Callen, what is going on there?"
Callen winced at the sound of Hetty's voice on his comm unit, but spoke instead to the angry voice in his other ear. "Chef André. Please. I wasn't telling you not to do it, I was telling someone else! Just...just a second." He activated his comm unit. "Sorry, Hetty. I had to take a call."
"Mr. Callen. What on earth could be so important about a steak that it would keep you from your job?"
Callen looked up at the sky, not sure how to answer that question.
Finally, he shrugged.
"It's Sam's day off."
Last night...
Callen took another swig of lager, relishing the cool slide of liquid down his throat. Working on the streets in this heat, even for a stakeout, was brutal. Even Sam had wilted a bit by the end and it had been his idea to find a bar with the best air-conditioning in L.A. So far, Sammy's had fit the bill. Busy, but not too crowded, it sported the added benefit of being ten minutes from home. For Callen, at least. Sam's drive would be closer to half an hour.
Callen glanced at his partner, as he had several times in the last ten minutes. Sam was quiet-
too quiet-and that meant he was preparing to say something that weighed on him heavily. Callen had his suspicions about what the problem might be.
It had been a month since they had taken down Tahir, saved Aiden and his school, with the added bonus of not getting shot. But Sam's family had been shaken up that night and Callen had a feeling there was more fall-out to come.
Callen kicked out at Sam's foot. The big man only sighed. "I'm not ignoring you, G. It's just...you were right." Callen raised his eyebrows at him. "Once we knew Aiden was in danger, I shoulda called my wife."
"Hate to say I told you so, but..."
"Are you kidding me? You never hate saying I told you so. But that's all right. I just wanted you to know: I'm taking the day off tomorrow to try to make it up to Michele. You be all right without me?"
"I'll be fine. A little begging and grovelling on the menu?"
"You are enjoying this a little too much, man," Sam smiled at Callen. "But honestly, I have no idea what I'm going to do to make it up to her. I've already talked 'til I'm blue in the face. I don't know. I'll think of something. But whatever it is, I'm pretty sure it's going to be expensive." Sam shook his head as he continued. "She's got to see it eventually, how If she's with us on that operation, I wouldn't have been able to focus. Instead I'd be worried about Tahir finding her and getting his hands on someone else I love."
The tension and restrained emotion in Sam's voice spoke deeply to Callen and he grew quiet. An idea began to grow in his mind, but he wasn't ready to voice it yet. "I hear ya', big guy. But I'm thinking you should be building on to that doghouse in the backyard in the meantime. Put in a skylight. Maybe a man Cave."
"Yeah," Sam agreed flatly, "and a guest bedroom for when you come to visit."
"Me? No. I told you to call her. Michele's going to treat me like a king. What?" Sam just glared at him. "Okay, okay. All joking aside. I'd like to help." Sam raised his eyebrows and Callen tried to look appropriately thoughtful. "Seriously. I would. I'll take care of dinner tomorrow night. You just worry about making it up to Michelle and the begging and grovelling part. Sound good?"
Sam hesitates. "You'll take care of dinner?"
"Yes. It will be fantastic. Served in your own backyard while you and Michelle...do nothing but canoodle."
"Did you just use the word canoodle?"
"No. I said...snuggle, smooch...grovel, beg, whatever needs to be done."
"You gonna grill out burgers for us?"
"Nope. Catered."
"And I don't have to do anything."
"Right."
Sam looked at Callen deeply. "Why would you do that?"
"I don't know." G looked around the room, gauging the non-interest of the few other people in the smoky bar. His instincts told him they were safe and that everyone seemed involved in their own world. But still, Callen hesitated.
Sam focused his most soulful, searching gaze on Callen, the one that he used back in the old days when Callen was considering going rogue again. "Come on, G. What's going on in that head of yours?"
It was G's turn to sigh. Sam wasn't going to let this go. "Watching you two...it's like watching one of those old movies...the black and whites with all the music and dancing. You know, the guy in a tux, dancing-tap dancing on the ceiling or something. And then, there's this beautiful woman who just happens to know the same moves. They find each other and it's obvious to everyone that the two of them belong together because no one else could have danced it like them. Together. That's you and Michele," G summed up, looking up at his partner. "You need to get past this, do whatever it takes. I just want to help."
"Thanks, G. Wow. That was a lot of words."
"I know." G nodded, acting winded, putting a hand to his chest.
"You might need to rest up after that. But seriously," Sam gave him a soft-eyed smile. "Thanks, G. That means a lot." He tossed down a few dollars and stood up. "You ever imagine yourself in one of those old movies?"
"Nope," G said abruptly, standing and opening his wallet, his briskness a clear sign to Sam to cut off this line of questioning. "I leave the romancing to you. I'm heading home."
Sam smiled. "Yeah, me, too. But just to get this clear: you wouldn't want to dance on the ceiling? Just a little? Ah, never mind. I've seen you dance."
"Good night, Sam."
Sam chuckled at G's predicted exit. "'Night, G. Hey if you need me tomorrow, you know I'll be there. Don't hesitate to call, man."
Callen paused. "You really think I can't handle the job without you?"
"I didn't say that."
"I'll be fine. You just worry about Michele, all right?":
"I hear you. 'Night, G."
G just waved in response as he walked away.
