Author's Note: Well, this took way longer than I had intended to update. But I got a little stuck/bored in the middle. But finally got some renewed inspiration to finish up this now rather lengthy chapter…

Ugh. How much had she drank last night? Her head was pounding so badly, Nell didn't even dare risk opening her eyes until the throbbing subsided. She hadn't gotten blind drunk like this in years, not even when they'd caught a case that she wanted to obliterate from her memory. She'd learned to cope in other ways. So why had she gotten blackout, mother-of-all-hangovers intoxicated?

And god, she'd even passed out somewhere terribly uncomfortable. Her unsteady equilibrium began to inform her she was sitting up, in an uncomfortable chair, with her arms wrenched behind her -oh, shit!

She forced her eyes open, immediately squeezing them shut. Even what had appeared to be dim light stabbed her right through the retinas directly in the frontal lobe. Her temples began to pound in sympathy. But she really needed to know where she was, what was going on.

Wincing, she tried just one eye this time, squinting against the light. It was dim. It was hard to make out her surroundings. The space seemed small, but didn't feel small, her groan of the Unhappy Hungover Undead achieving a slight resounding effect. Not quite an echo, but it still spoke to a larger space beyond the deep shadows and the circle of light she appeared to be sitting in... They appeared to be sitting in.

Blinking, acclimatizing to the light and the fact of her unwelcome consciousness, her eyes began to focus easier and she finally saw him, just a few feet in front of her, hard to miss really, tied up to an uncomfortable-looking metal chair which she guessed was the companion of her own. She tugged her arms, but found them secured at the wrist to said unpleasant metal chair.

"Look who finally chooses to join us once more."

Nell froze, recognizing the voice, the smooth French accent, and remembering everything that had led her to this point. She hadn't drank too much. She'd had one very dirty martini provided by G Callen, who was currently looking upon her with a good deal of concern from his uncomfortable metal chair a few feet in front of her. No. The hangover was thanks to this asshole, The Marten, injecting some unknown sedative into a vein in her neck.

"And now we may truly begin." Clapping his hands together, the weasel appeared standing between them, but not obscuring Nell's sight-line to the senior agent, her partner for this operation. This operation that had gone apparently horribly awry. To what precise degree, however remained to be seen.

"What is it you want from us?" Callen asked, his voice sounded rougher than usual, like his throat was dry. Likely as dry as her own mouth felt. Doubtless a side-effect of the tranquilizer. "We were going to pay you. Everything was going to the plan we agreed upon."

"Liar!" The Marten whirled on the agent, obviously even surprising the man who'd been in this sort of situation dozens, if not hundreds of times. (Why had she chosen this career, again?) She winced when the smaller man's hand struck Callen in the side of the face with a loud smack. She bit down on the urge she had to scream at their abductor, insult and berate him for striking a bound and (temporarily) defenseless man.

"You brought along some uninvited guests with you to the party." He'd turned, staring directly into Nell with his dark eyes. For the supposed angry outburst she'd just witnessed, the man seemed surprisingly calm underneath it all. Was the 'psycho' act just precisely that? Another act? Italian playboy billionaire... French black market dealer... Psychotic and paranoid kidnapper...

"I don't know what you're talking about," Callen said, his voice even. Like Nell, he must have expected the weasel to strike him again. What he did, however, took them both by surprise. His hand flew out impossibly quickly, and before she could even realize what was happening, there was a sharp pain shooting through her face and her head was jerked to the side with the force of the blow that caused her teeth to cut the inside of her cheek, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth.

What the fuck?! is what she wanted to scream. But somehow, she managed to hold the reaction in, meeting those dark eyes once more as she spat the blood out onto the floor. She hadn't meant to hit his shiny black shoe, but it was an added bonus that made her grin.

This whole situation was so insane, she found herself fighting a fit of the giggles as much as her anger and fear.

"Fine, maintain that falsehood, if you wish," the Marten said, turning his attention back to Callen after throwing up his hands in over-exaggerated frustration and disbelief at Nell's reaction to being smacked across the face. "But either way, whatever communications devices or trackers you had on your persons will not provide any interruptions this time."

