He looks over his shoulder. He's not sure what he's thinks he'll see, but he feels like it's the right thing to do.

A black Mercedes pulls over and stops half a block in front of him. He almost expects the doors to open and bad guys to come streaming out, like a clown car at the circus but with a lot less comedic flair.

Instead, when the passenger door opens, the first thing that emerges is a bare leg. While it may be mildly terrifying, it definitely isn't what he would typically picture as a bad guy's leg. His eyes trail up the rest of her body. Nope, not a bad guy at all.

Kensi. The thought washes over him and immediately calms his nerves. He knew she was going to be on scene, but he'd been so rushed gearing up for his own part that he hadn't been too sure exactly when she was going to appear. The slinky cocktail dress is a surprise, but he isn't complaining. He's halfway through trying to identify where exactly she's carrying her gun when he realizes he's forgotten all about being nervous.

Kensi is out of the car, chatting with the valet outside some nameless nightclub. Distracting, yet fitting in. He keeps moving and passes by her. He can feel her eyes on him, even though he knows that's impossible because she hasn't turned around.

He crosses an alleyway, remembering too many times when he'd been on the wrong side of the action within. He would almost prefer the alleyway to this though. Alleyways are familiar. Alleyways are predictable.

Tires squeal faintly behind him. He turns to look again, but can't see anything past the lights of the cars lined up for the valet. The throbbing in the pit of his stomach is back. He tries pushing it away but it's like an angry, open wound, constantly pulsing, reminding him it's there.

He decides to cross the street. It doesn't really matter where he's going, but he feels better for having made a decision. It doesn't seem so pointless if he's making decisions.

He stops by the neon sign advertising "GIRLS!" and wonders for a moment why the exclamation point is at the end. Maybe the girls there are more exciting than the run-of-the-mill stripper. Maybe they're especially boisterous. Maybe both. He pauses for a moment, considering how much trouble he would be in if he stops inside for a few minutes. He thinks better of it. Sam doesn't seem to have much patience with him and he's pretty sure giving the big guy one more thing to be mad about would be a bad idea. On the other hand, he's never had an encounter with an exclamation point worthy girl before.

Maybe the guys standing by the door will open it just enough for him to catch a glimpse inside while he walks past. That seems like a juvenile thing to hope for, but it isn't like he has a lot else to take his mind off the reality of his situation. They aren't opening the door, and he can't really walk any slower without drawing attention, so he moves on.

Two pairs of eyes follow him as he steps out of the neon glow. It isn't much, just a few seconds, but it's enough to remind his stomach that it really wants to evict its contents. It's also just enough to make him wonder what exactly they're doing outside the door. There isn't a line. They aren't smoking. They don't appear to be waiting for a cab.

His heart is jackhammering in his chest again. He decides a glance back isn't going to hurt anything and will help calm him down. They're probably just outside the club trying to call their girlfriends without giving away their location by the pounding bass.

He looks over his shoulder, half expecting, half dreading that they'll be right behind him, guns in hand. They haven't moved. He realizes he's been holding his breath and lets it out all at once, continuing up the street. It's then that he notices a figure in front of him has stopped moving and has turned to face him. He can't make out any identifying characteristics, nothing that would be helpful to the team in ID'ing him, but there's no mistaking the glint of light coming from the blade in his hand.

He tenses up, not sure what his next move will be, but certain it's going to depend entirely on what the guy up ahead does. A dozen different scenarios flash through his mind as he tries to plan. Not one of the scenarios, however, involves the gun barrel that comes crashing down on him from behind.

Fucking distractions, he thinks as the world turns bright orange, then yellow, and then fades away entirely.


"They've got Javier. Heading east on Broadway," Eric's eyes dart across his tablet, "and it looks like they're about to be going south on the five."

Hetty steps up behind him, taking command of the room. "Mr. Callen?"

"On him," he answers over the comm. "Black Escalade. Deeks?"

"As soon as Cinderella gets her pretty little ass in the chariot, we'll be on our way."