There were signals that Callen had learned to read early on, even as a child of 9 or 10. Moving as much as he did, from home to home, school to school, he'd learned to read intentions behind words and to assess danger to himself instantly. He found that sometimes all the bullies are waiting for is a vulnerable target: a five-year-old too traumatized to talk, a scrawny thirteen-year-old labeled a troublemaker, or an angry fifteen-year-old who just didn't see that crowbar coming and can't fight back.
Once you've been identified as a potential victim, there's no stopping that train, not unless you're willing to do it yourself. This was one of Callen's most closely guarded truths: don't get noticed, but when you do, fight like hell and don't hold back.
As an adult, those deeply ingrained instincts had saved his life numerous times. He was quietly proud of them, but sometimes, they got in the way of relationships.
Well, not just sometimes.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to learn to trust an enormous black man who can break you in half with his bare hands and always stands two steps behind you on missions? Sure, you can tell yourself all day long that he's one of the good guys; he's made all the right choices in life; he's got your back. But then again, since when has that kept anyone from going bad?
Naturally, Callen's first instinct when he met Sam was to appear invulnerable. But it didn't take long to discover that there was no need for posturing with Sam, no reason to fight to prove himself the Alpha male. Sam was a gentle giant, and that was obvious from the first time Callen let himself look deep in the man's eyes. Of course, he was also deadly when he needed to be, but only in the way of a protector. He was dependable, kind, constant and in the end, he had completely disarmed Callen.
The fact that Callen had chosen to allow himself to make a home here was largely built on the foundation of Sam's undying loyalty just as much as it was because of Hetty's caring. Callen didn't need either of them, not to survive, but...he'd discovered that surviving wasn't really living. In fact, it was a poor substitute.
So yeah, Callen wanted to pay Sam back in a small way, to help him recover the trust with Michele that he'd lost, to keep the home that kept Sam sane and safe and himself. Callen would do this for him. No questions asked. As soon as he got home, he started calling in favors.
The next day...around two o'clock in the afternoon...
So that arrest hadn't gone well, thanks to Chef André's badly timed phone call. The man was just as temperamental as was reputed. But honestly, this was what Callen had come to expect from a day when Sam wasn't in: problems.
As always, Sam's absence made Callen grumpy and ready to lash out. But it was better this time. This time, he was able to focus on what he was doing for Sam instead. That made him happy.
The dinner for Sam and Michele-only a few hours away now-was being catered by the fantastic but excitable Chef André. The renowned chef worked out of one of the best restaurants in L.A., or the best which was also affordable. Callen and Sam had been there a few times and liked it equally, plus it was one of Michele's favorites. True, it had cost a stunning amount of money to get the chef himself to oversee the food prep, but so what? If it made things easier for Sam, then it would be well worth it.
Callen stopped staring at the empty desk beside him when Kensi entered, a take-out bag from In-and-Out Burger lifted high in her hands. "Hope you guys are hungry."
"Yes! Thank you! You are a goddess of beneficence," Deeks said as he grabbed the bag out of her hands.
"Ooooo," she said as he leaned in to kiss her cheek, "big word."
"Well, you got me a double-double," he said, holding the wrapped burger in his hand. "That's worth a big word."
"I thought you'd sworn off burgers for the month," Callen spoke up as he grabbed two single cheeseburgers from the bag.
"Just the carbs," Deeks said, unwrapping and showing off the lettuce-wrapped double-double inside.
Callen stared. "Not very many things offend me, Deeks, but that-that is a monstrosity.
Burgers have a bun. That is a fundamental requirement of the burger-eating experience."
"Have to agree," Kensi said, unwrapping her own regular double-double.
"You're supposed to take my side," Deeks complained.
Kensi pointed at Callen. "He's my boss. And he has better taste than you."
Callen grinned but his response was interrupted by Eric's entrance. All three of them paused to watch Eric crouch low and creep down the steps, humming the Mission: Impossible theme song.
Finally he came to a halt and seeing their stares, sheepishly announced, "Hope you're rested up, Callen. We got a hot case, directly from Hetty!"
"Does it involve spies?"
"No...why?" Eric asked, nonplussed.
"Eric, you have terrible timing," Kensi said, her mouth full. "I've only taken four bites!"
"Because you eat too slow," Deeks said. "I'm done and dusted! Let's go," he said, bounding up the stairs.
"Me, too," Callen agreed. "Bring it on."
Kensi held up the bag, "Are you hungry, Eric? There's one left."
"Ohhhh, no. Actually I'm doing a cleanse right now. No meat. Or dairy. Or sugar."
"What's left?" Callen quipped from the top of the stairs.
"Um...fruits and veggies. And carbs, some of them at least," he said, following them up.
"Ugh, I hate it when this happens!" Kensi said, setting the bag on her desk.
"Give it to the intern," Deeks called down to her. "She's always hungry."
Kensi gave her hamburger one last look and then crammed half of it in her mouth.
"Kens!"
"'m om'n," she called up, finally climbing the stair, chewing as quickly as she could.
She reached the room right as Eric began. "Here we have Isaac Crampton, just released from New York's State Penn. He was serving time for aggravated assault, blackmail and rape, to name a few. His rap sheet should have insured that he stayed in for a good long time, but a spate of Governor pardons included his ticket to freedom. Now he's on the loose and as this security camera at LAX shows, he's in L.A."
