Marty tended to think of his undercover aliases as recipes- he would bring in dozens of "ingredients" to create a brand-new, unique persona that suited his needs. In the case of Max Gentry, Marty had scraped together the dregs of lowlife beings everywhere- pimps, gangbangers, drug dealers and even murderers. Throw in some extra churlishness, callousness and lack of empathy for good measure, and out popped one of the worst thugs to dirty the streets of Los Angeles.

Assuming the role of a hardened convict like Gentry was highly dangerous, of course. Not only did the real criminals he affiliated with in this role have a tendency to maim or kill any disliked "co-workers", but Marty always ran the risk of being found out as a cop. In the L.A. underworld, being ratted out as any sort of law enforcement was almost always an instantaneous death sentence for the accused.

Then again, no cop would ever get the information Marty could get acting as a felon, and at this point he needed all the information that he could possibly get.

The dingy old pool hall-slash-bar Marty skulked up to was just about as notable as the cracked concrete around it- it was just another run-down establishment in a city chalk-full of them. Even the bar's name- Higher Timez- lent it absolutely no credence. Most people of the city walked or drove by the building without giving it even a first glance.

It was, however, the place to be if you were involved in criminal activity of any kind, hence it's other name- "The Business Center".

As Marty pushed the old wooden door open, accompanied by several annoyingly loud creaks, he made a quick scan of the room. It was just as he remembered- dirty, scuffed tables and booths jammed together with rickety chairs and barstools, threadbare carpet, faded posters, an overly large and cracked TV that spat out more static than it did the football game, and a motley assembly of men in pairs and groups, nursing various drinks of questionable nature and casting shifty glances around the darkened room. Even the smell was exactly the same as he remembered- a caustic mix of sweat and stale beer with hints of vomit and urine.

Ah, the Business Center.

Marty walked through the lounge with a swagger that would put a gangster to shame. He scanned the patrons with a practiced eye until he found a thin, dirty man with thick, crusty dreadlocks and small black eyes that flitted around constantly as he took swigs from his half-empty beer bottle. Without a word, Marty slid into the seat across from him.

"Whaddya got, Rat?"

Packrat, (no one actually knew his real name), gathered information in the way his namesake collected junk. He was well known all over the criminal underworld as the man who could find you any information you needed- for a price, of course. If anyone could dig up Nikolai's whereabouts, it was no doubt Packrat. The dingy man gave Marty a bored look from red-rimmed eyes.

"Money first, then I'll give ya the goods." Packrat rasped. His hoarse voice grated on Marty's ears.

Marty pulled out a thick wad of cash from his ratty vest pocket and slid the money across the table. Packrat snatched the money up, did a brief yet thorough count, and then tucked the notes into one of the numerous pockets of his own vest and produced a think envelope from another grimy pocket. Packrat didn't hand it over right away, but rather pulled it close, drumming his fingers on the thick paper.

"This Nikolai guy, he ain't no easy find, Gentry. What's yer beef with 'im, anyway?"

Marty didn't respond. Instead, he fixed Packrat with an impatient glare, calmly waiting until the thin man shifted and looked away.

"Alrigh', alrigh', I got it- it ain't my business. Here." Packrat shoved the envelope across the table where Marty snatched it up as if it might suddenly disappear. He undid the tie holding the flap closed and pulled out a pack of papers and photos.

Much of the information was simply a repeat of the data Eric and Nell had pulled from the NCIS database, but Marty pretended that it was all new information to him- he couldn't very well say that he had seen this all before from federal files in a room full of cop killers.

Instead, Marty rummaged through the papers as if each word was critical information he had never seen before. Meanwhile, his desperation grew as the pile of papers diminished, and he feared greatly that he was being thrown back to square one, and 2000 grand short. Just then, two pieces of paper, previously unnoticed, fell out of the stack and onto the table. The first piece, fairly large, turned out to be a map of the San Gabriel Mountains north of Los Angeles. It was quite sparse- little more than a physical map. What writing was noticeable was in what looked like Hebrew to Marty. The second piece of paper was considerably smaller, a photo of newspaper written in Hebrew. Looking closer, Marty noticed that several of the symbols and words were circled in light pencil- hardly noticeable, but it was there.

"What the hell is this?" he asked Packrat, flashing the two papers. The man shrugged.

