Author's Note: I have been unsure where to go with this story, hence my terribly long time between chapters. Of course, after having such trouble, this chapter got too long and I had to split it. Which means the next chapter is done and will be posted as soon as I edit it. After that, I hope to wrap things up soon. Thanks to all still interested in this story!

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Nell never expected to awake again; that was why, when she woke to find herself back in the small bedroom in which she'd been imprisoned for days, she was beyond furious. Beyond irate.

Beyond anything she'd ever known. She half-thought that the words to describe it had never been invented.

She wanted to tear the room apart, but considering there was nothing in it, that plan had to be abandoned.

She was still alive, which meant there had to be a way out of this.

She got an actual visitor each day now, he was called Dmitri and he brought her food. He also inspected the room to make sure she hadn't devised some ingenious means of escape.

She'd had to ask him. "How, exactly, would I escape this room using a lamp and a bar of soap?"

He looked at her sideways, kicking the baseboards around the edges of the room. "Boss says you're smart."

She nodded. "Smart enough to create an axe out of a blanket and pillow?"

He scowled at her. Obviously he thought the same as she did, that his inspections were pointless. "I know how to keep my mouth shut and don't ask questions," this was said with a pointed look at her.

"And that makes you…a good lackey?" She couldn't resist needling sweetly, totally disregarding everything he'd said.

He left, slamming the door with enough force that the wall shook. Hit a nerve, there. Good.

Or bad, depending on how wise it was to be harassing the people charged with keeping her locked up.

Nell was a realist, which meant she could admit the very likely (more likely than not, really) chance that she wouldn't escape this alive.

If she couldn't make it out alive, she had one goal: to cause her captors grief. She wanted to hurt those who had taken her, as much as she possibly could. If insults were all she could manage, she'd take it.

Moreover, if she knew the end was near, she was going to go out fighting, doing something that would make the people she loved proud.

She waited, biding her time, trying not to hope for the improbable scenarios where her team found her and saved her at the last minute. There wasn't always a successful rescue, she'd been around long enough to know that. As it was, they'd been lucky for a long time, with such a high success rate that it could be called unusual. But the success of past missions did nothing to indicate the success of future ones.

That was why she didn't blame them for not having found her by now; she really didn't. She knew they had tried, and that alone kept her going when she wanted to give up.

It might cost her dearly, but by God, she'd do whatever she could to make her abductors pay, and not because of what they did to her, but because of what they'd done to the people she loved by taking her away from them.

After around a week of languishing in that much hated room, the man came to see her again. She knew his name now – Dmitri had referred to him as Walsh one day when he brought her food.

"You won't cooperate with me," Walsh said, trying to hide his frustration.

She stretched out on the bed and tried to appear nonchalant, even though her heart was racing. "No, I don't think I will."

"I might spare his life, and the lives of everyone on your team, if you do."

"As if I'd believe your word, anyway."

He smiled slightly. "Fair enough. Right now I'm considering leaving you alive after I finish everything. After I've…taken care of them. Can't suffer if you're dead, can you?"

She felt a chill, and hoped she'd hidden it. "I'm shaking," she said blandly.

"Did you know I've tried to contact him several times? He outright refuses to negotiate for you. I'm beginning to wonder if you're as important as I originally thought. NCIS certainly doesn't think so."

She sat up abruptly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "You're lying, and if you think it's going to make me go along with you, you're mistaken."

He relaxed, and she cursed that she'd let him get to her. "Am I lying? I think NCIS has written you off as dead. How sad that even Callen won't try to save you. I thought he cared about you."

She said nothing, unwilling to insist that he did care about her. If Walsh thought he'd over-estimated her importance to Callen, then he might be safe. She couldn't contemplate that maybe Walsh really had over-estimated her importance.

She wondered if he were telling the truth about trying to contact NCIS. It was possible, but then again, she couldn't see the man in front of her lowering himself enough to repeatedly call NCIS and beg for them to negotiate for her release.

Walsh pressed his mouth into a grim line. "We'll do it another way, then. If he won't come for you, and you won't set up a meeting with him…that means we have to track him down. Sounds fun, doesn't it?"

She almost couldn't believe it, struggling to rein in her amusement. "You're going to find him?" She wanted to ask Walsh if he remembered that the only reason he was still alive and out of custody was because he'd so far successfully hidden from Callen.

Walsh also sounded amused, she would guess for entirely different reasons. "I received a tip, looks like you'll get your reunion. I doubt it will be long-lived, though."

