My ID Theft situation took too much of my time and I decided to remove this story, complete it, and resubmit it. Thanks for your patience.


Author's Notes: 2011 Summer Challenge

Title: PsyOps

Story Premise: One of NCIS Los Angeles's elite team members is compromised by Pure. The team investigates a sinister plot to undermine the psychological fabric of their team through destroying one team member's sanity.

Rating: Rated M due to Darkfic; includes torture, rape, violence, betrayal, tragedy, hurt/comfort, mental, emotional, and physical trauma.

OC Death

Major G Callen whump.

No pairings.

Daffynition: PsyOps—psychologic operations


Disclaimer: NCIS: Los Angeles and its characters are owned by CBS and the producers of it. I do not own anything, but if I did I would torture G Callen more. I am grateful to CBS and the producers of NCIS: LA for their contribution to the world of entertainment.

My stories are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This is a work intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by CBS and the producers of NCIS:LA. I gain no profit from the creation and publication of this story. I love to play in the sandbox with the characters and their lives. I especially love to torture G Callen. It is fun!

Reviews welcomed and appreciated.


Kidnapped

Chapter 1

G tried to reach out his arm and turn the engine over with the key. His right arm failed to respond to his mind. Yet he believed he reached out to touch the key in his ignition. He opened his eyes and surveyed his situation. Blackness. Wasn't it early Saturday morning after a run on Zuma Beach in Malibu? Now it was nighttime? Nothing made sense about the time frame. He remembered the odd taste to the water in his water bottle. Damn. After a few more minutes of orienting to his surroundings, G realized why his arms didn't respond. They were tied behind his back. Why was it dark? A hood covered his head. Crap. With each new discovery about the condition of his body, his prospects of escaping decreased. G tried to move his legs. Tied. Not good. Whatever had been in his water left a nasty aftertaste in his mouth. No possible way to spit it out with the hood in place. G rubbed his head on the surface of whatever he was laying on, trying to remove the hood.

"Ah, he's awake," a man with a deep voice said. "Perfect. Bring him."

Rough and calloused hands lifted him off the floor, dragging him toward his destination.

"What do you want with me?"

"Shut your mouth, Mr. G. Callen," the man said.

"And if I don't?"

"I'll make your life a living hell."

G decided, at least for now, it wasn't worth it to make his captor any more angry than he was.

The hood was ripped off his head and the back of his head was slapped hard.

Bright lights came on and G squinted, the light hurting his eyes. Must be the drugs they had altered his water with or maybe he had been unconscious longer than he thought. It felt as if it was only five minutes, but it couldn't be.

"Sit him down. If you struggle to get away, I'll do two things: Drug you further and have my two agents beat you into submission. Think about your actions before you commit them. Tie him to the chair. You will speak when asked to do so. Understood, Mr. G. Callen?"

"Yes."

"I'll give you a few minutes, before we begin your onscreen interrogation."

Onscreen interrogation? Who was this man? He blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes to the light.

"Cameras on and ready?" the man asked his two agents. "Water, Mr. G. Callen?"

Yes, if it didn't contain the tainted water. No, if it did.

"You will speak when spoken to, understood?"

"Yes."

After the man's team nodded they were ready with the cameras, the man brought water over to his prisoner. "You need to drink," he said. "If I know you as I do, this promises to be a long session. Drink." He held the bottle up to his prisoner's lips.

G took several small sips. It wasn't tainted. The cool water washed away the strange taste in his mouth. He studied his captor's face, attempting to recall where he'd seen him. Nothing came to mind. It was possible he didn't know him. Because he needed to squint, the man's face was partially obscured. One side revealed deep set hazel eyes, bushy black eyebrows, and a blond mustache. Strange. He wondered which had been colored to disguise the man.

"Good choice again, answering with a simple 'yes', the less hassle, the faster I get the results I'm seeking," he said. "Would you like more water? Mr. G. Callen, I suggest you take it."

"Yes."

"Drink this." The man held it up to his prisoner's lips.

G drank as much water as he could get down, knowing he might be dehydrated from his long run and this may be the last time he drank water for a long time. He studied his captor's face more and glanced around the room at his surroundings.

"Trying to figure it out, Mr. G. Callen?"

"Yes."

"That's good, because we need your mind working for the next part of our 'meeting.'"

"Now then, you have something we want, and you will give it to us."

"Who is we?"

The man slapped G hard across the face. "Short term memory problems, Mr. G. Callen?"

"No." A bitter, metallic taste now invaded his mouth. Blood.

"Just being your obstinate and independent self?" the man asked. "That will cost you more than you'll want to pay. You have an agent I want and you will hand her over to me."

"How can I do that when I'm—"

"Short term memory problems, again?" The man fisted G in the gut several times driving home his point. "Wait until I'm finished and you'll know."

He grimaced. "I'm not turning over—"

The man slapped him hard across the face, again. The force of the slap slammed his prisoner's head backwards against the metal chair's headrest.

G shook his head and decided not to make further comments.

"Excellent choice, Mr. G. Callen," he said. "I want Henrietta Lange and you will arrange for her to meet me."

"No."

"Not a good choice." He signaled the two agents. They came over to the man's side, the taller agent brandishing a picana. "Are you sure that's what you wish to answer?"

G swallowed hard, feeling as if food were stuck in his throat. The palm of his hands started to sweat. Flashes of pictures from an unspeakable incident years ago inundated his mind. He knew the weapon well, involuntary shuddering overtook his body. He hoped to never see one again, but here he was face to face with a man holding the weapon. The last intel on the use of one of these came from South America. These instruments were used to extract intel from prisoners during interrogations and were quite effective. He shivered. "No."

"You will help me, then?"

"Yes." He lied, hoping his team would find him before this sadistic man used the dreadful instrument of torture on him.

"Good choice again, Mr. G. Callen," he said. "Now look into the camera and tell Ms. Henrietta Lange I wish to speak to her. She has forty-eight hours to answer or I start torturing you for the fun of it." He laughed with a maniacal tone.

G knew he had only one chance to tell his team members who these men were. His first guess, Pure, the enemy his team had been trained to eliminate. He was now thankful Sam and Eric had suggested everyone learn two more languages in addition to the five new ones they learned in their recent training. Sam's choice was morse code and Eric's, sign language. G's only tool with which to communicate, his eyelids.