Callen took in the dark, even features of the man, committing them to memory. "Where was he headed from LAX?"
Nell took over. "A taxi driver dropped him off at the Ramada Inn on West Olympic Boulevard. No one by that name is on the registry, but here is security footage of him arriving at 5:30 in the afternoon two days ago. He heads upstairs and since then, there's no footage of him coming or leaving the hotel. Meaning that either he's sneaking out by alternate means, or he's just-"
"Keepin' it down on the low-low," Deeks said, nodding. "Any idea why he's in LA?"
"It probably has something to do with the case brought against him before he was put in jail," Callen said.
"Correctamundo!" Eric said with a smile. "The case against Crampton was spearheaded by one of JAG's best and brightest, Lieutenant General Burt Simpkins."
Callen jerked to attention. "Hetty wants us to protect Lieutenant General Simpkins?"
Nell looked at Callen with interest. "Yes. He was a JAG, the Judge Advocate General, the top ranking officer in the legal branch of the military."
"Yeah, I know. What I don't understand is why..." Callen trailed off, looking intently at the picture. "I'll be right back."
Callen exited the room, to the shock of all who remained.
"It's times like this that I really miss Sam and his insights," Eric said slowly. "Should I continue?"
Nell raised her eyebrows. "Kensi, Deeks?"
Kensi sighed. "Go ahead. I'll fill Callen in if he misses anything."
"Hetty?" Callen said as he approached her desk. The diminutive woman was sipping tea and looking relaxed and open, throwing Callen off a bit.
"Yes, Mr. Callen?"
Callen studied her face and as usual, found it lacking in information. "You're sending me on a case to protect Lieutenant General Burt Simpkins."
She nodded and pursed her lips. "I am. Is there a problem with that?"
"No. It's just...there's a lot of history there." Hetty nodded sagely. "But nothing you want to tell me?"
She tilted her head. "The general has gotten himself in a bit of trouble and needs the best protection I can offer him. Is it so surprising that I have chosen to put this case into your expert hands?"
Callen narrowed his eyes. "No, but it is surprising that you feel the need to flatter me."
"Oh, it's no flattery. It's simply the truth."
Callen smiled. "Right."
Hetty smiled back. "I realize you will be without your partner for the first twenty-four hours, but this case waits for no one. From what we are hearing, Burt will need your help, Mr. Callen, if he is to survive."
Callen nodded and turned away, giving up on studying Hetty.
"Grisha?" Hetty called after him.
Callen turned back, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Discretion of the highest order is called for. Be careful."
For a long moment, they locked eyes. She wanted a promise and he delivered it, in a steady gaze and a brief nod. He knew what it was to have secrets and to need them kept.
Callen made quick work of the boathouse's security checks and entered the main area. "Lieutenant General?" he called up, anticipation of an unusual kind coloring his voice. How could he not get excited about a man who was rumored to be the love of Henrietta Lang's life?
There were footsteps above and the bathroom door opened, letting out a flood of moist air and the fragrance of expensive cologne. A tall, distinguished man of around sixty-five appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a thick bathrobe. Silver colored the hair at his temples. He was using a small towel to get the remains of shaving cream off of his face.
"You must be Grisha," the man said jovially. "You're early."
"Well, actually, you're running late," Callen said. "And you can call me G."
The man just smiled like a wolf who's just found the henhouse unlocked. "We've got plenty of time, Grisha." Callen raised an eyebrow. "All right, then, G. My name is Burt."
"I am aware. Sir."
"Really," Burt said slowly, "call me Burt."
"All right, Burt. I'll be down below when you're ready to discuss your case."
"Oh, I might be a while," the man said. "Make yourself comfortable." Burt started humming to himself as he returned to the bathroom.
Callen shook his head, dissatisfied. It was part of his training to gain control of the flow of information by putting people on the defensive, but the Lieutenant General had managed to completely turn that around on him. Callen had been set aside, practically given secretarial status. It was annoying as hell, to say the least.
Once Burt pulled himself together and made it downstairs, G opted to question him in the interrogation room. Basically, this was for no other reason than orneriness plus the fact that Burt had taken an additional forty-five minutes to finish getting ready.
G's obvious bad mood didn't seem to bother Burt at all, in fact, it seemed to make the man even more jovial.
"Oh, I get the special room with deluxe accommodations," he said, looking around the room with interest. "Ah, a trap door to the down below! Are you going to open it and threaten to toss me in if I don't cooperate?"
G sighed and gestured to the table again. "Sit."
And then his phone rang. G glanced at the number and grimaced. "I have to take this," he mumbled, putting the phone to his ear as he exited the room.
"Mr. G? This is Chef André and we have had a disaster!"
G paused, reminding himself that he was talking to the caterer who was a friend of Joelle's cousin and someone he didn't want to offend. Joelle had been nice enough to recommend him (yes, Callen had called and asked her) and so G was trying to play extra nice.
"What is it, Chef?"
"There has been an allegation from a previous client about our beef. I assure you, they are completely out of bounds in saying that it was our beef that made them ill. Mon Dieu! But nonetheless, we have been forced to pull our steaks from the menu."
"You don't have steak for tonight?"