"If you're crazy enough to seek out Callen, then you deserve everything you get."

"I'll get what I deserve," he agreed amiably. "Not what you think I deserve." He stood to leave, glancing back at her. "You've amused me, Nell. I think I'll take mercy on you when this is over and kill you, after all."

XXXXXX

"On the chance you were wondering," Walsh said from the front passenger seat, "your team is about to intercept a drug trafficking ring. I can't think of anything more exciting to interrupt! Who will die, and how?" He turned to face her. "Will our appearance benefit the traffickers or cause their deaths? And what about your team, will they survive? Want to place some bets?"

She met his gaze with stony silence.

"No?" He laughed. "Be that way, then. I have ten thousand on the outcome that no one from your team survives. You're missing the chance for a big pay-out. Not that you would live long enough to spend it, on the chance that you won. I guess it's a lose-lose bet for you."

The SUV stopped, and she saw through the window that they were at a harbor. "Are you kidding me?" She asked. "They're taking down a drug ring…in the middle of the night…down at the docks?"

"A bit cliché, right?" Walsh grinned at her in the rearview mirror.

"This is like a C-movie plot," she complained.

"Sorry that your team didn't choose to take down this ring in broad daylight at a luxury resort. You can file a formal complaint with Agent Callen if you live long enough to talk with him."

"You know," Nell said, "you're actually pretty funny. Tone down the death threats and we could be friends."

Before Walsh could reply, Dmitri chose that moment to shove her unceremoniously out of the SUV. She stumbled slightly, catching her balance before she careened off the docks into the water. Did they have to stop so close to the edge? "Was that for the lackey comment?" She asked, bristling at his look that told her he quite enjoyed it.

She barely contained laughter at the thought of her abductors trying to use her to get what they wanted, only to have her end up drowning in the murky water due to her own clumsiness. Everything seemed hilarious, lately. Maybe it was the sense of impending death that allowed her to see the unexpected humor in life.

She glanced around, finding that the docks were deserted, as anyone would have expected them to be at 2:30 in the morning. They were near the water's edge, and the pier was surprisingly well-lit. A half moon shone down on everything, lending an eerie glow to the proceedings. Where were these mysterious traffickers, then?

Dmitri stepped closer to her and she tensed with anticipation, wondering if she should act now. She almost did, but her innate sense of caution told her to wait and see what happened next. Her hands were tied, but she had something up her sleeve – both figuratively and literally. A pen, in fact. She'd snagged it from the counter on the way out of the house. What to do with it…now that was another matter entirely.

She swept her eyes around in a casual survey and froze when a figure stepped out of the blackness about 40 feet away. She needed a minute to recognize him. In a way, he was unexpected, because of how she'd convinced herself she'd never see him again. She resisted pinching herself to make sure this wasn't another of the many dreams she'd had since being abducted.

"Callen?" She whispered, her voice probably not carrying to him.

He was surprised – no shocked – for a moment, before schooling his features to be carefully blank. She felt sympathy for him, for his having come across her in the last place he expected, and maybe he'd already given up on her. Maybe they all had. Good thing she hadn't given up on herself.

She wanted to apologize to him for interrupting their operation, as illogical as that was.

He studied her in silence, and she fought the urge to take a few steps toward him, unsure of what the consequences might be. Dmitri would probably shove her off the dock with gleeful malice.

"Agent Callen," Walsh called, sounding downright thrilled at the circumstances. "I propose a trade. You have one of your agents transmit all the information you have on me, and on Derek Smith's research, to my phone right now, and I don't put a bullet in your agent's head."

Callen immediately recognized Nell's captor as James Walsh, but he ignored him. "I can't believe you let yourself get abducted," he said, words clearly directed at Nell, the faintest hint of derision in his voice. He moved closer to them, which meant she could see when he regarded her with obvious disappointment.

She knew, immediately, the course he was trying to take: convince Walsh she meant nothing to NCIS or to him. That didn't make the words sting any less, though. "I didn't exactly choose this," she protested, and winced at the weakness in her voice. Maybe it would sell things to Walsh, though.

"I didn't say you chose it," Callen replied. "But that doesn't change what you allowed to happen, does it?"

Although she knew what he was playing at, the fury that rose within her was real. It flared right in a place where she thought she had successfully purged every emotion from this ordeal. She let herself feel it, using it to make the charade easier.

"What I allowed to happen?" She repeated his words slowly, as if they might calm her, but they had the opposite effect. She had to believe it, she had to play along, but…the words hurt enough already, never mind if she pretended they were real.

