Disclaimer – See previous chapter disclaimers for how much I don't own NCIS Los Angeles.

"This isn't a good idea Hetty," said Callen to the phone pressed to his ear. "Arresting Carter now, when we don't know thing one about why he or the rest of his group are here is just… it's just madness."

"Be that as it may, Mr. Callen," replied the diminutive woman on the other end of the line, "I believe that you have your orders."

"But you don't agree with them either, do you?" he pressed. There was no immediate answer. "You need to speak to Granger and get him to change the order."

"I have spoken at some length to Assistant Director Granger," she said eventually. "He made it very clear to me exactly what his job title was within NCIS when he informed me that his order stands; bring Raymond Carter in."

Callen closed his eyes, and forced down the curse. He hated the political power struggles that marred so many of the agencies he'd worked for in the past. It was part of the reason he preferred the more fluid regime within NCIS, and more specifically within the Office of Special Projects. At least, he had until Granger had appeared on the scene, shaking things up and almost setting the team against one another.

"I still don't like it, Hetty," he said. "And I want it on record that I think it's a bad idea."

"I shall pass your concerns on to the Assistant Director, along with my own. But for now, I suggest you remember that sometimes you do not have a choice in which orders you follow."

Callen shook his head, frustrated, as he ended the call. "Order still stands, Sam," he said to his partner.

"This isn't a good idea," growled Sam.

Callen gave him a rueful smile. "Tell me something I don't know." He pulled himself from the darkened doorway, back into the busying street. "What's Carter up to?"

Sam gave a glance down the street. "Still at the Café. He's been on his laptop for the last half hour, drinking lattes like he's not currently one of the most wanted men in LA. But so far, he's not made any calls, or had any visitors. Just seems like he's killing time."

"Well, looks like he's about to have two uninvited ones," said Callen. He gave a gesture with his head, and the pair started to cross the road. Once on the other side, both men put their years of vast experience to good use, eyes searching back and forth for signs of any guards, ambushes or any other nasty surprises that might be awaiting them. Satisfied that no such threats existed, they began to approach Carter.

The man looked up as Sam blocked out the sun.

"Raymond Carter," said Callen, voice firm and authoritative. "NCIS, we need you to – "

Before the words were finished, Carter scrambled to his feet, racing away from the pair. For a grey haired man, he moved surprisingly swiftly, and was a half dozen paces away before the Agents had even registered what had happened. But register they did, and split seconds later they took off in pursuit, sneakers smacking against the pavement as arms and legs pumped in unison. But the streets were filling up as the working day came towards its inevitable end, and Callen found himself forced to dodge and twist aside to avoid shoppers, workmen, suited businessmen, and couples with pushchairs and dogs in equal number. Carter didn't help matters; being shockingly spry was one thing, but the duo still would have caught him easily if he hadn't pushed and pulled at the people around him, sending them spilling into one another, sprawling across the floor and turning the air blue in his wake. Callen was forced to leap over three such heaps of humanity, each time losing ground as he did.

He fought a growl. "Sam," he said. It was all he needed to say; years of being at the other's side meant the need for verbal communications in situations like this were almost none existent.

"On it," came the reply, before Sam peeled off to the left, disappearing from sight down a side street.

Callen continued on after Carter, even as the man took lefts and rights down seemingly random roads, desperate to shake his pursuer. Then, he took out into the road itself, ignoring the screech of tires and the desperate blare of horns as cars skidded and twisted to avoid mangling his body. More shouts followed Carter, this time from drivers who had stepped from their now motionless vehicles. Callen leapt, sliding across the hood of one car, zigzagging around others. And still, Carter remained just out of reach.

"Federal Agent," yelled Callen at the top of his lungs.

Then, Carter made the first mistake of his flight; he cast a glance over his shoulder, looking to see how far away Callen was from him. Callen saw the miniscule smile play on Carter's lips, before he turned his head back –

And ran right into an immovable tree-trunk of an arm. It almost clean took his head off his shoulders.

Carter skidded forwards a few more feet, his momentum carrying him on despite the fact that the impact had put him practically on his back. Callen raced over, his SIG drawn and pointed at the downed man, even as Carter fought the arms now binding his wrists.

"Feeling better?" Callen asked.

"Much, thanks," Sam replied. "Nothing like a refreshing jog to stretch my muscles."

