Proving Ground

Chapter 2

He whispered a curse under his breath, and shivered. It was cold, and the hulking concrete walls that loomed over him only added to the chill. There was no visual warmth either, unless you counted some occasional splashy graffiti. Only a few intrepid taggers practiced their art down here. It was a grey world, hard, unwelcoming, and sometimes dangerous. A few alleys were temporary hangouts for the homeless that frequented these streets, and they weren't friendly. After a furtive assessment they would avert their eyes as he passed by, and no smiles softened their rugged faces. He pulled his hood up over his head, trying to keep the cold air from the back of his neck, but it didn't seem to make much of a difference, and he shivered again.

After Mosley had laid out her plans for this insulting little exercise, he'd contacted Bates to see who was still in play from his days undercover for the department. At first, he hadn't believed him when he'd explained it wasn't a real op, just a test of his skills. When he was finally convinced, the lieutenant made a crack about his overrated charm not working as well as he thought it did, and apparently not at all on Mosley. He groused a bit more about Federal alphabet agencies, then growled out a laugh and said he had real police work to do and hung up, leaving him on his own.

With no help from Bates, he'd decided to go to a dive bar Max used to frequent and found Rascal and Bobby, a couple of low level flunkies that knew the lay of the land, and had caught him up on who was doing what. He'd bought them a few beers and shared stories about his latest stint in the lovely Nevada prison system. They'd asked no questions, simply took his word for it. But then, most of the people he'd known as Max Gentry were always careful not to dispute anything he said. There was always the imminent risk of serious injury with Max. Violence draped his shoulders just as comfortably as the signature leather jacket he wore. He had cultivated that reputation by spreading the rumors himself, and by the time he'd actually come on the scene, his legend was already in place. Early on he'd done violent things to enhance it, but now Max Gentry was a well known hard-ass it was best to avoid unless you needed his talents, at least down here. In the rarified air of Executive Assistant Director Mosley's world, not so much.

Being Max, even for a short amount of time, changed his perspective. Max was a loner, something Deeks hadn't been for quite some time. He hadn't wanted to revisit the turmoil that character put his emotions through, but Mosley couldn't be dissuaded. She'd rejected every argument against him going under as Max. They only seemed to harden her resolve to test him in that particular alias. Once he'd agreed to it, she'd smiled that gloating smile of hers, making him wonder if she wasn't a practicing dominatrix on weekends. Whatever she was, he'd had no choice except to do as ordered, and that had left a sour taste in his mouth that still remained.

It was late, and he was tired. Rascal had offered to drop him at his place after the confrontation with his teammates, but he'd declined, not wanting them to know that he had no place to stay. The long, cold walk had given him time to think and assess, but it gave him no joy to recall his run in with Sam and Callen. The whole thing had pissed him off, even though he knew what Sam had done carried no malice. Intellectually, his actions made perfect sense, but he also knew they hadn't been necessary. Sam had known that too, yet he had followed Mosley's orders. He realized that's what had hurt the most, although his abdomen was sore and the small cut on his cheek still stung, a painful reminder of their first meeting all those years ago.

The clash with Callen and especially with Sam had created a sense of separation, and it had made him wild. In that one moment he had become their adversary, on the wrong side of the law and of a weakened friendship. The urge to taunt them had been overwhelming and he had given into it without a thought, Max's strong personality overshadowing his normal rationality. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting at the meet, maybe not realizing that even though it was a fake op, that the two partners would play it for real. Mosley sure as hell was. She had been on comms with them. He was sure of that, so questions remained.

