A/N: An absurdly huge 'thank you' to everyone who has reviewed so far. Double-digits always make me smile. Every time my phone would chime, I would smile and think "If I hurry with chapter two, maybe they'll review more?!" It was crazy.
That being said, I do not write these stories to give my own political view or to bash someone else's. I simply needed a back-story for our bad guys, and like all bad guys, they had to have a motive. It does not mean that I either agree or disagree. I know there are some things politically and emotionally that cause a lot of strife, and everyone is welcome to their opinion concerning gun laws and what not, just please don't share them with me and I won't share mine with you. Just keep that in mind as you read. This story is not intended to offend anyone for any reason.
Also, this chapter is mostly about laying groundwork, something all stories need but I usually don't find thrilling. I'm thinking there are probably going to be about 7 chapters total for this thing, give or take. I'm so excited about the action parts though…I can't wait to write them!
Chapter 2: There and Back Again: A Bearded Man's Tale
He'll admit it, there have been times when he's been accused of being impatient. Most times, Sam's the culprit, tossing the insinuation in amongst complaints about his cholesterol or questionable love affair with bacon. But right now, Callen thinks even Sam would cut him some slack as he once again glances outside.
He's standing in an old tack room, dry rotted bridles and rusted bits hang from the wall from even rustier nails, each occasionally swaying as the strong wind blows through the cracks in the barn's wall. He wouldn't go so far as to say he's hiding, but he definitely doesn't want to be seen, at least not by anyone other than his team.
Militiamen aren't exactly known for their warm, welcoming, friendly demeanor. It had taken him three months to get in with the sect in lower California, and he was more than a little pissed when less than two weeks in, he and four others were shipped off to Montana. Apparently, the head honcho back home is old buddies with the big shot here in Montana. So, when Montana called needing a favor, California was more than happy to send five of his greenest members.
He had wanted to say no, wanted to keep working the sect in California, but both Hetty and the Director agreed that it would be too risky to refuse and that too much effort had already been spent to back out now.
And that's exactly what would have happened. He would have been forced to back out, because once you're in the militia, you can't simply refuse to follow an order. And when the militia says jump, well you better have your bouncy shoes on.
Another strong gust of wind and another peek outside later, Callen's starting to feel that little bit of impatience morph into something stronger. He's freezing, he can't keep from shivering, and he's pretty certain his teeth are about to rattle right out of his head if he can't stop them from chattering. The farmhouse Hetty had borrowed is about a fifteen minute drive from where he is now, factor in the weather maybe half an hour.
Looking at the phone in his hand, he can see it's been about thirty-three minutes since he last called Sam, forty-two since he made his escape.
There are thirty-seven members of the militia here in this small town, thirty-eight if you count Callen's alias, Greg. He had been given orders from NCIS to figure out exactly what it is Montana wanted with a handful of Cali boys, and that is exactly what he did.
Normally, the lower ranking members are relegated to tents around the property, but when the weather radio called for the storm, the leaders figured it'd be in the militia's best interest if its members weren't frozen and buried beneath twelve inches of snow.
And that's how Callen had gotten inside, how he had found the well-used five-star notebook. It was as he was reading it that he was caught. Tattle-tales must get awarded in the militia, because no sooner had the man walked in and caught sight of Callen holding the notebook, did he start screaming his head off, alerting the others to Callen's sticky fingers and prying eyes.
And now, forty-three minutes later at about five in the morning, Callen's hiding next to a smelly old saddle, waiting for his knights in Chevy plated armor to come to his rescue.
His gun is in his holster, right on his hip. Militiamen aren't shy about carrying weapons, and tucking it in the waistband of your jeans just wasn't going to cut it, ergo the need for a holster and a nice, shiny, American made gun. It's not his SIG, but it'll do, especially if any of the bearded militiamen decide to venture out into the storm and see where he ran off.
He reaches up with frozen fingers, his gloves doing no good to keep out the cold, and scratches at his chin. He can't remember the last time he saw a razor, and admittedly, a beard's a good idea for extra warmth in wintry Montana, but the little hairs are driving him crazy. They itch all along the length of his jaw, his neck. He looks like a full-blown mountain man in the making.
The sound of movement outside catches his attention. Gloved fingers reach for the Smith & Wesson at his side as he ventures a peek through one of the barn wall's many cracks. Sighing in relief, Callen knocks once on the wall before calling out.