Raymond Carter sat behind the table, hands tented casually before him. 'Casual' was certainly the word Callen would use to describe the man; as the Agents entered the interrogation room in the boat shed, Carter casually glanced over at them, seemed not to show one iota of interest, and returned to casually staring at the wall in front of him.

Sam took a spot by the door, leaning back and folding his arms as menacingly as he could. Callen dropped the thick manila file on the desk before Carter. The grey haired man flicked his eyes down at the file, showed zero interest again, before looking Callen right in the eyes.

"You've been a very naughty boy," said Callen, taking a seat.

"I want my lawyer," the man replied.

Rather than answering right away, Callen took a second to survey their prisoner. He was grey haired, that was for sure, but it wasn't just the grey of age. Instead, Carter would fit the description of a silver haired fox, with thick strands of hair swept back over his skull. His face was handsome though weathered, experienced, but his blue eyes were cool and aloof. His charcoal suit was expensive, tailor made for him only no doubt, and around his wrist he wore a gold plated watch that probably cost more than Sam, Deeks, Kensi and Callen earned in a year. The arms business, it seemed, was good.

Callen chose to ignore the request. "And this is just the stuff we have on file for you. It's not taking into account everything you've done today, the things we suspect, and the things that we're no doubt going to uncover over the course of our investigation."

"I want my lawyer," said Carter.

Callen opened the file, leafing through it. "There's some pretty nasty stuff here. You sell to a lot of people, Mr. Carter. A lot of people."

"I. Want. My. Lawyer," repeated Carter. No, he isn't being casual, Callen amended. If anything, he seems bored by the whole thing.

"A lot of bad people," reiterated Callen. "People who then used those weapons to attack the American military, and American civilians. So you know what that makes them? Unlawful combatants. Terrorists is another word people like to use for them. Makes you one too, for supplying those weapons. That also means we can have you in an orange jumpsuit in Gitmo before you even know what's hit you. See how good asking for your lawyer does you then."

It didn't work. Carter grinned languidly. "I'd be out within a week." There was an audible implication hanging in his words.

"That's what they all say," said Callen, trying to call the other man's bluff. The truth was, the other man's calm demeanour was confusing and downright unnerving. "Never works. But you can help yourself out here. Tell us everything about Adrian Anderson, and what the rest of his people are doing in Los Angeles, and maybe we can make sure you spend your sentence stateside."

Carter smiled, unclasping his hands in an open gesture. "I don't know any Adrian Anderson," he said easily. Callen stifled a groan of frustration. He didn't need his years of experience to tell him Carter was lying.

The man wasn't even trying to hide it.

With a soft hiss the automatic doors slid open, and Deeks followed his partner into the darkened Ops. It felt weird to leave the surveillance of the younger Anderson and St James unmanned, trusting to the electronic measures, but given that Sam and Callen were busy with Carter, there was nobody available should any situations arise. Besides, the pair didn't seem to be going anywhere just yet; instead, they were propping up the hotel bar. As they entered Ops, Eric gave a quick look over at the junior Agents, and smiled – or was it something else? A smirk maybe? – before going back to his work. Nell didn't even notice the pair; she was preoccupied listening to the large headphones sat pressed to her ears. No doubt she was going through the footage from Jamie Anderson's room.

"No, no, no, just because you can't remember where you put it," said Kensi, "doesn't mean I took it."

Deeks shook his head. "So you want me to believe that my favourite pen just decided to wander off my desk? Just admit it; you like having things that belong to me. Helps you feel closer to me. I bet you even have a little drawer at home full of stuff you've stolen from me over the years. It's probably labelled 'Things Taken From Deeks' Desk'. You still owe me a T-shirt by the way."

"I can't talk to you," Kensi said, throwing her arms up. "It is physically impossible. I mean, it's like talking to a five year old."

Deeks grinned. A frustrated Kensi was fun – but only when she was frustrated at him, naturally – and sexy as hell. "So does that make you the mother of all cradle robbers then?" he asked.

She turned to face him. "You give yourself far too much credit, Deeks," she retorted.

Deeks didn't reply. He simply continued to smile at her, eyes locked easily with hers. A long moment passed, and he watched the frustration slowly ebb from her features, to be replaced with… She turned away, hoping he wouldn't see her blush. When they did catch eyes again, he held up one finger, and mouthed, 'That's one.'

