A/N: I made you wait for the last chapter, so this one's a little bit early to make up for it. Also, this is where I encourage you to reread the author's note in Chapter 1 so you're not surprised by any potentially triggering content. Things take a momentarily dark turn here.

Marty's tumbling thoughts had kept him up late in the guest bedroom at Carmen's cover apartment. The danger he faced sat foremost in his mind, but accompanying it was his responsibility to his "partner," as Carmen had referred to him. How she could entrust her safety into his shaky hands boggled his mind. She must be incredibly brave or totally foolhardy, or maybe both. Or maybe she hadn't had a choice in the matter, and had to risk her life because Bates, or some higher up at LAPD, had decided it was the right move.

The memory of her lips on his kept distracting him from his worries. Of course, Carmen had just been doing her job, but he had to acknowledge how attractive he found her. She was a lovely woman, but her courage and obvious undercover skills were at least as much of a turn-on as her long curls and curvy but strong figure. The way she'd effortlessly transformed herself into Maria had made his head spin. It had been like working with an award-winning actress, not a cop, and he couldn't stop rewinding their pretend conversation in his head to analyze how she'd behaved, the choices she'd made, and where his reactions might have fallen short.

Eventually he'd fallen asleep, only to wake at his usual surfing time, just before six in the morning. Today he would contact Sergei Petrov and find out whether the Russians would take him up on his offer. His brain seemed to have continued ruminating as he slept, for he woke with a clear-eyed determination to do everything in his power not to let his partner down, and to try to handle the intimacy of their situation with as much professionalism as Carmen exhibited. To do anything less would be disrespectful, so he resolved to keep his considerable charms under tight control.

Over a quick breakfast, Carmen offered encouragement and reminded him to be himself and let his real emotions show on the call to Petrov. And to refuse to meet anywhere but a safe public space. He made the call from the kitchen table with Carmen listening in.

When the Russian came on the line, Marty told him, "This is Marty Deeks. You know, the attorney you've been trying to kill."

"I think you must have the wrong number."

Marty's stomach dropped at the possibility that their gambit would fail. Before the Russian could hang up on him, he said, "Listen, I'm sorry I interfered. I just couldn't let that woman get killed. Please, you gotta let me make it up to you. I have a friend who can get information that could help you. I don't care about your operation, I swear to god I don't. I just want my life back. Let's make a trade- my life for inside info from the LAPD."

The silence on the other end left his heart in his throat. Finally Petrov said, "I do not know what you are talking about." Marty's mind raced to come up with a response that could convince the man to entertain his proposition when he heard, "I do not think we should talk again." Before Marty could say anything more, the line went dead. He looked up at Carmen, expecting to see disappointment coloring her features, but she projected calm.

"It's OK, Marty. He had to worry the call was being monitored by LAPD. He couldn't say more. You laid out the bait, now we wait and see if they take it."

She stood and picked up her own phone to call in a report to Bates, who broke the news that the second attacker from Marty's apartment had died overnight, meaning he really had no other choice but to continue with their crackpot plan. He shoved another wave of guilt back down and tried hard to focus on the task at hand: doing everything he could to maximize the chances of Carmen and him surviving the op, if there even turned out to be one.

During the call with Bates, they had decided that Marty would proceed with his day as usual and head to his office to pick back up with his cases, while he waited for a callback from Petrov. The day turned out to be refreshingly quiet, not that he could relax knowing his enemies were still out there, plotting to either use him or kill him. He picked up take-out for dinner and took it over to Carmen's. They had decided it wouldn't hurt for him to be seen at her place, especially since the bad guys might not have witnessed their dramatic discussion on the pier and might need more help learning about Maria's presence in his life. Around eleven, as he was getting ready to try to get some sleep, an unknown number rang his phone. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

A voice with a Russian accent said, "We do not trust you, but we are interested in hearing more about your offer. Meet us tomorrow night in the parking lot of Club Moscow-"

Marty cut in, familiar with the secluded meeting place. "No. How stupid do you think I am? It needs to be someplace I'll feel safe, someplace public." His mind churned with some of the locations he'd discussed with Bates and Carmen, but in the end he went with his own safe space. "How about the beach? I'll come in my swim trunks and you'll be able to make sure I'm not wearing a wire."

After a pause, the voice on the other end said, "Saturday, ten AM. On the rocks at the end of the beach in Marina del Rey."

