Disclaimer: (Oops... almost forgot... like I could forget that I don't own them... sigh... but at least I can play with them!) I do not own NCIS: LA or its characters...

Author's Note: I started writing this one quite a while ago (easily over six months… maybe a year…), but it's looking to be too long for just the two-shot I had envisioned. Plus, I think I need encouragement to keep working on it and finish it up ;-) *hint hint*

PART ONE: CALLEN

Chapter One: Unexpected Guest…

The schematic became clear as Sam Hanna's voice directed his focus. Of course, it was all in his mind. But that didn't make it any less useful. Agent G Callen opened his eyes and traced the paths of wires and leads, knowing where he needed to connect the wire he currently held with the insulated forceps. First problem solved; He now remembered how to connect the timer to the detonation switch. The question was... should he?

If he did create a completely functional device, would he be able to stop them from detonating it if they intended to cause destruction and death? Or would he be able to warn his team despite the fact that they weren't backing him up on this operation? Agreeing with Hetty's assessment of the case and her recommendation for a course of action, Callen had gone deep under, cut off all ties. He was on his own. And for the first time in his life, it made him uncomfortable. He missed Sam's wise cracks, Kensi and Deeks' ridiculous teasing and flirting, Hetty's more subtle wit and her not-as-subtle-as-she'd-like matronly concern, as well as Eric and Nell's bubbling enthusiasm. But most of all, Callen missed having people -no, friends that he trusted, that had his back covered.

This group of... well, best described as sociopaths and psychopaths with an anarchist bent... they didn't have each others' backs. They didn't have anyone's back. They trusted no one and suspected everyone. In fact, they had just come down from 'full suspicion' level on his presence and it had been months. Months of his building them various IEDs and home made bombs and their test detonating random ones, so that he never knew if the device he were building would be used to destroy a government building, kill innocent people, or put a small dent in the backwoods of Modoc County.

No. What if this was just another test? And if he failed, they would know it was no accident. He had proven his proficiency in bomb-building and they'd know any failure to be an intentional one. He was in this alone. It was his decision. His burden. He'd be a dead man if any device didn't perform properly. And who would he be helping then? No one. These psychos would just acquire another bomb technician and move on with their plan... whatever that was. So, best he properly connect the timer.

"What's this?"

Callen hadn't survived this long by being jumpy, yet still the declaration caused him to lose his grip on the wire. Moody had been the one who'd spoken. Shouted really, which seemed to be the hillbilly's standard setting. Not surprising since the man probably hadn't spent more than a handful of days in a house. The scrawny, scraggly man had no 'inside voice.' Whatever Sloan's master plan was, it couldn't include stealth, at least not with Moody present.

Whatever the conversation, it was happening at the other end of the hangar, near the main entrance, and Callen had no reason to interfere (or spy), so he gingerly picked up the wire once more and attempted to solder it in place.

And then there was a loud 'thunk.' He recognized the noise as Little John (nicknamed for the blatant irony and surely not the literary reference, for they were no merry band of do-gooding thieves) throwing his Bowie knife to embed itself into the mangled remains of an arm chair. Doubtless, the big man had been cleaning his fingernails with the razor sharp point again. (Callen had to sometimes wonder at the clichés this motley crew seem to embody.) Little John was a psycho with a prediliction for violence, and was easily bored when not called upon for bashing heads. So it was no surprise to hear the heavy clomp of the man's boots echo around the space as he headed for Moody's loud voice.

Callen attempted to focus on the work at hand once again. Just a little bit more...

Sighing, he set the forceps and soldering gun aside on the cluttered, grease-stained work table. There was definitely a commotion at the other end of the abandoned bush plane hangar. And to be honest, he'd be grateful for the distraction. He couldn't ever completely dispel the thoughts about who the terrible little devices he built might affect-injure or kill. He looked to the 'leader' of this little band of psychotics.

Sloan, a man in his mid-fifties with a forgettable face and of an average build, dressed in as nondescript clothing as his features (jeans, work boots, a shirt maybe dark blue, maybe dark green, maybe black), sat calmly in his favorite chair, reading a hardbound book with no dust jacket to signify its content. Whatever the commotion, Obediah Sloan seemed unconcerned.

Now, as far as Callen could tell, there really were only two basic forms of leadership. There were leaders who would have immediately stuck their nose in and taken firm control of the situation before there was even a situation. And then there were leaders who just trusted their team to handle whatever problems arose. But Sloan didn't trust anyone. And as far as Callen had been able to make out, the man fell into a third category of leadership. Sloan seemed the sort who didn't anticipate problems, only dealt with them when they appeared, but did so with such a solid surety that his authority was never questioned. And it was easy to see why the man was never challenged. There was something deadly about the otherwise average-as-average-could-be man. He did not possess the crazy eyes of Moody, or the imposing strength and wolfish smile of Little John, nor any of the other apparent personality quirks of the others that denoted a disturbed mind. And he was far more dangerous than any of them; fiendishly clever and possibly evil (not that Callen particularly believed in such a concept).

The man rose to his feet only when the crowd of agitators stopped before him. Callen walked around the work bench. The nervous energy was catching, and leaning against the old table placed a large wrench just at his back in grabbing distance.

"Looksee what we found snoopin' about," said Rogers, whom Callen recalled had been on guard patrol for the night. There was a disgruntled grunt of protest and a small figure was shoved forward of the mass of agitated men that had been concealing him... or her. Definitely her, Callen concluded.

At a very cursory first glance, she could be mistaken for a teenaged boy, being of petite stature and build. But any look that persisted longer than a second would inform the observer that those jeans hugged femininely rounded hips and a full bottom of the variety you'd never find on a male. Not to mention that the flannel shirt, albeit not fitted, was unable to hide its obviously female contents. Despite the potentially troublesome situation, Callen couldn't help but admire the curves of the petite figure. It'd seemed like an eternity since he'd laid eyes on a woman (even in passing). And unfortunately, the same were true of the others, which set a deep seed of unease in his gut. Because he'd read some of their criminal records, and worse, he'd heard some of the stories they told about the 'deeds' they'd done.

Sloan stepped forward and tore the baseball cap off the head of the prisoner (for that's surely what she was). Auburn hair cascaded down to fall about her shoulders, glowing golden-red in the light of the setting sun. It was beautiful and familiar enough that it might have tipped him off on its own. But it was the features of her face no longer obscured by the shadow of the hat that sent a bolt of sheer panic and terror through G Callen. Even in profile, there was no mistaking her, and her name was a strangled outcry in the back of his throat that he barely managed to thwart.

Nell Jones?!

A/N: Uh-oh! What have our favorite agents gotten themselves into this time?