"Sam," he says, only loud enough to be heard over the wind. Sam's eyes immediately focus on the small gap, his dark eyes meeting stark blue. Sam makes his way to the door, gladly stepping inside the small barn to get out of the wind, Deeks two steps behind him, his eyes looking towards the distant house for any sign that they've been seen.
"Where's Kensi?" Callen asks, noting the absence of his third teammate.
"She's with the truck," Deeks answers, putting his gun away and reaching into his pocket for a couple of fluorescent orange packages. Callen would be lying if he said he didn't think they were condoms at first sight.
He watches as Deeks tears the packets open with his teeth, dropping two little pouches into his hand that look a lot like teabags, and begins to shake them vigorously. Callen knows what they are now, it's just been a while since he had any need for one.
He graciously accepts the small hand warmers, immediately removing his gloves and letting his frozen fingers absorb the warmth.
"Deeks, don't take this the wrong way, but I love you, man." Callen would grin if he weren't so cold. Instead, he places the warmers next to his cheeks, not realizing just how cold he had been until he was offered some warmth.
"Most people do," Deeks responds with a smile, his eyes once again darting in the direction of the house.
"So, are your feet frozen to the ground or something, 'cause I'm getting cold and would like to get back to the truck." Sam gestures to the barn door, one lone dimple shining at the incredulous look his partner gives him.
"You're cold? Sam, I've been waiting here for over half an hour. I can't even feel my feet anymore." Callen knows he'd probably sound a little angrier, probably look a little more intimidating if he weren't trying to suck the heat from thermodynamic teabags.
"Sorry, G. I forgot how sensitive you are," Sam says, knowing full well that he's baiting his partner. It's what they do, it's what makes them Sam and Callen.
"Okay, now I get it," Callen mutters, tilting his head back as though he's just solved an annoying puzzle. "The cold's messing with your head. See, I'm not the sensitive one, Sam. You are."
"You don't hear me complaining about a little frostbite," Sam challenges, adjusting his knit cap.
"No, you're just whining about wanting to get into a warm truck." Callen's pulling his gloves back on, tucking the hand warmers inside as he once again reaches for his gun.
"Look guys," Deeks intervenes, "I hate to break up the bromance, but it might be a good idea to get a move on before the Hill Billy Brigade comes looking for us."
Guns drawn and ready, the three men exit the barn, their heads ducked to help block the stinging wind as they make their way back to the truck.
They figure since they can't see the house too well, anyone in the house can't see them. It's only a theory, but it's that or stay in the barn.
The truck is running, the heater on full blast with Kensi waiting behind the wheel. No one says anything at first, each content with getting out of the wind and getting away from the militia's headquarters.
Kensi drives slow, her hands at ten and two as the wind threatens to push the truck off the road. And then, almost as though Mother Nature had finally run out of steam, the wind dies down, that angry howl softening into a whisper, still sending tufts of snow across the windshield, but nothing more.
Suddenly, the silence in the truck is too loud, the sound of the diesel engine thunderous against the absence of the wind. It's a few seconds before anyone makes a sound. It's kind of like they're too scared to break the silence, too scared that their voices will wake Big Momma up again and the wind will return.
But Deeks is sick, and that little tickle in his sinuses that he's been fighting on and off since making it to the barn has finally won out. He pinches his nose, squeezes his eyes, and sneezes. Loudly.
Kensi jumps a little at the sudden noise, Sam smirks, and Callen just looks at Deeks, offering a neutral "gesundheit."
"Thanks," Deeks replies, that wet sniffle making a comeback. "I kind of got a little cold."
"You don't say," and now Callen smiles. The silence broken, Callen begins to explain what he found, what it is he had read in the notebook before being caught, and why he wasn't too keen on sticking around and explaining why he was snooping.
"It's a bombing and a set up. That's why they brought in people from out of town," he begins, a little bit of anger leaking into his voice. "Me and the other four men from California are scapegoats."
"What are they planning to bomb?" Sam asks, his voice sounding just as angry as his partners.
"The state capital, I think. There were notes and diagrams. They were doing the math, trying to determine where in the building the bomb would do the most damage," Callen says as he reaches in his gloves and adjusts the hand warmers.