"You try running in stilettos."

"Sure thing. I'll just borrow a pair of Sam's."

Nell spins around in her chair to watch the dots move across the big screen. The GPS tracker they attached to Javier is blinking steadily, the Challenger a short distance behind it. The Mercedes starts moving a few moments later when Kensi's settled inside. She meets Hetty's steady gaze. "Everything's going according to plan."

Hetty nods. "How's the audio, Mr. Beale?"

Eric taps a few keys, ensuring that everything is as it should be. "It's all set," he assures her. "They're just not talking."

"That sounds pleasant."

"Wait a minute. Is that a dig at me? That was a dig at me!"

"Just pass me my vest."

"I don't think it goes with your dress."

"It goes better than a bullet hole."

"I suppose it does tie in the combat boots. Ow, Kens! Those heels are sharp!"

"Why are all our mics open again?" Sam grinds out through audibly gritted teeth.

"So I don't have to be the only one to suffer," Kensi answers.

Nell points to the screen. "The car's slowing down. It looks like they're headed to the freight yard."

Hetty clasps her hands together. "Then so are we."


The first thing he notices is the wet. Then the cold. In a moment, though, both sensations are replaced by the pounding that begins at the base of his skull and floods through his brain before landing behind his eyes in a shower of stars. The room is sideways. He blinks. Still sideways. It takes him a few more blinks before he realizes he's on the ground. The light isn't good, but it's enough to make out multiple pairs of shoes in a semicircle in front of him. He assumes there are probably more behind him. Shit.

A wall of water ploughs into his face, momentarily distracting him from the incessant pounding. Either they don't realize he's awake or they don't care. He briefly considers feigning sleep, but then decides it doesn't really matter. Awake or asleep, if somebody shoots him the result is going to be the same.

He spits out some of the water that made its way into his mouth and moves to push himself up off the floor. That's when he realizes he can't move his arms. He should have noticed the burning in his wrists sooner, but he's still having a hard time focusing on much more than his head. And then there are all those shoes. Three pairs. No, four. If there really are more behind him then these guys seriously overestimate his abilities.

One of the pairs of shoes steps toward him. Hands reach down and haul him onto his feet. He knows he should be holding his own weight, but his head keeps pushing all his thoughts right out of his brain. Apparently Shoes thought he'd be holding his own weight too because he lets go.

He tries to hold himself upright, but force of will alone isn't enough to keep him from crashing back to the floor.


Sam's jaw tightens. Eric's been feeding the audio from Javier's button mic through the team's comms. There was a little talking at first, mostly one voice barking directions on where to dump Javier's unconscious form. There's no talking now, just thumps - like the sound a thick steak might make if it was dropped on the floor. Sam knows that sound. He can feel that sound.

He glances sideways. Callen's face is expressionless, but Sam can read him. He feels it too. Anyone who has been that guy can feel it. The guy falling to the floor, only to be dragged back to his feet for another round of punches before falling again. Sam knows it must feel like hours to Javier, even though it's been only minutes. The blows will seem countless, even though they only come a handful at a time.

He grips his M4 a little tighter, knowing that each passing second becomes another bruise.


It's his lips she notices. They're usually relaxed; ready to crack a joke or break into a grin, even under high stress. Especially under high stress. Now they're tight, jammed together and still. His eyes are locked on the warehouse door, his shoulders are tense. She knows he wants nothing more than the go-ahead, but it isn't coming.

It's not so much the beating they can hear over the comms that bothers him, although she knows it does. It's the waiting, the stalling, the nothing that they're doing while Javier's body becomes a cartel punching bag. They're all assuming someone inside will say something before they beat him to death - give them some clue - and then they'll charge in with guns blazing. But there's no way of knowing. No way to be sure that the cartel won't just beat him to a pulp as a message to whoever it is they think Javier is connected to and then put a bullet through his skull without another word.


