Author's Note: Not trying to be a tease by posting the first chapter and then failing to follow through in a timely manner. I'm just easily distracted by other projects ;-) I will try to get the next installment up sooner, inspiration/time permitting. But for now, enjoy…?
Farinelli simply flashed his VIP pass at the ridiculously goon-like guards, acknowledging one by name, which Nell suspected was also on loan by the Italian. And by 'on loan' she meant 'by insistence' to accompany the thief's precious artwork. She wondered if said 'artwork' was likely stolen, but surely it was beyond audacious for the man to loan it to a museum, flaunt it in front of the entire world if it was. That was just begging to be caught. And if this man were the infamous Marten, then he was far too good to do something so stupid. Although, the thief who was known more for intellectual property theft and corporate espionage than art and antiquities robberies, was notoriously brazen.
And wasn't it just more evidence that this Farinelli was him, setting up a black market deal during a museum gala?
The hall was completely empty, although everything already seemed perfectly set for the exhibit's initial viewing. Paintings all hung with precision straightness, evenly spaced. Okay, admittedly, the sight of the meticulous execution gave her OCD heart joy on an embarrassingly deep level. Was it bad that she paid more attention to the mathematically optimized physical arrangement of the exhibit than to the actual works on display?
Probably. But that was something to ponder at a different time, not in the middle of an undercover operation to bust a highly successful, previously untouchable thief, who'd stolen top secret data from a number of military contracted R&D groups. Who was about to sell their aliases some innovative robotics technology that hadn't even hit the desk of its parent company's CEO yet... and buy himself a one-way ticket to federal prison. Well, if the likely dozens of extradition requests that would doubtless pour in from other nations didn't manage to take priority over the US government's own charges.
As far as they knew, The Marten hadn't killed anyone... At least no bodies had been directly linked to his trail. Then again, Nell had run the complete profile on the elusive thief. And she suspected that some seemingly random deaths were the result of the man handing off persons who no longer proved useful to types whose names were synonymous with murder.
Oh, god. Was the outwardly suave Italian planning a similar fate for the Copelands (aka Blue-Eyed Super Agent and his Nerd Girl Sidekick) after he got his money?
That didn't seem an especially good way to do business... to stay in business anyway... murdering clients.
But even so, Nell found herself instinctively pressing closer against her husband-protector-mentor-partner-yes-that-was-it-partner's side. The man was solid and warm, and exuded confidence, which was quite reassuring, even though she hated being dependent on anyone else, especially to provide her with the backbone required to get the job done. Maybe she couldn't ever be a 'femme fatale, distract them with her looks' sort of spy. But she had the determination and strength to persevere, damn it, to accomplish any mission assigned to her. And she was going to prove it. To her team, to Callen, to Hetty, to herself.
"These are all beautiful pieces of artwork," Nell said, removing herself from her cozy spot against Callen's side with his hand a firm and comforting support against her lower back. Time to stand on her own two feet... and hopefully not in a tipsy manner.
Farinelli grinned at her, his dark eyes flashing with amused curiosity as he studied her intently.
"But my husband and I are really connoisseurs of a different variety of... creativity," she said.
"I see," Farinelli said.
Nell was desperately tempted to glance back at Callen, for him to confirm that she was doing okay, to compensate for the dwindling liquid courage that dirty martini had provided. But she stood fast, adhered to her role. She, Marion Copeland, was bartering to purchase stolen technological specs, showing her source that they were serious about it, that she wasn't to be messed with. Such a woman wouldn't look to her husband for assistance. She'd take matters into her own hands. She was confident. She ran half of a burgeoning robotics company, which promised to be worth several 100 million dollars by the end of the fiscal year... according to the falsified financial reports Nell and Eric had forged.
Apparently satisfied by something he'd seen in her, The Marten gave her an appreciative smile.
"I think I may be able to show the both of you something more to your tastes." He took Nell's hand and she tried not start at the unexpected gesture, as he threaded it through his arm, leaving it to rest on the crisp black sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. The man tossed a nonchalant glance over his shoulder at his escort's husband. "If you'll come with me."
As they were led out of the exhibit hall through a door marked 'employees only' and into a contrastingly dimly lit grey corridor, Nell couldn't help but ponder the exchange that occurred, and wondered yet again, what if this wasn't their mark? What if she'd just unintentionally propositioned some random Italian playboy into having a threesome with Callen and herself in- oh, the curator's office.
The room was also dimly lit... disconcertingly so... mood lighting, perhaps?
God, stop being so ridiculous, Nell. She scolded herself, tried to focus on the mission. But she really couldn't help it. Thinking about impossible and silly scenarios was her best defense against the anxiety born of thinking of possible and disastrous scenarios.
Farinelli flipped on a light switch, revealing precisely what one would expect of a curator's office... all of the usual managerial trappings, plus prints of famous works of art hanging on the walls and more books than the substantial amount of shelving could contain. The door closed with a quiet 'thwump' behind them, the lock engaging with a 'click' that sent Nell's heart racing.