"No, we do not, but not to worry, there is a lovely chicken breast marinated in spices and served in a delicious lemon butter sauce that would be magnifique! I must get your approval, of course. But that is my recommendation."
"Chicken instead of a T-bone?"
"Not just any chicken, monsieur! No, no. This will be a masterpiece. It has been known to forever spoil appetites for any other bite of chicken. C'est vrai. It's true."
G bit back the words he wanted to say, settling on a brief, "Do it."
When he walked back into the interrogation room, Burt was sitting, slumped at the table, in complete reverse of the mood he was just in. "I feel completely ridiculous," he confessed. G put on his listening face, eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side. "I never thought I'd be the one in need of protection. Do I look old and infirm to you?"
"I don't think age has anything to do with it," G began, but was interrupted.
"It doesn't, and yet, here I am. I was, at one time, completely able to take care of myself on the job. But suddenly I can't dodge bullets anymore."
Ah. He'd been shot in the recent past. That's why Hetty had been concerned enough to get him a protection detail. G nodded but stayed quiet. The quieter you were, the more people seemed inclined to talk, at least, a certain kind of person.
"Payback's a bitch. Out of all the people I put away, I would have said that Isaac Crampton was the least likely to come after me. Just goes to show how much I know." Burt sighed and gave Callen a long look. "Back when I was your age, I used to think I had life all figured out. What I wouldn't give to go back to those days."
"What makes you think it's Crampton coming after you?"
"He knows that I helped put his father in jail on murder charges when he was young. His mother turned to prostitution to pay the bills. After a few years of that hell, she took her own life. Isaac thinks, rightly so, that I ruined his life."
"You didn't ruin his life. Everyone makes choices."
Burt shook his head slowly. "I used to think that way, too."
"Letting a murderer run loose on the streets because of how it will affect his wife and child-"
"We punished the family for what the father did. Taking him out of their lives destroyed them."
Callen frowned. "Maybe. There is no perfect solution; we all know that. But the law-"
"Don't you dare lecture me on the law," Burt snapped. "I know the law better than I know anything else in this world. And it's empty and it's meaningless unless it protects the society it serves. The perpetrators should be punished; the innocents should be protected. Until we find a way to do both, our laws are not just."
Callen sat back in his chair, finding grudging respect for the man's willingness to look past his years of training and see the needs of those he was sworn to serve. But Callen still felt he had to speak up.
"The law can't protect the innocent. It's made to punish the guilty and prevent anarchy, that's all. The innocent have to get tough and protect themselves. That's the way the world works.
Burt listened and studied him, taking note of his military haircut, his nondescript clothing and the flat stare Callen gave him in return.
"Someone did a number on you," Burt said, stating the obvious. "Grow up in the system?"
"That has no bearing on your case. I'm not-"
"It has bearing on everything you do, everything you think and everyone you protect. That includes me. Did you grow up in the system?" A light seemed to go on in his eyes. "Of course. One of Hetty's orphans." Despite himself, Callen went on the defensive, his gaze narrowing and his stare growing colder.
"What do you know about that?"
"Only hearsay. I was out of Hetty's life by the time she began her work of recruiting. She wasn't always successful, but here you are. I guess she was right. Find a boy who's had to fight hard his whole life, been exposed to the worst of people and survived and you might just have the beginnings of a good agent." Callen shrugged and Burt continued. "You're the legend, aren't you? Man of a thousand faces?"
Callen leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, buttoning down his natural response of anger. He would just have to wait this out because Burt wasn't done.
"How many languages do you speak?"
Callen sighed.
"I've heard...ten?"
Callen leaned forward, giving Burt a hard look. "I get that you don't want to talk about this case, but I need to know what I'm protecting you from."
"The bad guys. You'll recognize them because they'll be the ones shooting at me. Can we go now?" Burt rose to his feet and headed for the door, effectively ending that conversation.
Callen followed, congratulating himself on learning absolutely nothing. Well, except that Burt was exceptionally good at stall tactics and at pulling information out of other people.
Two hours later found them getting comfortably settled in a safe house on the outskirts of LA. They had maintained an almost comfortable silence, during which time Callen reminded himself that Hetty had once, probably, loved this man. Burt needed his help, even if he was a bit of an ass, and Callen was determined to-
His phone rang. The caterers again. Callen sighed. Dinner was to be served for Sam and Michele in only an hour.
"Callen here."
"Monsieur Callen? I am so sorry to interrupt your day yet again-"
"What is it?"
"One of our waiters has reported in sick. Normally it is no problem to replace, but with the added security steps you have required, I am afraid we are now one server under."
"Fine."
"But the ambience will suffer-"
"Just get the food on the table. It doesn't have to be fancy."
"But monsieur has paid for the indefinable extras-"
"Get. the food. on. the table. And leave them alone. That's all I ask."
"Yes, of course...as monsieur wishes."
Callen hung up, gritting his teeth. He stalked over to the doors and checked them again, then moved out of the sightline of the windows. Burt had settled in to watch television with the volume annoyingly high.
Outside was a quiet suburban neighborhood, the kind with double-car garages but small yards. Callen edged toward the window and peeked through the corner. Dark clouds had been rolling in for the past hour, promising rain. Not great weather for an outside dinner, but maybe it would hold off for a bit longer. Of course, with the way his luck was going, there would be a hurricane.
