Allies by WickedBlue

Warnings: h/c, swear words, torture, irate blonds and mean bad boys

Summary: NCIS Los Angeles – The Magnificent Seven ATF AU crossover: Callen's past as an undercover agent gets him into trouble.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta achillies-eel.

Chapter 2

Callen came to what must have been mere minutes later, and found himself being held up by two of Mayfield's goons in his office. His whole body hurt like hell, but he forced himself to look around and try to figure out how to get out of this situation. To his right, he could see two more of Mayfield's men keeping a tight hold on his attacker, who was struggling against the hold and looking, if possible, even more furious than before.

That man was a police officer or federal agent, and Mayfield wouldn't be pleased about him making trouble in his restaurant. Damn. Callen would have to try to get the man out of this. He was just a cop doing his job. Although he couldn't help but be a bit angry that the guy had attacked him like this; it seemed like this was personal for him.

Oh yeah, Mayfield was really, really angry. "What the hell is going on here, Collins?" he screamed furiously at Callen.

"You brought a cop here, you little bastard, into my house. What did you tell him?"

"Look, he's just confusing me with someone else. It has nothing to do with you, John. Just let him go, I'm sure he won't make any problems for you."

Even hurt, Callen was slipping easily into his Allen Collins persona as he tried to pacify the furious drug lord. To his right, he heard the blond snarling, "I know exactly who you are Darkov, you bastard. I've seen you in Kiev, and I never forget a face."

Damn, he would have to teach that cop a lesson in subtlety if they ever got out of here, Callen decided, trying hard to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Wouldn't do to make Mayfield even more suspicious, and that guy even angrier.

Turns out that it didn't take much. Mayfield, not happy with Callen telling him what to do, slapped him hard, making Callen's head ring even louder. Looking at his men, he ordered, "Throw them into the delivery van; I'll deal with them later. We need to leave before this place starts swarming with cops."

Shit, Callen thought when they were led to the back entrance of the building. The NCIS team didn't have anyone at the back. There would be nobody left here when his team finally noticed that something was wrong. He was pretty sure that they hadn't noticed him getting into trouble, or this place would already be swarming with agents.

And they wouldn't even know where to look for him.

Recognizing the seriousness of their situation, he started to struggle when they tried to drag him away. Unfortunately, there was not much strength left in him, and all it took was a final punch to his head to render him unconscious.

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Callen woke up lying in the back of a moving van. His wrists and ankles had been bound with duct tape, and his head was pounding like hell. He gave it up as a lost cause to try to make sense of the situation and just closed his eyes, again succumbing to the blackness surrounding him.

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It was cold water that woke him up the next time. Looking around, he saw that they were in a room he had never seen before. Mayfield stood in front of him, and he had six of his man with him. On a signal from their boss, two of them grabbed him and pulled him up, holding him between them.

"I like you, Collins," Mayfield began, stepping closer to Callen. "I've known you long enough to know that you're no traitor. Otherwise, I would have killed you already. You know people, and you have proven quite useful, so far; exactly what we need."

After a pause, he continued somewhat angrily: "But you brought a cop to my house and made me abandon it. I can't just let this go."

Looking at his men, he ordered, "Get this son of a bitch out of my face and teach him a lesson. But don't kill him; I still need him." Then he turned to the cop who was being held by two men next to Callen. "And I will have a chat with our blond friend here," Mayfield said, smirking at the cop with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

This wasn't good. Who knew what Mayfield would do to that cop, Callen thought with concern as they dragged him out of the room. These thoughts soon came to an end, though, when they roughly pushed him into the basement.

A basement with chains and shackles.

Okay, maybe he should be more concerned for himself at the moment, Callen thought worriedly. "Cozy place you have here, guys," Callen tried to joke while looking for a way out, but they just ignored him.

Two men chained him up in the middle of the room, his arms over his head, and they cut off his bloodied shirt while the third guy left the room. Callen actually knew this guy, Thomlins something or other, and he was a cruel son of a bitch. Thomlins came back a minute later, carrying a big bullwhip with him.

