Castoffs

Chapter 1

...

He stood on a beach he did not know, watching massive waves crack and run up the sand before leaving their residue of foam behind. The remains of a storm hovered offshore, adding a hint of malice to the darkening sky. He felt rooted in place, unable to move. The heavy smell of aviation fuel and smoke mixed with the salt in the air was making him nauseous. He touched the cut along the side of his head, staring at the fresh blood that came away on the tips of his fingers.

"Sonofabitch."

He felt a chill as he looked back down the beach to see his footprints slowly disappearing in the wet sand. The rotor blades of the downed chopper were still slowly rotating as the waves broke against the burning hulk. The bodies of the dead moved ever so slightly as the receding sea washed over them, hinting at a life they no longer possessed. He was supposed to be one of them. How he'd survived remained elusive, his mind as dark and cloudy as the sky. He couldn't remember where he was or why he'd been on that chopper. All he knew was his name, and a vague understanding that he was some sort of cop. One of the good guys. At least that's what he believed, deep down. The handcuff hanging from his left wrist suggested otherwise, but he clung to his own truth. It was all he had.

He blew out several breaths, trying to calm down and focus on what he should do. Despite the storm clouds, the air was warm, yet he felt cold, finally realizing he was in shock and soaking wet. Looking down to assess himself, he saw that his shirt was torn and bloody, which surprised him because he felt no pain.

"Not my blood."

He was wrong. His first step proved it, and the pain was shocking, sending him to his hands and knees. He rested his forehead on his arm and panted through the worst of it. As he waited, a soft rainfall began, and it was comforting. He concentrated on the sound, finally raising his head to look out at the sea. Sitting back on his haunches, he pulled open the Hawaiian shirt he was wearing, finding a deep gash along his ribcage. Blood streaked down his jeans, turning them slightly pink.

"Maybe I'm in Hawaii."

The shirt he had on might be a clue. Not a good one, but something. Californians wore Hawaiian shirts, but he never had, at least he didn't think he had. One more thing to add to what he didn't know. This didn't feel like California, but then again, he'd only seen this small stretch of beach. And why would he be in Hawaii? More importantly, who were the dead guys? And where had they been taking him?

His instincts told him he needed to get off this beach, but first he needed to find a weapon, and a first aid kit. Forcing himself to his feet, he staggered back toward the helicopter, now smoldering, sending black smoke up into the low hanging clouds. The first body he came to was smoldering as well. He wretched when the smell hit him. The man was unrecognizable.

"You're no help," the gallows humor helping him process the ugliness of the scene.

An incoming wave pushed the dead man toward him, and he stumbled back, almost tripping over an automatic pistol stuck in the sand. He was hopeful as he bent over and picked it up. It was a Glock 19, but the slide was damaged, and the magazine was missing. Had there been a firefight on board? Was the guy reloading when the chopper crashed? Whatever had happened, the gun was of no use now. Finding a first aid kit was not happening either. The burning helo had taken care of that, but he held out hope as he walked past the chopper, looking for anything he could use. Just beyond the tail section another body washed ashore, the wave rolling the bald-headed man over onto his back before retreating. He'd been shot twice in the chest. So, there had been a firefight onboard. The man looked vaguely familiar, but no name came to mind.

"Who the hell are you," he mumbled as he knelt to search for an answer, finally pulling out a soggy wallet. "Shit. Are you kidding me? You're Homeland Security?"

He stared at the badge and the name, his mind tumbling with questions. Was this the guy who'd handcuffed him? Why? That being the most important question.

"Maybe I'm not a good guy."

The thought disturbed him. Whoever this guy was, he didn't have a weapon, which confused him even more. And he wasn't dressed like a typical agent, which for some reason he instinctively knew. He wore a tee shirt and jeans. No jacket or tie. Had he been undercover? Was he?

"Or maybe you stole somebody's badge."

He suddenly began searching his own pockets, looking for an ID that would help him remember. He found nothing. No wallet. No phone. Not even money. He went back to searching the bald man, finally finding a small key in the pocket of his jeans.

"Awesome!"

He quickly unlocked the handcuff, feeling a small sense of triumph, before resuming his search. When he found a small knife, he stared briefly at the dead man before cutting off the guy's tee shirt. It was soaking wet, but he wrung out as much seawater as he could before tying it around his ribs and over the gash in his side. He hissed as the saltwater made contact with the wound.

"Shit that stings."

He pulled the wet shirt as tight as he could, hoping it would stop the bleeding. Slowly rising to his feet, he slipped the folded knife into the pocket of his jeans and looked dejectedly at the dead man. No answers here.