"Looks like a thunderstorm warning," Burt noted.
Callen cursed under his breath and stalked over to eye the television angrily. Burt was right; the Severe Thunderstorm Warning was plastered to the bottom right hand corner of the screen. Did it have to have to happen today?
Callen paced back to the door, checking it for integrity, weak spots, bugs and/or unusual defects. Nothing. He unlocked it and carefully, hand on his weapon, opened it just enough to glance to each side of the door. No one there. No one in the driveway.
He wasn't expecting anyone; Burt's disguise as a younger blonde with a thin mustache should have rendered him unrecognizable. However, Callen knew the tech out there for facial recognition. They shouldn't have anything like what NCIS had available, but he always tried to expect the unexpected.
"Really?" G muttered as the CHiPs theme song played. The lieutenant general had the worst taste in television. Though probably, Deeks would join him in watching this one. The younger detective had been practically salivating over the boots Sam and Callen had donned to become iconic California motorcycle patrolmen earlier in the year. Sure they were badass, but they were also scorchingly hot. It had taken Callen hours to cool off after his brief stint on the road in that uniform. Never again. He'd never been much for uniforms anyway.
Suddenly, his phone chirped. He answered it. "Eric, what have you got?"
"This is a covert call," Eric said in a whisper. "Hetty can't know that I called you."
"Go ahead."
"We just got an automatic message from the security system in Joelle's house. There was a break-in."
"Was she there?" Callen snapped as he went to gather his keys.
"No-."
"Call her and tell her to stay away."
"On it. Don't worry. Let us take care of it."
"Fine." Dammit. If Sam was on duty, he could send Sam over there, but no, it had to happen on Sam's day off. Callen gritted his teeth momentarily. "Can you have Kensi check it out?"
"Absolutely. She and Deeks are about fifteen minutes away. They're on a case, but nothing urgent. I'll send them over and they'll report to you if you want."
"Yeah, I want. Thanks, Eric."
Callen could hear the grin in his voice when Eric replied, "Happy to help."
Callen hung up and sighed.
"That didn't sound good," Burt noted from his spot on the couch.
Callen, automatically suspicious, eyed the man. What are the chances that Burt could have instigated this to rattle him? Small to nil. But nonetheless, Callen couldn't dismiss the thought completely. Distrust was too ingrained in him.
He walked over and sat in the stiff chair by the bathroom door. "How long have you known Hetty, Burt?"
Burt looked at him curiously. "Oh, that's more math than I feel like doing today. Decades, let's leave it at that."
"Did you ever work with her directly?"
"Not directly, just knew of her and then worked near her in a few cases when I was a grunt lawyer. Then one day, she was assigned to protect a client of mine, a guy testifying against Jesűs Hernandez back when he was king of the drug trade in those parts. My client was scared witless and sure enough, they came after him a couple of times. Hetty was an enormous asset because she could draw them in easily, play her meek and tiny routine and the bad guys would fall for it every time. By the time they figured out she was an agent, they were on the ground, cuffed, dazed and shell-shocked. Honestly, it was a gift to watch her."
Callen's gut told him those were honest words. His paranoia ratcheted down a few notches.
Then his phone rang and he jumped up to answer it, fearing the worst.
But it was Sam.
"G, it's me," the big man said in his familiar, staccato way. "How you doin'?"
Callen paused. Did Sam know about Joelle or not? If he didn't, then Callen didn't want to let him in on it, because the man would likely ditch his wife and check on Jo immediately. "Fine," he finally answered, "hiding out in a safe house on a case. How's the dinner going?"
"Well, that's what I'm calling about. Looks like rain. I'm thinking we should move this indoors. Is that too much trouble for your guys to handle?"
"Hey, don't you worry about that. I'll get it figured out. How's Michele?"
"She's...melting a little. Things are looking up."
G smiled. "The old Hanna charm. Does it every time. Turn up the high beams now."
"That's the plan," Sam replied. "Thanks for everything, G."
"You're welcome. Have a nice night." He hung up feeling better, until he remembered that he needed to call Chef André. He rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. Then he dialed.
"Chef André, it's Callen. Move the dinner inside."
"Inside? But monsieur, the ice sculptures must not be moved!"
"Of course not. Just...move the food and let them eat indoors."
"But the ice carriage! It took my men all night to construct it. Even though it is the petite carriage, it's beauty is undeniable!"
"I'm not trying to deny it. You-"
"Oh! I know just the thing! A canopy! We will set up a canopy over the table and then they can still eat in their lovely backyard surrounded by-"
"In a thunderstorm? No. Move the dinner inside. Leave the ice sculpture if you have to. It doesn't matter. Just-"
"Zut alors! The rain-she comes!" Chef André fired out instructions at his staff. "Arrêtez ce que vous faites! Couvrir la glace! Rapidement! Rapidement! Prenez le poulet à l'intérieur . Ah...non, laissez les torches tiki!" Then he spoke again to Callen. "This is a disaster. I must go save all that I can. Bien?"
"Yes, fine."
"Merci. Au revoir!
"Thank you." Callen hung up and sighed. He had a feeling that this night wasn't going to be as relaxing for Michele as he had wanted. Hopefully Sam's moves would be able to rescue it from here.