Callen had told him to take a swing at Sam, but was that for his benefit or for Sam's? Did Sam need that as an excuse to hit him? Twice? Had his own response been Max acting out or himself feeling betrayed? He'd always thought of Max as a separate person, but he knew that wasn't really true. Deep down lay a darkness of soul, an inheritance he'd struggled with his whole life. He'd dredged it all up when he created Max, recalling memories that brought back the emotional pain of his childhood. Behaving like his father had always felt like a betrayal of who he'd strived to become. Yet violence came easily to him, and was a disturbing reminder that he was still his father's son. As much as he might hate his alias, there was a part of him that liked the wildness Max's persona allowed. Max didn't have to watch what he said or follow the rules. He didn't take shit like tonight from anybody. He was an agitator with a hair trigger, and he carried a grudge if crossed. Sam had crossed that line tonight, and whatever ground they had gained after surviving Sidorov felt as if it were in jeopardy. It made him sad now that he had time to think about it.

"You're an asshole and a real sonofabitch, Max," Deeks breathed out. "But right now, you're all I got."

He stopped and briefly looked up at the sky before closing his eyes as the scene with Sam replayed itself in his mind. He mentally pushed back against his alias, searching for the point where he'd allowed Max's reaction to become his own. Mosley might be able to order him around, but he was damned if he was going to allow his own alias to ruin a friendship he'd gone through hell to build.

Mosley had given him a burn phone with her private number in it. He'd been instructed that it was only for receiving her orders, and was not to be used to contact anyone else, warning that she would know if he did. He smiled. He'd taken the phone, but as soon as he hit the street he'd picked up another burner from a shady vendor who operated out of the back of a massage parlor.

"Lady…I got contacts you ain't never heard of," Deeks said with Max's insolent intonation.

He jogged across the unlit street and headed for the all night cafe up the block. It was a seedy place with a silly name in flickering neon, but for a trio of twenties the owner let him use a locker in the kitchen. He'd stashed his go-bag and burner phone there, along with a gun and extra cash, threatening the owner and crew about the consequences should they get the dumb idea of rifling it.

He wasn't stupid. He knew Mosley was having him tailed. It was the only logical way she could assess his undercover abilities. Whoever she'd assigned, he was good. He hadn't seen him, but he knew he was there. But, if he followed him into The Jolly Cup, he'd spot him and the owner would alert him if it was somebody he didn't know. The men and occasional prostitute who hung out there this late at night had a particular haunted look, and carried themselves a certain way. You didn't mess with them. This was Max Gentry's stomping ground. He'd operated out of this little cafe several times, and unless Mosley had someone hack LAPD's undercover case files, he doubted she would know that.

"Hey, Max," Cumpsky called out warily as he entered. "Beer or coffee?"

"Coffee and pie," he replied, his eyes skimming over the others nursing drinks or the remains of a late meal.

He walked to the far end of the greasy blue formica counter where it curved around to face the door. From there he could look out past the neon beer signs in the windows and watch for anyone approaching. A couple of patrons moved off when he sat down, his reputation obviously spread around by the owner or the short order cook. That was fine with him. He drank down half of the scalded coffee and left his pie while he headed into the back to get his personal burn phone from the locker. When he came back, he saw that several men had left, giving him even more privacy. The pie was lemon meringue, and it was as good as he remembered. When he finished, Cumpsky topped off his coffee and moved to the opposite end of the counter. He checked the street for parked cars, worried about surveillance, but saw nothing. A large empty asphalt parking lot stretched out beyond the cafe to a string of one-story warehouses. There wasn't enough cover for someone to photograph him on the phone, even with a long lens. Nevertheless, he held the phone below the counter when he punched in the number, covering it with his hand as he lifted it to his ear.

"Who is this?" She demanded, pausing when he remained silent. "Deeks?"

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" He finally asked softly. "It's going on one in the morning. You get grumpy when you don't get your beauty sleep."

"Are you okay? Did something happen?" The questions rushed out and he could hear voices in the background.

"You mean other than getting a beat down by a guy I thought was a friend?"

"I had a few words with Sam and Callen about that," Kensi said tightly.

"They're both there, yeah?"

"Nell and Eric too."

"Put Sam on," Deeks said.