"How am I supposed to know the two of you aren't working together?" He called to them, his words as sharp as a blade; she almost expected to start bleeding from the force of it.

Self-doubt started to creep in. She had been abducted, hadn't she? She hadn't stopped it, she hadn't been able to escape, and she had refused to call Callen to issue demands. Based upon the evidence, it wasn't entirely inconceivable that NCIS had written her off as a lost cause at best, a traitor at worst.

NCIS might have, but Callen wouldn't, her team wouldn't. They would never.

Maybe it would be her downfall that she trusted Callen so much that he could probably shoot her and she'd make excuses for him.

She searched his eyes through the distance separating them, searching for something, anything to reassure her. She could discern nothing that told her his sentiments were part of some elaborate plan to free her. He was good, she already knew that, but it didn't help reassure her.

"Well?" Walsh demanded, and her heart surged when he glanced between the two of them with something that was starting to look like doubt.

"No deal," Callen said. "I already told you, Walsh. We don't negotiate with abductors, and we sure as hell don't deal with traitors. Besides, we're kind of busy right now." He glanced around the pier, as if he expected a bunch of drug traffickers to spring out from behind some shipping crates. Well, maybe he did.

"I will not release her until I get that information," Walsh swore, pressing the gun into her shoulder.

"Then it appears as if she's never going to be released," Callen sounded bored.

This might be the end, she knew it, as surely as she'd ever known anything. One press of a finger lay between two scenarios: a life of her living (hopefully) until she was elderly, or one where she died right here, in front of the team she'd worked for and cared for and lived for over the past few years.

She only saw Callen, but wherever he was, the others weren't far behind. They must be spread out, in position to take down those they were after. She wondered what they thought of her showing up in the middle of an operation.

"You're trying my patience, Agent Callen," Walsh hissed.

"Really, Nell," Callen ignored the man who held a gun on her, successfully distracting both her and Walsh. "How did you allow it to come to this? Are you two working together? Just tell me."

She shut her eyes for a moment, because even though she knew (with a certainty she couldn't explain) that he was acting, his words cut too close to her own self-doubts. He might never question her, but since she'd been abducted, she'd questioned herself. Every day.

She didn't need to reassure him, but she needed to reassure herself that she'd done everything right, that she'd taken every precaution she could. That she wasn't completely inept, that some things were impossible to predict, and every counter-measure in the world wouldn't stop them. She knew it, but knowing it and believing it were two entirely different things.

Nell reached up to rub her forehead, remembering her hands were tied together at the uncomfortable pull on her wrists. "I am not a traitor," she insisted, slowly. "And I didn't have any say in this."

"What did we train you for?" Callen asked, his voice rising with anger. "To be an easy target? To be weak? God, Nell, I should have –"

"Given up on me long ago," she interrupted. "I know. Believe me, I know."

He didn't reply, and she was grateful, needing to collect herself. She bowed her head and swallowed back emotions that didn't help her in the current situation.

"As sweet a reunion as this is," said Walsh, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm afraid I have to interrupt. Last chance, Callen, before the bloodshed. What's it going to be?"

Nell shook her head. "Good luck, Walsh. Don't you get that I won't be welcomed back with open arms? Or with anything, for that matter?"

"Or so he says," Walsh told her. She inhaled sharply when he moved the gun from her shoulder to her head. "I think this might help him reconsider. Now tell me, Agent Callen, can we come to terms?"

Nell had no doubt he'd shoot her, kill her, if Callen didn't comply. Walsh was angry enough that he'd do it just to spite those who had angered him.

She didn't want to, but against her will, she met Callen's eyes. They were colder than she'd ever seen, and not just on him, but on anyone.

He had no real reaction to her current predicament. "I think you've misjudged where my allegiances lie."

"I don't think so," Walsh argued, pressing the gun closer to her temple. Nell winced as it painfully dug into her skin. She wondered if she would live long enough for this to haunt her nightmares. She thought of Callen, and her team, and wondered if it would haunt theirs.

Callen smirked. "And that will be your downfall."

Walsh didn't say anything, but Nell felt his hesitation in the hand that held the gun. He was wavering. They had to capitalize on it somehow. "You should believe him," she argued. "My value to NCIS appears to have diminished. Considerably."

"I don't believe you. Either of you," Walsh said, but she heard the uncertainty in his voice. He turned to Callen. "Why else were you so determined to find her?"

"It was my job," Callen argued. "But now…"

"Now?" Walsh gripped her arm, punishing enough to leave bruises.