"Dunno. My… guy in Nickolai's gang found it on the dude's desk. It was clipped to that map, and the circles. Figured it could be useful. Ya know, if you want it translated, I know a guy…"

"…Who would charge me some goddamned overpriced fee to take care of it. Forget it, Rat. Ain't gonna give you anymore dough than I need to." Marty scooped up the papers and placed them back into the envelope. Packrat gave a sarcastic salute with his now-empty mug.

"Always a pleasure doin' business, Gentry."

…..

Marty didn't waste any time getting back to Ops. He scanned the newspaper article and the map and sent both off an email. Thirty minutes later, Eric appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Deeks, you've got a call."

As Marty started up the stairs, he found himself flanked almost instantly by Sam and Callen. They didn't say a word, but he could tell by the look on their grim faces that his departure back into the criminal underworld would at some point be a very serious topic of discussion.

When he stepped past the sliding doors of the Ops center, Marty was greeted by the enlarged face of a rather striking woman framed by the main screen. She appeared tired- the sweatshirt she wore fit loosely, her long, dark brown curls were in disarray, and there were dark circles under her brown eyes. Nevertheless, she leaned forward, a sharp intensity in her unwavering gaze. Despite marriage and triplets, Ziva David-DiNozzo still carried more than a hint of her old Mossad training.

"Agent David-DiNozzo, thank you for responding so quickly on such a short notice." Marty said formally. The NCIS agent nodded curtly.

"Please, call me Ziva." The woman's voice was soft, yet held a strength that few people in the world had. "And anything to help find Kensi and bring her back safely is worth every second of my time." The "pleasantries" done, Ziva shifted her gaze to what Marty assumed were copies of the newspaper and the map. She lifted a copy of the newspaper to the screen.

"This is part of a newspaper, however, as you suspected, it is not the article that is relevant, but rather the circled words- they are all numbers. The numbers would make no sense if you were to read them as you would read Hebrew, that is, right-to-left. However, if you were to read them left-to-right, they create coordinates corresponding to the map. I- No, Tali!" Ziva suddenly ducked out of the screen and, after a rapid mix of Hebrew and English, came back up holding a squirming infant in her arms. The little girl, whom Marty remembered was blind, wriggled unhappily and chanted "nonononono!" until Ziva tucked her close to her chest and hummed. Within seconds Tali had calmed down. Ziva turned back to the screen.

"My apologies. I could not leave my children alone, not with Nikolai at large."

Marty nodded quickly. "Of course, I understand completely." Something in his throat knotted at the sight, and for the briefest moment Kensi- smiling, happy and whole- took Ziva's place. Swallowing past the lump, he rasped, "Please, tell me what you found."

Ziva's brown eyes were soft, and in the briefest of moments, he saw empathy within their depths that he had seen nowhere else. She clearly understood what he was going through. "Yes, yes, of course. When I looked at the copy of the map that you sent to me, the coordinates created a sort of rectangle around this area. Here, let me show you" She reached around the now-sleeping baby and typed a few commands. Eric's computer beeped, and he reached over to send the picture to a secondary screen where everyone in the room could see it. The map that Marty had found earlier was now marked with a thick red rectangle, with dots at each corner. Each dot had hand-written coordinates next to it, and a line underneath was marked "15 mi".

"You have it?" Ziva asked and Marty nodded. "Good. As you can see, the coordinates created a rough rectangle in the mountains. It's a thirty-mile square area near a forest road. In that area there are a series of ridges and valleys that could easily conceal a small building from satellite. Beyond that, I cannot tell you anything more- I am truly sorry. Please, let me know if there is anything, anything I can do for you and Kensi Mr. Marty."

"Thank you Agen- Ziva." Then, on a whim, he added, "I know it's not really my business, but please kee- keep safe." Ziva gave him a weak smile and a nod, and then reached over to turn off the video.

Eric maneuvered the map up to the main screen, typed in a few commands on his computer and superimposed a satellite picture from the internet over Ziva's map. With a few deft keystrokes, the tech pulled Ziva's hand-drawn rectangle with the coordinates onto the satellite photo and blew the 30 square mile area she had found up so that it was blown up at least two or three times what had been seen on the original map. Sam moved up next to Sam and stared it over with brooding eyes, until suddenly he jerked his finger in the direction of a small shadow visible on the left hand side of the screen.

