Detective Marty Deeks straightened his tuxedo jacket, wincing with discomfort as the slim cut chafed against the shoulder holster. He had always hated the constraining cut of uniforms, tuxedo or otherwise, preferring his cotton shirts and well-worn jeans.
Still, he thought, catching a glimpse of himself in one of the ballroom's many floor-to-ceiling mirrors, I look damn good.
The suit was expertly crafted and cut perfectly to his lines under Hetty's masterful supervision. Only his hair, tousled in his signature style, set him apart from the military rigidity expressed by the guests of the Navy New Year ball.
"Deeks, do you have anything?" His partner's voice jarred him from self-admiration. Though she was across the room, the comm jammed into his ear made it sound like she was beside him.
He lifted his wrist to his mouth. "Lieutenant checking you out at three o'clock."
Kensi made a growled in frustration, an outward reflex to hide the fact that she was secretly flattered. Clad in a clingy one-sleeve black gown, she was keenly aware of her bare leg through the high slit. At least it lets me run, she thought wryly. Her heels gave her no such help; their only asset being their ability to slide off easily should she need to give chase. "Anything helpful?"
"Nada."
"Keep looking," Callen ordered. "That bomb has to be here somewhere. Sam?"
The fourth member of the crew sighed. "The perimeter is secure. No sign of foul play."
"If I were a bomb at a high profile Navy ball, where would I hide?" Deeks wondered aloud.
"Seriously?"
"Where would you hide a bomb, Kens?"
"I won't even dignify that with a response."
"Do you want to know where I'd hide it?"
"Not really."
"I'd hide it in the cake!"
Kensi decided to humor him. "Why would anyone do that?"
"If you can hide a stripper in a cake, you can hide a bomb in a cake."
She rolled her eyes. "Fascinating."
The kitchen bustled with the energy of a thousand cooks. In truth, there were only six chefs, but fifty waiters and waitresses filtered in and out through the swinging doors. Kayla stood in the thick of it, filling pastries with freshly whipped cream with one hand and stirring melted chocolate. One of the waitresses stepped forward, grabbing a tray of crème puffs.
"Wait, Katie," she called, sprinkling chocolate shavings along the tray. "How's the crowd out there?"
"Busy," the flustered girl smiled. "Hungry for dessert."
"Perfect!" She handed the girl another tray.
Kayla peeked through the porthole in the swinging doors that led to the ballroom. It glittered gold; each guest was decked out to the nines. Most men were in full uniform regalia, complete with medals, bars, and braids. The women chattered amongst themselves, talking about designer dresses, hair, and the like. With a watchful eye, Kayla checked to be sure the wait staff was distributing the desserts properly. Amongst Kayla's charges, the tiramisu was her specialty. She used an old recipe she had mined from her memories of cooking with her mother. Other choices were gluten-free chocolate raspberry cake, the aforementioned crème puffs, and simple trifle. Each waiter waltzed around the room seamlessly, trays of the goodies expertly perched on their hands.
Satisfied, she turned her attention to the piece de resistance, the cake. She had spent weeks planning, designing, and assembling the masterpiece: a seven-layer staircase column covered in ivory fondant. Gold-painted braids wove around the base of each layer in a nautical style, rising to the topmost layer, which was adorned with a perfect replica of the Navy seal sculpted from gum paste and sugar craft. Kayla had spent much of her preparation studying nautical knots. An error in such a major detail would no doubt buckle under scrutiny from the expert audience. Despite her insecurities, she was pleased with the cake.
A waiter moved to roll it out.
"No, Zeke," she called, grabbing the cart back. "I've got this."
He sent her a questioning glance before relinquishing his grasp reluctantly.
Kayla wove her way through the dancing guests, wheeling the cake to its final destination across the room. Something clunked under the cart; she resolved to check the moment she dropped it off. Lifting the tablecloth, her eyes widened.
Bomb!
Her body reacted before her mind, and she leapt back, knocking over one of the guests. In her panic, she thought she recognized the man, but quickly dismissed the notion. Instead, she raised a hand, pointing.
"Bomb," she whispered in his ear.
Deeks completed what felt like the millionth sweep of the room. He was bored.
"Are you sure this is even going down?"
"For someone who is so easily amused, you certainly lose interest quickly," Kensi remarked.
He was distracted by a cake rolling across the floor. "Kens," he smiled, "What do you want to bet it's in the cake?"
"You haven't given up on that stripper cake theory, have you?"
"I'm investigating now."
"Tell me if you find a stripper."
"Mmm," he moaned suggestively. "I will definitely let you know."