The sound of a drone distracted him from his lapse into melancholy. It was distant, but still a threat. He scanned the sky but saw nothing. Not wanting to be caught in the open, he moved toward the low rocky cliffs and sparse vegetation at the edge of the beach. He needed to find someplace to hide before the drone found the wreckage. Somehow, he knew it was a danger to him. Depending on the range of the drone, whoever had launched it could be anywhere between two to ten miles away. He hoped it was the latter, but either way, he needed to move. It would be dark soon. Scanning the landscape, he realized this wasn't a very hospitable place. The terrain was rough and there was not much you could call cover. Steep, rugged cliffs rose off to his left, and the rocky land in front of him was cut by arroyos that ran with dirty rainwater.

"What more could possibly go wrong?"

The soft rain suddenly became a downpour, turning the landscape gray. He scrambled up the rocky escarpment, slipping on the water loosened gravel tumbling down one of the gullies. He grabbed a scrubby bush and managed to pull himself up onto somewhat level ground. He couldn't see much, unsure which way to go until the sound of the approaching drone made his decision for him. The steep cliffs off to his left were barely visible, but he decided it might be the best place to hide, so he struck out in that direction.

The land was barren, with sparse vegetation. He followed a rough path with a couple of deep gulches on either side, now full of runoff. The ground became hilly, rising and falling like waves on the ocean. The rain made it slippery, causing him to stumble and fall several times. He felt a sense of panic as he searched for someplace to hide from the spying eyes of the drone. Good guys might be operating it, but the way his luck had gone so far, he doubted that.

A small waterfall off the side of a ravine caught his eye, and beneath it was a small, protected culvert. The drone was close, so he scrambled under the cascading water and pressed his back against the hard sandstone. He blew out his breath and tried to remain calm as he waited. His body flushed with adrenalin as the drone passed overhead. It didn't hover, so he was fairly sure it hadn't spotted him. That was his hope, anyway. He followed the sound as it made several sweeps over the area before hovering over the burning chopper. After a few minutes he finally heard it lift up into the clouds and disappear.

"Maybe they'll think I died in the crash," he whispered. "Whoever they are."

He decided to stay put until the rain eased up. It would give him time to think and possibly remember more. His body and mind were heavy with exhaustion, his head wound pulsing with dull pain. A concussion for sure. He checked the gash in his side, pleased to see the bleeding had slowed. Unfortunately, the pain hadn't. Definitely a cracked rib or two. He was sore all over, now that he had the time to notice. But he could not remember the crash or why he had been in the helo in the first place. It was irritating. Who the hell was he?

"At least I know my name. Martin."

Whether it was his first or his last name was a blank. But he could hear someone saying it in his head. It sounded as though they were scolding him. The voice stern, irritated for some reason he didn't understand. But who? That was a mystery. Another voice in his head ordered him to move, and that was a very distinct, male voice.

"Copy that…whoever you are."

When the rain lessened, he crawled out from under the mini-waterfall and took stock of his surroundings. The distant cliffs looked ominous under the low clouds, but he still thought they were his best bet for a good hiding place. Maybe there was a town, although this place didn't look as if it could sustain one. He'd seen no livestock, and there were no lights anywhere that he could see. He hadn't seen any trash or empty beer cans either, let alone houses.

"Keep moving, buddy," encouraging himself as he started his trek toward higher ground.

It was pure luck he found a small cave before night closed in completely. It was more of a crevice than a cave, but as the old saying goes…beggars can't be choosers…and right now he definitely felt and looked like a beggar. There wasn't much room inside, but it was dry, and no creepy crawlers were in residence. He wedged himself in as far as he could and was able to stretch his legs. He blew out his breath as he settled, grateful for the find.

The rain had stopped, and nothing but silence surrounded him. His mind held no escape. All his memories were recent and full of fire and death. Exhaustion dragged him toward sleep. Maybe his dreams would open his mind to who he was and who he loved.

…

It took both Callen and Sam to pull Kensi away from the officious man who came to inform them that Deeks had gone missing.

"You have to know where he is," she shouted. "It was your op."

"Well, I don't. As I said, I work out of the National Counterterrorism Center in Washington. I wasn't on the ground here and wasn't directly involved in each and every decision. I have oversight, but the ground operation is being run by Homeland Security and the situation is fluid," he said pompously as he straightened his tie. "So, don't shoot the messenger, Agent Blye."

"Why not?" She replied, angry and frustrated. "Never mind. You're worthless."

"I suggest you try and control her, Agent Callen, or I will charge her with threatening the head of a Federal Task Force."

"Not if all three of us shoot you," he replied.

"If that's your idea of a sick joke, it's uncalled for," he said, but looked shaken. "He's joking…right? Agent Hanna?"

"We loaned you a perfectly good undercover agent, and you lost him," Sam said. "That doesn't sit well with us. It's sloppy. And if this turns out badly, you're the one who's going to be facing an inquiry. Now what the hell happened?"