"There. See that ridge? Eric, blow it up." Eric, following Sam's finger, enlarged the area he indicated until a rocky ridge came into view on the screen. The image started out as blurry, but after a few clicks of his computer keys, Eric sharpened the image until it looked like they were right on top of dips and peaks. Sam rubbed his thick chin until he nodded sharply. "Yeah, right there. Look." He tapped the shadowed area. "It's far enough from that road there to be hidden, yet close enough that he can get in and out without too much trouble. Looks like it's about a half hour from Filmore- he can get supplies there when he needs them."

"Hold on," Eric said quickly. He tapped a few keys, clicked his mouse, tapped a few more keys, and suddenly the rectangle faded along with the greens and browns of the terrain, replaced by the unnatural colors of a thermal map. Much of the area showed no activity, but hidden away in Sam's ridge was a red glow, square in shape, the right size and shape of a small building. Marty' eyes narrowed, and he indicated to Eric to print out the coordinates, satellite image and driving directions. When Marty got the printouts, Callen nodded.

"Alright, let's go get Kensi back."

…..

Although the drive was supposed to be a little over an hour in length, the team was at a warehouse-type building- the established rendezvous point- within fifty minutes. Using the building, the car was left behind in favor for ATVs modified for silence. After gearing up, Marty, Callen, Sam and five LAPD SWAT officers drove the remaining few minutes until they felt they were too close and proceeded on foot. With rifles clenched close to reduce noise and communication reduced to only hand signals, they surrounded the tiny, secluded cabin, aiming their weapon's muzzles at the rough-hewn logs. Sam gave the signal, and the eight men rushed the building. Roaring, they cleared each room, finding nothing other than a room that had been recently vacated. Just as they were about to leave and check the outside, Marty opened a door and found a basement section.

"Guys!" he hissed, jerking his gun in the direction of the downward-leading steps. Callen and Sam left the SWAT officers to secure the outside of the building and followed Marty down the stairs, their combat boots sounding overly loud in the quiet gloom. As they descended further and further, an uneasy feeling grew in Marty's gut, threatening to overwhelm him as the stench of unwashed body and old blood filled the air. They swept past the first open door that led to nothing more than a storage room. The second door was locked and closed, and when they rammed it open, the stench of decaying body hit them like a wave. Marty couldn't see much, since Sam pushed him back so that Callen could enter the room. It took the senior agent only seconds to confirm that the body was thankfully not Kensi's. Marty let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding.

It wasn't until they reached the third and fourth rooms that Marty realized the full extent of what had happened to his partner. The third room was filled with manacles hanging from the ceiling, stained with what looked uncomfortably like old blood. Sweat, blood, burned flesh and unwashed body odor filled the air, accompanied with the unmistakable tang of fear and pain. Marty almost ran over his companions in his haste to get out of the terrifying area. By mistake, he stumbled into the fourth room, where he found a ragged mattress that had been torn apart to get at the box springs. In the thick dust and dirt in the room, he saw the unmistakable marks of footprints- one of a normal woman's footprint of Kensi's size and one that had been dragged as if the limb had been damaged. The prints led out of the room and back into the dim hallway and up the stairs.

She had gotten out. She was hurt, hunted and weak, but she was alive and free.

Marty wasted no time in meeting up again with Sam and Callen, pointing to the prints on the floor. Not a word was said. The men knew what needed to be done. There was no sign of Nikolai, and it was clear that he was also after Kensi. It had become a race. With a clipped, curt conversation, the NCIS team members informed the officers of what was going on, and the eight enforcement members set out into the woods, tracking the faint impressions made in the dirt.

They walked for an hour, spread out in a loose 'V' formation, tracking the distinct prints until they hit a rocky patch and abruptly disappeared. Marty was turning around to re-trace his steps when he heard a heavy shuffling noise behind him. Swinging his body around sharply, he saw a shadow flit across two trees, heading towards him. He raised his gun, steadying himself, and bellowed, "LAPD! Put your hands on your head and come out slowly where I can see you!" The figure paused, and then stumbled towards him in a lumbering gait. He aimed his weapon and was about to fire when a hoarse voice called out his name and then a body crashed through the undergrowth, landing limply at his feet.

It was Kensi.


Whew! I got it done! I'm working on this story and a story in response to Ziva's leaving on NCIS. (And yes, I'm so unhappy that happened, although the Tiva kiss was awesome!)

Don't worry, I'll keep working on this! It's getting towards the end, probably two or three chapters.

Please review!

Yeah, sure, you becha!