At first he tried to differentiate between the shoes. Scuffed was the guy who dragged him to his feet the first few times. Then it was Suede. By the third pair, he didn't care and was pretty sure he had lost all ability to focus. He isn't even sure which number he's on right now as he feels himself being pulled up again.

He waits for the inevitable blow, but it doesn't come. Instead he hears the scraping of metal across the floor. Hands shove him down hard and he lands on a chair.

He allows himself a moment of relief. He's pretty confident they wouldn't go through the effort of sitting him in a chair just to blow his brains out, so he's probably got a least a couple more minutes left. He blinks a few times to bring his gaze into focus and finds himself staring down at some very shiny shoes. He's pretty sure he hasn't seen them before, which means this guy probably hasn't hit him. Yet. Although, if the movies get it right, this must be the boss because the boss always has muscle on the payroll to do the punching.

"Where's my money?"

Javier coughs out something that sounds like huh?

"My money, amigo. You know, the paper kind with pretty pictures on it."

"Why would I have your money?"

"Because your piece of shit old man doesn't have it and I know you've been passing him cash."

Javier considers that for a moment, trying to decide the best way to keep the conversation going. The way the man takes control of the situation seems to confirm Javier's suspicion that he's in charge. He's also pretty sure that any first lieutenant in the cartel would be a dead first lieutenant after referring to the boss' money as his own. Assuming the info he got from that midget lady was correct, that would make this guy Ochoa.

"Look," Ochoa continues, "you and me, we can have a civilized conversation or I can let these chanchos speak with you again. Up to you."

Javier decides playing along with the father-son relationship is the best way to not wind up dead in the next thirty seconds. "My old man didn't give me any of your money. He barely gave me anything."

"Ah, so you think I'm stupid. You think I wasn't having Perez followed when you passed him that envelope. You think I don't know there was a thousand in small bills inside it. You think I don't know that was my," he draws out the words. "Fucking. Money."

"Hey man, I was just trying to help him out, pay the bills and whatnot, you know?"

"Okay, then how about this? Where's my heroin? Or do you want to play dumb about that too?"

"I swear to God I don't know anything about any drugs."

"My friend," Ochoa's face breaks into a smile that's anything but friendly, "let's have a little class then, shall we?" He waves forward one of the guys standing behind Javier. "You see, heroin is a wonderful drug because it works so quickly. No waiting for the high. Immediate results. You can inject or inhale, whichever you like, but the rush hits you right away. Hits you like a fucking train and takes you so far away you won't even worry about me or my guys. You'll be floating. But while your brain is floating, your skin will get warm. Your mouth will get dry. You'll have a hard time using your hands and your feet. They'll feel heavy. Then you'll feel a little nausea, maybe vomit a little on yourself. But you won't care. You won't really notice. Because you'll still be feeling so good."

Scuffed had been shuffling around behind Javier while Ochoa droned on, but now he comes into Javier's line of sight. He hands Ochoa a small box.

"For most of my customers, that's where it ends. They get tired and pass out. When they wake up, they're wondering where they can get their next hit. For the unlucky ones," he turns the box in his hands, "the unlucky ones inject just a little too much. The heart slows down, pumps less blood. That means your breathing is slower, your brain feels heavy. Pretty soon, you stop breathing altogether. Overdoses happen one of two ways - the junkie gets sloppy and stupid, or..." His voice trails off and he opens the box to reveal a needle, his hands moving with deliberate slowness.

"Your old man was either sloppy, stupid or both. Or maybe he was lucky. Because what you're going to go through is nothing compared to the pain I would have made him endure if my men had gotten to him."

Javier's eyes are glued to the needle. Needles have always made him uneasy. This one makes him downright ill. He knows what comes next. They'll hold down his arms and shoot him up. They'll probably leave him. He has no idea if anything can be done to save him. It's not like somebody can just take him to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. He's pretty sure if that needle goes in he's going to die.

"I don't really think your dumb as shit padre gave you my money, but I know he had five kilos of my heroin and I know you were passing him cash. Junkies don't get shit for free, so let me ask you again, my friend. Where. Is. My. Heroin?"