They were locked in. Locked in with a potential-thief-murderer... Or a potential randy Italian... depending on how one looked at the situation. She wondered if maybe she should inform their new acquaintance -before he tried something that earned him a black eye (or worse)- that Callen didn't swing that way. Her eyes automatically went to the man in question. He looked rather well-groomed in his current state (she sort of liked him a bit more on the scruffy side, to be honest) and whatever sort of light fixture the curator had opted for was currently making his steel blue eyes look as if they might just pop out of his head... or hypnotize anyone who looked directly into them. He was sexy as hell at the moment. Hell, he was sex.
Maybe he did swing that way? When the occasion called for it? Or if not, and this was a threesome, would she really have to be the center of attention? That didn't make her feel like a Lucky Girl at all...
Stop it, Nell.
She blinked, tore her gaze away from Callen who had begun to frown a little in concern at her while Farinelli fiddled with one of the desk drawers, unlocking it and removing a laptop, which he proceeded to setup on the desk.
"You have the money ready to transfer, yes?" he asked, dark eyes still focused on the screen.
"Yes," Callen said, giving Nell's shoulder a squeeze as he mouthed 'you okay?'.
She nodded. 'Yes.'
"We've set up an account in the Caymans. My wife will give you all of the pertinent access data. And you can transfer the money to whichever account you wish."
"Excellent," Farinelli said, pulling the office chair away from the desk, and gesturing for Nell to take the seat in front of the laptop. "My dear."
Nell moved to do as instructed, but Callen stopped her by grabbing her arm. She gave him a startled look before she hastily schooled her often too-expressive face. She had been practicing. In her comfort zone, in ops, she had the reputation of being downright Hetty-like in stoicism. But she didn't have all that much practice when the adrenaline was flooding her veins and her nerves were high. But this was one way to do it, she supposed. Learn by doing…
"First, we need to verify the merchandize, of course," Callen said.
"Of course." Farinelli grinned broadly. Nell tried not to respond to the admittedly charming smile. Nope. She was not impressed by the suave Italian thief. After all, she had Mr. Sexy Blue Eyes for a 'husband' and this was a business deal.
Their illicitly-obtained technologies broker stepped back when it was obvious that 'Mr. Copeland' wasn't going to leave his wife's side, giving the overprotective man room to escort Nell around the desk himself and ease her down into the chair like he were a Victorian gentleman handing a lady up into a carriage. Nell suppressed the giggle, because really, it wasn't entirely a superfluous gesture. Not with heels that made her feel as wobbly as a complete rube strapped into circus-level stilts. And a dress that was so skin tight that the way she normally moved was a practical impossibility.
Ah, but here was her comfort zone... parked in front of a laptop.
"Are the specs on the hard drive or..."
Farinelli produced a thumb drive and plugged it into the computer. Sure enough when she opened one of the files, schematics popped up. She was no engineer, but she recognized some of the parts and functions outlined in the blueprints, the basic elements having similarities with UAV components. But what she was really looking for were the identification numbers the original designers had embedded into the files like a watermark. Of course, it didn't prevent rivals from stealing schematics and simply using them to design their own 'innovative' technology.
She perused several different files, locating the ID codes and confirming them against those they'd hacked from the company (better than asking for them to hand over that information and alert a potential mole about their undercover operation). She didn't even need to surreptitiously open a link to the OSP's network and have Eric check. One of the reasons she'd been brought on the mission in such a central role... Her eidetic memory.
"Looks good to me," she informed her 'husband' with a smile, adding on a little extra enthusiasm to sell it. "We could have this up in production within a few weeks."
"Good job, Fawn," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek as a cover to whisper into her com, "Merchandize confirmed. Close in."
Nell closed the windows, stalling as they waited to hear their team mates' confirmation. She opened a secure internet browser, navigating to the fake bank page that she and Eric had set up, just in case they had to 'transfer the money' before the operation was concluded. She put in the user ID and password they'd setup.
When she'd signed in and there was still no response over coms, she looked up to find a brief flash of concern flit across Callen's face. Maybe they hadn't received his order to converge on the bad guys?
Callen wandered off, studying a shelf, perhaps trying to reach Sam and the others again. Either way it was enough to draw away Farinelli's attention from the laptop screen, and Nell quickly responded to the site's little 'live help' bubble that had popped up, instructing Eric to alert the others. But before she could finish, press enter and send the message, the laptop was slammed shut, catching the tips of her fingers. Nell blamed the martini for her slower-than-normal reflexes.
"Ouch!" She turned to glare at the man who'd just bruised, if not broken her fingertips, but Callen was already on Farinelli, slamming him up against the wall with his arm across the man's throat.
"What the hell was that for?" He hazarded a glance at Nell and she tried to school the pained expression doubtless blatant on her face as she shook her throbbing fingers.
Farinelli shouted something in... French?
