Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS: Los Angeles or any of its characters
CHAPTER 13: THE WARRANT OFFICER
Max trooped over to the lounge at the Vista with Salvator Santos by his side. It was mid-afternoon. They found Angelo and Fern sitting at a round table, watching the piano player on stage putting on a lively, ragtime performance. Angelo listened to the bouncy tunes from the early part of the twentieth century with cheery delight, jiggling his shoulders in a little dance from his seat. Fern, however, looked bored out of her mind.
All the while, Nate was still maintaining his cover at the bar.
Santos and Max took their seats at the table.
"I just showed Max the enormous surprise," Santos told Angelo.
"What surprise?" Fern asked, interested.
"A tank," Max muttered to her.
"You saw a tank!" Fern gasped, jaw dropped. "I only saw some weird Ruskie dude."
"And his two stooges." Angelo rolled his eyes.
"When are you replacing my grenade launcher?" Max demanded of the mob boss pointedly. "I certainly wouldn't mind one of those sweet tanks."
"At the warehouse, you said you thought the tank was going to be bigger," Santos snidely retorted.
"I'm not gonna take that sickly one," Max countered.
"You should expect a big present soon, Max," Angelo said cryptically. "I got more surprises in store."
Across town, Sam drove his beloved Challenger through a wholesome suburban neighborhood. Most of the houses were well-kept, two-story homes, with lushes green front yards, shady trees, and laughing children playing in the streets.
Callen sat on the passenger side. "I keep thinking about Kensi and Deeks," he confided to his partner.
"Kensi's fine, Deeks is the one you need to worry about," quipped Sam.
"But, seriously," continued Callen. "While we were chasing our tails south of the border, they were given the Angelo case and went undercover as a floozy crime couple..."
"And you think we'd do better in their place," Sam cut him off.
"When all the while, they kiss at ice rinks during their off hours," Callen finished undaunted.
"Hetty and Granger know they are an item now," said Sam, keeping his eyes on the street. There were a lot of kids playing around.
"The last case like this was pretty rough on you and Deeks," Callen reminded soberly. "Back when you and Michelle went undercover."
"Double dating with Sidorov's jumper cables and dental drill was no picnic," Sam admitted.
"Maybe we need a new tactic," Callen suggested. "We should call in our own Russian."
"You want to go back on duty as pogo sticks for Arkady?" Sam scoffed.
"Well, he throws Angelo off. We figured that out," Callen said reasonably.
"Spending any time around that guy throws my appetite off," Sam grumbled.
"And he gave us a ready made alibi for crashing Angelo's parties," Callen countered.
"Yeah, I guess that was pretty slick," Sam hesitantly amended with a nod.
"You notice how beat up Kensi looked back at the hotel?" asked Callen.
Sam's eyes hardened. "Yeah, looked like someone choked her. She was trying to hide it." He looked out the window. "Deeks must be beside himself."
"You have a problem with Deeks and Kensi's ice rink escapades?" Callen pressed.
"I don't think they know what they're in for," Sam explained rationally. "When Michelle and I fell in love, it was intense and passionate. But there comes a point when a tough call has to be made."
"Marriage and children," Callen surmised.
"I don't know if Kensi and Deeks are mature enough for this," said Sam. "Me and Michelle raised two kids and shared a bank account for more than twenty years. Were we ready? I think I'm gonna have a talk with them."
"They've been in this line of work for a long time," Callen pointed out. "They've heard it all before."
"Yeah," Sam whispered.
Callen spotted a white, two-story house dead ahead. In contrast to the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, the yard was dry and yellow. There was a wraparound porch with a quaint porch swing hung by the front window.
"Here it is," Callen announced to his partner.
Sam parked the Challenger in front of the driveway.
"How do you wager Holdren will cooperate?" Callen asked lightly.
"I'll be in the back," answered Sam. "Just in case."
"All right."
The two got out of the gleaming muscle car. As Sam stealthily snuck off into the backyard, Callen casually strolled up to the wraparound porch and rang the doorbell. While he patiently waited, Callen noticed the overstuffed mailbox and the fading newspapers littering the walkway.
A gruff-faced, sharp blue eyed man answered the door. He had blonde-graying hair and was tall and well-built.
"Vic Holdren?" Callen sought to confirm.
The man didn't answer. He only narrowed his steely eyes suspiciously.
"Special Agent Callen from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service." He flashed his badge. "You need to come with me."
The Warrant Officer abruptly slammed the door on Callen's face, but the agent immediately kicked the door back open. The Warrant Officer was already dashing to the back of the house.
"We got a runner!" Callen drew his gun and chased after him through the living room.
The man raced to the back kitchen door. But Sam surprised him by kicking down the door, knocking it off its hinges. He wrestled him down to the floor. Callen rushed up to them, his gun still firmly in hand. "Like I said, you need to come with me."
"You know, if you had built the door frame to code, it would've held up a lot better," Sam told the Warrant Officer evenly.
The disgraced Warrant Officer was unceremoniously hauled to the boatshed. When Callen and Sam arrived, Granger was tensely waiting for them, while a guard took the man to the interrogation room. They spoke to the Assistant Director.
"You want us to question him?" asked Sam.
"I got this," Granger told them.
He grabbed a dog-eared file from the table and headed for the interrogation room.
Callen and Sam shared a quick look, then went to view the interrogation through the monitor.