He stared out the window as he tried to think of what to say, his rational mind warring with the anger that simmered inside Max Gentry.

"Deeks."

"Sam. You guys celebrating kicking my ass?"

"Something like that," Sam replied, sounding hesitant. "You okay?"

"Having the time of my life," he replied flippantly.

"Well, watch your back. Mosley had my boat under surveillance. Some guy from Homeland."

"Seriously?"

"G thinks Mosley wants to catch us going against her orders and helping you," he replied.

"Like tonight?"

"I wasn't trying to hurt you, Deeks," he replied.

"Coulda fooled me."

"You tried to hit me. Remember?"

"Sorry I missed."

"Deeks…"

"Gotta go," he said in Max's surly voice. "A couple of old friends just showed up."

This wasn't good. He swore under his breath, and slid the phone into his pocket, freeing his right hand in case the upcoming conversation went south. Back in the day, Max Gentry had spent three long months working along side the two hard-nosed criminals coming towards him. His information had sent them and their bosses to prison, but apparently not for long enough. He'd been arrested right along with them, so he was fairly certain they didn't know he'd been a cop. But, you never know, so he pulled his weapon and silently placed it on the counter beside his coffee cup. The move made them pause and raise their hands to indicate they wanted no trouble, so he nodded coldly at them, but kept the weapon where it was.

"Yo, Max. Thought we was friends, dude."

"Fuentes. Baldo," he replied, alert for any sudden movement.

"Rascal told us you made parole," Fuentes said as he slid onto a seat at the counter.

"As usual, he got it wrong," Max said. "Served my full stretch."

"Why they ship you to Nevada?" He asked.

"Not sure that's your business, man."

"You never did trust nobody," the man replied as he motioned to Cumpsky.

After two beers were set down in front of them and the two men indulged, Max decided to try and find out why they had come looking for him.

"Got into a little drama in the chow hall in lockup here. COs wrote me up as a troublemaker. Can you believe that?" he offered with a quick grin. "Bastards shipped my ass out to the desert. Damn, I hate the desert. The yard was like high noon in Death Valley."

"Rascal says you got slammed by some Feds tonight," Fuentes said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Thought you was stupid to swing on one of 'em."

"Yeah, maybe," he agreed. "But they pissed me off."

"Assaultin' a Fed ain't smart, man," Baldo chimed in.

"They had no reason to hassle me," he shot back. "Now…you want to tell me why you came all the way down here to get in my face about something that's got nothing to do with you?"

"Bobby said the Feds had questions about a hijacking," Fuentes said, turning to look at him. "Need to know what you know about that."

"Why's that?" Deeks was suddenly very cautious, retreating into his alias's paranoia.

"Cause it was an inside job and you ain't inside," Fuentes said.

"Those Feds we're fishing," Max said coldly. "Rascal and Bobby shoulda told you that."

"Or you was lyin'," he suggested.

Max shot out of his seat and grabbed Fuentes by the throat, his gun pointing right at his cousin, "Don't even think about it, Baldo."

"Let me make this real clear, asshole," Max growled, swinging the gun over and pressing the muzzle against the man's cheek. "I'm not interested in going back to jail, especially not a Federal pen. If you and whoever you're tied up with want to risk your asses, that's on you. I'm just minding my own business."

"Yeah, Max. Sure. Sorry, dude," Fuentes said, putting his hands in the air and smiling nervously.

"You ever call me a liar again, I'll rip your balls out through your throat," he said low and mean. "And you know I ain't lying about that."

"Sure, Max. Sure. Didn't mean nothing," Fuentes said quickly.

Max shoved him away and brought his gun down beside his leg. Everyone in the cafe was silently watching him, afraid to move until he took a step back. He kept his eyes on the two men in front of him even as the remaining patrons made a hasty retreat out the door. When the place was empty Fuentes sat back down and finished his beer in one long, nervous swallow.