She gave him a dirty look in return.

"Everything coming through clearly from the bugs?" Deeks asked Eric, as he moved over to the tech operative.

"Oh yeah," he replied. And yup, there it was. That same knowing grin the man had worn when the partners had first entered the room. It was definitely smug.

"Something funny, Eric," asked Deeks.

With some effort, Eric schooled his face into a semblance of normality. "No. No, why do you ask?"

"You're acting like the cat that got the cream. It's disconcerting."

Eric shook his head, corners of his mouth twitching. "Nothing, don't worry about it."

"What's going on?" asked Kensi, as she came to join them.

"Oh, Eric here keeps grinning at me like he's got a secret," Deeks replied. "And he won't tell me what it is."

"We work in an intelligence organisation," replied Eric indignantly. "I know lots of things I can't tell you guys." Then, the corners of his lips struggled once more not to turn into another grin.

Kensi leaned in close, almost nose to nose with Eric. "What are you grinning at, Eric?" she said.

Deeks clapped his hand comradely onto Eric's shoulder. "Why don't you just make it easy on yourself? Just tell us what you're grinning at, and my partner here doesn't have to do something you'll regret."

"I'm not grin–" Eric began, and cut off with a yelp as Kensi grabbed his arm, twisting it roughly behind the lanky man's back.

"What are you grinning at, Eric," repeated Kensi, trying almost as unsuccessfully to keep the playfulness out of her voice. But then, Deeks highly doubted Eric would have even noticed the shift in tone; only someone who was as hyper aware of Kensi's moods, modes and quirks would do that.

"N-nothing, nothing," repeated Eric, actually laughing hysterically from the pain. "I'm not grinning at anything."

"You can do better than that, Eric," said Deeks. "We're trained investigators, and I don't think Kensi believes you. I know I don't."

"Ahem," came a rather pointed voice. "I suggest you put Mr. Beale down, Miss Blye, before somebody gets hurt. And I am certain that Miss Jones won't appreciate the extra work she would need to undertake."

Kensi released Eric, looking a little sheepish. Hetty turned her attention then to Deeks. "Why do I feel that you're the instigator of all this, Detective?"

Deeks gave her his most winning smile in response.

"Guys," said Nell urgently, taking the headphones off. "You're going to want to hear this."

She fiddled with her controls a second, then hit play again, letting the playback come through the speakers. As it continued, Deeks felt his eyebrows rise on shock. Even Hetty seemed surprised.

"Get me confirmation," she said, to Eric. He returned to his station, working away rapidly on his keyboard.

"The operation is confirmed," he said, even as he continued deeper and deeper into information. "And one casualty too. Everything's on file, DNA, dental records, the works, but it looks like nobody made the connection."

"Send everything over to Miss Sciuto, in D.C," Hetty said. "Tell her that I need confirmation ASAP, and she needs to drop everything else she's doing. And if anyone over there has a problem, she can tell Agent Gibbs to call me himself."

"That'd be an interesting conversation," said Kensi.

"On it," said Eric, smiling again. Though this time, Deeks realised, for a totally different reason. He was positively buoyant. He reached for the phone. "It's been ages since I spoke to Abby."

"Who… w-who's Abby?" asked Nell, in a small voice.

"You're sure about that, Nell?" asked Callen, roughly an hour later.

Before the two Agents, the image of the data analysis bobbed her head on the plasma screen. "We have a positive DNA match. It's him alright."

"This makes no sense, G," said Sam, coming around the table. He cast a quick glance at the other monitor, where Carter was still displayed, lazily drumming his fingers on the interrogation room desk.

"When has any of this made sense, Mr. Hanna?" said Hetty, coming up behind Nell and peering over the younger woman's shoulder. "It's just one more piece of the puzzle."

"Yeah," said Callen. "A puzzle that's starting to make a clearer picture."

"Something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"

"I don't need to," replied Callen, as the last of the paperwork printed out, along with the images. "Somehow, I don't think Carter'll care that we know. He's so smug in there, he'll probably fill in the rest of the gaps for us."

He grabbed the pictures, sliding them into the file, before nodding to Sam. The big man opened the door to the interrogation room, and the two Agents made their way in. Callen dropped the file in front of Carter, opening it up to show the lifeless face peering back; the bullet hole, round and fatal, in the forehead.