What was that supposed to mean? Their earwigs were obviously gone. But Hetty must have put GPS chips in all of their accessories, and likely the clothing -Oh. It was then that Nell finally realized she was wearing only a pair of standard teal hospital scrubs at least two sizes too large for her. And so was Callen. Well, his seemed to fit better. So... Ew. She suddenly felt more than a little sick to her stomach, because somebody had stripped her entirely naked and redressed her. Who knows what they'd done in between... Oh god, she really was going to be sick.

"Hey!" Callen shouted. "Untie her."

The Marten gave a snort of ironic laughter.

"I'm serious. Look at her, at how pale she is. What did you give her? It's obviously making her sick. It looks like she's going to throw up. You don't want to clean up that mess, do you?"

Nell milked the churning sensation in her stomach, trying to capture it and make it read on her bloodless face as their captor took a wary step closer to examine her better.

"Bah, this one, she's always pale. There is no difference from before."

"Fine, see if I care if she vomits all over those shiny shoes of yours," Callen said.

The Marten sighed theatrically.

"She will need her hands to put in her codes, anyway." He gestured sharply and one of the two thugs from earlier appeared, walking around Nell with a knife that made her exceedingly nervous, for it could just as easily be used to slice her throat open as sever the plastic tie binding her wrists. And she would never see it coming. Just the flash of shock and horror on Callen's face -and maybe rage, if he did care about her as much as that supposedly motivational kiss had belied- as she quickly bled to death. Or did the victim suffocate, drown in blood when their throat was slashed?

Faking her nausea was really not a problem.

A wave of relief washed through her shoulders as her wrists sprung free, and she clutched at her stomach, only partially pretending at the melodramatic act.

Was it the ugly one? Or the uglier one who had peeled that slinky dress off from her, and the fancy underwear, complete with garter belt and thigh-high stockings? Running his large, brutish hands over her legs, or cupping her bare breasts, or...

She doubled over, successfully disgorging the contents of her stomach onto the cold, stained cement floor while she heard Callen pleading with their captors, maintaining the facade of their aliases. So, she was to play this like they were still the Copelands, maintain cover.

"If you're not going to help my wife, then let me. You've already proven we're no match for you and your friends. Just untie me, Let me help her."

"She's fine, Mr. Copeland"

Well, so much for freeing Callen, too. But honestly, they'd already tried and failed to beat this same set of bad guys. A different tactic was obviously needed. But bright side, at the very least she'd left some DNA behind for their team to find... if they even knew where to look for them. She could only assume the vacant warehouse was a temporary set up. The Copelands were obviously not going to be held there long. Maybe just long enough for a money transfer...

Yup. Definitely still after the money. The money they didn't really have and she was relying on Eric to fake for them. She was ushered by a large hand on the back of her neck, over to another metal chair sitting before a folding table with a different laptop ready and waiting.

"Let us try this again, shall we?" The Marten, said, coming to stand behind her, hovering over her shoulder. How was she supposed to alert Eric now, ask for reinforcements to be sent, when the sleazy Faux-Italian-Possibly-Frenchman was watching every keystroke she made?

She stalled.

"How do I know you're not just going to kill us after I transfer the money?" she asked, not even remotely having to fake the fearful tremor in her voice.

"You don't."

She stiffened, looked to Callen, hopefully with the expression of a terrified wife looking to her husband in desperation. Not necessarily for help, because he obviously couldn't help her, but in affection. She did care about him. And admired and respected him. And he was damned attractive. Maybe it was enough to sell it, to buy them both just a few more minutes if they could play up for some sympathy.

Another exaggerated sigh. Very French. Like the world was an exasperating trial. But thus was life.

"I have no reason to harm you once you have done as I ask," he said, pulling Nell's chair away from the table with the screeching sound of the metal legs dragging against the concrete so that he could crouch before her and look up into her face, his dark eyes softening along with his expression. Damn, he was fricken good.

