It's easy to forget, sometimes, that the Cold War is over.
Aside from a few bustling, ultra-modern enclaves, Eastern Europe seems much as it ever was.
The damp, bitter cold. The grim Soviet-era housing blocs where faceless citizens, wrapped against the wind, scuttle like ants from building to building. The complex web of centuries-old grudges and rapidly shifting loyalties that lies just beneath the surface of things, luring the unwary into a potentially fatal misstep.
Even a bombed-out street, stark reminder of a recent terrorist attack, could easily be post-war ruins, especially when wrapped in a dank, smothering mist.
And then there's the moment that always happens. G could be browsing a local farmer's market, posing as a tourist, or in a pub watching a soccer match. Maybe it's the murmur of voices with their thick accents, or the sharp smell of paprika and onions, or the sound of a violin from an old radio in a shop window.
It's the moment when his brain stops thinking in English. Another language takes over as the edges of his memory soften. If he closes his eyes, he can let the feeling wash over him. If he were a different kind of man, he would call the feeling 'familiarity' or even 'belonging.'
It doesn't last. The harder he tries to grasp at it, the quicker it retreats, leaving bitter loneliness in its wake. But if he stands very still and doesn't try to hold on, the feeling will settle on him as softly as a butterfly alighting on an outstretched hand.
It's in one of these moments that he allows himself to be captured. He's standing on the bridge in the old city, leaning over the rail and looking down at the water. Even as his ears pick up the sound of a car motor idling in the dark, the feeling brushes against the edge of his consciousness.
G closes his eyes, and the feeling comes closer. The soothing song of the water below becomes the sound of a voice quietly humming a melody. His hand seems suddenly smaller, enveloped in the comforting pressure of a much larger hand. His skin tingles, sensing warmth that isn't there.
Footsteps quicken.
The moment vanishes.
As the bag comes down over his head, G cries out, but in disappointment rather than terror.
He fights, of course. It would be suspicious otherwise. When they work him over for a few days, he resists. And when the sharp-faced officer arrives...well, it's not the first time someone's done that to G, and it probably won't be the last.
The officer seems to take more pleasure in his work than some, and he certainly likes to take his time. Then again, G had done his research. He knew the man had a type. It's why he'd grown his hair out for this op, and dressed a certain way. And, over the years, he'd found that having pretty blue eyes could come in handy in more ways than one. It works well for the op, after all, giving G an excuse to break. Anything sooner would have aroused suspicion. After he talks, they throw him into a holding tank while they check out his intel.
That was the whole purpose of the op - to introduce false data into the system, like a virus in a computer. Now Gibbs can follow the trail and see where it leads, can find out who can be trusted and who is for sale.
G's only remaining task is to stay alive and wait for extraction. It's not easy. It's November, and the bitter cold in the cell creeps into his bones and settles there. G passes the time by staying in shape, as much as he can in his battered condition, and practicing his Russian.
He keeps hoping one of his special moments will happen and the mysterious feeling will arrive, but it never does.
Then one night, a month into his wait, he spikes a fever. He lies shivering under the thin wool blanket, alternately boiling and freezing. His teeth chatter and his muscles ache as badly as from a beating. Sounds waver between muffled and too loud, and the darkness seems thick and palpable.
Then it happens. G swears he can feel a cool, firm hand pressed to his brow and a soft voice promising him he'll be okay.
Memories rise to the surface: A restless heat, a hand on his forehead, a voice promising relief.
With a start, G realizes there is an actual hand on him, but it's gloved and pressed over his mouth. Thinking it's the sharp-faced officer, G panics and struggles.
A light appears. It makes G's eyes, used to the darkness, sting and water, but it also shows him his assailant.
It's not the officer. This man has a round, pleasant, handsome face, although it's currently creased in a frown. He's dressed in black and has a pair of night vision goggles perched on his forehead. He holds the tiny flashlight on just long enough for G to see him and stop struggling, then clicks it off.
In the darkness, his deep voice is calm and reassuring.
"I'm Sam Hanna," he says. "I'm with the US Navy SEALs. We're here to get you out."
Sam's last assignment with the SEALs is a simple extraction.
If he were a different kind of man, he might be offended by how pedestrian the assignment is. But Sam is a SEAL right down to his bones. He knows there are no unimportant missions, especially in these complex times. The job's not glamorous or high-profile, but it needs to get done and Sam Hanna has been chosen to see it through.
Still, he feels a pang as he readies the raft. The Navy has been his life, his family, his structure - his everything, really. Retiring is a necessary step, given his age and his history of injuries. But that doesn't make it easy.
Sam sternly reminds himself to focus, then slips into the water and allows his mission mindset to take over. Onshore, he and his team members quickly eliminate the guards. Sam signals the others to stay, then slips inside the building, locates the correct holding cell, and enters.
The target of their rescue mission is an American agent. Sam was shown pictures during mission briefing, so he's able to identify him through his night vision goggles as the man huddled under the wool blanket. His hands are bound, but he's not shackled to the cot, so the extraction should proceed quickly.
Still, Sam hesitates. This man seems smaller somehow than Sam had expected. His face is marred by fading cuts and bruises, and he's clearly ill. His breathing is harsh and labored, and he's shivering hard enough to shake the narrow metal cot, even though it's bolted to the floor.
Sam swears under his breath. Intel had assured him the man - Callen was his name - was a highly experienced agent and that the extraction would be almost routine. It's why Sam chose to breach the facility alone, leaving the rest of his team outside. If he has to carry Callen, it could seriously slow him down, potentially giving the other guards time to find their murdered comrades and raise the alarm.
Sam hesitates again, the strips off his glove and presses his bare hand to Callen's forehead. Sure enough, it's hot with fever.
Callen sighs in his sleep.
Sam finds himself holding his breath.
Callen turns his head slightly, as if seeking Sam's touch, and presses his forehead into Sam's palm. He mutters something that's not in English.
Something unexpected catches at Sam's heart and tugs, hard. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's mumuring reassurances.
"You're gonna be okay now," he whispers, stroking Callen's sweat-damp hair off his forehead. "You're safe. I got you."
With a start, Sam realizes his entire team is listening on the com. He silently curses himself, then speaks.
"Target is incapacitated," he tells them. "May need a carry. Hold your positions and await further orders."
The com crackles, then his second-in-command comes on the line. "Roger that."
Sam determinedly pulls his glove back on and presses it firmly over Callen's mouth. Callen wakes with a start, clearly panicked, and struggles against Sam's grip.
Sam is ready. He pulls up his goggles and turns on his Mag light for a second, just long enough to illuminate his face and let Callen know he's not one of his captors. Callen blinks at the light. Then his eyes sharpen with understanding and he nods.
Sam turns off the light.
"I'm Sam Hanna," he whispers. "I'm with the US Navy SEALs. We're here to get you out."
Callen rolls out of bed and crouches next to Sam. "Lead the way." His voice is husky from lack of use.
Sam can feel the heat radiating off Callen's skin, but he seems mobile and able to walk on his own.
"Follow me," he orders. As he retraces his steps with Callen at his heels, a thought occurs to him, something his brain noticed in that split second of illumination but is only now processing.
Agent Callen has the bluest eyes Sam has ever seen.