"Listen…the guys who pulled this off…they're the nervous type, you know?" Fuentes said. "They was contacted by some navy tech guy working outa China Lake. Told 'em he wanted to sell info on a shipment of missiles. Think they was called Tomahawks, or something like that."

"Why you tellin' me?" Max asked, as he sat back down and placed his gun on the counter.

"Job's done, dude," he replied. "Now they just lookin' to find a buyer and they don't want no fuck-ups. You know?"

"So which one shot his mouth off about me? Rascal or Bobby?" Max asked, letting his anger crackle through his words.

"You know Bobby…sometimes he don't know when to shut up," Baldo offered.

"Word got back to these guys and they ain't happy," Fuentes quickly added. "Don't like loose ends or the chance somebody might try and cut in on their deal."

"Is that a warning?" Max asked.

"Watch your back, Max," he replied. "These are serious dudes."

"Great," Deeks said, shaking his head at the turn in his "fake" assignment. "Go back and tell your friends I don't give a fuck about their little heist, and wish 'em luck in finding a buyer. Now get outa here."

He was having real trouble controlling his anger as he watched the two men leave. Mosley had lied to him, and had probably kept the truth of the hijacking from the team as well. Now he was in the middle of a dangerous situation that could get him killed and he had zero information on the people involved except for a couple of thugs who wouldn't know a missile from a grenade launcher. He watched until Fuentes drove off, then threw a ten on the counter, snugged his weapon behind his back, and headed into the kitchen to grab his stuff. This was no longer a safe place.

Peering out the back door, he cautiously checked his surroundings. Whoever had stolen the missiles had no good reason to want him taken out, but he wasn't about to take the chance and discount the possibility. They were obviously checking him out or they wouldn't have sent Fuentes. He and his good old cousin Baldo were well known, but second tier players. They were usually hired by more savvy men because they knew a lot of people and if you needed information they could get it. Somehow they had known he was at The Jolly Cup, and that bothered him. He tried to think if he had brought them here at some point, even though he was pretty sure he wouldn't have done that, especially back then. Right now, how they knew was less important than finding a place to hunker down and call Mosley. He needed to know as much as she did about the missile hijacking and who might be involved. There was no way she hadn't known about it when she sent him out here. Why she'd kept him and possibly the team out of it, he had no idea. It should be their case.

Huddling against the dumpster outside the back door, he pulled his phone and called an Uber. He didn't want to be tracked and ultimately found, and searched his mind for the perfect place to lay low. It had to be someplace he'd never used while working undercover for the LAPD. It had to be a place where a man like Max Gentry wouldn't stand out, and where Mosley couldn't find him, or anyone else for that matter. He thought of friends, but didn't want to put them in danger, which left hard-asses that owed Max a favor, but wouldn't sell him out for a few bucks. One of those hard-asses was a woman, and she ran a skanky escort service out of Boyle Heights. He'd given her a break when she was a hooker walking the streets of East LA and he was still working patrol. He'd even lent her money, which his partner at the time thought was the funniest thing he'd ever done, calling him a sucker for a sob story. He might have been, but she'd been on the streets too long and wanted out, and he'd helped her do that. Unfortunately, she hadn't gone straight at all, simply took a step up in the world and began running her own girls. Now he was hoping she'd give him a place to stay until he could figure out how much shit he was in.

He saw a small silver car slow down as it approached, but he waited until he was certain it was his ride and not someone prepping for a drive-by. When he checked the license plate and saw a hand wave out the window of the car, he moved quickly, jumping in the back seat. After names were exchanged, he gave the man two cross streets where he wanted to be dropped off, and told him to drive.

"I do not get many pick-ups in this area at night," the man said with a heavy accent.

"Yeah…not my favorite place either," Max replied. "Now listen up…I need you to drive as fast as you can without getting a ticket, and take the craziest route possible to the location I just gave you. And just so you know…I'm a helluva tipper."