As he approached, the chef locked the cart into place. Her brown hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, but he couldn't help but notice her nice bum as she leant over to check underneath. He was too busy checking her out when she stumbled back, knocking him over. Steadying her, he took a second to gaze into her eyes, a beautiful, albeit familiar brown. They sparked with recognition, but there was no time to ponder as she whispered the word he had been dreading all night:
"Bomb."
Deeks dropped her unceremoniously, flipping up the tablecloth. Sure enough, his eyes widened at the sight of the mechanism taped to underneath the table.
"Guys, we got a live one."
"Can you see how much time?" Callen replied.
The counter ticked down from 37 seconds.
"Not enough. You need to get everyone out now."
Kensi, Sam, and Callen leapt into action, yelling at everyone to evacuate. Thankfully, over half the room was active or former military; their instincts kicked in, helping move the proceedings along. Kayla's cop instincts kicked in, and she knelt beside the blonde.
"What can I do?"
He waved at her without turning his head. "Get out of here!"
"I can help!" she contradicted. "What do you need me to do?"
Contrary to popular belief, bombs don't beep as they count down. That would be conspicuous, and that is the last thing bombers want. Marty's eyes flashed to the timer; there were five seconds to go.
"Duck!" he yelled, practically throwing her behind a table that he simultaneously tipped over.
Sufficiently sheltered, he wrapped his arms around her at the last possible second. The bomb exploded, spraying shrapnel everywhere and shoving their shield of a table into their backs. The dust settled, and Marty looked to his stubborn charge. She was knocked out, blood trickling from her temple. Her hair had fallen loose, obscuring her face; he pushed it back as dust fell around them.
"Deeks!" Kensi called. The comm had been knocked out, but her voice carried through the din of resting debris.
"Kens!"
"You okay?"
"Peachy!" He cradled Kayla's head, but waved his hand above the table. "I've got someone who isn't so okay!"
Kensi looked down at the girl. "Paramedics are on their way. I'll look after her; you go check in with Callen and Sam."
"Will do."
Kayla awoke to the jostling of a gurney—which was being loaded into an ambulance!
"What the hell?"
A paramedic looked down at her. "Welcome back."
"What happened?" Her head was foggy.
"You took a knock to the head when the bomb went off."
"Oh, shit." She remembered everything: the bomb, the painfully familiar blonde who saved her life— "My cake!"
"If that's all you're worried about, you'll be fine. You might have a concussion; you should probably get checked out at the hospital."
Kayla panicked. "Not a chance; I have to get home!"
"Okay, well wait a bit; the cops want to ask you a few questions."
They allowed her off the gurney; she opted to sit on the fender, wrapped in a blanket to ward off the January chill. Time passed; she twiddled her thumbs and drank water, but finally, two officers, the blonde and his partner, approached her. She could tell from their gait that the female was no cop. Law enforcement, definitely, but she carried herself with more authority. Federal enforcement, Kayla settled upon. The other one, however, failed to hide his rough manner behind his tuxedo; he was definitely LAPD.
As he moved closer, she realized he was more than just LAPD. Her heart leapt into her throat. She recognized him.
"So, how's the patient doing?" he asked Kayla.
She regarded him coolly. "Fine, no thanks to you."
"Hey, I saved your butt back there! Besides, what's a chef doing trying to diffuse a bomb?"
Kayla fixing her brown eyes on his blue ones curiously. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"We've met before?"
"Let's see if you remember this." She swung her fist so fast, he didn't see it coming. The punch socked him right across the jaw; sharp pain rang through his skull. The words were choked out, barely audible, yet laced with pure contempt. "You promised."
With that, she took off at a top sprint, leaving the blanket behind. His partner made chase, catching her easily, but Kayla was running on adrenaline now. One quick spin with an elbow to her opponent's sternum, and she was free. Another agent, who she surmised to be the leader, grabbed her as she broke away, holding her arms against her sides. Kick as she might, she could not get out.
"Ma'am, you are under arrest for assaulting a federal officer," he announced, grunting as she punched his thigh. He handcuffed her expertly before handing her to one of the police officers on scene.
"You have got to be joking!" she yelled. "Deeks! You're kidding, right?"
He gave no reply, but stared blankly at her, wracking his brain for a connection.
Kensi limped back to Deeks. It may have been one blow, but it was a solid one.
"Care to tell me what that was about?"
"I have no idea," he replied, still in shock. "Who was that?"
His partner retrieved the list of guests and staff, flipping through to find her picture. "Kayla Townsend, dessert chef."
Marty's face went white. "You said Kayla?"
"Yeah, why?"
He gulped. "She's sort of the one that got away."
