Callen's captors separated and he lost them behind the spot lights. He stared dead ahead, waiting for a movement to appear in his peripheral vision. Nothing. He was starting to get bored of this game of silence and almost gave in to the temptation to initiate conversation. Almost. Callen had never done what was expected of him and he wasn't about to start now. So he remained silent, knowing that if he felt it was about time to start talking, his captors certainly did too. He would give them another ten minutes, tops, before they themselves gave in to the temptation to speak.

"We were told you were good, even as a child." A man's voice spoke a few minutes later and Callen quickly tried to pinpoint the accent; American, mid-Western, slightly nasal. "We know how you lived, how you survived and what scared and scarred you as a child."

Callen remained focused on the space between the spot lights. He didn't consider for one moment the man could do anything more than make guesses. He'd only spent a short time with the Campbell's and soon after he'd realised that no-one believed or wanted to believe him.

"And we know how you've survived since, how you still survive. We know about those you've hurt, damaged and killed with your bare hands, Agent Callen." As the man spoke his voice became more venomous, the hatred clear as he spat out Callen's name.

At least he could fathom the end game now. Maria Campbell had most likely been used to find out about him, maybe find some weaknesses. His attackers wanted revenge. Revenge for some perceived wrong he had committed to them, their friends, family or cause, over the last twenty years or so of his professional life. Revenge and retribution. They would inflict on him the pain they had felt so acutely and maybe still did. Callen felt his heart beat a little faster as he sensed movement to his right side. He kept his breathing steady and he steeled himself for a volley of punches or possible slashes from a knife.

Instead he felt a sharp prick as a needle pierced his upper arm. Callen resisted the urge to gasp and forced himself to remain focused, staring straight ahead as he felt the liquid seep into his veins, coursing through his body. It was a warm sensation, similar to an anaesthetic. His eyes widened slightly with the realisation that he'd most likely been given a barbiturate, something like Sodium Pentothal which certain countries, in certain times, had been used as a truth serum. They don't work, they're not reliable so which truth shall I give them, Callen thought to himself. Which I is I? He smiled slightly as he remembered a conversation he'd had with Hetty several years ago, when he'd considered breaking his obsolete cover of Jason Tedrow to finally be honest with a woman, in an effort to get her to be honest with him. Callen's thoughts were beginning to wander and his steady stare was interrupted with blackness as one of the men stood in front of him. He blinked and tried to re-focus.

"Agent Callen, we know you've worked with the DEA, FBI, CIA, the military and private contractors. You're currently with NCIS. There are months in your history when you have disappeared completely. You're going to fill in those blanks and reveal all those classified missions, the assassinations and those dirty secrets the American Government and the CIA love so much. Now, tell me where you were in the summer of 2002."

They want me to turn traitor, Callen thought. No. Never.

"Summer 2002 I was in hell." He said quietly, before adding in a louder voice. "You can go to hell."

He was rewarded with a vicious punch to the jaw which split his bottom lip open again. He spat out blood in front of him carefully aiming for his captors black boots, for which he received a sharp jab to his kidneys, causing him to fold over to catch his breath.

"Tell me about your 2002 summer of hell," the man's voice said softly. "Where was this hell?"

Callen thought hard and fast. He'd spent four months working with a Black Ops team in the Middle East; a joint CIA-military mission that was highly classified and was likely to never be de-classified. Summer 2002? Hell? Callen lifted his head, feeling a little intoxicated and thought about summers in hell.

He had spent plenty of them, most of which were now either repressed memories or ones he'd compartmentalised - sectioned away so he could move on to the next challenge, the next mission, the next chapter of his life. They were areas of his life he never talked about; however the barbiturate he'd been given acted in a similar way to alcohol, lessening inhibitions and loosened the tongue.

"Who were you working for in the summer of 2002?" One of the men asked directly.

"I wasn't working for anyone, I was working for myself." Callen replied.

"Were you contracted by the Government?" The closed question required a yes or no answer.

"I don't like working for bureaucrats or politicians or for anyone really. It's always better when you don't have to answer to anyone else but yourself. I liked working for myself. I should've done it more. Who do you work for?"

"So you weren't contracted by the Government then, what about the military?"

"I've never served in the military. They wanted me to when I left school and I nearly signed up, but you know what?" Callen squinted in the lights as he rambled and slurred his words slightly, trying to involve his captors in his monologue. They did not respond so Callen continued. "You know what? There are too many people telling you what to do, how to think. They tried to tell me I had to join so I didn't. Don't get me wrong, have great respect for the military but that would have been my biggest mistake if I had." He paused before saying, "What were you asking?"

"Did the US Military contract your services in the summer of 2002?"

"No and I have never worked for the US military. Didn't I just tell you that?" Callen asked as he turned his head slightly towards the voice. The man moved swiftly to Callen's side and again landed a right hook that almost had him and his chair tipping over.

"Look you asked me a question and I answered, I was working for myself in 2002. I quit my job in the winter and no-one really wanted to employ me. I was unempoy...I was unempoble..." Callen stopped to think how the hell he should pronounce 'unemployable' before giving up.

The two men looked at each other. They'd been warned that the so-called 'truth serum' was not always effective and that they may have to sift through a torrent of drivel before they would uncover the information they were seeking. They had also been warned that Callen was a seasoned agent and a practiced liar, and that other means may be necessary to extract the information they wanted.

"That was one cold winter," Callen continued, slowing down the pace of his sentences in order to think and formulate his words. "I much prefer the California summers, especially if I'm not working."

"So were you working in summer 2002?"

"Jeez don't you guys listen. I was working for myself then." Callen started to get agitated.

"Were you in the Middle East?" One man asked.