Burt was now singing loudly to a commercial about carpet cleaning, unfortunately for Callen. This was going to be a long night.
After half an hour, Kensi called to say that everything checked out at Joelle's house. All that had been taken was the toolbox out of the garage, which, Callen had to admit, had been a fully stocked one thanks to her late father, an amateur carpenter.
"She's pretty upset, Callen, but she understands why you're not there."
"Yeah, well, I haven't seen her months and it's probably better that way. See if you can convince her to get a better security system in her house. She wouldn't listen to me."
"I don't think I'll have to do much convincing."
"Great. Tell her to go with Watchdog. They have a pretty good system and great support tech."
Silence.
"What?" Callen asked, puzzled.
"I think she can pick out her own system."
"Overstepping my bounds?"
"Just a little." Callen could hear the smile in her voice. "I'll help her, don't worry."
"All right, I'll stay out of it," he said, then paused before continuing. "Thanks, Kens. Tell Deeks that for me, too."
"Anytime."
They hung up and G felt more settled. Jo and her house were fine. The dinner was being moved inside. Everything was fine. Now he just had to put up with Burt and a quiet night in.
But it only stayed quiet for about an hour, and then, Callen's phone rang.
"Code Zephyr, now?" Callen asked, his voice pitched low.
"Yes, Zephyr," Eric repeated. "A list of every safe house used by NCIS in this region hit Darknet about twenty minutes ago."
Callen was already moving, adrenaline pumping, but he had to pause in frustration. "Twenty minutes, Eric?"
"I know, I know. Heavy encryption and at first glance, it looked like realtor information and didn't get tagged right away. We're moving a lot of people right now. Are you on your way out? Because you've got approximately..." silence as he likely consults Nell..." oh god, one minute to vacate the house."
"We'll make it." Callen gave the Lieutenant General a sharp glance. "Let's go. Jacket off. No time to pack. Out the back, now."
"Wait...the front would be better, Callen." Callen grabbed Burt's arm and steered him in the opposite direction as Eric continued, "There's two old, beat-up VW vans on the way into the neighborhood the back way and we don't like the look of these guys."
"Nope, not at all," Nell agreed. "They're on their way to you, no doubt. Oh...and now they've split up."
Callen and Burt exited the house and took off at a jog.
"Don't worry about that now. Just take a left outside on Denton Ave. and don't slow down," Eric directed and Callen was glad he'd already headed that way and that he had decided to lounge around in a tracksuit because his worst case scenario was having to jog through the neighborhood as an escape plan. Like he was doing now. " We've got a black van on its way to you, parking three streets over."
Callen was ignoring Burt's questions and tense bickering from Eric and Nell, trying to focus on his surroundings. They rounded the corner, another stretch of serene neighborhood ahead. "Two more streets," he directed Burt and gestured for quiet.
Burt was outwardly calm as he jogged beside Callen in his sweatsuit, mustache still firmly attached. They didn't look too out of place right now, but the men coming in weren't going to be fooled.
One street over, tires screeched.
"That would be our uninvited guests," Callen said.
Nell narrated. "Yep One van is at the house."
"The other is moving slowly," Eric said. "I think they're confused, but if they turn down that road right there...yep. They're heading right for the NCIS van now. How do they know where they are?"
"Callen, the guys from the first van have exited the house now. Looks like a few of them have violent tendencies. It's on fire, so...you might want to keep moving."
Nearly to the corner of the road now, Callen gestured to Burt to speed up. They could see the NCIS van parked in the middle of the street ahead, its engine running.
"Wait," Eric said suddenly, "Callen hang back. The second VW is moving to intercept the black van."
Callen cursed and stopped at a park bench down from the van, looking at his watch while placing two fingers on his neck as though counting his heartbeats. This was beyond frustrating: too close for comfort, but still too far away to jump in and help. They were sitting ducks out here.
Screeching around the corner, the light blue VW van appeared, slowing up just as it reached the NCIS van. From Callen's viewpoint, it was impossible to see what was happening.
"Is that them?" Burt whispered.
Callen watched, curious, as the van only paused for a few seconds before speeding away. They'd been too far away to hear anything, and the NCIS driver was still sitting, watching the van leave.
"That was weird," Eric said and Callen could feel the moment that Eric looked at Nell and she shrugged.
"I have no idea what just happened. The other van is exiting the neighborhood, too."
Callen looked around sharply, but could see no other signs of danger.
The driver's side window of the van rolled down and the agent inside waved them in. "Let's go," he called to them.
Callen walked forward a few paces and then put out a hand to stop Burt. "Something's not right."
Burt stared at him. "We're seconds from safety. This is a gift horse, Callen. Don't look it in the mouth."
The agent in the van, frustrated, craned his neck back to look at them. "Do you want a ride out or not?"
Callen hesitated. Why was Sam off today, of all days? Over the years, he'd come to rely on the big guy's instincts just as much as his own.
And then, a second later, it was too late.
There was a moment of intense bright light that blanketed their eyes before a concussive force exploded, blowing the van apart, tossing Callen and Burt into the air like a cannon.
Oh, Callen thought, as the moment stretched out far too long, they stopped to put a bomb on the NCIS van. Of course.
If he'd been conscious for the landing, Callen would have appreciated the fact that a low-lying tree branch caught him before letting him drop to the ground below. It probably saved him a broken neck.