The man floored it, the wheels of the small Toyota squealing as he turned the corner and sped through the dark streets. He made numerous turns until Deeks didn't even know where he was anymore, but from what he could see, they weren't being followed.

"You are running from police, yes?" The man asked as he drove with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other. "I am from Croatia. I understand this."

"No, not cops. Just trying to stay alive."

"Loši momci."

"How's that?"

"Bad guys," he laughed. "We had many, many bad guys in Croatia during war. After too. Don't worry. I will not let them catch us."

"Good to know, buddy. Thanks," He replied, sighing as he sunk back in the seat, relaxing as the world outside rushed by.

He toyed with the idea of calling Kensi again, but decided to wait until he was secure for the night. Checking in with Mosley would have to come first. He had a lot of questions, one of which was why she had lied to him. The other was, what now? He was angry and full of questions he needed answers to, but his first order of business was talking his way into the good graces of an old prostitute. He smiled, wondering what kind of reaction he would get from Kensi if she found out where he was spending the night. They'd promised no secrets, but this was one he thought he might want to keep to himself.

"Your stop is just here," the Croatian said.

Max fished some bills out of his pocket as the car pulled over at the intersection. He paid the driver a hefty tip, then grabbed his go bag and got out. It was going on two in the morning so there wasn't much traffic, but as he walked around the corner he saw a limo idling in front of the place he was headed for. So much for a low profile. Coming down the walkway was a longhaired blond in a bright pink dress and two Asians girls with incredibly short skirts and impossibly high heels. A man in a tuxedo held the limo door open while they all climbed in the back. He didn't watch them long, instead turning his eyes on the black woman standing at the entrance to the two-story apartment building. Her hair was a dull red, and slicked back from her forehead. She was wearing a white business suit with a low cut bright green shell beneath. Gold hoop earrings and a simple gold necklace caught the muted light from the glassed entryway. She looked different, but it was the same woman he remembered. The limo glided past him, and the woman followed it with her eyes until she saw him. She tilted her head, trying to place him, then laughed and put her hands on her hips.

"What the hell you doing comin' round here, Sugar?" she asked softly, but not terribly kindly.

"Wasn't sure you'd remember me," he replied, wondering if he was welcome.

"Recognize that mop of hair anywhere, Officer Deeks," she said. "Wearin' it longer and you got that grunge look goin', but you still mad hot, boy. You in trouble?"

"Need a place to hold up," he replied.

"I don't need no hassles here," she said. "Don't need the attention. You know what I'm sayin?"

"You owe me, Candy," he breathed out.

"Don't go by that name no more," she replied. "Changed it back to my real name. Orlena Raven."

"Seriously? Your real last name is Raven?" He asked with a cocky grin. "Or did you lift it from that club over on Olympic?"

"See you still a smart ass, Marty," she said, finally giving him a wide smile. "Okay, policeman. Get your sexy ass inside before somebody calls your friends."

The lobby of the building was cleaner than he expected, and painted a deep, disturbing purple. A gaudy chandelier hung from the ceiling. Orlena led him past the stairs and down a long hallway lined with closed doors toward the light coming from an office at the end. A purple velour couch greeted him when he entered, but other than that the decor was somewhat tasteful. Her desk was white and filled one end of the room.

"What kinda shit you got yourself into, Sugar?" Orlena asked as she shut the door. "Gotta be something nasty for you to show up here."

"Just need a place to stay for a couple of nights," he replied.

"You know I got a permit to carry a weapon, right?" She said as she settled herself behind her desk. "But I ain't really in the mood to use it if some dudes comes lookin' for you. Specially not tonight. So…how 'bout you tell me the damn truth? This is my livelihood, baby. Don't need it trashed over a cop did me a solid years ago, even one with a hot ass."

"I'm working undercover for NCIS," he said. "And, my usual crash pads might be compromised. No one will ever know I'm here."

She said nothing for a few minutes, assessing the information before opening a bottom drawer and pulling out a bottle of cognac. Expensive cognac.