"You'll just let us go?" she asked in as timid and pathetic a voice as she could muster, seeing the corner of Callen's mouth twitch in amusement from where he sat a few yards away. The man was completely insane! How wasn't he absolutely terrified inside? Yes, she knew he had a great deal of self-control and the ability to compartmentalize his emotions. But finding anything in this situation funny at all? Okay, so she herself was prone to nervous fits of giggles when she was emotionally overwhelmed, but she doubted that was the case with the seasoned field agent.

"Why would I not?" The Marten gave her what was supposed to be a sympathetic smile. And Nell had to admit, it was a damned good facsimile of one. But she wasn't buying it. This man was planning to kill the Copelands and then maybe he'd shed some crocodile tears over it. "You do not know my true identity and I will be long gone by the time anyone finds you and your... charming husband."

She didn't doubt that it would be a long time before they were found. The Marten obviously was good at hiding the bodies.

Nell nodded, sniffled. God, this act was hard to maintain. Probably because it was too close to how she was really feeling inside. It was actually much easier to put a brave face on and shove all the anxiety and fear down deep. Letting some of it show without succumbing to it was a tricky endeavor.

"All right?" The Marten pushed her chair back around with more ear-piercing screeching of metal on concrete, which echoed off the vast space. A large space. Smelling of... well, musty old building. Damn. If she could just quiet all of the other screaming parts of her brain, maybe she could figure out where they were being held. And then... And then what? If she couldn't get a message to Eric, what use would that information be? He'd be alerted when she started the transfer, though, accessing the fake bank website they'd set up. And even if she couldn't directly send him a message, he'd instantly start a trace, searching for their missing agents. She could maybe send some info by inputting a false username and password. He'd let her in anyway, help make it look real (she hoped).

"As soon as you have paid me, I will let you and your husband go, give you the blueprints, as well," the Frenchman said, leaning over to speak softly into her ear, his hands massaging her shoulders, which was not at all comforting. Rather its sent chills down her spine. "Because I am a man of my word."

Suave. But utter bullshit.

Come on, Eric. Come on! She chewed her lip as the busy symbol swirled, supposedly the website was processing the login attempt... aka, Eric was being alerted someone had accessed the fake site, and it was waiting for his permission to load the next page they'd created in this little web play.

"What is taking so long?" The Marten sounded... displeased.

"They use a lot of encryption to secure their web transactions," Nell lied through her teeth, hoping that her research had been correct, and The Marten was an old school grifter, of the conning people rather than hacking electronics variety.

He made no further complaint but continued to hover over her shoulder. And it was beyond unnerving. You'd think she would've gotten used to it by now, working for the team of highly-strung agents as she did. Okay, they weren't that bad, but they were high-energy people and they tended to get a little antsy when they were stuck in ops waiting for a key piece of information, or for their aliases to be generated before they could go out into the field.

Although intimidating though they could be, even Deeks on occasion, she supposed she knew they never possessed any mal-intent towards her. Not like this infamous thief (and possible murderer).

When the page finally loaded and said 'Welcome, Marion K. Copeland' Nell couldn't hide her relief, and didn't think it was necessary to try. Marion K Copeland would be relieved that her login had been successful and the scary Frenchman with hired muscle, guns, and tranquilizer-filled needles didn't have any (more) reason to use any of said armory.

"Can you-Can you please give me the account number you want the money transferred into?" she asked, allowing a quaver into her voice. Not that she was finding it at all difficult to 'play' nervous and frightened 'civilian'. Nell had to face facts, she was no spy. Not really.

Unless, maybe the good spies were only ever playing variations of themselves. She thought maybe that was entirely the case. Deeks had confided in her before, about his fears that when he went under as his alter ego Max Gentry, he might get lost in the unsavory character. She had asked him why he thought his own compassionate, big-hearted personality could be overpowered by such an act. He had said because it wasn't entirely an act. The darkness came from a place deep inside of himself. It had made her look closer at all of the roles her fellow agents, her friends played while undercover.