"Agent..."
...
"...Callen?"
...
...
"Agent Callen, can you..?"
...
Callen knew what that voice was saying, annoyingly asking if he could hear it. What a stupid question. He wanted it to go away, but it stayed, irritatingly familiar, dancing around the edges of his consciousness like an imp from hell. All he wanted to do was sleep.
But wait...there was something he should be doing...
Consciousness returned in a rush.
"We need to get you up now. Don't struggle. There are people gathering."
Hands pulled him up, and Callen tried desperately to get his legs under him. Pain erupted along one shoulder and he sucked in a breath.
"I've got him," said the familiar voice on one side of him. "He's up."
A familiar sound of sirens split the background noise, alerting him to the fact that he had a splitting headache. "And the police are on the way. I'm assuming we don't want them to find us?"
Callen managed to open one of his eyes and blurrily saw that it was Burt helping him to stand, and now helping him to walk. But then who was...
Callen looked on his other side and saw a middle-aged man with a bad combover straining to keep Callen moving.
"Who're you?" Callen slurred.
"Hetty had me on your back-up detail. Johnson, Rick. Happy to help," the man said, his eyes scanning the neighborhood intently.
"Well, I'm not...happy with you...helping," Callen argued clumsily. "Didn't need back up."
The three of them moved in an ungainly fashion toward the agent's car, a tacky blue Buick that Callen did not approve of. Who drove a four-door Buick?
"I know you don't like it," Rick said easily, "but Hetty made the right call, seeing as how you were both on the ground just now."
"Burt. Burt's all right?" Callen suddenly remembered to be concerned about his protectee. He craned his neck to look at Burt again.
"Got a bad headache and ringing in my ears, but it's a far sight better than being shot. And at least I missed the tree." Callen noticed that he was limping, though, and there was a bad scrape on his chin and nose.
The agent from the NCIS van must have died in the explosion. Callen's gut shriveled at the thought.
That realization, plus the pain of what might be a concussion was enough to keep him distracted, so he was caught off guard when Johnson, Rick suddenly collapsed, dragging Callen down with him. Burt staggered, trying to keep Callen upright, but they both fell.
"Ouch," he muttered, his bad shoulder tangled up with Rick's leaden body. The pain echoed in his pounding head.
"You'll be coming with me," a voice with a heavy Russian accent said, and then Burt was moved away, struggling uselessly. Callen took a deep breath and forced his arm out from under Rick's torso. He managed to turn just in time to see Burt dragged into a white, windowless van that was suddenly there.
Two strong men loomed over Callen, which was a little bit overkill considering that the agent wasn't going to be able to put up much fight at all. "Where's he going?"
The only response he got was in Russian. "Он будет в порядке . Вы должны беспокоиться о том, где вы собираетесь."
He'll be fine. You should worry more about where you're going.
Callen understood the threat fine, but there was no way he was going along quietly. He turned and open-hand punched one man in the kneecap.
"Дерьмо! Это больно," the man moaned as he fell to the ground. "Мое колено!"
The other man laughed, but Callen knew he'd done some damage to that guy's knee. So he just smiled when they manhandled him to his feet, even though his stomach was lurching horribly.
"I'm actually worried about both of us," Callen muttered, only understanding after they laughed that he'd done so in Russian.
A white limo pulled up and then everything was a blur of misery as Callen emptied out his stomach just before getting tossed into the back. Sure, the seats were comfortable and the air conditioning felt nice, but all of that was completely wasted on him as he drifted in and out of consciousness. It had been a while since he'd be this concussed, and he wasn't enjoying it.
Some interminable time later, they arrived and Callen once again had to have help in order to walk toward the very familiar house. He frowned at it, automatically angry without knowing why.
It was only once he was in the backyard, looking at the beautiful pool and pool house that Callen realized who had taken him. "Arkady?"
"Yes, my friend," said the man as he exited the house and walked toward the patio table where Callen had been seated. "I have a bone to pick with you. Did you injure one of my men?"
"He put his knee in my face," Callen explained, "after kidnapping the man I was protecting."
"Kidnapping? Eh. I rescued you from a terrible man. Am I not going to get properly thanked for that?"
"Rescued?" Callen leveled an intense gaze at Arkady. "Where's Lieutenant General Simkins?"
"Oh, he's off filling in a few blanks for me," the Russian man said off-handedly. "Just a few phone numbers, no big deal. When he cooperates, he'll be released-wherever he wants to go."
Callen sighed and eyed the glass of water in front of him.
"Please. Drink," Arkady said, gesturing to the glass.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to return the lieutenant general to NCIS custody."
"I don't think so. Not yet. But I don't think it will take long. You know, you should really be in the hospital, Agent Callen."
The man had the gall to sound concerned.
"What numbers will you be trying to get out of him?"
"Ex-Russian mafia that have gone to ground here in the U.S. I can assure you: it will be a painless extraction. Judge Simpkins has been helpful in the past."
Callen nodded wearily. That actually made sense; from what Callen knew of the man, Burt would be willing to turn in dangerous Russian criminals if it would get them off American soil.
"And he will be safe from Isaac Crampton's men?"
"Certainly. Do you doubt my capabilities, Agent Callen? I'm hurt. But then, you don't look so good. That concussion can't be good for rational thought. Let me have my physician look at you."
