As it turns out, Sam's last assignment for the SEALs is his first assignment for NCIS.
The rest of the extraction proceeds without a hitch. Callen may be sick as a dog, but he's agile and strong and follows Sam's orders without hesitation.
The sun is rising by the time the raft returns to the boat. As the rope ladder comes down, Callen holds out his hands. Sam realizes with a start they're still bound, and that he was so rattled back at the prison he didn't even notice.
"Pretty sure I'm not a flight risk," Callen says, and yes, that is definitely a smirk on his face. In the golden light of morning, his eyes are an even more startling blue.
Sam pulls his knife. "Hold still."
Callen doesn't flinch as Sam cuts the ties, just nods his thanks and absently rubs his bruised wrists. He does flinch, however, when he looks up the side of the boat. It's a small boat and not a long climb, but Callen suddenly looks exhausted, his face grey even in the mild morning light.
Sam moves to help him up the ladder, but Callen jerks away sharply. "I got it."
Sam's not sure he does, but he's not going to push it. He climbs the ladder first, though, just in case Callen decides he needs assistance after all. His second holds the ladder steady, or as much as he can in a bobbing raft, while Callen climbs. His movements are slow, and by the time he reaches the top, he's shaking like a leaf.
Sam resists the urge to help him over the rail. Callen leans against the bulkhead, breathing hard, and closes his eyes for a long moment.
The rest of the team swiftly climbs aboard, and the boat immediately heads for open water. As it does, Callen turns his head and resolutely looks forward, not back.
While the others change out of their night gear, the youngest member of their team approaches.
"This is Kyle," Sam tells Callen. "He's our medic. He'll check you out."
Callen frowns. "I'm fine."
"That wasn't a question," Sam says mildly.
Callen's blue eyes narrow, and his chin gets a stubborn tilt to it. Sam just returns his gaze calmly, like he would with an angry two-year-old.
Callen's frown deepens. He looks at the rail, and for a moment Sam gets the crazy notion he might jump overboard. Then he turns back and smirks.
"Lead the way," he says to Kyle, then follows as Kyle leads him below decks.
As it turns out, Callen is nursing a walloping case of pneumonia. Kyle doses him to the gills with antibiotics, and Callen sleeps almost the entire way to the Mediterranean, where they're scheduled to rendezvous with his handler in Spain. There, the rest of the team will return to active duty, and Sam...well, Sam's not sure what his next move is. He's actually glad when he's ordered to accompany Callen. It gives him a task to complete.
Callen doesn't say a word on the way to the rendezvous, which takes place at an NCIS field office. Sam knows Callen's handler is an agent named Gibbs, because it was in the mission brief. He's somewhat surprised, then, when Gibbs' second shows up.
Sam takes an instant dislike to the man. He knows the type—good looking, cocky, the kind who hides keen intelligence and competence behind a mask of goofiness and smarm. He reminds himself that agents are spies, not soldiers. Their job is to go undercover, infiltrate enemy operations, make people trust them through deceit and guile. It takes a different set of skills than open warfare.
He's also surprised when Callen is retired. Or at least, that's what it looks like is happening. The field office is small but modern and high-tech, all brick and glass and computers. Gibbs' man — DiNozzo is his name — uses a narrow, glass-walled conference room to debrief Callen. Sam, seated in the outer office, finds that if he angles his body a certain way, he can watch the room even as he pretends to read a month-old copy of Stars and Stripes. He feels guilty, but for some reason is compelled to watch.
The debrief takes less than ten minutes. Callen has his back to Sam, but Sam can see he's giving his report. As Callen speaks, DiNozzo just nods and jots a few notes on a pad of paper. Then both men rise, and DiNozzo shakes Callen's hand.
Sam knows that handshake. It's the "so long and good luck" handshake he himself recently received. The waiting room suddenly seems too small, with not enough air. Sam rises abruptly and walks out the door.
The field office may be modern, but it's still built in a traditional Mediterranean style, with a thick, faceless exterior built around an inner sanctuary: a lush garden with cool, flowing water.
Sam walks blindly past the orange trees and the gurgling fountain to the far end of the terraced garden, which looks out over the city toward the distant bay. He stares longingly at the ships in the harbor.
A cough interrupts him. Sam turns to see a tall, handsome man lighting a cigar. He wears an expensive suit, sports a neatly trimmed moustache, and has a boxer's carriage — strong, but light on his feet.
He exhales smoke and coughs again.
"Sorry," he says apologetically. "My wife made me quit. I'm not as used to these things as I once was."
Sam looks around. There's no one else in the garden. "Where's your wife?"
"Maryland."
Sam blinks in surprise. "Then how could she know whether or not you smoke?"
"Trust me," the man says darkly, "she has her ways." He holds out his hand. "Leon Vance. Acting Assistant Director to Acting Director of European Operations, NCIS, blah blah blah."
Sam laughs and shakes his hand. "I'm—"
"Sam Hanna, former Navy SEAL," the man says easily. "Cigar?" he adds as Sam frowns.
"No, thank you," Sam says stiffly.
"Relax," Vance says. "It's my job to know who people are." He takes another drag of his cigar. "I've been watching you for some time. As a matter of fact, I was the one who recommended you for this assignment. You did well, by the way."
Sam fights back his annoyance. "It seemed rather a routine mission," he says through gritted teeth. "Sir."
"Perhaps, under the circumstances," Vance says cryptically. "But there's still another leg of the journey to complete. The assignment is yours, if you want it."
"I don't understand."
"As you may have noticed, Agent Callen is being removed from the European theater."
Sam feels a pang of guilt, like he got caught with his hand in his mama's cookie jar. "I did get that impression," he admits.
"And you want to know why."
"I..." Caught out, Sam fumbles for words.
Vance smiles blandly. "This is how you came to my attention, Mr. Hanna. Your superiors felt you had certain skills, a certain way of thinking, that might prove useful in other arenas. Call it a different way to serve your country."
"Cut the crap," Sam says tiredly. "Just tell me the assignment."
Vance laughs. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You have the ability to think on your feet, Hanna. To ask questions and even buck the chain of command, if necessary, to get the job done. Not every soldier has those abilities."
"So?" Sam asks.
"So..." Vance drops his cigar to the stone terrace and grinds it out underfoot. "Callen is over-exposed in Eastern Europe. It makes him a danger, not just to himself, but to other agents, and indeed, American interests in the region. Like you, he's being re-assigned to a different arena."
"Great. Where do I fit in?"
"I need someone to escort Callen back to the States."
Sam blinks. "That's it?"
"That's it."
Sam frowns. "I don't get it. Callen is a highly trained agent. Why would he need an escort? If he's traveling undercover, wouldn't my presence just draw more attention to him?"
He remembers Callen's smirk in the raft. "Wait a minute. Callen's not at risk for defection, is he?"
Vance gives a bark of laughter. "Hardly. We just need someone to watch his back while he travels."
"Why?" Sam asks bluntly.
Vance's smile grows wider, his white teeth gleaming. "I'll tell you what, Hanna. If you can deliver Callen to Los Angeles in one piece, you just might have yourself a new job."