The Marten provided her with the number which she began to input into the transfer form. She hastily closed the 'livechat help' window that had popped open, knowing it was a direct line to Eric, but also knowing that her captor was well, as highly-strung as when the agents were hovering over her shoulder in ops.

"Don't transfer the money, Marion," Callen called from where he remained tied to the chair a few yards away. "He'll just kill us once he confirms it."

Callen knew as well as she did that the Marten wouldn't be able to confirm the transfer, since it was entirely fake. As soon as he called his own bank or accountant or whoever, he would know they were conning him. But it's what Geoffrey Copeland would say, and so the agent had said it, and convincingly, a tone of desperate warning in his voice with just a hint of 'I'm your husband and you'll listen to me, damn it' sternness.

The man was good. Even scared out of her wits, Nell could multitask enough to also recognize the impressive skills of the agent. Even as she willed the tracking program Eric doubtless initiated right before he cued up the 'profile' web page for her to find them and quick. Even as she finished inputting the number, asking the Marten to repeat himself several times, stalling for time. Because with her eidetic memory, she'd logged it indelibly away the first time he'd given her the information back at the museum. And there was something else she needed to do at the same time... argue with her husband.

"He'll kill us right now if we don't transfer the money," she said loudly, responding to her beloved spouse.

"So what, you're going to buy us all of a couple minutes and make him a million dollars richer?" Callen's tone was now argumentative, and she found herself instinctively responding to the needling. It was all too easy to sound like a bickering old married couple.

"Well, it's a couple minutes we wouldn't have if I followed your moronically stubborn plan," she said, turning in her chair to yell directly at her supposed husband. "What good is the money if we're dead?"

"I'm just wondering why you're going to pay the man for murdering us?!"

The expression on Callen's face was just as 'irritated husband' as his tone, but Nell noticed the minute twitching at the corner of his mouth that belied an inward smile. Was he seriously having fun right now?

If that sort of crazy was necessary for being a spy, a good undercover operative, well then, maybe it wasn't something Nell wanted to be. With the job she already did, she barely had a grip on her sanity as it was.

"God, are you really so cheap?!" Nell was really getting into it. One of her internal commentators was standing back, arms folded across her chest, eyebrows raised in an 'Amused Hetty' stance. Another was freaking out. And yet another was not at all amused by her idiocy. But still, she let Ironic Nell push on. This was a classic married couple argument, was it not? Besides, the Marten was watching the exchange with something akin to shocked disbelief. And the more time they could buy, the more likely it was that Eric would get a fix on their location and send the backup they, well, desperately needed.

Callen rolled his eyes, then looked to the Marten for assistance. The old male solidarity 'aren't women wacko?' bullshit. The olive-skinned man blinked his dark eyes slowly several times, shaking his head, as if he was trying to reassert reality before he turned back to Nell.

"Finish the transfer, Mrs. Copeland," he said, his tone all business. Nell did so, mentally crossing her fingers again, hoping that Eric was there, to both load the appropriate fake webpage, but maybe also delay the loading, stall a little more.

Just a little more... right? How much time could it possibly take. It was dark in the warehouse or wherever they were, but surely they couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few hours. Surely, they were still somewhere on the grid enough that the signal, although likely scrambled and bounced around by such a sly thief as the Marten, would be traceable. And help wouldn't be too far off when Eric determined where to send the back up... right?

The little timer swirled and the 'transfer successfully made' page loaded, a little bit quicker than Nell had hoped for, but not much she could do about that. Maybe it meant the team was already on their way... Maybe? Please?

The Marten already had a cell phone at his ear, leaning over her shoulder. Shit, he was moving too fast. Panicked, she glanced to Callen. What should they do now?

Because he had been right, as soon as their captor tried to confirm the transfer, they were as good as dead.

Callen's expression, for the first time in... well, ever, really, was not reassuring. That man always had a plan. Okay, she knew he didn't always have a plan, but he sure was good at making shit up on the fly, and always with a confidence that masked any doubts or insecurities he may possess. Trust your training was his motto, and it was also how he seemed to live his life; all on instinct.