Callen wanted to protest, but a wave of dizziness forced him to lay his head down on the table. The cold glass of the table felt good on his forehead, but the world kept spinning until he gave in and let it all go blank.
He awoke some time later in an opulent guest room when Arkady's personal physician came in to look at him. After an uncomfortable examination, the diagnosis was a moderate concussion and a badly sprained shoulder. It was depressing how much pain one stupid shoulder sprain could cause. Callen had always preferred a clean, broken bone to a strained or sprained joint.
Arkady came in just as the doctor was trying to insist that Callen take a bottle of Vicodin to take home for after the danger from the concussion was gone.
"Are you being a difficult patient, Agent Callen?"
G glared at him. "I need to talk to Hetty. Where's my cell?"
"Oh, is it missing? I'm sure it's around here somewhere. We'll find it in a moment. First, I wanted to ask you an important question."
Callen plastered a fake smile on his face. "I'm listening."
"So when I heard that you had been in this terrible situation, so close to being killed by a bomb, my first question was, 'Where is his partner? Why wasn't his partner watching his back?'"
Callen straightened up like a shot. "My partner always has my back. You don't get to question that."
"And yet he was not there today when you needed him."
Callen was ready to fire off another angry retort when he caught the knowing look in Arkady's eyes. "You know where he is. You already know he took the day off. How did you...did you bug my phone, Arkady, because I swear..."
"No, no, my friend. I would never do that. Never to a friend such as you, I mean," he said with a sincere smile that was far too charming to be meant. "No bugs. Just something that one of my men overheard."
"How? Where was I ever...oh...the bar," Callen decided, shaking his head and regretting it a second later. "You had someone listening in on our conversation at the bar!"
"It just so happened that one of my men was out getting a drink and saw you and your partner at a table. He happened to overhear a few words. It means nothing."
Callen shook his head, really glad despite himself that Arkady wasn't the type to make him pay for that mistake. This was his way of warning Callen to be more careful.
"But now that you know I know about the dinner at your partner's house, you can know about the surprise I have planned for him."
"What? What kind of surprise?"
"Oh, hold on." Arkady looked at his cell phone. "Good! I have good news for you. Lieutenant General Simpkins has spoken with my men and already is on his way to meet Henrietta, even as we speak. See how easy that was?"
"And he is unharmed?"
"Yes, yes. He is fine. Now back to the surprise."
"Yeah. What surprise is that exactly?"
"Oh...it's just a little something to help the Hannas celebrate the occasion a little more...fully, shall we say?"
"That could mean anything. If you mess this night up for Sam, I'm going to send you home in a pine box."
Arkady just laughed. "You could not mean that, after all that I have done for you. And it is a good surprise, don't worry."
One of Arkady's men came in and handed him a phone-Callen's.
"Oh, look. Your phone showed up. Here you go."
Callen took it, shaking his head again and regretting it again. "Can I go now?"
"Back to your place?"
"I wish. No, I have to go file a report."
"But you are injured. Surely that can wait."
Callen slid off the table gingerly. "You have met Hetty before, right?"
"Ah, yes. She in an intimidating woman. Perhaps you are correct. We have a taxi waiting outside, fare paid to take you wherever it is you need to go."
The man probably knew exactly where NCIS headquarters was, but he was clever enough to keep it to himself. For now.
"Goodbye, Arkady."
"Until next time, my friend. Take care of yourself. And give my greetings to your partner when you see him."
The taxi ride was too long and too bumpy, but headquarters was quiet and nearly deserted when he arrived. It was past ten at night since Callen had changed taxis and gone the long way to fool anyone still watching him. He filed his report in peace, only stopping to brief Hetty when she called.
Then he headed home, gingerly lowering himself on the bed and falling asleep almost immediately despite his pounding headache.
He woke at nearly midnight when an ecstatic Sam called him.
"Callen," he said groggily once he managed to find his phone.
"Sorry, I thought you'd still be up, man."
"Yeah. Had a headache. Still do."
"Sorry," Sam lowered his voice to a whisper, "but I had to tell you. The dinner was fantastic and Michele loved it!"
"Really?" Callen woke up just a little bit, a warm feeling blossoming inside. "So it went well?"
"Not at first. It actually was a bit of a disaster. But then with the rain and the way Chef André kept yelling at his workers and moaning about the ice sculptures...well, it all just became really, really funny. And the food was amazing and Michele's favorite part was the champagne fountain."
"Champagne fountain..." Callen trailed off. Had that been Arkady's contribution?
"Yeah, it was this beautiful brushed nickel champagne fountain. Michele reminded me that we'd had one at our wedding. I had completely forgotten, but she remembered and it just made her so happy. It was a great memory, and after that, we were able to talk and everything just flowed. It was a great idea, G. I can't thank you enough."
Callen laid back carefully on his bed. He'd tell his partner tomorrow about all that he'd missed, but for now, he was going to let him have one complete night off, too.
"Yeah. Well. I know how you can thank me."
"What? You know I'm good for it, whatever it is."
"Never take another day off?"
Sam laughed and said he'd see Callen tomorrow.
Callen chuckled, too, as he hung up the phone, but he was pretty sure he hadn't been joking just now. He really didn't want Sam to take off another day. Ever again.