"Do we have enough yet?" Deeks' voice crackles over the comms.

Hetty can't see inside the room, but she doesn't need eyes inside to know what's in there. She's been in Javier's shoes more times than she can count and she knows self-important street thugs like the one standing in front of Javier enjoy giving their underlings the perception that they're in charge. That they have unlimited power. She knows the game will continue for a few more moments and she wants more of the story.

"Patience, Mr. Deeks."


He has no clue what he can say that will get him out alive. He imagined this scenario a hundred times after Detective Deeks suggested it and in every incarnation he said just the right thing or made the right move and not only got out unscathed, but covered his own ass too. He tries remembering what he did in his imagination but his mind is heavy from the punches and he isn't focusing. He's pretty sure he's going to die anyway, so he decides the truth can't hurt.

"He wasn't my dad."

Ochoa doesn't move. His eyes are emotionless. "Continue," he commands.

"I barely knew that guy. He was just some dude who put out an ad. Said if I wanted a full ride scholarship to meet him and he could hook me up. Said it was legit. Said he was running some government program aimed at low income kids who had come through the foster system. I figured I had nothing to lose so I went for it. I met him and he told me he reviewed my CDSS file and knew everything he needed to know. Told me I qualified and I was the best he'd ever seen and that I'd probably make newspaper headlines once all the scholarship paperwork went through.

"Seemed too good to be true, but then he started flashing me all these credentials and badges and shit. Told me the applicant was usually required to fly to Washington D.C. to meet with the big boys. Told me that he could almost guarantee I'd walk away with a full ride, but I was going to have to pony up two Gs to cover the application fee, airline, hotel and all that other stuff. I told him no way I can come up with two grand just like that. So he came back with he could waive the trip to D.C., which meant no plane fare, no hotels, just the application fee. A thousand bucks and I've got the scholarship in the bag. Told me he'd make sure the feds put up enough money to cover my enrollment and get me going in whatever school I could qualify to get into.

"So I did it. I gave him a thousand bucks and he lived up to his side of the bargain and got me all set up at school." His head's pounding and his throat is dry. He licks his lips and keeps talking. "The other day I got this notice from the admin office. Said my payment is still due. Turns out I never got a damn cent from any damn scholarship."

"This is all very fascinating," Ochoa says as he lifts the needle from the case, "but unless you're about to tell me that you stole five kilos of heroin out from under his nose as payback for fucking with you and taking your money -"

"He owed me."

Ochoa's smile is back, but his eyes are still lifeless and hard. "Continue."

"I was pissed that he stole my thousand bucks and took off. So I checked around on Craigslist until I saw another posting from him. I got a buddy to respond, a guy I spent some time with in one of the homes. He met up with Perez and played along with the scam, but told him he needed to think about it.

"I followed Perez back to his place. He didn't even bother looking for a tail. He was too busy pulling over every couple of blocks to take a snort.

"So he got back to his place. I gave him fifteen or twenty minutes. I figured, I dunno, I figured I'd go threaten him. Tell him I'd recorded a confession and left it with a friend and the friend was going to the police in thirty minutes if I didn't call him to cancel it. Tell him I'm not budging until I've got my thousand bucks back."

"Problem was, I got to his apartment and he's passed out on the couch. Powder is everywhere, like he's been ripping at one of the bags. But he's got four bricks on the table. So I grabbed 'em and took off. I figured - I figured I was screwed without some leverage. I didn't know what else to - fuck!"

He'd been so caught up in his own anger that he hadn't noticed what Ochoa was doing. Hadn't noticed anything until the needle was moving through his skin and lodging itself in a vein.


.

A/N: I apologize for the long delay. I have a litany of excuses - only half of which are valid. I promise not to take as long to bring you chapter five. Thanks for sticking with it. (Also, this was plotted long before Resurrection aired. Any and all similarities are the universe punishing me for not updating in a timely manner.)