The restrained Warrant Officer sat stoically on the suspect's chair, as Granger silently slid into the room, reading the file. He sat across from him, placing photos on the table. The photos were of Holdren proudly wearing his uniform, when he was a younger man. As well as two other military men who were generations older than him.
"Victor Holdren," began Granger. "Served in the Gulf War. Your father served with distinction in Nam. Even your grandfather served in Korea."
The Warrant Officer showed no reaction.
Granger continued, undeterred. "That's quite the history. Forgive me for finding it just a tad peculiar that you'd muddy the reputation of your entire family."
Holdren sat unresponsive, staring forward, refusing to even glance at any of the photos.
"And you, a Warrant Officer, the first in your distinguished family, somehow stole weapons from the Navy and freely gave them to a psychopathic cartoon character."
The Warrant Officer remained silent.
"Your father died in '99, didn't he?" pressed Granger. "At least he's not here to see you now."
Still no response.
Granger continued. "Your wife must've seen this coming. Is this why she left you during your last deployment?"
Holdren still ignored him.
Granger narrowed his eyes. "Of course, the real victim is your daughter. With no mother to speak of and her father going to prison, it's going to be pretty rough on her. Guess you didn't worry about that too much when you were betraying your country."
The Warrant Officer's stony facade crumbled, revealing a desperate broken man. He tried to rip his restraints from the chair. "I have to get back to her!" The chair held and Granger was unimpressed.
"Now, how are you even getting these weapons?" Granger demanded heatedly.
"I can't say," Holdren said in a cracked voice.
"Well, what do you know!" Granger said bitingly. "He answers. At least tell me this; why are you even doing this?"
Holdren thought for a moment before responding. "I have no choice." His hoarse voice remained low.
"What do you mean you don't have a choice?" Granger shot at him bitterly.
"Angelo -" the Warrant Officer struggled - "he has my daughter!" He finally broke down.
"Your daughter?" Granger was dubious.
"He said he'll kill her if I don't do what he says," Holdren explained, nearly in tears. "He took her. I don't know where he's keeping her. They tell me what they want. If I don't do it – if I don't report in – my little girl's dead. She's only eleven. She's all the family that matters now."
After the interrogation, Granger, Callen and Sam conferred with Eric and Nell on the monitor, who reported in from the OPS center.
"Holdren has an eleven-year-old daughter named Amelia. She hasn't been seen by anyone at her school for the past two months." Nell popped up a photo on the screen of a smiling, slender little girl with long sunny blonde hair. "But her disappearance has never been reported to the authorities. We also found evidence of Holdren seeking psychological help, likely for undiagnosed PTSD."
"Thus making Holdren an effective puppet for Angelo," mumbled Granger. "Have you two located his daughter?"
"No, we don't know where she's being held," Eric answered meekly.
"And we haven't received any reports of matching Jane Does from any local morgues," Nell added.
"If she's alive, it's likely Catalina," Granger said stiffly. "Considering that's where Angelo is holding Martindale's family."
"Nell and I have thought of that," supplied Eric. "We just don't have any confirmation."
"Where do we go from here?" Callen asked the Assistant Director.
"We start acting fast," said Granger. "Precious lives are at stake."
As the picturesque California sun sank below the wavy ocean, Angelo threw himself a little private party on the back terrace of the Vista. He was so glad he didn't invite Arkady. The terrace overlooked the luminescent sea with the beautiful sandy beach framing a shimmering endless horizon.
Angelo poured himself some scotch, while his most trusted guys merely milled around, looking bored, quietly drinking their bourbon. Max sat on one of the chairs with Fern playfully sitting on his lap. The two shared a bottle of Jack Daniels. They even drink from it at the same time.
Evening shadows stretched across the terrace.
Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me To The Moon" blared from the speakers. Most of Angelo's trusted followers shot him rather mocking looks, but as far as the mob kingpin was concerned, this was real gangsta music. The Chairman of the Board made the whole crooner with mob ties concept fashionable, long before all these tuneless, jabbering rappers were even conceived inside their stoned mothers wombs.
His smart phone vibrated. He instantly answered. "Yeah."
"The Warrant Officer has been taken in by the feds," a mook reported from the other end.
"It was always inevitable that the law would annoyingly butt in." Angelo sighed. "We'd better prepare ourselves." Angelo ended the call and approached Max and his new guard. "Francesca, pack your things and get ready to board my yacht. We're heading to Catalina."
"What am I doing?" Max slurred.
"I just received word that the pigs are on to us," growled Angelo. "I'm afraid we need to let slip the dogs of war."
"Sounds strenuous," Max drawled.
"It will be for them," declared Angelo.
At a little boat rental place on a unassuming dock, a helpful woman working the front desk handed a boat key over to a man wearing a long raincoat. He hid his face by wearing a droopy fishing hat and dark sunglasses. Plus his black beard.
But the woman could still make out his cuts and bruises. She had no desire to ask questions.
"Enjoy your fishing trip, sir." She smiled pleasantly.
"Oh, I will," said the man. "I'm meeting up with my wife and daughter."
"Oh, how nice." The rental lady smiled pleasantly again.
"Yeah." The man left with his key.
Out on the sunset veiled dock, he spotted his little rental boat. Ray was set to head for Catalina to rescue his family.
Next Chapter: A Confrontational Battle