Oh no. That wasn't good at all. "You know, even if I was into this kind of stuff, I hate to tell you, you're so not my type," Callen quipped, trying to not let his worry show through.

Thomlins stepped close to his prisoner, letting the back of the whip wander threateningly over Callen's bare chest. "I never liked you, Collins," he began, his voice taking on a low, hissing tone. "I don't get why the boss says we need you. You're just a weasel that has been lucky enough to have some connections. But he doesn't want you killed yet, so I won't kill you. But I will make you wish you were dead," he promised, smirking at Callen menacingly.

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Callen had stopped counting after ten strikes. He had promised himself he wouldn't scream, but keeping that promise was getting harder and harder. The first strikes hadn't been that bad. He had had worse from a few of his foster fathers. But then a strike ripped his skin, and then the next one, too. His back was a bloody mess by now, and he could feel the blood running down, soaking his pants. He had bit his lip, not wanting to give the bastard Thomlins the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

He knew he had lost a lot of blood, and this coupled together with the injuries from his fight with the cop was not good at all. It was getting harder to concentrate, and he could feel himself slipping. He was out long before Thomlins was stopped by another man arriving with new orders from Mayfield.

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Chris Larabee silently cursed himself. Thiswas quite a mess he had gotten himself into. He had recognized Mayfield as soon as he had seen him; they had been trying to take the drug lord down for quite a while, but he had always been one step ahead of them. They hadn't even known that he owned the restaurant.

Chris knew he should have called for back up or at least told Vin as soon as he had seen that little weasel Darkov on the street. But now it was too late to think about that. Hopefully the guys would pick up the clues and find him. His black truck wasn't parked too far away after all.

After his little 'chat' with the drug lord, Chris was unceremoniously dropped into a small room in the basement. Who the hell had cameras in their basement, anyway?

He hadn't told the guy anything other then what he had already said before. He had to admit, it had probably been too much already. He had just been so furious when he had seen Darkov that hadn't thought about what he was saying.

Quite the predicament that little bastard had gotten him into. Mayfield had told Chris that he would keep him here until he knew what was going on, but Chris knew that Mayfield was probably going to kill him anyway. It was a wonder that he was still alive; but then, Mayfield was probably just worried that there were more agents waiting to bust him. Chris was just insurance. But at least for now Mayfield didn't dare rough him up too much, which definitely worked in Chris' favour.

Absently, he wondered if they would really throw one of their own men in here with him, especially after Chris had nearly killed him. Nah, Darkov probably was on his way out of here by now, having gotten a slap onto his fingers before being sent off. Although, when Chris actually stopped to think about it, he had to admit that it seemed like the weasel had actually tried to get him out of Mayfield's hands, but that couldn't be, could it?

His thoughts were interrupted by two men coming in and dropping a bloodied form in the middle of the room; a third one stayed at the door, his weapon trained on Chris.

"Have fun you two," one of the men said, in a malicious undertone, before they all left and the door was locked again.

"Shit," Larabee hissed when he recognized Darkov. The man was a bloody mess and it looked like he had been whipped. There was hardly any skin left on his back and blood was darkening his pants. For a moment, Chris actually felt sorry for the guy, before he remembered who he was and why they were here in this basement in the first place.

Slowly coming closer, Chris put a hand on Darkov's neck, checking for a pulse. Thankfully, he found one. He couldn't let the little bastard die on his watch when there was still a nice prison cell waiting for him.

But it really didn't look good. Mayfield had said he didn't want him dead, but his henchmen had certainly been quite enthusiastic.

The door opened again suddenly, and Mayfield himself stepped into the cell. Looking at Darkov, he threw a first aid kit at Chris. "He'd better be alive when I come back in the morning, or you will be the next to die," he hissed at Chris, before turning around and leaving the cell again.

"Shit!" Chris cursed again. That was just great. Now he had to take care of and keep alive the man he hated, when Chris didn't want to do anything more then kill him himself.

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~ End of Chapter 2 ~

A/N: This fic is complete, but it is still being edited. I will upload the next chapters as soon as possible.

Please review.