Before he could agree to the new terms, the line went dead.

A few days later, Marty paced back and forth along the wave line at the end of the beach that fronted the marina, where the long straight berm built out of concrete and piles of boulders formed the channel for boats to enter and exit the man-made harbor. The public setting offered some safety, but it lacked the crowds of the Santa Monica Pier, or any of the dozen other places he'd have preferred. Still, LAPD had been able to set up surveillance with two men in overwatch from a nearby condo roof, still too far away as far as he was concerned. One handled a directional microphone to try to pick up the conversation over the crashing waves, while the other wielded a rifle to hopefully watch his back. Another pair of cops lay out in bathing suits on a nearby blanket, while several others fished behind the breakwater in the stiller waters flowing in and out of the marina. They couldn't see what was happening but were close and could come on the run if needed.

Marty was a ball of nerves as he tried to focus on not screwing up the operation, as well as on his personal safety. Of course, he hoped to avoid getting killed, but the pressure he felt primarily related to not wanting to disappoint the people working with him.

He wore no wire, not even an earwig, as the cops assumed he'd be thoroughly searched. He was clad only in his swim trunks, and felt more vulnerable by the minute. He glanced down at his watch. Ten after ten. Maybe they wouldn't show. Or maybe they had their own sniper nearby waiting to line up a shot. No, he was being paranoid. He needed to calm down. Don't panic. Just relax. He allowed the sun's warmth to permeate the tense muscles in his shoulders, and he rolled his neck and turned to focus on the waves. He closed his eyes and let the rhythmic sounds wash over him as he breathed deeply of the fresh salty air. The ocean had always been his happy place, and he tried to let it center him now.

His mother had brought him to the beach every now and then when he was a child. He'd always loved it there. He enjoyed playing in the waves and building sand castles and just having a day without his father where they could both relax. His father hated the beach with its messy sand, crying children, and baking sun, so he always chose to spend the day with his buddies down at the local watering hole instead.

When Marty was thirteen and his older buddy Ray could finally drive, they'd driven down through one of the canyon roads to Malibu. To him, it was a magical place. He never tired of making the transition from the heat and flatness of Reseda through the rugged, winding hills that spilled him downward and out to the sea, with its cool breezes, open vistas and hidden coves. The drive of a few miles was like being transported to a whole other world.

Ray had friends who surfed, and they tolerated his presence, lending him a spare board to experiment with. Considering the lack of instruction, he quickly picked up the basics, and he couldn't get enough of being out on the water. It would come to be his church, the place he found peace and maybe the presence of things greater than himself. The place where he could almost convince himself that his life was worthwhile, that maybe he could make something of himself. That maybe there was a point to it all. Of course he couldn't have described it that way at thirteen, but the keen sense of freedom it brought was addictive, and he'd dreamed of someday living near the ocean, surfing every day, and being lulled to sleep by the waves every night.

"Morning," said a voice behind him. He turned, shocked at how close the stranger and his companion had been able to get without him sensing their approach. The two young men in their twenties sported builds closer to those of weight lifters than surfers. Both had straight, short hair, one a dull brown and the other a pale blond that looked bleached. They both wore swim trunks as he did, and carried towels.

"Morning," Marty replied, reflexively taking a step back as his heart rate skyrocketed. It dawned on him that the bleached hair looked familiar, and he suddenly remembered that one of the shooters at the jewelry store had had such hair. Had this man or his friend been the one who had shot him?

"Time to take a little swim," the brown-haired man said with a Russian accent as he gestured toward the water.

Marty couldn't help but scan the few sunbathers scattered on the beach as he wondered if any of them who weren't undercover cops would care if these two men killed him right there. As he hesitated, the blond pulled his towel back slightly, revealing a gun. "Now," he said.

"OK, sure," Marty told them as he started walking into the surf. The men placed their towels on the sand and followed him into the water. When Marty got out to waist-high waves he paused and turned to face them, awaiting their further instructions.

"Under," said the blond as he pointed downward with his hand. Marty quickly dunked himself underwater, but as he began to pop back up, he felt hands pressing downward on his shoulders and head. He panicked and kicked out, making contact with one man's knee. He felt the pressure lift and jumped up and away.