"May I remind you that I took a red eye flight from DC to come here so I could personally inform you about your agent."

"Wow…Big sacrifice," Kensi snarked. "Too bad you don't know anything."

"I don't think you appreciate my position, and I certainly don't appreciate your insolence."

"Oh, we know who you are and what you are, Assistant Director Ferris," Admiral Kilbride said, pushing between Callen and Sam to confront the man. "What we don't know is why it took you so damn long to inform us about this boneheaded screwup and what you're doing to find my undercover agent."

"Like I said, the situation is fluid," Ferris replied.

"What did Deeks' handler have to say?" Sam asked.

The man looked away and seemed to lose some of his bravado. "We haven't heard from him."

"He's missing too?" Kensi asked, looking stunned.

"Sounds to me like you lost control of your own task force," Callen said, taking a step into the man's personal space.

"So again…what the hell happened?" Sam asked, raising his voice this time.

…

He slipped back into consciousness, his illusive dreams swirling away like mist on a cold morning. His sense of them made him smile, even though he couldn't quite remember any of the details. But there was one. A woman's lips. Warm. Soft against his ear. A whisper of words he couldn't recall.

"Someone loves me," he whispered to himself as he looked out over the land.

It was barely light, but he could see that the storm had passed. He searched the sky for any sign of the drone from yesterday, but there was nothing. No one looking for him. Not in the sky and not on the ground. He felt encouraged, yet not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The gash in his side had stopped bleeding and his head didn't hurt quite as bad, but his ribs screamed when he tried to sit up. He blew out a couple of breaths and waited until the pain subsided. It was cool, so he decided to strike out before the sun rose. He crawled out and surveyed the area, cringing at its barrenness. There was barely any color to the landscape. It was just a pale, boring beige. Scraggly creosote bushes sprouted here and there, along with an occasional stubby cactus. Tumbleweeds rolled off in the distance as a breath of wind caught them. The cliffs behind him were chalky gray and stark. He really did hate the desert, and guessed he always had.

It would get hot now that the storm had passed, so he needed to get moving. He followed the line of rocky outcroppings toward the highest point he could see, always hoping for any sign of civilization, or water. His mouth and throat were dry, and he knew if he didn't find water soon, he would be in even more trouble than he already was.

When the sun broke, the heat became oppressive, and he stopped to catch his breath. He heard the trickle of runoff before he saw it. The water was almost clear as it tumbled down through a rocky crevice, and he smiled for the first time that morning. He cupped his hands to catch it, splashing his face and cleaning the blood from his hands before taking in mouthfuls of the much-needed water. It wasn't cold, and tasted slightly alkaline, but it was good. A lifesaver. As he sat beside the tiny stream of water, his mind flashed with images of surfing. He reached out to steady himself, shocked by the vivid memory.

"I surf. Awesome."

Then a name floated through his mind. "Kensi."

He whispered it and smiled. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so she must be his girlfriend. She had been in his dreams. It was her lips whispering in his ear. He struggled to remember whatever he could about her, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. But other memories followed, and he smiled.

"Sam. Hetty…and someone or something to do with the letter G," saying it out loud brought such relief, even though there were no faces to go with the names, "I'm a cop…I think. And I am a good guy. Now all I have to do is figure out where the hell I am and why."

A darker memory shook him, and he sucked in his breath. This wasn't the first helicopter crash he'd been in. The one his memory had released brought with it an old feeling of anguish. He had come close to losing someone he cared about, he just couldn't remember who.

"Shit."

The soft clank of bells made him turn and look down the slope. Three goats were winding their way to a shallow pool that had formed from the runoff. Two began drinking, but the third stared at him with alien-looking eyes. It bleated at him a couple of times, introducing himself or warning him off. He wasn't sure, but they were a good sign. Someone had to be around to take care of these animals. When they finished drinking, they all stared at him for a moment before heading up a narrow track that skirted the cliff beside him.

"Wait up, guys..."

He kept the slow-moving goats in sight, their bells giving him hope that someone would be waiting for them at the end of the trail. When the path began to climb higher and passed through a notch in the rocks, he lost visual, but could still hear the bells. He paused at the crest of the track to scan the land.

"Sonofabitch. I think this is an island."

The sea stretched out before him, ending in a line of low, pale lavender hills in the distance. Too far to swim to. He turned to look back toward where he had come from and could just make out the burned-out husk of the helicopter. He saw no boats. No houses either.

He muttered a curse and a voice in his head echoed a response. "Don't lose the goats."

It made him smile, because it was damn good advice. He started walking, finally coming upon the goat who had stared at him earlier. It appeared to have waited for him.

"I'm coming, buddy," he said with a laugh. "I just hope you know where you're going, and there's someone at the end of the trail who knows where the hell I am."

…

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