"Yeah, travelling around the Middle East."

"Summer 2002 in the Middle East was post 9/11," The man interrupted again. "Very few Americans could travel freely around countries like Iraq, Iran, Syria, Lebanon, and Afghanistan. What were you doing there?"

Callen squeezed his eyes shut in confusion and tried to order his thoughts. Were these guys stupid or just deaf? Had he not told them repeatedly that he was working for himself? Maybe he should start lying and tell them what they wanted to hear?

"I was working for myself and had four months to gather intelligence on human rights violations. A bit like my last job really, now I think of it but that was cold – cold in every sense of the word. The weather was cold and the people were even colder," Callen shuddered as he recalled his winter undercover in Uzbekistan. "The Middle East was hot, but at night the temperature dropped like you wouldn't believe. Most of my work was done at night."

"Why was your work done at night?"

Callen shook his head and resisted the urge to laugh. He attempted to look at the men and said, "Because it was too hot during the day."

His response was met with an audible sigh and Callen braced himself for another punch that didn't arrive. The two men again shared a glance and persevered through a mental list of topics they had prepared earlier.

"Tell me about 'extraordinary rendition'."

"You want an extraordinary rendition of what?" Callen replied belligerently and this time was rewarded with punch that cut his eyebrow. Callen blinked as blood trickled into his eye, blurring his vision slightly and vaguely wondered why his cut eye didn't hurt much.

"You are a Federal Agent, Callen. You have worked with numerous agencies. You know what 'extraordinary rendition' is."

"Well if you know, that I know, why the hell are you asking me?" Callen spoke slowly and deliberately, however his words were still slurring slightly and his tone was now laced with anger.

"This isn't working," one man said to the other. "Give him another shot."

The second man moved in and out of Callen's vision and a minute later came to his left side and slowly injected more Sodium Pentothal into his veins. With his hands tied behind him there was little he could do and within seconds of the drug entering his system Callen felt his head reel. It was as though he'd just downed dozens of Tequila shots.

"Tell me about the CIAs extraordinary rendition in the Middle East in summer 2002." The man asked in a friendly voice.

"I can't," Callen said, thinking his head felt as though it was filling with cotton wool.

"Yes you can, we're all friends here," the voice coaxed from the darkness.

"I can't. I was working on crimes against Human Rights, gathering evidence. I was working for myself, by myself, on my own. I liked being on my own, no one to let you down or betray you. I've been let down so many times... Sometimes I don't know who to trust or why." Callen shook his head slightly to clear the fuzziness. He continued, with his words running into each other. "The CIA arranged extraordinary renditions to countries like Syria for torture of terrorists. But some weren't terrorists and that was why I was there." Callen looked up and smiled triumphantly as though he had revealed a great truth to himself, as well as his captors.

"I don't believe you," the man said carefully in the same smooth voice, hoping to lull Callen into believing he was in a safe environment.

"You calling me a liar?" The smile died from Callen's lips.

"I think you know many different versions of the truth. What do you know about Carlton Greene"

Callen wondered again which version of the truth he should tell them. He decided on the one he knew he had always felt most comfortable with; the outright lie. "I never heard of him. What do you know about him?"

The man gave him a hard backhanded slap across his face, the impact causing Callen to turn his head sharply. He looked up at the man, his eyes defiant and his mind momentarily clear. "That didn't hurt. Y'know that's not a real good drug for torture..."

"What happened to Carlton Greene, Jed Cummins and Joshua Campbell?" The first man was losing his patience rapidly. He had not been in favour of using drugs and had been prepared for the long game of psychological damage, coupled with a bit of physical pain only where necessary. And with certain insight received in to this man's past, he had been certain short cuts could have been made to secure the information and confession that had been requested.

"I er, er. Um..." Callen closed his eyes as a wave of tiredness washed over him. He knew those names, but he couldn't reveal the truth about his involvement with their fate. He took several long, slow breaths before another sharp slap to his face brought him round suddenly, breaking his slow train of thought. "I remember..." he said as he forced his eyes open, looking at the man stood to one side, the one that kept hitting him.

The two men listened intently as Callen started to talk, occasionally glancing at each other as if to check they believed what they were hearing. His sentences were mixed up and timelines jumped back and forth. A variety of characters entered his narrative, names which meant nothing to the two men. He spoke of Maria and Ethan Campbell and their son Johnny, mixing them up with Joshua Campbell. Footballers and basketball players swapped places with Carlton Greene and Jed Cummins, and events took place in American, African and Australian deserts, as well as the Middle East. Callen slurred words together and even created a few new ones, and his captors had to interrupt more than once to question what he actually said.

Callen was just about lucid enough to sense his captor's reactions rather than see them, for both men had returned to stand behind the harsh spot lights and in the shadows of the room. Within ten minutes the men had obtained the information required and the first man left the room. The second man moved behind the left spotlight and switched it off before quickly repeating the action with the one to the right. The sudden darkness caused a kaleidoscope of light to appear in front of Callen's eyes and as he blinked heavily, he could still see the remains of the spot lights behind his eyelids. He could also see a red dot in the distance and attempted to concentrate his mind on this, failing to grasp at its significance, as he yet again felt the needle pierce his skin. Liquid from the syringe slowly flooded his veins and his vision blurred from the outside in as he lost consciousness for the third time in less than twenty four hours.


Thank you again to everyone who is reading, reviewing, favouriting and following this story - they are all much appreciated, especially the reviews! For those missing Deeks and the rest of the team - your patience will be rewarded soon! And apologies to those who are of the camp that Callen was in the military - for the purposes of this story he has never officially served but has worked closely with them on a number of occasions.