"How do you know you're the scapegoats?" Kensi keeps her eyes on the road, the fresh snow still making it hazardous to drive.
Callen laughs a little, a full on scoff. "Because I read it. They had our names written down, well my alias' name. I didn't read a whole lot, but I'm pretty sure the plan was for us to be in the building when the bomb goes off."
"That's why they wanted people from out of town. Someone who couldn't be traced back to them," Deeks adds, putting the puzzle pieces together.
"And that's why the leader in California sent all of his newest members," Sam says, picking up where Deeks left off, "You weren't there long enough to be connected. They're gonna make you out to be homegrown terrorists."
"When's all this supposed to happen?" Kensi asks, hoping like crazy someone had written a time and date in the notebook.
Callen shakes his head, apparently reading what Kensi's thinking and sharing in her disappointment. "No idea," he says as he reaches for his burn phone. He needs to call Eric, get him and Nell to see if they can find any reason why the militia would want to blow up the capital building. The militia's known for hating the government, but they're not terrorists.
"You might want to wait 'till we get back to the house," Sam says when he sees the phone. "This whole road's nothing but a dead zone."
Sighing, Callen puts the phone away. It's probably for the best anyway, with the time difference, it's only three in the morning in LA.
They listen to the snow crunching beneath the tires as they pull up to the house. As they climb out of the truck, Deeks looks around, studying the scenery. Except for one or two, there are no trees, not for miles. The entire landscape is blanketed in snow, soft tufts still falling in a slow decent. This is the type of snow Deeks likes.
"Ninja Turtles? Really?" Callen asks questioningly as he walks into the dark house, his flashlight shining on the rumpled mattress and abandoned pillows.
"Heroes in a half shell, and don't pretend like you weren't a fan," Deeks warns with a barely suppressed grin. "I bet Leo was your favorite."
Callen doesn't deny it, he simply turns away and laughs, shining the light on the small pile of kindling so Sam can get the fire going again.
"Sam's was probably Raphael," Deeks says, continuing his Ninja Turtle profiling. This time, Callen's laugh is a little more pronounced, especially when Sam turns and looks at Deeks.
"And why's that Deeks?" Sam asks somewhat angrily with just enough mirth to keep it friendly.
"Well, because he's always so angry, and serious, and …well…you know." Deeks grins sheepishly, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with Sam, because once again, he's stuck his foot in his mouth.
"Are you saying I have anger issues?" Sam asks, his tone unchanging. Deeks looks as though he's about to defend himself, or at least try to, but Callen steps in, choosing to rile Sam instead of leaving Deeks to flounder.
"I can see it," he says, nodding slowly as both Sam and Deeks look at him in surprise.
"I do not have anger issues," Sam says, tossing the last log on the fire with enough force to lend doubt to his claim. Callen and Deeks share a look, before Sam stands and points accusingly at his partner. "And what happened to the whole 'it's always us against him' thing?"
"It's still in play," Callen assures him, turning off the flashlight as the fire grows, the sunrise lending light to a grey sky. "It's just you have to admit, of the four turtles, you are most like the red one."
"So would that make me Donatello?" Kensi asks, smiling at the turn in conversation.
"No, Eric's totally Donatello," Deeks tells her as he opens the remaining curtains, allowing more light into the room.
"What? What about me?" Kensi looks as though she's actually a little bit offended, only making the situation that more amusing.
"Well, you're a girl," Deeks says as though it's obvious.
Sam and Callen smile, each content sitting back and watching as Kensi cocks her hip and crosses her arms, her eyebrows rising in contempt. "So I can't be a Ninja Turtle just because I'm a woman?"
"Are we really having this argument right now?" Deeks asks, holding his hands palms up, looking like he's waiting for someone to hand him an answer. Kensi seems to come to her senses, realizing just how ridiculous the conversation truly is.
Still a little on the defensive, she keeps her arms crossed as she sits on the armrest of the couch. "You're the one who brought it up."
Deeks seems satisfied and sits on the opposite arm rest, kicking off his shoes and placing his thick sock covered feet on the far cushion of the couch.
Callen begins to remove his gloves and hat, flexing his stiff fingers within reach of the warming fire. "Hetty is definitely Splinter."