"Adrian Anderson is dead," said Callen, forcefully. "Taken out by a SEAL team seven months ago. Oh, they didn't know what it was that they'd found, of course. It was just a random op, totally unrelated to Anderson or his organisation, so either nobody checked too deeply after the fact, or you managed to suppress the information somehow. But the fact is, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Carter shrugged noncommittally.

Callen leaned forward over the desk, looming over Carter. "So why don't you tell me why his organisation is in LA, when there's no one to run it?"

Carter leaned back, not bored now. But smug. Cocky.

"You have the time?" he asked.

"You've got a watch," Callen replied.

"I'm afraid it broke when your partner tackled me." Carter held the hand up. Callen could see instantly that the face was intact, and the hands still ticked along normally. "Tell me the time, and I'll tell you everything you want to know."

Callen narrowed his eyes. This hadn't been what he'd expected in the slightest. He glanced at his own watch. "It's a little after eight. What does it matter?"

"Because the SEAL team responsible are due to return home today, at approximately 2100hrs," said Carter. "And my companions will be there to give them the homecoming they so richly deserve."

"Hurry up, Kens," shouted Deeks, through the door and into the otherwise deserted women's changing area. "We're on a tight deadline if we want to stop that hit before the SEAL team lands."

"I know the stakes, Deeks," she called back, tightening the body armour across her torso. It made it harder to breath sometimes, making you force your lungs out to counter it, but it was either that or go without. And when it was a choice like that – when a vest had saved her life too many times to mention, and the lack of one had once almost cost her Deeks – well, it really was a no brainer.

Once she was satisfied it was on correctly, she stepped out of the changing room. Deeks moved upright from where he had been leaning patiently against the wall, uncrossing his arms. He already had his vest and full gear on; didn't need to hide out to change, unlike Kensi. And to be honest, the only person she was hiding out from in that case was Deeks himself. She took pause, noting the white stencilled NCIS upon his vest; it suddenly reminded her that Deeks wasn't fully one of them, no matter what they thought. On the one hand, it was a shame. She'd never admit it, least of all to his face, but he made a good operative, and the fact that he was only (and she'd also never use the word 'only' to his face either) an LAPD detective didn't take full advantage of his skills. Of course, if he became a full agent… well, that had other problems. Fraternisation was frowned upon in NCIS. Not that Kensi had any thoughts of frate – Oh, stop lying to yourself, woman, she thought sternly. And get your head in the game. There are more important things to be thinking about right now than you and Deeks. She started to head towards the bullpen.

"Hold up," called Deeks.

She paused, turned to face him. "I thought we were in a hurry," she said.

"We are," he replied, moving closer to her, that lupine grin on his face. Despite her assertiveness a few seconds before, her breath caught in her throat. Then, his hands moved lower, trailing gently across her thigh.

"What are you doing?" she managed, eyes darting back and forth down the thankfully empty corridor, before she swallowed. "This is not the time to…"

Wordlessly, he stepped back, still smiling. She glanced down; the thigh holster of her combat gear was now tied tight to her leg.

"You're welcome," he said easily. "And I'm not even going to mention that sentence you didn't finish."

Kensi arched and eyebrow at him. "Apart from just then?"

"What can I say, I'm nothing if not predictable."

Kensi didn't answer, didn't trust herself to, so instead took back her Colt M4A1 and led her partner towards the bullpen, where they were greeted by a dozen similarly garbed Agents, bristling with weapons. Hetty stood in the middle of the crude circle of bodies, surveying the scene, hands clasped behind her back. When she noted Kensi and Deeks arrive, she nodded once, before catching the eye of every Agent around her. Each look she gave was the same; determination, pride, and a warning to come back alive. When she reached Kensi, she paused a moment longer, seemingly weighing something in her mind. She continued to Deeks and repeated the process, before continuing. Then she turned, heading back to her desk where Granger waited.

"You know what to do people," said Granger. "Make us proud."

As one, the group moved towards the courtyard, spreading out towards their individual vehicles. Kensi reached for the driver's side handle of her plain black transit. A familiar whistle, almost a high pitched whoosh, sang through the courtyard, followed seconds later by an unmistakable crack. The Agent just behind her, already half in the backseat of her van, snapped his head back, blood spraying from his face, before he collapsed in a lifeless ruin.

"Shooter," Kensi heard herself shout.

Then everything went to hell.