"Chill out, man," said the brown-haired man. "We just need to make sure you are not wearing a wire. Pietyr here is going to search you. I need you to relax and let him do his work, or else we are out of here and any hope you had to make a deal is gone. Got it?"

A chill ran through him. He was wearing only his swim trunks. There wasn't much to search. He stepped back from the men and asked, "Wouldn't the water have killed any surveillance equipment?"

The brown-haired man said, "Probably, but we want to know if you have any on you. We need to make sure you are not trying to betray us." Marty was trapped, unable to argue. He steeled himself and raised his hands in surrender.

Pietyr told him, "Put your hands down, man, we are just three friends hanging out in the water. Smile." Pietyr himself offered a wide grin as he approached.

Marty lowered his hands but couldn't come close to mustering a smile as he braced himself, his jaw clenched as he hoped that he'd only be groped and that neither man would pull out a knife and stab him in the back. Pietyr gestured to the still-angry scar on Marty's bicep, telling him, "That looks like a gunshot wound, doesn't it, Lev?" When his partner didn't reply, Pietyr looked at Marty and added with a raised eyebrow, "You've been a naughty boy, I think."

Marty elected to keep the smart remark running through his head to himself and remained silent as Pietyr slid behind him and crouched lower in the water so that his arms dipped completely below the surface. Marty braced himself for the man's next move as rough hands began to dip into his swim trunks. He fought to control his reaction as everything in him screamed to fight, to stand up for himself and to knock their two heads together, but he forced himself to allow the violation. Pietyr was quick but thorough, causing a bitter anger to coil in Marty's stomach. When the man finished, he stepped back and Marty growled out, "What now?"

"Now," Lev said, "We go back onshore for a chat."

"Oh, but one more thing," added Pietyr as he moved to Marty's side. Without further explanation, the Russian reached over for his watch, pulled it off his wrist, and nonchalantly tossed it into the sea. "OK, now let's go back," he instructed.

Marty kept the annoyance of losing his watch at bay. At least it didn't have sentimental value. He breathed a small sigh of relief that he had survived what had to be the most dangerous part of the meet. After all, if they wanted to kill him, they'd just had the perfect opportunity. Now he needed to let go of what had just happened enough to concentrate on selling his story and on appearing reluctant to give up Carmen- no, Maria. Dammit, Marty, focus.

The men retrieved their towels and escorted him back to the boulders, where they handed him his own towel and forced him to take a seat close to the incoming waves, as far away from the buildings behind them as possible. Marty felt isolated and downright cornered, with water on one side and a wall of boulders behind him. They pulled out a cell phone from a towel and sent a quick text, and after another ten minutes, four other men approached. Two were older and wore dress slacks and dress shirts along with bare feet. The other two were equally well dressed but younger. They flanked the older men as if they were bodyguards.

Marty began to stand so he could meet the men at their level, but Pietyr's firm hand on his shoulder quickly spurred him to sit back down. As the group arrived in front of him, he looked up into the eyes of the second of the two older men and saw cold grey that told him without a doubt this was Nikolai's father. His natural inclination to make a smart remark to cut the tension was overridden by his fear of making a mistake. He waited for the men to start the conversation as Lev moved to his other side, leaving him surrounded.

"Do you know who we are?" Petrov's friend, the other older man, asked. He appeared to be the one in authority here, as Petrov took a position at his side but slightly behind. He had somber brown eyes under a thick unibrow, and short dark hair that had just begun to grey at the temple.

Marty hesitated, staring down at the man's gleaming gold watch as he weighed how much to share. He wanted to make sure he didn't reveal too much knowledge, thinking back to Bates' desire to keep the details out of his head. He replied, "I assume you're Russian, like your buddies here, and that you might know my ex-client Nikolai Petrov, but other than that, no, I don't know you."

"That is OK. What is important is what you can do for me. So tell me, Mr. Deeks, what is that, exactly?"

Marty gulped, suddenly aware that the day's danger hadn't actually passed, and that if these men didn't buy his story or see him as useful, they could stab him in the back before anyone could intervene.

"Like I said on the phone, I can get information that could help you avoid LAPD interference in your operation. In exchange, I'd simply ask that you, you know, not kill me."

Neither Petrov nor his apparent boss reacted other than to demand, "Tell me more."

"I have a friend who's an administrative assistant for the Organized Crime Task Force. She has full security clearance and access to information on all their ongoing operations."