So seeing him doubtful was the most terrifying part of this entire experience so far. More than those three inch heels and that dress that was so tight she couldn't wear a bra. More than that big goon coming at her. More than waking up in the dark, tied to a chair. More than the threat of imminent death as The Marten read off the transaction number to his man over the phone, his face growing as hard as bedrock as he listened to the response that doubtlessly was of the variety that he'd been conned.

"Merci, Lucien," the man said, before ending the call and slipping the smart phone back into his suit coat pocket. Funny, Nell hadn't noticed before that the Frenchman had changed out of his tuxedo into a more generic businessman suit, albeit still an expensive looking tailored number.

Gulp.

There was a moment of complete silence. Nell wasn't sure how long it lasted, only that it felt like an eternity. Okay, not an eternity, because it was more like how people described near-death situations, her life flashing before her eyes. It was lamentably uneventful. Although, this was arguably the most eventful part, and it had resulted in her life flashing before her eyes. So maybe, eventful was indeed not all it was cracked up to be?

Oh, god, it definitely wasn't!

The Marten had produced a handgun, a Beretta 92FS to be specific. Nell had familiarized herself with a variety of weapons as part of her go-getter, over-achiever, eager to be a field agent attitude. So even though she was only granted a very close-up view down the barrel at the moment, the brief flash of it she observed as he pulled it from the holster inside of his dark grey suit jacket gave her enough information to identify the pistol.

"Stop! She can still be useful to you!" Callen shouted, blatantly trying to refocus the threat upon himself. The Marten however kept his cold, dark gaze locked on Nell, the muzzle pointed unwavering at her face. Maybe if she was a real spy, she could disarm him. His hand with the pistol was within reach... only if she wasn't quick enough, he could squeeze a shot off... his finger was already teasing the trigger.

"Why am I to believe a word either of you say?" Their captor's voice had gone emotionless... Not a good sign. People did act out when overly emotional. But they also were more likely to be susceptible to things like sympathy and empathy, and maybe hesitate when considering pulling the trigger. Detachment was not a good sign, no. "You are a pair of conmen. And not particularly good ones."

He knew the money transfer was a farce. Obviously. But he'd assumed that they were fellow thieves and not federal agents. And maybe that could be used somehow to get them out of this. Nell couldn't seem to think how. But thankfully, her partner was a veteran field agent accustomed to 'fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants' operations. Oh, he could act all responsible senior agent, but Nell well knew Sam Hanna was the one that kept everything orderly and by-the-book. Well, more by-the-book than the team would've been running things if he hadn't been there to ameliorate and ground his friend's 'lone wolf' tendencies.

"We fooled you, didn't we?"

That did it. That drew the pompous, arrogant, narcissistic bastard's attention away from Nell. But to be honest, she didn't feel that much better when the Beretta was aimed at her friend-partner-mentor rather than herself.

Maybe she should jump him while his back was turned, try to disarm him? But she felt even less good about the likelihood of a shot getting off when the current direction of the muzzle was her friend's (and currently only life-line) head.

"Hardly," The Marten sneered. "You were sloppy. Your crew was obvious. Your attempts at alerting them equally so. You-"

He whirled back to Nell, lunging for the computer and pushing her out of the way with such force that she fell backward, her chair hitting the ground with a clatter, spilling her in a sprawl as she tried to roll and not bang her head. But she'd definitely bruised her shoulder on the unyielding concrete. Callen had shouted, his voice alarmed, but at least he'd called her 'Marion.'

"You've alerted your crew by accessing the fake bank account, haven't you?" The Marten whirled on her before she could pull herself together enough to attack him when he was off-guard. She considered giving it a try anyway, until she saw the large muscular men closing in on the little circle, one casting a shadow across her teal scrubs as he loomed over her. A glance informed her the other was standing menacingly behind where Callen was still bound to the metal chair.

"They'll be here any minute," she said without correcting him that it wasn't their 'crew' closing in but a team of trained federal agents. Callen apparently thought it was still wise to maintain cover, even if the nature of the back story had apparently shifted slightly to roll with the unexpectedly changing operation.