Wasn't he Italian just five seconds ago? No time to consider it, for the lock clicked and then there were two large -very large, like 'Sam Hanna' large- men using up much of the little space and air in the curator's office. Nell rose to her feet, instinctively moved towards Callen until her back was pressed up against his. She was facing the large -god, so large- intruders. They'd have to get through her first. Then Callen, to get to what she presumed was their boss.
Was this the time to identify themselves? And hope the fact that they were federal agents deter the menacing -god, so very menacing- brutes. Or should they try to maintain cover?
Farinelli shouted something further in French, along the lines of 'subdue them'. Although, because of the negligible serving of alcohol or the terror she was attempting to suppress, Nell couldn't be sure of her translation. Also, there was a very large man suddenly coming at her.
She kicked him in the shin (her stupid tight dress prevented her from raising her leg enough to strike him in the groin), and he only grunted and continued to come at her, causing her to yelp as she was picked up off her stupid high-heels and held in a bear hug, unable to go for the knife strapped to her thigh.
"Let her go." Callen's voice was commanding and as threatening as he could conjure. And boy, could the agent do threatening. Unfortunately, it apparently wasn't convincing enough for the Marten. Or his goons. The other large man promptly attacked Callen just as Farinelli elbowed the agent who had him in a choke hold in the stomach.
"What's the meaning of this?" Callen asked, struggling now that the roles were reversed and he was the one being held with an arm across his throat by a man to rival Sam Hanna in bulk and strength. "My wife was just about to transfer your money. Don't you wanna get paid?"
"Oh, I'm going to get paid." The Italian accent was replaced by a French patois. What the hell? Who the hell was this man? Farinelli certainly wasn't his real name, was it? Lies!
Nell frantically sought out the senior agent's blue eyes. They were as steady as ever, although there was a distinctly angry flare to their cerulean depths. Callen could probably get free, maybe take out the one goon, but he obviously was stalling for their backup to arrive. Because of her.
Damn the man! Now he was going all protective on her? Several times he'd accidentally left her in dangerous predicaments, entirely on her own (Eric, god love him, could not be counted in the impending violence sort of scenarios), and was obviously feeling guilty about it. But in the end, Nell had proven herself, hadn't she?
She stared pointedly back at her supervising field agent, her partner for this operation.
She. Could. Do. This.
He gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. No. Wait for back up.
Nell glared.
Their little exchange hadn't gone unnoticed by Farinelli the Frenchmen, or whoever the hell he was. He cleared his throat, stepping in between his former-buyers-now-prisoners.
"If we are done with our little connubial silent conversation, it's time we are off," he said, causing Nell's brow to furrow. They hadn't been made, then. So why was he doing this? Surely it would've been easier to just go through with the deal as planned. A double-cross was doubtlessly more hassle than it was worth?! Unless, he wanted them for something else.
"Oh, and your friends will not be joining us."
Callen's eyes widened imperceptibly, and Nell knew her own had just bugged out of her head. Shit! How many goons did this man have? Had they gotten to Sam, Kensi and Deeks? Surely it would take a couple dozen highly-trained ninjas to subdue those three together.
"We know about your little spy ear buds-"
"Earwigs," Nell automatically corrected and then promptly shut her mouth. Callen actually laughed at her nervous tick of interrupting people.
"Yes, fine, earwigs." Still with the French accent. Maybe it reflected his true identity. "We've been blocking the signal."
This little tidbit of information was all Super Agent G Callen needed to snap him into action. There was no back up. It was down to them to get out of this themselves. Nell began to struggle at the same time as her partner freed himself from his large captor's hold, and then she lost track of them as they wrestled about the room, slamming into bookcases and the desk. She herself was preoccupied with trying to kick her own captor in the balls, striking out behind her with her feet. He shifted his hold on her as she squirmed, his massive forearm slipped down to her chest, which put it in perfect range for-
"Argh!" Goon #2 cried out as she sunk her teeth into the flesh of his arm, ignoring the salty, sweaty taste of his skin as she tried her damnest to draw blood, the arm tightening its grip instead of releasing her like she wanted.
And then it was her to cry out in pain and surprise as something sharp jabbed her in the neck. It felt like a giant asshole of a mosquito had bitten her.
Definitely not a mosquito.
She blinked against her rapidly blurring vision, trying to focus on the slight, dark-haired man standing before her with a Cheshire grin, brandishing a syringe.
"What-?" She tried to speak but found that her vocal chords had already failed her. Or her brain's speech center had shut down. She was able to determine that the silence in the room had been caused by the fact that G Callen was lying in a heap on the floor. Apparently, The Marten had stung him first.
Nell's last though before she lost consciousness was how it was unfair to employ pharmaceuticals in an already unevenly matched fight.
A/N: Sigh… I forgot how much I like to write some Callen & Nell misadventures! Stay tuned… What is it The Marten wants? Does he know who they really are? Will the team figure out that the operation has gone sideways in time to come to their rescue?