"Why would she want to break the law and put herself at risk just to help you?"

Marty allowed himself a momentary cocky smile. "She loves me."

"Oh, really? How romantic. And you are willing to put her in such a, uh, difficult position?"

"Listen, man, I care about her, but neither she nor I want me to meet an untimely demise. The LAPD has done nothing to protect me. They say they can't help since I can't ID the shooters from the jewelry store, and unfortunately the two guys who broke into my house both died in the process. So my girl and I say, 'Screw 'em.' We need to do what we need to do to stay alive." Marty let his bitterness over his no-win situation imbue his words.

"Noble guy, huh?" the man said, more to Petrov than to Marty.

"I thought I was," Marty replied honestly, as he thought about how his best intentions to protect Sarah had gone awry. "Now I realize that nobility is a luxury for men whose lives aren't at stake."

"It is important to understand one's place in the world… I appreciate that you have realized yours."

Marty decided a little groveling wouldn't hurt, so he replied, "I have. I just want to stay alive and move on with my life."

"Very good, Mr. Deeks. Very good. In order to seal our deal, so to speak, we will need to meet with your significant other, the woman who is so willing to risk her life to save yours."

This request was expected, planned for even, but that didn't stop a slice of fear in his gut at the thought of putting Carmen in the middle of these dangerous men. He shook his head and declared, "No. No way. You don't need to talk to her, I can be your contact. I can't possibly put her in such a dangerous position."

The man in charge shook his own head in disappointment and replied, "Mr. Deeks, that is not a request. It is a requirement."

A strong protective instinct flooded over Marty and he replied without hesitation, "No. I won't do it."

The man sighed audibly and gestured to his bodyguards, who spread out slightly, blocking Marty off from any view of the beachgoers, and at the same time blocking the beachgoers from any view of Marty. They acted in silent communication as Pietyr grabbed Marty's arms and pulled them behind his back, spinning him slightly, while Lev slammed a punch into his side before Marty even knew what was happening. He doubled over and gasped in pain and surprise. He angrily tried to stand up to face them. One of the two bodyguards stepped closer and slammed him back down onto the rock, punching him in the mouth, while Lev unleashed several more punches to his ribs, leaving him breathless and stunned at the brazenness and speed of the attack.

When the blows had subsided, the man in charge stepped forward and told him, "Mr. Deeks, you do not have a choice. You tell me you want to live, you say your girl wants you to live. The way to stay alive is to follow our instructions. Otherwise you are of no use to us."

He sat trying to catch his breath as his ribs throbbed in complaint. He had no choice but to comply with their demand. Besides, this was the plan all along, to put Carmen in contact with these men and let him step away from the danger. But that didn't stop him from feeling like a schmuck and a traitor for giving her up. He found it difficult to keep the real plan straight in his mind. He couldn't help himself and tried again, saying, "Look, we can both come out of this with what we want. You get key intel that saves your business and keeps you out of jail. I get my life back. But I can't risk my girlfriend's life by letting you be in contact with her. I just can't."

"Mr. Deeks, it is too late for that. We already know who your girlfriend is. We know where the lovely Maria lives. You should not have been so careless as to let us follow you around."

Marty forced down a smile at the idea that they'd likely witnessed their scene on the pier, and that they had seemed to buy their whole ruse, but instead he let himself slump further down on the rocks, trying to show how defeated he was supposed to feel. After a moment, he replied, "OK. I'll bring her to a meeting in a public place like this, but you gotta, I don't know, bring some female goons to do the full on body search. There's no way I'll let you manhandle her. And if you frighten her too badly, she might bail on the whole plan. You gotta go easy on her, OK?" He couldn't help his pleading, genuinely anxious to protect Carmen in any way he could.

"Sure, Mr. Deeks. We want this to be a useful partnership. We only use more physical means of persuasion when we have no other choice. We will be in touch."

As the men began to turn to walk away, Pietyr released his arms and patted him on the cheek. "Good boy," he said with a grin as he left. Marty said nothing in response as he slid off the rock and down into the sand. He tried to catch his breath and assess his injuries while he wondered at how perfectly their plan had played out. He found himself shaken, but at the same time, the thrill of fooling the Russians brought an adrenaline rush he couldn't deny. He began to look forward to taking these men down and stopping them from hurting anyone else ever again.