"My superiors have given me…other options," Callen said cryptically.

"Options," Walsh scoffed.

"Options that allow me to walk away," Callen clarified.

"You're lying."

Callen shrugged, as if it were of no consequence to him. "Believe what you want."

"He's telling the truth," Nell broke in. "He'd leave me to fend for myself."

Callen hesitated. "I'm sorry," he offered. "It's nothing personal, Agent Jones."

Everything's personal with us, she wanted to scream in the face of his indifference. She wisely didn't voice that thought. "I just want it to be over," she managed instead, looking down so her face wouldn't give her away.

"What are you two talking about?" Walsh yelled, rapidly approaching an edge from which there would be no return. "This is unacceptable! I want that information and I want it now!"

"You heard Agent Callen," Nell whispered. "You'll get nothing in exchange for me."

Callen stepped forward, opening his mouth as if to argue with her statement, then thought better of it and didn't.

Nell could have cried, but if this were the end, she refused to leave the world that way. She abruptly remembered her earlier resolve, and how she'd sworn, to herself, to go down fighting.

Hurt welled up within her, joining the swirling mass of emotions that had already taken her over: terror, shame, fury, helplessness, pain – she needed to stop them, to turn them off.

She had never been a violent person, never raised her hand to another with the intention of harm, but now, now, she wanted to strike out. She didn't want to injure, she wanted to kill, she wanted to destroy the man who had caused her to feel this way.

"I think we've run out of things to talk about," Walsh said, giving her a slight push forward. She tripped, barely catching and preventing a fall to the wooden deck at her feet. It was the last straw. There was no reason for him to push her except to remind her he had the power. And right before he was going to kill her, no less? As if she needed reminding? Talk about adding insult to injury.

She remembered the pen, and the hasty plans she'd been formulating on the ride here. She estimated the last (and unfortunately, best) one had somewhere around a 1 in 200 chance of working. If it didn't, at least she'd get some measure of surprise over him.

She met Callen's eyes again, hopefully not for the last time, and then spun on her captor, bringing both hands up to jab the pen into his neck. It was a lot harder than she'd thought, she had to push as hard as she could, and she felt only grim satisfaction when the crude weapon sank into his skin, even though it wouldn't go that deep.

His mouth fell open in shock, hand automatically going up to his neck where blood was slowly trickling around the pen.

Nell couldn't believe it had been even somewhat successful – she'd only seen moves like that in over-the-top action movies, a la Quentin Tarantino. The surrealness of the situation had just kicked up about 27 notches, and in a surge of vicious intent, grateful that Walsh was distracted on account of the fact that he'd just been stabbed in the neck, Nell shoved him backwards toward the water's edge. They weren't close enough for him to fall in before he recovered.

"Did you just stab me? With a pen?" He reached up and yanked it out. Blood trickled from the wound which didn't appear fatal.

Her eyes widened in growing panic. That hadn't done what she'd hoped at all. She took a few steps back. "In my defense, human skin is a lot harder to break with a blunt object like a ballpoint pen, maybe if you invested in fountain pens –" She broke off when he took a step toward her.

"Then I could be dead right now. What a brilliant suggestion." He glanced down at the pen he still held. "It appears I underestimated you, Nell Jones. It's a shame the world will never know your talent."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Why did criminals always feel a lecture was vitally important before killing a victim? Was it simply the natural urge to gloat? She generally thought it defeated the point – the person you were lecturing wouldn't be around long to dwell on the words.

Moreover, she realized (as he rambled on), she had completely lost the element of surprise. She had to gain it back somehow, but the pen thing had been her only (admittedly non-brilliant) plan.

They had developed somewhat of a rapport the past few days, hadn't they? Maybe he regretted wanting to kill her. Maybe he was going to change his mind.

"I'll spare you the indignity of meeting your end with a writing utensil," he said, "and give you the mercy of a bullet instead."

Okay, maybe not.

She had been shot already, so she wouldn't really consider it an act of mercy. When he turned to toss the pen into the water, she saw a chance and took it without thinking, rushing at him and using her momentum to send both of them off the pier.

As the black of the water rushed up to meet them, she realized the folly of her plan. Strange that she hadn't considered, before her rash action, that staying afloat in cold water at night was hard enough in the best of circumstances – never mind if your hands were tied together and you went into said water with an armed man who wanted to kill you.

Then the freezing water went from conjecture to reality, and most thoughts except survival fled from her mind altogether.

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