"Hetty's a woman, she can't be Splinter if we're playing by your rules," Kensi points out once she sees Deeks smile and nod in agreement with Callen's assessment.
Deeks tilts his head and gives Kensi a look more serious than the question deserves. "Kensi, can you think of anyone else that's better fit to be Splinter?"
Kensi stares at him, her lips pursed as she thinks it over. Finally, she rolls her eyes, admitting defeat.
"Fine, Hetty can be Splinter."
-:-
To Eric's credit, he doesn't complain when Callen calls and wakes him at almost four in the morning. He simply gets to work, searching for anything and everything that would warrant the militia bombing the capital building in Montana.
Within no time at all, he's calling back, giving them a short list of events that are scheduled to take place over the next month in Helena. At the top of the list, a fundraiser benefiting the Governor's campaign.
Normally, the fundraiser wouldn't jump out were it not for the fact that the Governor had recently began supporting legislation to toughen gun laws in Montana, something he had inherently steered clear of during elections.
Governor Dempsey is the type of politician to avoid controversial topics unless he knows for certain the majority will support him. During elections, it was clear the militia wouldn't have been happy should the government try to intervene on their way of life and their love for ammunitions. However, with several gun related crimes grabbing the media's attention, leaving citizens up in arms (so to speak) about firearm legislation in the great state of Montana, Governor Dempsey felt it was necessary to pick a side, preferably one that was in the majority's favor.
"It's an assassination. It makes sense," Callen says, scratching at his newly trimmed chin. With the hot water out, he was forced to rely on an electric shaver, settling for an even five o'clock shadow instead of a nice clean shave. "Jett loves his guns and hates the government," he says, referring to Jett Hawkins, the militia's leader.
"Give him a politician he already hates then have that same politician try to take away his guns…" Sam doesn't need to finish the sentence. They've all worked with the militia before at one time or another. They all know how the group feels about the government, even more so about the beloved second amendment.
"How long before the Sheriff's Department gets there?" Deeks asks in a nasally tone, frowning when he discovers one nostril has given up the fight and decided to stop working. He sniffs hard, trying his best to get it working again, only to stop when the act seems to intensify the pressure in his sinuses.
Callen looks at the clock on the dashboard, trying to remember how long ago Nell said she had called the local Sheriff, asking him to send his men and SWAT to the militia's headquarters. "They should be there by now," he answers, once again letting his eyes go back to the snow-covered road. "They were taking a chopper."
The truck is massive, practically a tank. Its tires are made for Montana's winters and deep snow, but Callen still drives with an edge of caution, squinting his eyes as the morning sun reflects off the freshly fallen snow, blinding him as he drives to meet with the Sheriff's Department and hopefully stop the town's militia from performing a great act of stupidity.
The yard is covered with vehicles—State Troopers, Sheriff's Department, and SWAT. The chopper can be heard in the distance. Callen pulls the borrowed pseudo-tank up next to an empty cruiser, the tailpipe still billowing steam despite the drive.
They all climb out of the car, each looking around, each wondering why it's so quiet. The Sheriff, an older man with a thick mustache that would make Burt Reynolds jealous steps off the porch slowly, one hand resting on the butt of his gun, the other hanging by a thumb in his belt loop.
"You NCIS?" he asks, his voice sounding softer than his appearance suggests. Callen nods, extending his hand in greeting.
"Special Agent G Callen, these are Special Agents Kensi Blye, Sam Hanna, and Detective Marty Deeks." He points to them in turn, each reaching forward for a handshake and smiling warmly at the Sheriff, but each on guard, expecting bad news.
And as things usually go, when you go looking for trouble, it's easy to find.
"Well," the Sheriff begins, removing his hat and scratching a head full of graying hair, "As much as it pisses me off, it looks like we got here too late."
The warm smiles are gone now as the four team members look to the house, watching as law enforcement officials circle the property, no trace of angry militiamen within sight.
"We got here, and the whole place was empty. Looks like they left in a hurry, there's trash and a bunch of personal objects—clothes, toothbrushes, and whatnot, but no men and no militia. Most likely decided to bug out after you cut loose." The Sheriff doesn't sound accusing, he sounds worried, like he knows having an angry militia going on the run in his county is bad news.
As Callen stands and looks at the large, but ultimately empty house, he can't help feeling the same way.
TBC…