"And all they'll find is your dead bodies."

Oh, shit. Nell squeezed her eyes shut, as if not seeing it coming would make it less real.

"Wait! She can get you money!" Callen's voice cut through the pounding of blood in her ears, the tattoo of her terrified heart's rapid beating. She heard a radio crackle, the Marten barking hasty, angry words spoken in French. She could only make out one, extraction. And then, "You have ten seconds to explain, Mr. Copeland, if that is your real name."

"It is." Callen's voice was ridiculously calm. How could he remain so calm when they were about to be shot to death and left in the middle of god knows where for their friends to discover their gory corpses?! "And we're more than just run-of-the-mill grifters. At least, my wife is. Ever hear of the Boneffe job pulled last March?"

"You would have me believe that was your work?" Nell dared cracking an eye and hastily squeezed it shut again after seeing the completely incredulous look on the Frenchman's face.

"Yes. It's a highly encrypted, internally networked system. Not outside access. I had to infiltrate the physical location and place some strategic bugs. But Marion did the real work, hacking in and downloading the protected files."

"I do not believe you." The Marten's voice sounded uncertain, enough that Nell dared open her eyes again, feeling relieved when she saw the hint of doubt twitching his dark right eyebrow.

"Just test her," Callen said. "Give her a laptop, hell even a tablet with an internet connection and a bank account to hack, and she'll get in, transfer money to you."

The Marten seemed to be mulling this over as the his goons smashed the laptop on the cement floor and wiped down the metal folding table. A rumble that Nell had initially thought was her heart deciding to go all 'hummingbird' increased in volume until she recognized it as an external source, specifically an engine and the sound of moving tires. Headlights appeared like the glowing eyes of some beast and she realized that they were in what looked more like an abandoned parking garage than a warehouse as it came zooming towards them.

It was a classic kidnap van that screeched to a halt just a couple yards from where she still knelt on the cold concrete floor, closing her eyes tight once again and gritting her teeth at the appalling noise.

Note to self: Learn to keep eyes open.

Spies didn't try to just shut the world out when the going got tough. Nell opened hers wide to face her fate.

The Marten looked none too pleased. She thought he would've been happier about disposing of pests, but then she realized it was because Callen had somehow convinced the man to hang onto them for a little longer. At least, she was suddenly yanked off the floor, two large hands under her armpits lifting her to her feet, off her feet, dragging her towards the van.

But Callen was still tied to his chair, The Marten's Beretta pointed at his face.

Not his pretty face! The ridiculous thought popped into her desperately racing mind. Why was she so silly?!

"No!" she screamed, grabbing the metal of the doorframe as they tried to load her into the back of the van, proving herself quite a handful. She'd had pet cats, and well remembered how they'd successfully resisted being put into their carriers to go to the vet's. "I won't cooperate if you hurt my husband! Geoffrey!"

She saw the Marten throw his hands up, looking heavenward as he heaved the most theatrical sigh yet. For a criminal mastermind, he was rather overdramatic.

Remembering Mr. Cuddles' (a misnomer if there ever was one) favored form of resistance, Nell bit the goon who was trying to pry her fingers off the metal doorframe.

When she looked back to her undercover husband, he was being hauled to his feet as well, not with a happy expression for certain, yet when those blue eyes of his found hers, there was this mischievous glint, a slight smile twitching the corner of his mouth. And then the goon stopped struggling to get her into the van, stepping back to grab Callen from his cohort.

"Here, take your damned husband!" The not goon-worthy-but-still-more-substantial-than-Nell's-slight-frame agent was flung at her and she was forced to wrap her arms around the man for stability as they both rolled back into the van, feeling a little guilty that he ended up impacting the hard metal of the far side with his back.

Yet, still he managed to whisper in her ear, a little more amusement in his voice than she found strictly reassuring given their circumstances.

"Good work, Fawn."

Nell changed her mind. She wanted to murder the man herself.

A/N: Well, hope it was worth the wait. There of course, will be more…