"When I was on the street I didn't even know what cognac was, and couldn't have afforded it if I did," Orlena said as she poured two glasses. "I own this building now. And I like expensive things…clothes…booze…hell, even bought me one of them sporty foreign cars."

"I'm happy for you," he said, as he took the glass of cognac she offered.

"Listen, Sugar. I ain't got a clue what NCIS stands for. Don't want to. Now I know you ain't telling me everything, but this glass of fancy booze and the building we settin' in wouldn't have happened without you."

"Does that mean I can crash here?"

"If you don't mind sleeping in a room full of stuffed animals," she laughed. "One of my girls got pinched for drugs."

She stood and held up her glass in toast. He clinked his against it and they drained the fiery liquid to seal the pact.

"You still flying solo, Sugar?" She asked as she led the way down the hall to the stairs.

"Happy to say I'm not. Was lucky enough to find a woman who'd put up with me," he replied. "We're engaged. She likes my ass too."

"Bet you didn't tell her where you stayin' tonight," she laughed.

"No, but she'll be happy I'm staying safe."

"My girls ain't seen you yet," Orlena said with a short laugh as she handed him a key. "Best lock this door. They a curious bunch, and your ass still damn sweet. Once they get a look at you…game on, Sugar."

"So, not jaded then," he said, smiling softly.

"Say what?"

"Thought they would have seen it all by now," he explained.

"They young, baby. But hell, you still get my juices flowin'," she laughed.

She'd made a play from him the first time he arrested her, and every time after that. He'd laughed her off each time. The night he'd found her beaten bloody in an alley, he'd personally taken her to the hospital despite his partner's protests. While she was recovering, he'd visited her, and they'd found a connection. She'd come from a violent home, the same as him, only worse. He'd encouraged her to get clean and to try a new line of work before she ended up dead at the hands of some john. She'd laughed, but he saw the hope in her eyes. The next time he saw her, she asked him to help her get off the streets, and he did.

"Sleep well, Sugar," Orlena said, slapping him on the butt before leaving him standing in a small studio apartment with pink walls.

For the first time that night he relaxed, blowing out his breath as he dropped his go-bag on the floor and sank into an overstuffed armchair. There was a small kitchen and a fridge, but he had no energy to see if it held anything of interest. The bed looked soft and compelling except for being buried under a pile of colorful stuffed animals, the biggest a black and white panda propped against the pillows. He got his thoughts in order and pulled the phone Mosley had given him.

"Want to tell me about the hijacking? The real one out of China Lake?" He growled into the phone.

"How do you know about that?" It sounded more like an accusation than a question, and he fought to keep his anger under control.

"How do you think? A couple of douchebags Max Gentry knows showed up to warn me off. They know the players."

When she didn't reply, he realized he wasn't the only one pissed, and it lifted his spirits. This whole fake op thing had just gotten flipped on its head. He held the upper hand now and she knew it, at least he hoped she did. What she would do about it was another story.

"I have a team on it, so just stay off the radar and out of the way," she said. "I'm handling this."

"Seriously? Do you even know who pulled the job?" He asked, frustrated by her lack of trust. "Mosley. Come on. I can get inside their operation. Use me."

"I haven't seen anything that would warrant that, Detective Deeks," she replied. "This is a major case and I'm not convinced you have the skills to do anything other than screw it up."

"Wow."

The put down hit him hard even though he knew she had felt that way all along. He realized this should be the moment for her to end their little talk, but she didn't.

"You don't have anything do you?" He taunted. "You're just pissed I do."

"Watch how you talk to me, Detective Deeks."

"Call me Max," he said coldly. "Listen. I'm the one at risk here. There is no downside for you. I either give you a win, or I give you the reason you've been looking for to get rid of me."

She remained silent. He had pleaded his case and sat in a pink chair awaiting her verdict.

"I'll get back to you," she said and the line went dead.

"Sonofabitch."